The throne room of the Star Walker was more than a command center; it was a statement. A vast, cathedral-like hall, its vaulted ceilings seemingly lost in a simulation of a starry sky. At its far end, dominating the space with its presence, stood the throne.
It was not forged from ostentatious gold, but from bluish-silver steel, shaped into the form of an imperial eagle with immense wings, spread in a protective—or dominant—arc above the seat. This was where Julius presided.
He no longer wore combat armor, but robes of state. A long coat of deep midnight blue, trimmed with silver and adorned with patterns evoking stylized circuitry and eagle feathers. Over it, a light cuirass of the same silver metal as the throne fitted his torso. His wings, real and no mere ornament, were discreetly folded in their integrated dorsal sheath within the garment, their presence hinted at only by a slight raising of the fabric.
His eyes, an intense electric blue, scanned streams of data projected before him at superhuman speed. Dozens of transparent holographic screens scrolled past: pacification reports from Dakora-7, loss analyses, inventories of recovered resources, updates on reconstruction projects across half a dozen recently integrated worlds.
Beside him, two immaterial yet perfectly defined forms. Data, whose appearance still recalled the Starfleet officer, synthesized logistical and scientific information in a measured voice. Vision, bearing the serene features of James D'Arcy, analyzed strategic data and reports from embedded agents.
Information was processed, digested, decisions made almost instantaneously. A nod, a murmured word, and orders were relayed across the nascent empire.
But amidst this bureaucratic and martial flow, a grander thought occupied Julius's mind. The victory on Dakora-7, the defeat of Be'lakor's avatar, the demonstration of his new power... these were milestones. Necessary steps, but steps nonetheless.
He rose from his throne, a fluid movement that made his coat rustle. The holograms dimmed slightly, refocusing their attention on him.
"Data, Vision," his voice echoed calmly in the hall. "The ongoing consolidations are satisfactory. But we are reaching an inflection point."
He descended the few steps leading down from the throne, his boots silent on the dark flooring that reflected the virtual stars.
"We are no longer just a fleet, a coalition of circumstance. We have worlds. A diversified people. Technology that sets us apart. An army that has proven its worth against the worst horrors of this galaxy."
He stopped before a large holographic map of this sector of the galaxy, where systems controlled by Bastion glowed with a firm blue light.
"It is time to stop reacting. It is time to assert. To declare our existence, not as survivors or predators, but as a power. A civilization. An empire."
He turned to his digital advisors. "Assemble the War Council. Summon the representatives of the allied worlds, the Votann Master Forgers, the Ancient One, the civilian dignitaries who have emerged. Prepare the Star Walker and an escort worthy of a return to Bastion."
His homeworld. The first world. The one he had forged into a fortress, a symbol.
"The proclamation will not be made from the shadow of a ship, amidst battle reports," he declared, a glint of absolute conviction in his gaze. "It will be made from the heart of our strength. From the steps of the Palace of the Steel Dawn, on Bastion. Let the entire empire, and whatever echoes spy in the void, hear clearly: a new power has been born. And it has a name."
The order was given. The administrative and protocol machinery of his dominion sprang into action. The return to the source was scheduled. The hour was no longer for clandestine battles, but for History, written in letters of light and steel for any who dared to look it in the face.