The first ship was a black, angular silhouette that sliced through the ionizing storms of Aethelgard's atmosphere like a knife. Its shields shimmered under the assault of lightning and abrasive dust, but it advanced, imperturbable, a rock in a raging torrent.
From their armored observation posts, the Aethelgardians held their breath. They watched the monitors display the craft's descent, guided with surgical precision towards the only viable entrance point of their largest underground city, a massive stone door opening onto a vast natural hangar.
When the first Terran Dropship landed, its steel legs touching the rocky hangar floor with a dull screech, a deathly silence reigned. Then, the ramp lowered with a hydraulic hiss.
No soldiers in heavy armor emerged, but SCVs floating silently, pushing containers marked with white crosses. Behind them, Terran medics in sanitary gear, their faces visible and unarmed.
Elder Kael, supported by his staff, stepped forward, his heart pounding. A man in a gray uniform, without a helmet, descended to meet him. It was a junior officer, his face etched with respectful solemnity.
"Elder Kael. I am Lieutenant Marx. In the name of Commander Braveheart, we bring you fraternal aid."
The containers were opened. Inside were compressed air purifier units, high-efficiency water filtration units, crates of medicines and antitoxin serum, and portable medical scanners of unimaginable complexity for Aethelgardian healers.
That was the first hour. Then other ships arrived, bringing lightweight prefab housing, full-spectrum sunlamps to combat vitamin D deficiency, and agronomic data to optimize their hydroponic crops.
The initial mistrust turned into silent astonishment, then into a relief so profound it was painful. Women and men in rags, with thin limbs and sunken eyes, approached, touching the impossible materials with their fingertips, watching the scanner screens display clear diagnoses for diseases that had plagued them for generations.
Elara, the young technician, stood beside Kael, silent tears streaming down her cheeks.
"They... they are healing us, Elder," she whispered. "Without asking for anything."
Kael nodded, a primitive emotion tightening his throat. He watched Lieutenant Marx explain the operation of a water purifier to a group of awestruck Aethelgardian engineers.
"They do not come as conquerors, my child," he said, his voice hoarse. "They come as... cousins. Cousins who inherited a legacy we had lost."
It was not a celebration. There were no great festivities. But in the underground hangar, bathed in the harsh light of Terran projectors and the softer glow of native fungi, a connection was made. A handshake between Lieutenant Marx and Elder Kael, wrinkled and trembling, was more eloquent than any speech.
It was a happy reunion between relatives. In the bowels of a dying world, one branch of humanity was reaching out to another, saving it from a slow extinction. For Julius, it was a strategic act, strengthening humanity. For the people of Aethelgard, it was a miracle. And for the first time in a thousand years, the future did not seem like a slow descent into darkness, but a glimmer of hope, brought from the sky by ships that nothing could stop.