Prelude: A Hunger Beyond Chains
Velmora Prime had many names once—"World of Echoing Skies," "The Singing Planet," and others now forgotten.
Under the Zarketh Dominion, it had only one name: Sector 9-AE.
An asset. A breeding ground. A labor pit for their endless machines.
On the far edges of the Crystal Deserts, hidden behind electric storms and crumbling earth, stood the Iron Cradles — vast, brutal compounds where Velmorian children were "reforged" into obedient soldiers and workers.
No songs ever rose from the Iron Cradles. Only the endless hum of indoctrination machines.
And it was here, deep inside the aching heart of her people's pain, that Zaraya Starheart, barely past her youth, chose to strike her first blow against the Dominion.
⸻
The Call to Action
Zaraya was restless.
Since the day she drank from the primordial pool, her body thrummed with unfathomable energy—but no battle worthy of it. The resistance elders whispered patience. Stealth. Strategy.
"Strategy is a game for those with time," she muttered, sitting atop the wreckage of an abandoned scout drone.
Time was not something the children of Velmora had.
So, one night, without orders or permission, Zaraya slipped into the poisoned wind and set out alone toward the Cradles—
one girl against a fortress.
She did not plan to survive.
She planned to make a wound the Dominion would never forget.
⸻
The Journey
Crossing the deadlands on foot was a death sentence.
The sands were sharp as razors, the sky choked in stormfire, the ground itself cursed with ancient war remnants. Zaraya endured it all—her skin burning, her cosmic blood sizzling against ancient toxins.
At the final ridge, she crouched in the dust, studying the Iron Cradles:
• Six towering facilities, linked by electrified chains.
• Hover-sentinels patrolling the air.
• Pulse-cannons mounted on skeletal watchtowers.
• Thousands of captives inside.
She had no army.
No weapons but her fists.
It would have to be enough.
"The chains are only strong until someone laughs at them," she whispered, remembering Old Father Kaen's words.
She smiled grimly.
And leapt into the storm.
⸻
The Battle
The first guards never even saw her.
Zaraya moved like living starlight—punches that shattered armor, kicks that broke reinforced gates.
Alarms blared.
Sky sentinels descended.
Good. Let them come.
She unleashed the Cosmic Pulse: a radiant shockwave that fried control nodes, tore apart towers, and ripped open the child holding cells.
The children—half-starved, conditioned into submission—stared at her like she was a hallucination.
"Move!" she roared, voice echoing across the courtyard.
"You are not slaves. Not anymore. Run!"
The older ones rallied.
The younger ones stumbled, confused, terrified.
She fought with everything she had, shielding the escapees—her muscles tearing, her skin cracked and bleeding cosmic light.
The Zarketh commanders released a Bio-Titan: a monstrosity bred to crush rebellion. Towering. Snarling. Dripping venom.
Zaraya faced it alone.
The battle was a blur of fire, lightning, and broken bones.
She won. But she did not win easily.
As she drove her fist through the Titan's skull, the exhaustion caught her like a hammerblow. She collapsed among the broken chains, barely conscious as the last of the freed children escaped into the wastes.
She had done it.
She had broken the Cradles.
But she had paid in blood.
⸻
The Aftermath: Scars and Songs
The survivors carried Zaraya back to the edge of resistance territory.
The elders scolded her reckless charge.
Strategists raged about the consequences.
Some children were recaptured. Some didn't survive the journey.
Yet across the camps and shattered villages, the songs began.
Not of sorrow.
Of a girl who fought gods with her fists and won.
They gave her a name beyond Zaraya.
They called her Liberastra—the Starchild Unbound.
And the spark she ignited would not be extinguished.
Not now.
Not ever
Prelude: A Hunger Beyond Chains
Velmora Prime had many names once—"World of Echoing Skies," "The Singing Planet," and others now forgotten.
Under the Zarketh Dominion, it had only one name: Sector 9-AE.
An asset. A breeding ground. A labor pit for their endless machines.
On the far edges of the Crystal Deserts, hidden behind electric storms and crumbling earth, stood the Iron Cradles — vast, brutal compounds where Velmorian children were "reforged" into obedient soldiers and workers.
No songs ever rose from the Iron Cradles. Only the endless hum of indoctrination machines.
And it was here, deep inside the aching heart of her people's pain, that Zaraya Starheart, barely past her youth, chose to strike her first blow against the Dominion.
⸻
The Call to Action
Zaraya was restless.
Since the day she drank from the primordial pool, her body thrummed with unfathomable energy—but no battle worthy of it. The resistance elders whispered patience. Stealth. Strategy.
"Strategy is a game for those with time," she muttered, sitting atop the wreckage of an abandoned scout drone.
Time was not something the children of Velmora had.
So, one night, without orders or permission, Zaraya slipped into the poisoned wind and set out alone toward the Cradles—
one girl against a fortress.
She did not plan to survive.
She planned to make a wound the Dominion would never forget.
⸻
The Journey
Crossing the deadlands on foot was a death sentence.
The sands were sharp as razors, the sky choked in stormfire, the ground itself cursed with ancient war remnants. Zaraya endured it all—her skin burning, her cosmic blood sizzling against ancient toxins.
At the final ridge, she crouched in the dust, studying the Iron Cradles:
• Six towering facilities, linked by electrified chains.
• Hover-sentinels patrolling the air.
• Pulse-cannons mounted on skeletal watchtowers.
• Thousands of captives inside.
She had no army.
No weapons but her fists.
It would have to be enough.
"The chains are only strong until someone laughs at them," she whispered, remembering Old Father Kaen's words.
She smiled grimly.
And leapt into the storm.
⸻
The Battle
The first guards never even saw her.
Zaraya moved like living starlight—punches that shattered armor, kicks that broke reinforced gates.
Alarms blared.
Sky sentinels descended.
Good. Let them come.
She unleashed the Cosmic Pulse: a radiant shockwave that fried control nodes, tore apart towers, and ripped open the child holding cells.
The children—half-starved, conditioned into submission—stared at her like she was a hallucination.
"Move!" she roared, voice echoing across the courtyard.
"You are not slaves. Not anymore. Run!"
The older ones rallied.
The younger ones stumbled, confused, terrified.
She fought with everything she had, shielding the escapees—her muscles tearing, her skin cracked and bleeding cosmic light.
The Zarketh commanders released a Bio-Titan: a monstrosity bred to crush rebellion. Towering. Snarling. Dripping venom.
Zaraya faced it alone.
The battle was a blur of fire, lightning, and broken bones.
She won. But she did not win easily.
As she drove her fist through the Titan's skull, the exhaustion caught her like a hammerblow. She collapsed among the broken chains, barely conscious as the last of the freed children escaped into the wastes.
She had done it.
She had broken the Cradles.
But she had paid in blood.
⸻
The Aftermath: Scars and Songs
The survivors carried Zaraya back to the edge of resistance territory.
The elders scolded her reckless charge.
Strategists raged about the consequences.
Some children were recaptured. Some didn't survive the journey.
Yet across the camps and shattered villages, the songs began.
Not of sorrow.
Of a girl who fought gods with her fists and won.
They gave her a name beyond Zaraya.
They called her Liberastra—the Starchild Unbound.
And the spark she ignited would not be extinguished.
Not now.
Not ever