![]() |
By Order of the Eternal Hegemon, The following is decreed in all of the Realm of Vandemar, Any who are loyal to the Hegemony are to reinforce and Support it with sweat, blood and zeal, Any who finds themselves opposed will give their life To see the vision enacted. The Eternal Throne Watches. Glory to the Hegemony. Glory to the Hegemon. |
The twin suns of Vandemar cast their golden light through the uppermost dome of the Sanctum Strategium, illuminating the throne of blackstone and gold where the Hegemon sat in absolute stillness. Before him, the chamber was empty save for the Herald-Primate, robed in robes of irongray and crimson, his voice echoing through the silence like the toll of a cathedral bell. "By the will of Imperius, chosen of the Eternal Throne, Sovereign of Steel and Light, Voice of Valkorion Ascendant… the Iron Protocols are proclaimed." The voice was calm, ritualistic, but every word carried the weight of decree. Holo-pylons activated across the room, revealing planetary maps, data-chains of logistical throughput, and the shifting alignments of regional battlefleets. These were not merely displays—they were vows made visible. Across the Realm of Vandemar, billions bore witness to the pronouncement through massive cathedral-audio projectors, vox-screens, and ritual-scripted bulletins. From the steel hives of Vandemar Ultima to the wind-scoured bastions of Vengaard, the message was singular and unmistakable:
Within the upper spire of the Strategium, the Hegemon remained still, but not idle. His presence emanated like a silent storm—disciplined, absolute, and suffocating. Before him, the three figures of the Legion Command clad in obsidian-black armor lined with gilded trim, the sigils of the Indomitus Legion embossed upon their pauldrons. To their side stood a trio of Indomitus Scions, their faces hidden behind bronze visors shaped into expressions of silent judgment. With them were the Lord-Governors of the planets, certainly less comfortable but nevertheless proud in their individual heraldries. Imperius finally stood, his burgundy and gold robes trailing behind him like a war-banner stitched from dusk itself. "The Iron Protocols are not merely a command," he spoke—his voice like the grinding of a power press. "They are destiny made manifest. Traelis shall be tamed in full. Mithras will birth armies without pause. Vandemar Ultima shall become a living engine of the divine. Every forge, every soldier, every soul—shaped to purpose." The chamber trembled not from sound, but from will. "We were once vassals. No longer." A pause, then a faint smile. "Zakuul is ash. But we—are flame." Across the subsector, immediate mobilization began. On Vharendar, entire city sectors were cleared for new foundry complexes. On Kalidor, precision drones mapped vast agricultural territories for mechanization. The Scions launched their initial audits, quietly purging local guilds of ideologically lax members before their names reached higher echelons. But even as preparations commenced, one truth resonated above all: this was not mere expansion. This was reformation by fire. An entire subsector—an entire people—would be remade into a bastion of eternal war-readiness. Not for defense. But for dominion. |