[b]The Star Kings![/b]

Psuedowolves stumble. Bleeding, broken, shattered. Psuedowolves fall - noses and wrists break as easily as overconfidence. Psuedowolves fall, thrown by twisting gravity, undermined by their augmentations, broken by their lack of unity. 

It's all fun and games until somebody shoots at their building. After that it is an inconvenience to be ended immediately.

Crystal lenses lock into place and scorch down in a blistering array of reality-bending diamond-glittering rays. This is the power of the Wolves of Ceron: while the Endless Azure Skies was still experimenting with the basics of crystal technology, the Star Kings had already sniffed out direct military applications with ruthless efficiency. When these rays struck they did not summon dimensional duplicates - they shunted a soul's destiny retroactively down into a dead end, a failed timeline filled with deadly peril. As the lights come down...

[b]Bella![/b]

You have come to a different world; one offset by ten thousand years - no time at all when it comes to geological formation and evolutionary timeframes, but an incredible amount when it comes to the growth of civilizations. The Portugal you see here now is not the flimsy, primitive world of an industrial civilization, but the shining gemstone world that an alien species might have come to in its own isolated splendour. Orbitals glitter in the heavens above and the buildings form fractal pentagon patterns. The people smell healthy, their weapons look deadly. You have been greeted not by inert governments, but a reactive group of diplomats and soldiers who wish to address you, the first visitor from a distant civilization.

"We greet you in peace," said their uncrowned monarch, nose twitching in high-intensity processing. "May we please speak to your administrator species?"

[b]Ember![/b]

The Lantern holds strong, burning against your arm. You are still here, and you are still you - alone now in the shadow of the Star Kings, surrounded by dozens of groaning psuedowolves. You hear the howls of the rival pack. In the distance you see the dark spots against the backdrop of a neon ultralight as the Star Kings descend from their throne to hunt you.

Your weapons are filled with oceans of stolen energy. 

[b]Dyssia![/b]

Yours is the world where the Generous Knight has her way.

You see the space elevators breaking through the endless smog, advertisements burning on every inch of their long, silvery surfaces. You see a city of night and electricity, every head crammed full of electronics in defiance of Zeus' law. You see Aphrodite exalting dark kings who can never be for an instant free of desire. You see Apollo's sun overhead burning hot and black and three times its size, as though it is ready for supernova. 

You see the fleets overhead. Vast shipyards churn through every mote and atom of matter in the system in prayer to Mars, reconstituting it into a fleet of galactic conquest. You see it all from the Generous Knight's throne room. It is beautiful in an ancient way, the centre of a thriving oaken forest, filled with endless schools of fish in every shade of blue that eat the acorns from the verdant trees. The magnificent silver-green dress of the Generous Knight connects her flesh in a thousand places to this thriving ecosystem that extends throughout the entire structure of her ship.

This is her weapon, her artistic project, her legend in the Skies: Shared Life. Through Hera's generosity she can take the damage of any of her injured upon her own body, a martyr for the Skies. Through Demeter's dark genius, she has shared her body with this entire ship-wide ecosystem. Her blood circulates through every tree, fish and microbe. To kill her means killing this entire place; to kill her servants means killing this entire place, to kill this place means overcoming the ship worth of biomantic doctors dedicated to ensuring its rapid regrowth and healing. 

"Is it not magnificent?" asked the Generous Knight as the first distant flashes of plasma fire began. "To see a civilization remade in more perfect service to the Gods. To see them with the strength required to challenge the Skies at last - and perhaps, if they are clever, to overthrow us. Is this not what you of the Publica desire? An end to our tyranny, a sop to the lesser species, the death of Knights? Is not this moment a necessary step on the path to your perfect galaxy?"

[b]Dolce![/b]

You emerge into the daylight.

Summerkind are standing up from their trenches. They are walking across No Man's Land, looking at their duplicates on the other side. They are picking up the bloody and ruined, staunching bleeding and cleaning wounds. Overhead every now and then there is a detonation as the last few fighter spheres finish their dogfights, far out of range of any communication. Stunned army formations watch the beauty of them as they swoop and dive and descend in flames. 

Liquid Bronze's bunker unfolds like a puzzle box, every panel sliding apart and reconfiguring, pushed by Summerkind labourers. The acrid smell of solid projectile smoke is pushed from your nose by a cool breeze. Millions of eyes raise up to look at the Biomancer-General as his bunker reconfigures into a massive walking palanquin. He waves like the pope down at the little people. One by one they wave back. 

Unit after unit, legion after legion, formation after formation comes to crowd around him. Millions and millions coming from miles around to stare up in awe at their creator. Long lost comrades recognize each other and embrace. Disbelieving laughter and cheers are infectious. As Liquid Bronze blows kisses into the crowd shock resolves into joy. Cheering starts more wildly. Music is started. Dancing. A spontaneous party stretching for miles. This repeats itself half a dozen times across the planet, clustered around different Liquid Bronze clones on their different palanquins.

(Already these decay. With the war over these copies of Liquid Bronze have a lifespan measured in days. "A good leader never asks anything of his men that he wouldn't do himself," Liquid Bronze explains to 20022.)

The sun shines. The war is over.