Expansion Starborn Expansion; the Archeon Gambit

[Lyanna Starborn]

Phase One: Securing a Foothold​

Lyanna Starborn stood at the heart of the Migrant Fleet’s command deck, her gaze fixed on the swirling starfield beyond the viewport. The Archeon Sector lay ahead—an untamed frontier of warlords, feuding aristocrats, and corporate militarists. A prize waiting to be claimed. She exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of what was to come. This would be the Starborn Sect’s first true test of expansion. It would not be won through philosophy or the Force, but through strategy, firepower, and precision.

The bridge of the SS Machiavellian, her flagship, hummed with controlled energy. Officers moved with purpose, relaying reports from reconnaissance teams already embedded in the sector. Lyanna turned her attention to the primary holotable, where tactical overlays displayed key locations: the core strongholds of House Vallian, the Void Pact’s scattered raiding fleets, and the industrial might of the Archeon Concord.

“Report,” she commanded, her voice even.

Sariah Voss, standing at her side, tapped the console. “House Vallian’s situation is worse than anticipated. Their fleet is outdated, their ground forces are spread thin, and their leadership is fractured. They’re considering an alliance but are wary of our true intentions.”

Lyanna tilted her head slightly. “Their weakness makes them useful. If we offer support, they’ll become reliant on us. But if they suspect our endgame too soon, they’ll resist.”

Tali’ra Korr, her apprentice, crossed her arms. “Then we string them along. Feed them just enough aid to keep them desperate. Once they’re dependent, we break them.”

Lyanna considered it. “An option. But not our only one.”

The holotable shifted to display the Void Pact’s activity. Red markers pulsed across critical hyperspace lanes—raiding zones where the Migrant Fleet’s early supply runs had already come under attack.

“The warlords are getting bolder,” one of the fleet admirals noted. “If we don’t address them soon, they’ll disrupt the entire campaign before it begins.”

Lyanna narrowed her eyes. The Void Pact’s leaders were little more than scavengers, clinging to the last embers of the Empire’s collapse. Their disorder made them dangerous but exploitable.

“And the Archeon Concord?” she asked.

The display shifted again. Unlike the others, the Concord did not rule through fleets or noble claims. Their strength was in infrastructure—factories, shipyards, and the private military forces that guarded them.

“They aren’t taking us seriously,” Sariah observed. “Yet. But they’re increasing production. Preparing for something. If they realize we’re the true threat, they’ll move to crush us before we’re established.”

Lyanna tapped her fingers against the edge of the table. Three factions, three obstacles, and countless ways to proceed. The first steps of war were always the most important.

“We begin with Vallian,” she decided. “Deploy a diplomatic envoy. Offer resources, fleet protection. Just enough to keep them reaching for more.”

“And the raiders?” Tali’ra asked.

Lyanna’s gaze darkened. “They will learn that we are not prey.”

The order was given. The Starborn Sect’s campaign had begun.

 

[Lyanna Starborn]

The shuttle descended through the upper atmosphere of Valliana Prime, the ancestral home of House Vallian. From the viewport, Lyanna Starborn studied the world below—rolling plains interrupted by towering spires of dark stone, remnants of a once-mighty fortress world. Now, its cities bore signs of neglect, their defenses outdated, their fleet dockyards half-empty. A noble house in decline, clinging to the last vestiges of power.

At her side, Sariah Voss stood silent, hands clasped behind her back, while Tali’ra Korr adjusted her belt of concealed weapons. They had debated the need for Lyanna to attend this meeting in person, but she had insisted. House Vallian was proud, traditional—they would respect strength only if they saw it firsthand.

The shuttle touched down in the main courtyard of Vallian Keep, an old but formidable stronghold overlooking the capital. As the ramp lowered, a welcoming party awaited them: a contingent of noble retainers, uniformed guards with ceremonial vibro-pikes, and at the center of it all, Lord Garrus Vallian.

He was an aging man, but his posture remained rigid with dignity. His armor—black and silver, bearing the sigil of his house—had been reforged countless times. A warrior past his prime, but still dangerous in his own right.

“Darth Fauste,” he greeted, inclining his head. “Or do you still insist on Starborn?”

Lyanna stepped forward, offering a polite but cool smile. “Titles are meaningless if they do not command power.”

The older man smirked. “Then I hope you have brought more than words.”

They were led inside, through halls lined with banners of Vallian’s past glories. The throne room was dimly lit, its high ceilings casting long shadows. Seated at his war table, Garrus wasted no time.

“You offer aid,” he said, eyes sharp. “What is the price?”

Lyanna took her seat across from him. “Survival.”

A scoff. “House Vallian has survived wars greater than this. The Void Pact are scavengers. The Archeon Concord is too preoccupied with their factories to field a real army. We have held this sector for generations.”

Tali’ra leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “You’re losing ground.”

Garrus’s jaw tightened, but he did not deny it. “Perhaps. But we do not kneel.”

“I do not ask you to kneel,” Lyanna said smoothly. “I ask you to stand with us.” She gestured to the holoprojector at the center of the table, bringing up a tactical map of the sector. “Your position is weak, but not unsalvageable. With our fleet reinforcing your defenses, the Void Pact will be driven back. Your noble claim to Archeon will be strengthened.”

“And in return?”

Lyanna’s expression remained impassive. “Loyalty. We do not take without giving. In exchange for our support, House Vallian will allow Starborn envoys to oversee military operations and supply distribution. Your army will be strengthened, your fleet modernized. And when the time comes, you will stand with us.”

Garrus leaned back in his chair, considering. His pride resisted, but desperation weighed heavier. After a long moment, he exhaled.

“A pact, then,” he said at last. “But make no mistake, Starborn. If I sense betrayal, House Vallian will not fall alone.”

Lyanna nodded, rising to her feet. “Then we have an accord.”

The first step had been taken. The foothold secured. Now, the real work would begin.

 

[Lyanna Starborn]

Back aboard the SS Machiavellian, Lyanna reviewed the latest intelligence reports with a measured calm. The pact with House Vallian had been secured, but the threat from the Void Pact was growing louder by the hour. The crisp beeps of the tactical console punctuated her thoughts as she scanned detailed maps of hyperspace routes and raiding vectors.

“Reports indicate that the Void Pact is mobilizing near the outer rim of Vallian territory,” intoned Commander Vex, her voice coming through the comms. Her tone held both urgency and expectation—a mix that made Lyanna lean forward.

The Void Pact, those opportunistic marauders, had begun testing the waters by launching swift, sporadic raids against Starborn supply convoys in the region. Their assaults were hit-and-run tactics designed to sow disarray and provoke a reaction. Yet Lyanna knew better: this was a prelude to something more systematic.

She rose from her command chair and paced slowly along the command deck, contemplating the unfolding events. The Starborn Sect’s military doctrine was built on overwhelming precision—strike hard, strike fast, and leave no room for counterattack. “Let them come,” she murmured to herself. “We shall show them the cost of underestimating us.”

Turning to Tali’ra Korr, who was reviewing the latest drone feed from the raider patrols, Lyanna issued her orders. “I want all available strike teams on standby. Deploy covert units to monitor their assembly points along the sector’s periphery. Once we identify their command structure, we will isolate and dismantle it.”

Tali’ra’s eyes flickered with a fierce determination as she replied, “They’ll learn our methods—swift and unforgiving. We can hit them before they know what’s coming.”

Outside, the cosmic canvas of space rippled with distant explosions—the first skirmishes already lighting up the dark void near a sparsely populated outpost. Lyanna watched the unfolding conflict with a strategist’s mind. Every battle, every skirmish was a test of both the Sect’s resolve and the enemy’s limits. The Void Pact’s audacity was a clear invitation for a decisive counterstrike.

Her mind briefly drifted back to Vallian Keep, where the fragile alliance had just been formed. Their combined forces would be crucial in turning the tide against the marauders. Yet Lyanna also knew that too early a show of force could provoke a coalition between the remnants of the Void Pact and other factions. “We must be deliberate,” she reminded herself, pausing to assess the incoming data.

A sudden alert flashed on the main screen: one of the raider groups had been detected converging on a lightly defended Starborn convoy. Without hesitation, Lyanna activated the override command for the designated strike unit. “Engage,” she ordered coolly. “Send in the fire teams. Target the command vessel and neutralize all hostiles.”

As laser fire streaked across space and enemy ships exploded in brilliant cascades of red and orange, Lyanna felt a surge of satisfaction. This was the art of war she lived by—calculated, decisive, and unyielding. The Void Pact’s early raid was swiftly repelled, a stark message to all who dared challenge the Starborn Sect’s expansion.

In that moment, as the chaos subsided and the tactical displays returned to a semblance of order, Lyanna knew that the first battle had been won. The path to securing a foothold in Archeon had been paved with blood and determination, and she was ready to press on.

 

[Lyanna Starborn]

The smell of scorched metal still clung to the air aboard the SS Machiavellian when Lyanna Starborn convened her inner circle. They met in the Fleet War Room—a circular chamber lined with holoprojectors and strategic maps of the Archeon Sector, many now marked with fresh scars where Void Pact forces had been broken. Yet the war was far from over.

Lyanna stood at the head of the table, her bright robes flowing around her like smoke. Sariah Voss and Tali’ra Korr flanked her silently, while the Migrant Fleet’s senior captains filed in, each bearing the hardened look of those too long on campaign.

“Phase one is progressing,” Admiral Rell began, tapping a series of locations on the holomap. “We’ve repelled the first raids. Intelligence confirms at least three Void Pact captains dead, two more missing. Their chain of command is weakening.”

A ripple of approval moved through the officers, but Lyanna raised a hand to still it.

“We cannot mistake these early victories for the end of resistance,” she said, her voice cold but steady. “The Pact is fractured, yes, but fractures do not guarantee collapse. In desperation, even broken enemies can unite.”

The room fell silent at her words. It was a hard truth. A few reckless successes could just as easily galvanize the raiders as destroy them.

“Our next move must be more subtle,” Lyanna continued. She gestured, and a new map replaced the old one—a deep scan of the Archeon border territories. Several minor strongholds blinked to life in pale blue. Independent warlords. Petty tyrants. Mercenaries.

“The Void Pact alone is not our only threat. Local warlords control critical outposts—fuel depots, communications relays, even hidden shipyards. If we can bring them to heel, the Pact will find itself isolated and exposed.”

Tali’ra leaned forward, tapping one of the blinking icons. “And if they refuse to join?”

Lyanna’s lips curved in a faint smile. “Then we make examples of them.”

The officers nodded grimly. Plans began to take shape—blitz strikes, covert assassinations, offers of alliance carefully tailored with promises of survival and profit. The Migrant Fleet would not simply fight; it would seduce, corrupt, and dismantle the sector’s defenses from within.

Later, in the privacy of her chambers, Lyanna watched the stars drift past her viewport. Her mind turned inward, calculating the delicate web of alliances and betrayals she was beginning to weave. Each move needed to be perfect.

The Starborn Sect’s teachings had always prized clarity of purpose, discipline of mind. Yet now, as war bled across the stars, Lyanna realized that ruthlessness must walk hand in hand with patience.

They would not conquer Archeon in a day. But conquer it they would.

And when the last banner fell, it would not be war that shattered this sector.

It would be inevitability.

 

[Lyanna Starborn]

The SS Machiavellian slid silently into the shadow of a shattered moon, its hull hidden in the wreckage of a long-forgotten battlefield. Once the front line of a distant conflict, the Huron Expanse was now a graveyard of ships and ambition. To most, it was impassable—sensor ghosts, radiation pockets, unstable gravity wells. But to Lyanna Starborn, it was an opportunity.

A raider fleet had gone dark in this sector two standard weeks ago. Not destroyed, not retreated—vanished. At first, it was assumed they’d slipped away. But now, reports whispered of a new player, a silent force sweeping through forgotten corners of Archeon, claiming derelicts, capturing outposts without fanfare or trace.

“Predators,” murmured Tali’ra, crouched beside a rusted hull breach aboard one of the derelicts, blades drawn, eyes sharp beneath her hood. “But not Void Pact. Too clean.”

“They don’t fight like raiders,” Sariah agreed, standing guard over the breach. “They fight like tacticians.”

Lyanna stood deeper inside the abandoned command deck of an old Republic cruiser. The crew had been dead for decades. The life-support systems hissed faintly as emergency power flickered back to life under Starborn engineering. She watched the ghostly outlines of battle logs replay in holographic form—ships jumping in from unregistered vectors, bypassing traditional hyperlanes. Whoever they were, they weren’t improvising. They were organized. Strategic.

“They’ve found a corridor through the Expanse,” she said at last. “That makes them dangerous.”

A commlink buzzed at her waist. Captain Vellor’s voice, clipped and urgent:

“Contact—multiple vessels, no transponder. Fast approach from the nebula fringe. Configuration unknown.”

Lyanna didn’t hesitate. “Hold your position. Do not engage until I give the order.”

Outside, the shadows peeled back as five sleek, silent cruisers emerged from the mists of the nebula. Matte black hulls. No emblems. No light. Only the whisper of gravitic displacement as they glided through wreckage like hunting beasts.

Tali’ra reached for her saber. Sariah stepped forward, muscles tense.

Lyanna raised a hand. “Wait.”

The lead cruiser slowed. A signal pinged through the silence—encrypted, ancient, but unmistakable: a diplomatic handshake protocol last seen in Outer Rim military cells twenty years ago. Someone was reaching out.

“Open a channel,” Lyanna commanded.

The holo snapped to life. A masked figure appeared, face obscured, voice filtered through distortion.

“You trespass in our sanctuary,” it said.

Lyanna narrowed her eyes. “And you prey on ours.”

A pause. Then: “We are the Scions of Iskar. We do not seek war. But we do not tolerate surveillance.”

A forgotten name. Lyanna searched her memory—fragments from star charts and mercenary logs. A splinter group, ex-militants turned mercenary philosophers. Thought extinct. Apparently not.

She smiled. “Then let us discuss terms. I have a proposition.”

The figure said nothing for a long moment. Then the signal cut. Outside, the cruisers powered down their weapons. A shuttle launched from the lead ship, gliding toward the SS Machiavellian.

Sariah muttered, “You’re gambling.”

“No,” Lyanna replied. “I’m building something.”

The ghosts of the Huron Expanse were no longer myths. And if they could be brought into the fold, they would become the knife at Archeon’s throat.

 

[Lyanna Starborn]

The air aboard the SS Machiavellian diplomatic hold was taut with silent calculation. The chamber, normally reserved for high-ranking envoys and Sector emissaries, now hosted a meeting between two powers neither the Republic nor Empire had cared to notice. Lyanna Starborn sat at the head of the circular table, flanked by Sariah Voss and Tali’ra Korr. Across from them stood the Scions of Iskar—three figures clad in matte-gray armor, faces obscured by mirrored visors, movements too precise to be mistaken for anything but veterans.

“I am called Lyanna Starborn,” she began. “Darth Fauste, if you prefer titles. I lead the Starborn Sect and command the Migrant Fleet.”

The lead Scion tilted their head slightly, voice modulated and calm. “We are not impressed by titles. What matters is purpose.”

“Then we speak the same language,” Lyanna replied, leaning forward. “You survived the Collapse. You’ve kept your fleet alive in the Huron Expanse. That tells me you’re not interested in conquest or idealism. You want continuity. Stability.”

“Freedom,” corrected the second Scion. “We are descendants of proud men and women. We reject imperialism in all forms. Even yours.”

Sariah’s hands twitched subtly, but Lyanna raised one finger and silenced the impulse. She let the moment settle before speaking again.

“I offer you neither chains nor dominion,” she said. “I offer autonomy—a place in the future of Archeon, not beneath it. Stay in the shadows if you must, but fight with us. I will give you access to the supply routes you need to maintain your fleet. I will keep the Void Pact off your throat. And when the Sector falls, you will hold your corner of it uncontested.”

The third Scion, silent until now, finally spoke. “You would carve the Sector like a feast.”

Lyanna met his hidden gaze. “No. I would shape it like a weapon.”

For a long time, the room held nothing but the sound of breathing and the distant pulse of the ship’s core reactor. Then the lead Scion produced a datachip and placed it on the table.

“Coordinates. One of our listening posts deep in the Expanse. If this alliance is real, you’ll meet us there in three days. Alone.”

Lyanna inclined her head. “Very well.”

—

Three days later, she stood at the edge of a shattered asteroid belt, cloaked aboard a personal shuttle, the only escort a single droid pilot and her own certainty. The Scion outpost was carved into the remains of a long-dead Republic battleship, a monument of rust and memory now laced with sensor arrays and tracking relays.

Inside, she found the truth of the Scions—a fleet of over two hundred vessels, ragged but functional, held together by scavenging, discipline, and ideology. They had lived off the bones of the past, hunting Void Pact vessels, salvaging their hulls, slowly bleeding them dry.

They were not many. But they were dangerous.

Lyanna returned with their oath.

The Scion Accord was forged in silence, with no signatures, no records, and no trust. Only shared purpose.

Back aboard the SS Machiavellian, Sariah gave her a skeptical look. “You trust them?”

“No,” Lyanna answered. “I trust that they want to live.”

With the Scions poised to disrupt Void Pact movements from the shadows, Lyanna turned her attention back to the larger strategy.

The Sector was beginning to shift. The tide had begun to turn.

 

[Lyanna Starborn]

They called it Griven Hold, though it was little more than a rusted skeleton of turbolaser towers and shield arrays buried into the ice cliffs of the planetoid Griven Secundus. Once a proud command post for an Archeon Sector colonial authority, it had long since fallen into disrepair—then been claimed by a Void Pact warlord named Klor Thann.

From here, Thann controlled one of the main junctions into the Sector’s inner hyperlanes. A stubborn old brute with more men than vision, he had made himself a minor power by strangling trade and shooting down anyone who dared challenge his “toll lanes.”

That was about to end.

Machiavellian and three Starborn destroyers emerged from hyperspace in perfect silence, slipping into the planetoid’s gravity well before its aging sensor systems could so much as raise an alert.

From her command throne, Lyanna watched the mission unfold in real time.

No planetary bombardment. No siege. This was precision. Surgical. Final.

Sariah led the breach team personally, cutting through the ice-buried bulkheads with plasma charges and venting sections of the Hold into the void. The Migrant Fleet’s elite shock troopers—The Black Mantle—poured in behind her, moving like smoke through the narrow corridors.

Lyanna’s voice echoed through their comms:

“Capture Klor Thann alive. We want his codes and his pride. In that order.”

Tali’ra joined the strike team from the flank, vanishing into shadow between overlapping sensor blind spots. Her target was the secondary power core—taking it offline would disable the Hold’s external turbolasers without alerting the main garrison.

The operation unfolded flawlessly.

Within thirty minutes, Griven Hold was under Starborn control. Klor Thann had been dragged from his private vault—clad in plasteel, bleeding from his temple, hurling threats and offers in equal measure. Lyanna stood before him as he was forced to kneel in the Hold’s ruined command chamber.

“You’re too clever for your own good,” he spat. “Take my assets, but my men won’t fight for you. We’re Void Pact. Loyal to the last.”

She approached him slowly, the dim light of the ruined holotable casting flickers over her face.

“I don’t want your men.”

With a subtle nod, Sariah raised her blaster and put a bolt through Thann’s right knee. He screamed, collapsing in agony.

“I want your message,” Lyanna said, crouching beside him. “The Pact isn’t strong. It’s afraid. It hoards power. Strangles passage. Breaks what it can’t own. That ends now.”

She stood and gestured to the open channel. Her voice echoed over Griven Hold’s old broadcast array.

“This stronghold has fallen. The Pact has lost its grip. To all who travel the Archeon hyperlanes—Griven is open. Trade flows freely. The Migrant Fleet guarantees safe passage to those who do not resist.”

She turned to Tali’ra. “Broadcast it on all frequencies. Unencrypted.”

Let them hear it.

Let them know: Order had returned to Archeon—but it did not wear a Republic badge.

That night, as the stars turned above the icy cliffs, the banner of the Starborn Sect was raised over the smoking ruins of Griven Hold.

And the Sector stirred.