Pride and humility sear Irovoi's heart in equal measure, its every beat bright and heavy. Eyes aglow with uranium zeal sweep across the grand council's hall, the dragon thrilled that he might finally bring his heathen kin to see the light. As the robed councilors disperse from their huddle to take their seats, the priest takes in the sights of the hall's high ceiling, grand columns and dark marble floor. Dawn pours through a gap in the chamber wall and Irovoi basks in the warmth with a grateful inhalation.

  The centermost councilor, a thoroughly-scarred indigo dragon, calls the murmuring chamber into silence. "A new day shines on our beloved Cenollate and her people," he begins with a powerful, veteran rasp. "For our first order of business, we entertain an emissary from the Radiant Herald - though, young man, I dutifully remind you that Cenollate is under the protection of the Gleaming Empire. We grant you audience out of mutual respect and courtesy."

  Irovoi grins. He grins in eagerness that the people of Cenollate might finally hear his beloved gospel. He grins at the councilors' robes: a ceremonial inefficiency proper for a slightly backwards society, unlike his pristine, white-and-gold jumpsuit. He imagines that he looks somewhat like a flare going off against the black marble with his vivid red scales acting as a corona. No, a beacon. His jaws part to deliver divine truth.

  "Elders of Cenollate, may the cosmos shine on your hospitality and open-mindedness. My name is Irovoi, and I am a priest here to share the light with my kin." He scrutinizes the councilors one by one. Their forms are faded and worn by the many stresses of time. He sees in each and every fellow dragon the pains of trauma, loss, bitterness. Sadness wells within Irovoi's throat. *No - this is why I am here. To rescue them from suffering.*

  "Brothers and sisters, I offer you and your people what no heretic could offer. I offer you freedom from pain. I offer you bliss."

  The indigo councilor frowns, his fingers interlocked before his snout. "In exchange for...?"

  Irovoi shakes his head, thrilled at the privilege of responding to such a question. "Nothing, esteemed councilor. You must shed only notions-"

  "What is the nature of this... *bliss?*" A second councilor cuts in.

  The priest blinks. "What do you mean?"

  "How do we achieve this freedom from suffering?"

  Irovoi exhales, his wings twitching. "Your woes are bred through mere existence. If Cenollate agrees to solve existence, everyone can be painlessly liberated."

  The chamber erupts into disordered discourse. "Now, now hold on but a moment. Do you mean to say that the entire planet is to - what? Commit suicide?"

  "That's not necessary! Cenollate's people can all be delivered in an instant, they don't even have to know when it's coming-"

  "We are not interested in *death,* young priest."

  "I urge you all to consider the possibility! As we speak, your sons and daughters labor through strife and sickness. Cenollate's people are already destined for death on a world seized by entropy. Is the perpetuation of suffering so important - or the terror of the unknown so terrible?"

  The murmuring councilors fall silent once more. "You truly hold to this belief...?"

  Irovoi glares into the elder's eyes with immolating conviction, his tail lashing behind him. "Absolutely - and you know it to be true. Your people endure violence, disease and the misery of aging itself. A hundred more generations of dragons means a hundred more generations of mortals burdened with utter agony. I offer you the opportunity to cut the agony short."

  The elders exchange glances before their leader speaks up. "Thank you for your time, young Irovoi. We choose to accept the agonies of life in favor of its joys. Even if life under the Gleaming Empire means we must fight, we prefer to fight rather than to give in to pain." The indigo councilor taps his chin with a clawed finger. "You are welcome to stay. Perhaps you may find some of our own arguments compelling. Guards, if our guest wishes, please show him to our finest garden room. He is welcome to take up indefinite residence."

  Contempt flares in the priest's eyes. *How could they be so blind?* "Light bless you," he ordains through clenched fangs and turns with a nod to the guard.

  "Right this way, sir."

  On his journey in, Irovoi had looked upon Cenollate with hope. The planet's people were sophisticated and largely peaceful. The city's enormous gardens - some suspended high above the streets with the use of substantial magic - blossomed with promise. Now, as the priest is escorted through a walkway overlooking the idyllic interlock of the natural and the commercial, Cenollate's colors seem a bit duller; or worse, deceitful.

  Irovoi's verdant irises scan his escort's face in sidelong fashion. "What's your name?"

  The guard looks close to Irovoi's age: a stoic specimen bearing azure scales unmarred by time. He takes a reluctant beat. "Dahnorow."

  "Dahnorow. Dahn. Dawn." Irovoi's head bobs with a slight smile. "A good and bright name... but something of Dahnorow's sky is bleak."

  The blue dragon's eyes narrow as if attempting to conceal the pain within them. "I have a good life for which I am grateful".

  "Hmm. A life which has already burdened you with much, and which shall burden you with magnitudes more."

  "For such reasons, I am unready to die. I measured your words in the council hall."

  The two stop at the door to the guest chamber. Irovoi's gaze sears into Dahnorow's. "Misplaced fears may burden you all the more."

  The guard reels, ferociously rubbing at his eyes and leaning against the wall adjacent the chamber's threshold. "Agh!"

  "Are you well?"

  "My eyes - they felt they were burning. Forgive me."

  Irovoi's expression tightens, a product of pity, concern and self-critique. "The pain will not last."

  "Right, it's already gone." Dahnorow stiffens, racking himself over the lost composure. "Please enjoy your stay, sir." The guard bows to the guest, then departs.

  Irovoi shuts the chamber door behind him and snarls. The ostentatious accommodations tear at him - how much sweat must have spilled to tile the floor in yet more marble, how many hours in the mines dragons must have labored to gather the gold for the chamber's accents. His focus sets about the balcony opposing the chamber door. The soles of his feet scorch the marble beneath him, the lightning-strikes of white stone as blackened as their surroundings. No light would reflect from where he trod.

  The priest emerges onto the balcony. Cenollate's sun blesses Irovoi from a glorious midday angle, and the dragon breathes the radiation deep. "Thank you, O heavenly star. Your blessing is received and honored," he says, staring directly into the sun. Its rays, its warmth and its almighty glare invigorate Irovoi as he recites Radiant Herald scripture. "The fire of the lights above is most favored, and on the final dusk, they shall act the blessed harbingers of our final mercy."

  Irovoi sighs in bliss, then turns his gaze downwards. The balcony is decorated with a fine planter. Its occupants fill the rainbow with their stems, pistils and petals - a fitting metaphor for the lost world itself, the priest feels. The flowers are pleasant to look upon. Their scents are a small treat for the snout. Yet, they are prisoners here, living for nothing, doomed to wither. Of course they would disperse seeds in a sad attempt to perpetuate their kind. Irovoi cups a blossom in his crimson hand. "But for now, rejoice." The bloom's petals curl, dry and blacken, separating from the body of the flower. The pistils shrivel and crumble into dust, and when Irovoi tilts his hand, dust and debris are all that spills back into the planter. "Mercy has already come to Cenollate, and I have already chosen the first to receive freedom."

  ???

  Irovoi smolders for days, basking in the sun's radiation. Righteous anger boils just beneath his scales. *Even if I am to deliver such blessings, the dragons of Cenollate do not deserve it.* He breathes the heat deep. *Such is our lot - to purge the darkness of mortal fear with the light of truth.* He exhales. The air about him waves and shimmers. A knock disturbs his solar absorption.

  A snarl pulls at his lips as he smolders across the marble. The doorknob warps in his hand. Dahnorow blinks, perplexed. "Sir, forgive me for the disturbance. It's been three days and you haven't eaten a bite of the food I've brought. Are you well?"

  The herald's irked demeanor softens, then blossoms into a warm smile. "My dear guard, I've had my fill of the sun - the balcony is positioned so well."

  Dahnorow's expression contorts into bewilderment. "Begging your pardon, sir. You've been starving yourself on our watch?"

  Irovoi trembles, doing little to sway Dahnorow from his concern. The guard dared possess such slothful ignorance while yet certain of the wholeness of his philosophy. Irovoi's hands clench into fists until his claws pierce his palms and black blood wells within his grip. His restraint centers on his own demeanor. "Dahnorow, I am of the Radiant Herald. Come, let me show you something," he says, clasping the blue dragon's shoulder and guiding him into the guest chamber.

  The guard's frown holds. Signs lurk on the periphery of his senses, just out of reach; black marks across the floor, the faint shimmer in the air - and is that the smell of viscera? He prefers to conclude his eyes and nose are playing tricks on him, but his heart's pace quickens and an alertness seizes him. Irovoi urges him to the balcony. "There's no need for such tension, Dahn," the priest says with a squeeze of the guard's shoulder. "Are you not grateful for the 'good life' your star has granted?"

  There, on the balcony overlooking Cenollate's sprawling capital, Dahnorow's lungs labor. Heat scalds his scales, and his hand flies to the side of his face. His protective coat has grown tender.

  Irovoi's eyes gleam. The air about him visibly pulses, waves of radiation swelling outwards as his heart pumps with divine power. His grip on Dahnorow's shoulder tightens, his palm searing through the shoulderpad to grasp flesh. The guard tries to pull away, but he chokes on the pain and his efforts yield little. "What are you doing?" He sputters. One of his scales pops with a wet crackle. Amber ooze leaks out.

  The air itself seethes, repurposed into a vessel for the herald's hatred. His teeth are clenched with his response. "I'm *freeing* you, you disgusting ingrate." Both hands clamp around Dahnorow's head, agitating the scorched flesh. "You will suffer the lies of your council no longer, nor shall I suffer your ignorance!"

  Irovoi's breath carries a harsher wind. He glares into the guard's eyes, watching the irises fog over with decay. "Have you the decency to spare a mote of gratitude, knowing that your strife is nearly over?"

  Dahnorow gurgles. His scales tear off his body, scorched sheets of flesh exposing the bubbling muscle underneath. His wings and tail both twitch, then droop to the floor. He musters a whisper before his vocal cords disintegrate. "Mercy..."

  The priest's radioactive aura blasts the balcony. A layer of ash coats the walls, the floor, the bannister. The flowers crumble and disintegrate in unison, their remains blown out over the city. Irovoi bares his fangs in incredulity. "This **is** mercy - and not just mercy, but honor. You are the first of your kin to receive my blessing."

  Dahnorow's mind scatters in panic. His body is agony incarnate, each piece of a him a new relief when it's melted away, only for new fire to scorch every following nerve. His sight fell away long ago. His nostrils are full of their own charred flesh. There is nothing to touch but pain. He's vaguely aware that his body collapses to the floor, the molten muscle in his legs unable to prop him up. His heart bursts. The final thought to pass through his boiling brain is that of terror that this murderer would proceed to slaughter more.

  Irovoi breathes in the scent of the guard's smoldering remains. This is the scent of undeserved mercy. He drops to one knee before the withering corpse as what's left burns away; the guard's organs rupture, his flesh becomes oozing sludge, and his bones crumble into radioactive ash. The heap of blackened dust and fluids that remains offers no further ignorance or foolishness. Irovoi exhales bliss. A smile spreads across his face. The scorching wind that carries his voice carries also a serenity and affection. "How many decades of pain you've been spared, you fool. Rest easy, now." He clambers onto the balcony rail and spreads his wings over the waiting city, regarding its complexities with his shining gaze. "The rest of your festering world will soon follow." The city's sirens sing a song for the extreme radiation they detect.

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  ???

  Irovoi relishes his messianic privilege well beyond the invigoration of soaking up such sun for days. His glide comes to a stop in the middle of an intersection, but the hovering vehicles' honks fade unheard. They are as the chirps of protesting insects; noise rendered by pests too stupid, too unaware of their own repugnant existence. "The unspeakable suffering you perpetuate ends today," he mutters. The priest breathes deep the air, the corruption pricking his nostrils and roiling within his lungs. He reminds himself that the best of them had their chance, and they choose evil. All that remains is to wash the slate of their stains. He exhales.

  The priest's breath tints the world with the fierce green of his eyes. Corrosion chews at the civilians' vehicles, biting into their ornate aesthetics, melting them out of their machine perfection and leaving their surfaces scarred and pockmarked. The wave reaches the drivers nearest to the intersection, peeling their skin back and boiling away their flesh. Screams erupt from all directions. Irovoi snorts, effecting a ripple in the tide of radiation. *It's too much to ask such worms to perish with dignity.*

  Irovoi regards the towering spires through which the streets thread. These vertical structures are only marginally less ostentatious than the marble of Cenollate's council chambers. Alabaster slabs and amethyst panes house steel skeletons. The priest's wings usher forth a fresh wave of destruction, and he savors the results: the stone crumbles, eviscerating an entire city block. Computer hardware melts. Rugs and interior walls catch fire. Steel warps until it cannot sustain the weight of some structures' upper floors. Thousands of tons of materials collapse downwards, the block sloughing into one great, mixed pile of charred elements. A combination of debris, melted substance and liquefied victims spills into every adjacent street like a gorging amoeba.

  *This is the beautiful truth of things.* Irovoi treads through the sludge, tail held above the muck. His ears point. The creaking of metal and the ebb of civilizational ooze whisper brief phrases. The undeniable whimper of agony escapes from an unseen blasphemer. The priest's hand thrusts towards the vocalization, and his hatred chokes a feeble scream out from the sinner's throat until it yields an obedient silence. Irovoi inhales deeply, this time indulging in the purity; the air carries no deceit.

  This respite cannot last. Fury and terror bear down on the priest, the last, panicked exertion of a pestilent people: armored cars plow around and over the rubble until Irovoi is surrounded. Dragons in full radioactive protection pile out from over the wheels, wielding guns, discipline and vengeance. Their wings are cramped into a protective crescent, their tails and horns completely covered. Opaque visors hide their faces and adrenaline quickens their strides, unshackled by the pretenses of law and due process.

  Their guns disobey. Their plastic bodies melt before Irovoi's shimmering aura, their barrels congealing. Every shot is a misfire that terminates before the bullet leaves the muzzle. The soldiers drop their traitorous weapons, then charge the priest even as the air further distorts. A towering specimen tackles the Radiant Herald, slamming him against the ground. Others pile on top, pinning Irovoi beneath thousands of pounds of bulky soldiers.

  The brute atop the priest wrestles to grab his neck even while at the bottom of the pile, but the green glow of the priest's eyes - no, of his entire body - blinds him. The soldier is vaguely aware that he's looking in the general direction of the murderer's eyes, but he sees only the flood of sickly light.

  It's a color out from the unblemished palette of a sadistic painter, one who wishes death on the viewer with every vicious stroke. It is the emerald of an aposematic viper, the nebulous verdancy seen when eyes are shut too long for too tightly. It is bright and unflinching and absorbs the rest of the spectrum; everything is pure green, and when the greenness soaks through the soldier's formerly-white protective suit and soaks through the color of the soldier's exposed scales, the greenness carries his muffled screams upwards.

  Narrow beams of the grass-neon glow project away through the gaps between bodies. With the soldiers on bottom pinned by their companions on top, there are never more than two disintegrating throats crying in unison. One dragon's agony ends just in time for the next to begin. A couple at the top of the pile tear away as the final pleas of their brothers clamber up through the congealing slurry of scaly flesh and protective suit, but their legs only carry them a few paces away before they trip over the rope of DNA into which their genetics have been unwound.

  A handful of soldiers yet stands - those who'd not joined the pile. One trembles, his feet stealing him backwards one step at a time, as he whispers a fantastic account into his radio about melting comrades, an inability to tell where one corpse ends and the next begins, a sobbing plea to tell his wife and children he loves them.

  These survivors stare as a miniature green star is born before their eyes. Crooked claws protrude from the sludge. A single figure rises from the goop, drenched in organic and synthetic materials reduced to their basest forms. Wings flare and snap, flicking residue from their membranes. The priest stands unscathed, bathing the street in divine green. The soldiers' eyes instantly sear, their blaspheming vision too unworthy to behold the blessing now given to them. Their brains and hearts char quickly, and their deaths are merciful.

  The light fades, and the world is silent. The fury in Irovoi's eyes again softens into relief. He scans the street. There is nobody here to feel pain. There is nobody here to suffer. The impurities of mortal existence have been swept clean, and all that remains is a testament to the agony that might have been; the vague genetic matter beneath the dragon's feet, the toppled buildings, the abandoned vehicles. The silence is most precious of all. It is the echo of a thousand generations of grateful souls protected from the pains of existence.

  Irovoi breathes in serenity as he continues down the ruined street. With a reverent tongue, he recites Radiant scripture.

  "Behold! The cries of the dying are as a song of thanks. Their voices yearn to fall silent, protesting the labor of their lungs, yet oppressed by accursed fears."

  The vivid crimson dragon frowns, his eyes drawn skyward as the distant roar of an intergalactic engine cuts through the empty and charges the city. A dreadnaught sporting the white and blue of the Gleaming Empire darkens the sky above, its behemoth hull hovering over the priest.

  "Yet those captured by fear of painlessness shall never relinquish it of their own accord," Irovoi growls, his jaw clenched in determination. "They are as insects to be exterminated. Their every body is to be cleansed and their every soul is to be exorcised. They are as shadows to be purged with light until the cosmos-"

  A shot rings from the dreadnaught's underbelly. A cloud of violet gas explodes around the priest. His eyelids grow impossibly heavy. "...know... no... darkness."

  ???

  Irovoi awakens in a cell. Hard bed, sink, facilities. One wall is transparent, offering vision of a mean, grey dragon in a black, blue and white uniform. An eyepatch rests over his right eye. A deep scar crosses his left. A cybernetic arm joins to his body at the shoulder. One of his horns is worn down to the root and the other's tip has been chipped off - both compensate with silver metal.

  Epaulettes denote status. A white glove fits over his good hand, with holes for his finger-claws. His cap sports an unfamiliar emblem. His mouth and eye sport a disgusted grimace. He speaks with a voice the earth itself might use if its jaws could pronounce clean words.

  "You're being suppressed."

  Irovoi rubs a hand back and forth along his forehead, hissing. "What?..."

  "We have radioactivity dampening and a Geiger monitor installed on this cell."

  The priest tests the claim, straining to exert his divine power. It yields only a slow click from the Geiger. "Why not just kill me, Empire worm?" Irovoi sits up, his uranium eyes dueling the officer's.

  "Captain Terev to you."

  The prisoner spits on the floor of the cell, glaring at the officer as if with the full belief that looks can kill.

  "I'm not one to mince words. You killed a lot of innocent people. We're going to torture you until you tell us enough to make me smile."

  There's not a hint of humor or sadism in the Captain's voice, nor is there the faintest crook of a grin on his face.

  "'Torture' is such an interesting word."

  "Is it now?"

  "Proposing to inflict agony upon me, denying me the bliss of release?"

  "That's the idea."

  Irovoi smirks. "You vindicate me already. Are you certain you don't wish to convert? I would welcome you into our ranks with such warmth-"

  "'Vindicate' you by what measure?"

  Irovoi growls. "I didn't *kill* anyone. I *saved* them. I saved their future progeny. I saved millions from suffering. I could save you, too, had you an ounce of courage."

  Terev's metal arm lifts, and he turns it over as if inspecting its shiny length. His fingers stiffen, then claw inwards, clicking with each motion. "What is your name?"

  "Irovoi, priest of the Radiant Herald." His eyes follow the prosthetic before locking onto the Captain's again.

  Terev's fiery eyes take on a softness. "Do you believe fear earned me these injuries?"

  "Absolutely. The fear of freedom. The fear of the blessed void."

  "You speak of freedom while caged like a beast."

  Joy blossoms on Irovoi's face. He beams as if basking in sunlight. "Yes. No superficial wall can hold me. The threat of torture is meaningless to me - every mote of pain you inflict would weigh upon your shoulders, not mine."

  Terev sighs with a shake of his head. "You seem all too happy to sing without it."

  "I have nothing to hide; on the contrary, I am blessed to have the opportunity to share my light with you. As long as you witness my testimony, you may be saved." The priest stands up, approaching the transparent wall. "There is even an out for you. Take my message to heart. Join the Radiant Herald. You could live out the rest of your life, indulging in the joys of this freedom and bringing the universe closer to bliss!"

  "Delusional wretch."

  Irovoi bangs on the pane, his tail flicking behind. Nuclear fire burns in his irises. "Look upon the rewards of your cowardice! You're half a man, limbless, eyeless-"

  "I serve higher ideals, embodied by a great Emperor whose will has brought peace and prosperity to thousands of worlds. These wounds are a price I am honored to have paid for the welfare of my neighbors and my kin. The cowardice is yours - preaching that the easy way out is some grand aspiration. You are a death cultist, and we shall carefully record your half-life as you rot in this cell."

  Irovoi's limbs set into frenzy, tail lashing, wings flapping. Froth flies from his mouth in between furious, babbled curses. The cell's Geiger clicks in alarm. Captain Terev barks into a communications device. "Distribute power to the brig and max the dampener. Take from propulsion if necessary." The Geiger responds almost immediately, slowing to a lethargic tick.

  Irovoi's body strains to exert his aura. His chest heaves with desperate breath and his musculature tenses. Impotent hatred spills from his mouth. "Blasphemer. Ingrate. Fool!"

  "If you've finished with productive discourse, torture remains on the table."

  "Nothing is more torturous than that your undeserving flesh goes unseared, that the pleasure of watching you dissolve is yet withheld from me. I declare this ship a sacrificial altar!" The priest hisses, a deathly rumbling within his throat. His every word is slathered with venom - anything to slay the unbeliever.

  "You are a parasite, Captain. Feeding on the comforts of an illusory life, birthing a million deleterious offspring for the vain facades of nobility and duty. This vessel is a monument to agony. A mausoleum of - how many of you are there? - a hundred writhing miscarriages perpetuating infinite suffering. You shit infection with your every warped deed, you leave wretched pustules coated with false virtue in your wake - and I tried, I did! I gave you a chance at redemption, and you scorned it. I **hate** you. I **hate** you, and I will not go into tranquility before I know you have been reduced to ash."

  The grey officer sets his forked tongue in his cheek and nods, letting Irovoi's bestial huff occupy the silence for a moment. "Radiant, indeed." He then turns and strides away, leaving the murderer to rage against the unyielding cell walls.

  ???

  "Captain, you should take a look at this."

  Terev descends the tiers of the helm to lean over a signature monitor. The recruit beckoner, a blue violet-mottled dragoness, clacks a claw against the screen. The monitor zooms in to display three dots sailing towards the display's center in a triangular formation. "This signature isn't in the registry, but these are absolutely headed for us. If nothing changes they'll reach us in approximately two minutes."

  The Captain frowns. "Why are we just now detecting them?" He then calls out, "Code red lockdown!" The helm is bathed in crimson light. A klaxon blares. An announcer's voice roars over the speaker system.

  "Danger. Security lockdown now in effect. Take shelter or arm up as appropriate."

  "They're fast and tiny," the recruit replies. "Smaller and faster than one-man fighters - smaller than any ship I've ever seen."

  Terev grumbles under his breath. "Breachers." He pulls his comms device to broadcast himself over the speakers. "Terev here. Security, prepare to be boarded. Engineering, anticipate multiple hull breaches and prepare to improvise airlocks. Cut life support to the brig. I repeat, cut life support to the brig. Guns, lock monitor alert coordinates, calibrate to small targets and fire." His finger releases the transmission button, and he whispers, "Emperor protect us."

  ???

  Irovoi gasps and shivers. The air runs thin and cold. He attempts to relax against the hard bed, clinging to his most precious breaths. *I can't go yet.*

  The shrieks of the dreadnaught's cannons reverberate through every wall. Even as his lungs clamor for life, hope carries him aloft; they'd not attempt to choke him out unless there was a chance his cell would be compromised. *Brothers and sisters, scream down on entropy's wings. Deliver mercy upon the unbelievers. Spread forth your light.*

  The Dreadnaught shudders with the groan of wounded metal. The speaker system crackles. "Three hull breaches identified in armory." Gleaming Empire soldiers in full armor and rebreathers thunder past Irovoi's cell. *May the Black Maw devour the unfaithful.*

  Muffled yells, energy blasts and cries of pain reach down the brig corridor. Irovoi chokes. He takes in a final gasp, breathing in what remains and holding. *Please, please permit us to deliver...*

  Captain Terev bursts into the hall, flanked by backup - all wearing rebreathers. They take up positions against support columns on the sides of the corridor, every weapon trained towards the now-silent armory. The silence stretches Irovoi's lungs. He exhales, unable to hold in the stale oxygen. He shambles across to the pane, staring down the hall, begging, pleading.

  A mountainous brute rips the door off its mount and charges into the hallway, all might and armor. The holdouts dump their magazines down the corridor, drowning out the pounding of the invader's steps with a chorus of gunfire. The torn door shields the shock troop from nearly every projectile. Shots graze one ankle, then the other. A trail of blood whips up behind him. He launches the door at the holdouts, draws a shotgun and pumps out blast after blast. The far end of the corridor is painted with dragon blood.

  Captain Terev huddles against the wall, pulling his trigger in denial. *Click click click.* His weapon clatters to the floor, and his cybernetic arm turns to clutch his bleeding shoulder. The towering invader falls to his knees, panting underneath a full helm that obscures his face. On the precipice of death, he places a stained hand against the pane of Irovoi's cell. "I am here, brother."

  The priest slumps against the pane, his eyes fluttering. Release calls.

  The invader's other hand reaches to pull Terev's key from his neck. When the officer squirms, the brute rips his prosthetic off, then claims the prize. The key unlocks the cell controls. A gloved finger drags across the control panel.

  "No, wait...!"

  The Geiger rattles.

  Terev's eyes quiver. "No..."

  The boom of an apocalyptic cannon rocks the Dreadnaught. Its power flickers, then cuts. Tens of thousands of degrees of heat scorch the brig, instantly rendering the Captain, the breacher and every last corpse in the vicinity into nothing. Every metal wall warps into twisted hunks, yielding to kilotons of detonation power. That cosmic green fills the halls and drowns out the red of the lockdown. The vessel's structure bends, sending entire decks converging into each other and crushing their occupants even as scales, muscle and viscera are flayed clear of brittle bones.

  The Dreadnaught's hull glows with heat, first a bright red, then a searing white. The blast tears the ship apart, the vacuum of space claiming its interior as the last vestiges of its oxygen ignite with the bright green-white fireball of the detonation. The vessel is instantly transmuted into a field of debris, completely devoid of life. Irovoi floats at the heart of the detonation, his blessed form unscathed by the power. Tears of joy well in his eyes, flooding them in the zero gravity. As the nuclear star peters out, stifled by the vacuum, Irovoi's body grows cold.