[Oliver PoV]

Oliver felt the effect of teleportation all over again. Light thinned; sound smeared; then his boots touched cold metal and the world snapped back.

From the dim room with the massive vat, he'd been flung to the other side of the galaxy, into a different star's gravity well.

'His power still surprises me,' Oliver thought, steadying himself. 'Even if it needs amplifiers.'

"Governor, are you well?" a voice asked at his shoulder.

Oliver turned. "I'm fine, Pyro."

Pyro could have been Talos at a glance. They shared the same chassis and fine articulation at the knuckles and jaw, but the resemblance ended with the frame. Where Talos dressed like a tanned surfer and ran the base like a quiet miracle, Pyro wore a high-collared officer's coat in night-black, rank bars glinting, gloves immaculate, boots polished to shine. Talos kept a city breathing; Pyro thought in flanking maneuvers and surrender terms.

Oliver shook off the dizziness and looked around the bridge. He stood in the middle, the floor sloping down to lower sections on both sides where rows of masked operators worked quietly and efficiently.

Screens and holopanels floated like panes of glass, feeding cascades of data. The masks were smooth and anonymous, each stamped close to their right eye with the role they served. Every face hidden. Every job critical.

"Have they landed yet?" Oliver asked, voice low and even.

"The first Houses are starting to arrive," Pyro said without looking away from the rain of information going through his mind. "Earlier than projected."

"Faster than we estimated," Oliver conceded.

"It won't compromise the mission," Pyro replied, a statement, not a promise.

"Good." Oliver lifted his voice, letting it carry through the bridge. "All stations, take your positions. We are commencing Operation Theater."

"Yes, sir," came the chorus.

Oliver moved up the center aisle toward the command chair that anchored the rear of the bridge. It sat on a raised platform where he could see both pits and the forward projection array.

"Requisition the attire I'm to wear," he told Pyro.

"Requisitioned," Pyro said at once. Somewhere below decks, an armory-wardrobe came awake.

"Are the decoys in position?" Oliver asked, lowering himself into the command chair. The purple crystal in his Gauntlet gave a throb, like an animal reminded of its leash.

"Yes," Pyro said. "Equipped with the material we discussed."

"How many?"

"Three," Pyro replied. "But to preserve the fiction, we will deploy only one. Only if conditions prove it necessary."

"Good. Are we set?" Oliver asked, pitching his voice to carry over the low hum of the bridge.

"Ready for status check," Pyro replied.

"Begin. Put the feeds on the main screen." Oliver commanded.

Hands moved in the pits below, fingers dancing through layers of ghost-light. The forward wall woke with dozens of camera angles projected. The ship revealed itself piece by piece.

The ship looked like a huge steel cathedral-fortress. On several cameras, the red glow of its engines could be seen, pulsing rapidly through the exhausts.

"Commander Pyro. Status," Oliver said, eyes never leaving the screens.

Pyro stepped from the admiral's chair to the tactical console. Holograms rose around him in concentric rings. "Crystal reactors at ninety-seven point three percent," he reported. "Inertial shields raised. Hull stress within tolerance. Decks two through five locked down. Hangar sealed."

"Pilot," Oliver called to the forward console, where a masked officer rode his controls like an instrument.

"Ready," the pilot said without looking back. "We should have a window in the next few minutes. We'll jump, and I'll put you as close as possible before anyone tags us."

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"No heroics today," Oliver said, letting the words settle into bones and circuits. "Keep calm, stick to the plan. This isn't our last operation. Sensors, when's our opening?"

"Sir," came the answer from starboard, crisp and sure, "our reads show we need to begin as soon as possible."

"Confirming final checks," Oliver said into the room. "Artificial gravity stable. Intercom on triple redundancy. Weapons in safe mode. Telemetry clean."

His thumb found the recessed toggle on the arm of his command chair. He pressed it.

"Ship," he said. "Start departure."

The Red Citadel vibrated and rumbled. Even on the bridge, the crew could hear the reactors lighting one after another. They were like distant booms stitched into a single rising roar as the ship shouldered against the gravity well.

On the main screen, a mosaic of feeds showed them crawling up through the weather. Bands of ammonia and heavier gases peeled away. Ice crystals broke as the hull climbed the last rungs of Jupiter's sky.

"We're approaching the edge of radio and infrared interference," the pilot reported, voice steady. "Exiting Sector Two of Jupiter. Brace, accelerating."

The pull hit a heartbeat later, a clean punch that pressed Oliver into the command chair. The Red Citadel drove forward, engines howling against the giant's drag.

"Our signature is visible," Sensors called from starboard. "We can be detected at any moment. We must jump."

"Not yet," the pilot snapped, hands locked on his console. "Too close to Jupiter. Best case, we blow ourselves. Worst case, we tear the planet."

Oliver watched the feeds with patience. Eyes flicking from hull, starboard, and port. Dorsal arrays shedding frost; a stern view where the exhaust washed the clouds in red.

"Clear," the pilot said, relief contained. "Safe distance achieved. Preparing jump protocol."

"Imperial traffic incoming," Comms warned. "They've flagged our ship. Expect intercepts any minute."

"Jumping," the pilot said, taking the window before it closed.

The world flexed. Jump felt like teleportation. However, with no disassemble-and-reassemble, but a guided slide through space.

"Dropping out in three… two… one…" The pilot announced.

The feeds snapped back. Ahead, dead center, hung a small blue world. Around it were hundreds of orbital bases and defense platforms drifting in lanes.

"Contacts closing," Sensors said, eyes on a bloom of threat vectors. "Multiple hostile approaching."

"Don't stop," Oliver ordered. "Advance. If we break into the island, they'll have to stand down."

"Aye," the pilot said, pushing the throttles. The bow dipped, meeting Earth's atmosphere. On the screens, heat caught the Citadel's skin and ran like fire, plasma shouldering along the flanks.

Oliver thumbed the communicator. "All soldiers," he said, voice filling every corridor and room. "Prepare for landing."

Acknowledgment lights chimed back to him, rippling across the bridge displays.

Oliver stood. "The ship is yours," he told Pyro.

"Yes, sir," the android replied, already dividing his attention between flak patterns, diplomatic channels, and the thin line of airspace they needed to reach.

With soldiers flanking him, Oliver changed fast. Hands sliding him into the official ensemble that turned a man into an institution. The coat draped perfectly; crests gleamed at the collar; a dark cape settled across his shoulders.

By the time he strode into the storage bay, ranks upon ranks of soldiers were already awaiting. Oliver took his place at their head.

"Attention. Stand by," he called, seconds before the ship struck ground. The impact came up through the deck, a blunt, settling jolt.

A razor of daylight cut the bay as the aft doors parted. The ramp unfurled with a hydraulic sigh.

Oliver was first down the stairs, soldiers a step behind. What he found upon descending was a long path of white stones. It led to where each of the heirs of the Great Houses stood, along with military personnel of all ranks and some members of the Houses.

Oliver set a brisk pace down the stones, as if eager to solve his problems as fast as possible. Wearing an outfit similar to that of the other heirs, his cape fought against the island's strong wind.

"Who goes there?" one of the heirs, whom Oliver recognized as Adonis of Meridius, shot the question. "How dare you land this monstrosity on a holy island?"

"Who else?" Oliver answered, as if stating the obvious. "Atlas Blackwell. Founder of the Thirteenth Great House."

"Founder? What the hell are you talking about?" Adonis took a step forward, followed by his soldiers. With his chest puffed out, he looked ready to expel Oliver—or in this case, Atlas.

"To be a Great House," Oliver said, voice carrying, "I require a thousand Rangers under my command. Correct?"

He didn't wait for consent. He lifted his hand, palm back toward the ship.

The Red Citadel obeyed like a curtain on cue. From the bay, lines began to pour. File after file of Rangers marching in lockstep. One line became ten; ten became a hundred; the hundred multiplied until a whole army was at their door.

Faces changed in the crowd. Anger gave way to surprise. Military hands tightened, then hesitated. Even Katherine, steady as iron, could not keep the flicker from her eyes as the scale revealed itself.

Oliver let the silence stretch until its limit. Then he smiled.

"That should be enough," he said. "Right?"

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