Chapter 8 – Khor-Vael, the Prime City

Dorrin’s eyes fixed on the red sphere filling the viewport, its deserts and valleys unfolding like an ancient canvas awaiting the Acheli hand. His module, the foremost of the convoy, carried not only settlers and supplies but also the burden of destiny. This was to be Khor-Vael, the prime city, the root from which all Acheli life on Mars would spread.

It was his birthright to lead it. From the moment he could walk, his father had drilled into him the duties of his station, the iron weight of command. Years of training, of ritual, of study in the chronicles of the lost worlds had prepared him for this day. And yet, beneath the calm mask he wore before his officers, a faint unease stirred within him. One mistake here would echo for generations. One hesitation could undo centuries of planning. But weakness was not a luxury his title allowed. To the people, he was Veythar — Governor and First Voice of Khor-Vael. His resolve must be absolute, even if doubt gnawed quietly in the shadow of his thoughts.

Already he could see the others descending with him: colony modules wrapped in fire, supply vessels trailing close, warships cutting sleek paths through the thin Martian sky. Together they fell as a spearhead, landing in close formation. Soon their tunnels would intertwine, their cities would grow together, and the first spire would rise.

The Great Temple of Aor’thuun. Dorrin whispered the name in silence, as though to steady himself. Aor’thuun was no god in the human sense, but the first flame — the primordial force their ancestors believed had kindled Acheli life in the darkness between shattered worlds. Legends told that when their homeworld Achel was scorched in the ancient wars, it was the will of Aor’thuun that carried survivors to the stars, binding their scattered kindreds to endure. Every new colony raised a temple to Aor’thuun, not as worship, but as remembrance: that fire may be reborn even from ash.

And here, on Mars, that fire would be made visible to the humans above, whether they wished it or not.

Dorrin’s grip tightened against the console. This was the threshold of his first reign, the moment where training ended and legacy began. If Khor-Vael thrived, his name would be carved into the foundations of the temple itself, sung in memory across centuries. If it faltered, his people would know only ruin, and his failure would be burned into every record. Outwardly, he stood unflinching, the embodiment of Acheli strength. Inwardly, he braced himself against the weight of history pressing down with the gravity of this red world.