The mothership’s descent through Vulcan IV’s atmosphere was a rumble felt deep in Hana’s chest, a vibration that echoed the pulse of her devotion. She stood beside Karri at the edge of the landing platform, the wind whipping at their crimson robes as the massive vessel settled into its cradle. The city sprawled before them, a testament to Sobek’s will made manifest—a labyrinth of winding streets carved from the dusty plains, their edges softened by the bustle of growing markets. Dust swirled in the air, catching the late afternoon sun in golden motes, while the clang of hammers and the hum of machinery rose like a hymn from the heart of the capital. Slaves moved with purpose, their hands guiding carts laden with goods, their lives interwoven with technology Hana and Karri could only view as divine.

  Once, such marvels had been the sole domain of the Goa’uld—shimmering consoles and glowing conduits reserved for their palaces. Now, under Sobek’s rule, they crept into the fabric of the city: water pumps powered by unseen forces, lamps that flickered to life without flame, tools that hummed with a quiet potency. To the slaves, these were miracles, gifts from their god, and Hana felt a swell of pride as she watched a young girl—barely ten—adjust a glowing device that purified water from a rust-streaked cistern. The girl’s eyes shone with awe, her fingers trembling as she whispered Sobek’s name. Hana exchanged a glance with Karri, whose normally reserved expression softened with a faint smile. Never had they seen such integration, such tangible proof of their master’s vision lifting even the lowest from squalor.

  Their duties called them deeper into the city, down a narrow path flanked by mud-brick homes now reinforced with sleek metal struts. The temple district loomed ahead, its spires piercing the sky like the teeth of some ancient beast. They entered the largest sanctuary, a cavernous space where the air hung thick with the scent of incense—myrrh and sandalwood blending into a heady fog. At its center stood a towering statue of Sobek, carved from obsidian and inlaid with veins of naquadah that pulsed faintly, as if alive. His host’s form was rendered in exquisite detail: broad shoulders clad in bronze armor, teal eyes glowing with divine authority, a clawed hand raised in benediction. Hana and Karri sank to their knees before it, their foreheads brushing the cool stone floor, their breaths syncing in silent reverence.

  “Lord Sobek, master and god,” Hana murmured, her voice a fervent whisper. “Guide us, that your will may flourish.”

  Karri echoed her softly, her tone a quiet thread of steel. “Strengthen us, that we may serve.”

  Rising, they turned to the temple staff—a dozen acolytes in crimson tunics, their heads shaved and marked with Sobek’s sigil in gold ink. The growth of his cult was staggering, a wildfire spreading faster and more vigorously than Hana had ever witnessed. She paced before the line of acolytes, her gaze sharp as she assessed their reports. “The eastern quarter chants his name at dawn,” one said, his voice trembling with zeal. “The Jaffa from Jakkan’s ranks lead the rites—they’ve cast aside their old oaths.” Another stepped forward, a woman with steady hands. “Fifty-two temples stand now, my lady. The faithful multiply daily.”

  Karri nodded, her fingers tracing the edge of her sash as she listened. “The rituals hold them,” she said softly, almost to herself. “His mercy binds their hearts.”

  Hana paused, her mind racing with a bold idea. She stepped closer to Karri, lowering her voice so only her sister-priestess could hear. “What if we forged a zealot army? Warriors loyal to Sobek alone—fanatics trained in faith and blade. They’d die for him without a thought.”

  Karri’s eyes widened briefly, then narrowed in thought. “It could work,” she murmured, her voice cautious. “A force unshakable, rooted in devotion. But we must ask him first. The lashes were bearable—separation from him…” Her words trailed off, a shadow crossing her face.

  Hana nodded, swallowing the memory of their punishment. The pain had been sharp but fleeting; the thought of displeasing Sobek again, of being cast from his presence, was a wound that lingered. “We’ll propose it,” she agreed. “His will guides us.”

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  Their work continued, overseeing the rites they’d woven around Sobek and the pantheon he’d claimed. Incense burned for Hathor, his divine mother, her statue a graceful counterpoint to his might—silk-robed, golden eyes serene yet commanding. Chants rose in rhythmic waves, the acolytes’ voices blending into a tapestry of worship that filled the temple’s depths. As they stepped outside with a contingent of guards—six Jaffa in bronze armor, staff weapons gleaming—Hana glanced skyward. Several Ha’tak cruisers broke through the clouds, their hulls bearing the silver crane sigil of Wu Ren. The rogue god was near, descending to meet their master.

  A tinge of possessive jealousy flickered in Hana’s chest, sharp and unbidden. She knew better—Sobek’s vision transcended petty rivalries—but the thought of another Goa’uld standing so close to him stirred something primal. She pressed her lips into a thin line, shoving the feeling down as Karri’s steady gaze met hers, a silent anchor.

  Sobek strode through the labyrinthine corridors of his pyramid, the air cooling as he descended into the depths where Jayaar’s laboratory hummed with life. The walls here were stark—smooth steel etched with faint glyphs, the scent of chemicals and blood hanging heavy. His chief scientist awaited, practically vibrating with excitement, his golden eyes gleaming beneath a wild mane of hair. “My lord!” Jayaar exclaimed, bowing low before gesturing to three containment cells along the far wall. “Behold—the fruits of your vision!”

  Sobek approached, his teal eyes narrowing as he studied the first subject. A human male, broad-shouldered and scarred, stood silently within the cell, his gaze fixed on Sobek with an eerie submissiveness. “This one retains much of his mind,” Jayaar explained, his voice bubbling with glee. “ Modified to feel instinctual loyalty to upper-caste Goa’uld—yourself chief among them. He thinks, he reasons, but his will bends to yours.”

  Sobek nodded, intrigued. “A servant caste?”

  “Precisely!” Jayaar moved to the second cell, where a younger host—barely past adolescence—stood rigid, eyes vacant yet glowing faintly. “Here, even beta larvae dominate fully. I’ve altered the slaves’ genetics—the younger the host, the more complete the erasure. This one’s identity is gone, subsumed by the symbiote. A blank slate for our will.”

  The third cell drew Sobek’s full attention. Three burly humanoid figures loomed within, their forms a grotesque marvel—clawed hands curling like talons, dorsal fins protruding along their spines like a mature Goa’uld’s, lower jaws split and gaping wide enough to swallow a man’s head. “Warrior caste larvae,” Jayaar said, his grin widening. “Integrated into hosts modified with Goa’uld DNA. Over time, the symbiote reshapes them—stronger, regenerative. They’re not as clever as Jaffa, but they can take a dozen hits, regrow a limb given days. Perfect brutes.”

  Sobek’s gaze slid sideways to Jayaar, a flicker of unease beneath his approval. The scientist’s glee bordered on mania—how had he stumbled on such results? The question hovered, but Sobek let it pass. Some mysteries were better left unprobed. “I’m pleased,” he said, his voice steady. “Secure more larvae—expand this. Train a cadre of Goa’uld scientists to replicate your work. Your new task: study the sarcophagus. I want a full report—its effects on mind, body, everything. Begin immediately.”

  Jayaar bowed, nearly trembling with eagerness. “As you command, my lord!”

  Sobek left the lab, ascending to his throne room—a vast chamber of polished stone and gold, its high ceiling lost in shadow. He settled into the obsidian throne, its carved serpents cool against his back, and activated a console. “Summon Haakja,” he ordered, his voice echoing.

  Minutes later, the chief engineer entered, trailed by slaves pulling carts laden with gleaming devices. Haakja’s single eye shone with pride as he bowed. “My lord, your absence spurred progress.”

  “What have you wrought?” Sobek asked, leaning forward.

  Haakja gestured to the carts. “Smaller blasters—hand-held, refined from our designs. Lighter, four shots per cell, quick to produce.” He lifted one, its sleek form glinting in the torchlight, a cobra motif curling along its barrel.

  Sobek took it, testing its weight with a nod. “Good work, but I want more. Focus on ground troop transport—something swift, agile, beyond cruisers. Integrate this blaster tech into it. We need speed on the battlefield.”

  Haakja bowed again. “It will be done, my lord.”

  As they departed, Sobek leaned back, a smile tugging at his lips. Things were progressing smoothly—technology, faith, power aligning like stars in his favor. He rose, crossing to a balcony overlooking the city. Beyond the winding streets and bustling markets, Wu Ren’s Ha’taks docked, their silver cranes stark against the skyline. She’d arrive soon, her skepticism a challenge he’d meet head-on. If he swayed her, his position would solidify—a vantage to watch the System Lords fracture while he built something enduring.