The ramp of the Star Walker lowered in an impressive silence, only the residual hum of antigrav engines audible. Julius descended, his midnight blue coat fluttering slightly in the artificial breeze generated by the platform's environmental systems.
He paused for a moment, letting his gaze take in the view. The Silver Palace was not just a building; it was a sculpted mountain, a declaration carved from metal and stone. The light of the local star reflected off its polished flanks, making it shine like a giant mirage. Behind him, his court – officers, advisors, his Pillars in ceremonial dress – stood in formation, equally silent, awed by the grandeur of the place they had helped create.
Squads of Spartans in polished beskar armor for the occasion were already positioning themselves with mechanical precision at strategic points: the high towers, the entrances to the great halls, along the avenue leading to the monumental doors. The protective shadow of the Bastion eagle was already in place.
A familiar sound – the clatter of heavy boots and a low grunt – drew his attention. Grimnyr Borrak was striding towards him, his braided beard bouncing with his hurried pace. His red-brown combat armor, streaked with soot and marked by forge sparks, contrasted violently with the immaculate splendor of the surroundings. He smelled of hot iron, oil, and sulfur, a scent of workshop and hard work that seemed almost out of place here.
Julius turned his head towards him, a broad smile on his lips. "So, my old friend? How are the final preparations going?"
Borrak stopped before him, scrutinizing him with his small, sharp eyes buried in hair. His expression shifted from curiosity to astonishment, then to a sort of gruff annoyance.
"Good gods of a bloody evening!" he growled, his rough voice scratching the protocol silence. "What happened to you, lad? You've grown, you're shining like a molten asteroid, and you've got wings sprouting from your back now? Did you kill a cosmic phoenix and eat its heart?"
Julius's smile widened. The Votann's irreverence was a balm. "Many things, my friend. Many things. I'll tell you all about it later, with a good ton of dark ale."
The Grimnyr grumbled, visibly annoyed. "Because of your new 'mug', we'll have to modify a slew of statues and bas-reliefs we just finished! Damn it, you're going to make us work overtime until the end of time!" He was grumbling, but there was no real anger in his words, rather the exasperation of a perfectionist craftsman faced with a client changing his specs at the last minute.
Julius, seeming to ignore his complaints with amused grace, made a discreet gesture. A Spartan stepped forward, carrying a long metal case adorned with the same eagle. He opened it with a click.
Inside, resting on a bed of black velvet, were two weapons. Nightwing, the magnificent double-bladed axe, now bore a sinister crack along its vibranium-adamantium edge, and its blue runes were dull, almost extinguished. Beside it, what remained of the Black Spear: the shaft broken cleanly, the spearhead warped and blackened by daemonic energies.
The Grimnyr's face froze. All traces of annoyance vanished, replaced by a cold, deep anger, the anger of an artist whose work has been defiled. His hands, broad and calloused, clenched into fists.
"Who," he said in a suddenly low and dangerous voice, "dared to commit such an affront to my creation? Tell me, Julius."
Julius's gaze hardened, reflecting the memory of the aerial battle against the winged shadow. "A very powerful being. And very dangerous."
"You killed him, I hope?" Borrak growled, his eyes promising a vengeance forged in the hottest fires of his furnaces.
"Only one of his clones. His real body is hiding elsewhere."
"Hmph!" The Votann's grunt was full of contempt. "The coward." He held out an imperious hand. "Give them to me. The axe and the spear. Me and my lads, we can do something with them. Reforge them, improve them. They'll come back stronger. That's a Grimnyr's promise."
While one of his Votann apprentices carefully retrieved the case, Borrak turned to another standing beside him, carrying a long, rectangular box of raw steel, unadorned. The Grimnyr opened it himself.
Inside, on a cushion of thick leather, rested a sword.
It was a weapon of breathtaking beauty. A two-handed sword, of impressive length. The blade was of a pale, luminous silver, as if quenched in starlight. The metal was not smooth; it was engraved with complex Votann runes along its entire length, concentric circles of symbols of forging, protection, power, and loyalty that seemed to sink into the very material. The guard was broad, forming the stylized wings of the Bastion eagle, and the pommel was a large midnight blue crystal that pulsed with a faint inner light.
Julius looked at it, marvelling. He felt a calm yet formidable energy emanating from the weapon, a sensation of absolute solidity, unshakability.
"What is its name?" he asked, his voice slightly hushed.
Grimnyr Borrak gave a proud smile under his beard. "It is called Silver Star. Forged from the steel of shooting stars we captured in orbit. Quenched in the fire of our oldest fusion furnace's heart. The runes tell the story of our alliance, our battles, and the empire you are building." He took the sword in his strong hands and offered it to Julius, the blade pointed towards the ground in a gesture of presentation. "For your coronation. So you may continue to carve your path in this mad galaxy. And so that those who would dare touch your weapons in the future know they will face the wrath of the Votann."
Julius grasped the hilt. The metal was cold, then quickly warm to the touch. The balance was perfect, as if the weapon were a natural extension of his new body. He raised it slowly, the light reflecting off the rune-etched blade.
Silver Star. The silver star. A new symbol for a new sovereign.