The Stargate’s event horizon shimmered before Wu Ren like a pool of liquid silver, its surface rippling with an otherworldly light that seemed to hum with secrets older than the Goa’uld themselves. She stood poised at its edge, her blue silk robe swaying faintly in the breeze of her orbiting station’s command deck, silver cranes glinting as they caught the glow of overhead panels. Her contingent of Jackal Troops—ten of her finest, their sleek black armor etched with her sigil—flanked her, their clawed gauntlets gripping staff weapons with silent readiness. She took a steadying breath, the air cool and metallic against her lips, and stepped forward.
The transition was instantaneous yet eternal, a sensation that defied the senses she’d honed over four centuries. Her body dissolved into a cascade of energy, a tingling rush that swept from her toes to the crown of her head, as if every atom of her being were unraveling and threading through a needle’s eye across the galaxy. For a heartbeat, she was nothing—pure consciousness suspended in a void of light and sound, the hum of the gate’s machinery a distant echo. Then, with a jolt that snapped her nerves taut, she reformed, her boots striking solid stone as the warmth of Vulcan IV’s air washed over her.
Wu Ren blinked, her golden eyes adjusting to the sudden shift. The Stargate loomed behind her, its massive ring still pulsing faintly with residual energy, the chevrons glowing a dull orange before fading to silence. Her Jackal Troops emerged in quick succession, their movements fluid and precise, forming a protective arc around her without a word. She exhaled slowly, letting the disorientation ebb as her mind sharpened, drinking in her surroundings with the keenness of a predator stepping into unfamiliar territory.
She stood within a vast plaza, its floor a mosaic of polished black stone veined with shimmering naquadah, reflecting the late afternoon sun in fractured gleams. The air was dry and warm, carrying the faint tang of dust and the sharper bite of molten metal—a scent that spoke of industry, of a city alive with purpose. Beyond the plaza, Vulcan IV’s capital unfolded in a sprawling tapestry of winding streets and towering structures, a blend of ancient might and burgeoning innovation that set her nerves alight with curiosity and caution. Pyramids rose like jagged teeth against the horizon, their obsidian surfaces capped with gold that caught the light in blinding flashes, while aqueducts snaked through the city, their arches casting long shadows over bustling markets below.
Wu Ren tilted her head, her long black hair shifting across her shoulders as she took it all in. The streets teemed with life—slaves in drab tunics darted between stalls, their arms laden with crates of fruit and gleaming tools, while Jaffa in bronze-and-emerald armor patrolled with disciplined strides, their serpent helms glinting ominously. Crimson banners fluttered from every spire and rooftop, emblazoned with Sobek’s sigil—a coiled serpent poised to strike, its eyes rendered in teal that seemed to glow even in daylight. The sheer scale of it struck her: this was no mere warlord’s stronghold, but a domain pulsing with ambition, its heartbeat audible in the clang of hammers and the rhythmic chants rising from unseen temples.
Her gaze narrowed as she noticed the technology woven into the fabric of the city—devices that hummed with a quiet potency, their purpose veiled yet undeniable. A slave adjusted a glowing panel beside a well, water flowing upward in defiance of gravity, while another calibrated a lamp that flickered to life without flame, casting a soft amber glow over a stall of woven fabrics. This wasn’t the opulence of a Goa’uld palace, hoarded for the elite; it was integrated into the lives of even the lowest caste, a practicality that unsettled her as much as it intrigued her. In her own domain, technology served her will, a privilege of the divine. Here, Sobek extended it like a gift—or a leash—to his subjects. Was this his “future,” the vision he’d dangled before her?
Her Jackal Troops shifted slightly, their clawed boots scraping the stone, and Wu Ren gestured for them to stand at ease. She needed her mind unclouded, free to process the implications of this place. Sobek had crushed Jakkan with ease—her spies had painted a vivid picture of that campaign: swift, brutal, a tide of fanatics armed with weapons cheaper and faster to produce than her own arsenals. She’d seen the reports of his plasma blasters, their rapid fire cutting through defenses where staff weapons faltered in pace. Her own ships, still untested in their cradles, might match his fleet in theory, but theory was cold comfort against a proven conqueror. And this city—its vigor, its order—spoke of a ruler who wielded more than brute force.
A delegation approached from the pyramid looming at the plaza’s edge, its steps flanked by statues of Sobek in various poses of triumph—clawed hand raised, staff weapon poised, eyes glowing with divine menace. The leader was a Jaffa, his bronze armor polished to a mirror sheen, his serpent helm tucked under his arm to reveal a scarred face and steady gaze. “Lady Wu Ren,” he intoned, bowing low, his voice a deep rumble. “Lord Sobek bids you welcome to Vulcan IV. I am Khetar, tasked with escorting you to his presence.”
Wu Ren inclined her head, her smile polite but guarded, a mask honed by centuries of diplomacy. “Khetar,” she replied, her tone smooth as silk yet edged with steel. “I am honored by your lord’s hospitality. Lead on.”
Khetar turned, his contingent of six Jaffa falling into step as Wu Ren followed, her own troops trailing behind in a silent, watchful line. The path wound through the city, offering her a closer view of its heartbeat. Market stalls overflowed with goods—fruits in vibrant hues, fabrics dyed in crimson and gold, tools that gleamed with an otherworldly sheen. Slaves bartered with practiced efficiency, their voices rising in a cacophony of trade, while children darted through the crowd, their laughter a rare note of innocence amid the clamor. Above, temples crowned the skyline, their spires wreathed in smoke from incense burners, their chants drifting down like a distant tide—“Sobek! Sobek!”—a rhythm that pulsed through the stone beneath her feet.
She noted the Jaffa patrols, their discipline a stark contrast to Jakkan’s rabble. These were warriors, not mere enforcers, their movements precise, their eyes scanning the crowd with a vigilance that spoke of training—and faith. Crimson-robed figures moved among them, priestesses by their bearing, their headdresses glinting with emerald studs. They carried themselves with an authority that intrigued her—slaves elevated to power, a rarity among the Goa’uld. Was this Sobek’s cult, the fanaticism he’d boasted of? The thought sent a shiver down her spine, not of fear but of recognition. Faith was a weapon she’d wielded sparingly; Sobek seemed to forge it into a blade sharper than any staff.
The pyramid’s shadow swallowed her as they ascended its steps, the air cooling with each tier. Her mind churned, piecing together the fragments of this world. Sobek’s offer of alliance had been tempting—too tempting, perhaps. Her ships were a bluff in timing, not existence; she’d need weeks to deploy them effectively, and by then, Sobek could overrun her ground forces with his numbers. Yet here, she saw more than brute strength—a system, a vision, a ruler who bent tradition without breaking it. He’d spoken of unseen enemies, shadows stirring beyond their thrones, and though she’d dismissed it as rhetoric, the order of Vulcan IV lent his words a troubling weight.
Khetar led her through a grand archway, its lintel carved with serpentine motifs that seemed to writhe in the torchlight. The interior was a cavernous expanse, its walls adorned with murals of Sobek’s triumphs—cities falling, Jaffa kneeling, a galaxy bowing beneath his clawed hand. The air was thick with the scent of myrrh and the faint hum of machinery, a fusion of the sacred and the advanced that mirrored the city outside. Her Jackal Troops fanned out behind her, their clawed boots silent on the stone, their presence a reassurance as she stepped deeper into Sobek’s domain.
Stolen novel; please report.
She halted before a massive obsidian throne, its surface etched with naquadah veins that pulsed faintly, a heartbeat of power. Sobek wasn’t there—not yet—but the throne itself seemed to watch her, its carved serpents coiling with silent menace. Wu Ren’s lips curved into a faint, wry smile. Four centuries had taught her to read the games of gods, and Sobek played a subtler one than most. He’d invited her here to impress, to sway, perhaps to intimidate. She’d see his future, judge its worth, but her trust remained a prize he’d have to earn.
Khetar gestured to a side chamber. “My lord will join you shortly, Lady Wu Ren. Rest, if you will, while we prepare.”
Wu Ren nodded, settling onto a plush crimson cushion at the low obsidian table, its surface cool against her fingertips as she adjusted her silk robe. Her Jackal Troops fanned out near the chamber’s arched doorway, their sleek black armor blending into the shadows, clawed gauntlets resting lightly on staff weapons. She waited, her mind a whirl of calculations and curiosity, until the heavy doors slid open with a soft hum, revealing Sobek striding in. He was flanked by an entourage of lesser-caste Goa’uld—four figures in muted gold robes, their glowing eyes flickering with deference as they trailed him like obedient shadows. His presence flooded the room, bronze-and-emerald armor shimmering in the torchlight, his host’s form a striking blend of strength and grace that seemed to pull the air toward him.
Her lips curved into a subtle smile as she took him in, her golden eyes tracing his outline. Handsome, undeniably—tall and broad-shouldered, his sharp jaw framed by dark hair, teal eyes glinting with a vitality that stood in stark contrast to the decadence she’d known in others like Jakkan. In her world, pleasure was a rarity, a fleeting indulgence she’d always deemed beneath her role as a god above even her kin. Sobek, though, intrigued her—a puzzle of charisma and cunning that tugged at the edges of her guarded curiosity, stirring a flicker of something she hadn’t felt in centuries.
He stepped forward with a flourish, taking her hand in his clawed grip and pressing a kiss to it—a rare Goa’uld custom that caught her off guard. Her skin tingled faintly at the contact, a sensation she masked with widened smile, her composure unshaken. “Welcome, Lady Wu Ren,” he said, his voice smooth and resonant, carrying a warmth that felt deliberate yet genuine. “I hope your initial impression of my still-growing city on Vulcan IV is to your liking.”
Wu Ren’s smile turned cryptic, her pride a fortress against admitting how deeply the city had impressed her. Centuries of rule had taught her to guard such concessions, to wield words like a blade. “It is adequate,” she replied, her tone cool and teasing as she eased back, crossing one leg over the other. Slaves slipped into the room—three young women in simple tunics, their movements silent as they set down platters of roasted meats, spiced grains, and glistening fruits, the aroma of cumin and honey wafting upward.
Sobek chuckled, a low sound that rippled through the chamber, and waved a hand toward the table. “Adequate, she says,” he mused, settling across from her with a casual grace, his teal eyes glinting with amusement. “High praise from you, I suspect.” He gestured to her advisors—two Jackal Troop captains in dark armor—and his own entourage. “Come, sit. Let’s not stand on ceremony. We have much to discuss if we’re to integrate our forces—you need to understand my system fully.”
She inclined her head, her smile lingering as she nodded in agreement, curiosity piqued. Her captains took seats to her left, their clawed gauntlets resting on the table’s edge, while Sobek’s lesser Goa’uld settled to his right, their deference to him palpable. A slave approached with a silver pitcher, pouring ruby wine into their goblets, the liquid catching the torchlight in a shimmering cascade. Wu Ren lifted hers, swirling it gently as she inhaled its sharp, fruity scent—a rare vintage, she noted, her lips twitching with approval.
“Tell me, then,” she said, sipping the wine and setting the goblet down with a soft clink, “what’s this grand system of yours? You’ve piqued my interest, Sobek, and that’s no small feat.”
He grinned, leaning forward slightly, his clawed fingers tracing the rim of his own goblet. “I’m crafting a new imperial pantheon cult,” he began, his voice low and deliberate, laced with a conspirator’s edge. “Beyond Hathor—my divine mother—and myself, I intend to bring you into it, Wu Ren. A triad of power to anchor this empire. The old ways are crumbling; we need something stronger.”
Her brow arched, intrigue sparking beneath her calm facade as she reached for a slice of glistening fruit—a ruby-red pomel, its juice tart on her tongue. “Interesting,” she mused, leaning forward to mirror his stance, her silk sleeves brushing the table. “A triad, you say? I’d need to consider what I’d symbolize—war, perhaps, with my Jackal Troops, or wisdom, given my… longevity. My people would expect no less than a role that fits.”
Sobek’s grin widened, and he popped a spiced grain into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully before replying. “War suits you—those troops of yours have a reputation that precedes them. But wisdom? That’s the real blade you wield, isn’t it? We’ll find the right fit. Another round,” he added, snapping his fingers lightly. A slave hurried over, refilling their goblets with a quiet bow, the wine’s fragrance mingling with the savory steam of the meat.
She smirked, sipping again, the warmth of the drink loosening her guard just enough to enjoy the sparring. “Flattery, Sobek? You’re good at it, I’ll give you that. Let’s talk practicalities—military integration. I’d request a demonstration of your blaster technology. Proof of its worth beyond whispers.”
His smile was faint, deflecting her with a deft ease that she noted with a flicker of suspicion. “Perhaps tomorrow,” he replied, his voice smooth as he leaned back, swirling his wine. “Let’s settle the groundwork first—get the table set before we feast, so to speak.”
Wu Ren tilted her head, her fingers tapping idly on her goblet as a slave offered her a sliver of roasted meat, its surface glistening with honey glaze. She took it, savoring the tender bite, and filed away his reticence—something hidden, her spies had caught fragments, but he played his cards close. Still, she was pleased—his reforms, practical and disciplined, could take root among her people swiftly, their adaptability a strength she’d honed over decades.
“Fair enough,” she said, her tone light as she wiped her fingers on a silken cloth a slave slipped beside her. Curiosity tugged at her, and she leaned closer, her voice softening into a conspiratorial murmur. “But tell me, Sobek—what dangers do you foresee? These shadows you hinted at back on the station?”
He met her gaze, his expression hardening as he set his goblet down with a soft thud. “Ra’s death has fractured us,” he said, his tone grave, cutting through the casual air. “The Goa’uld will splinter—some will rise, others fall. Unknowns press from all sides, external to our kind. The Asgard, ever a threat, watch from their perch. Chaos is coming, Wu Ren, and we’d be fools to face it divided.”
he nodded, filing his words away as she reached for another sip of wine, the slave refilling Sobek’s goblet with a deft pour. His warning carried weight—Ra’s fall had indeed rippled through her networks, whispers of rebellion and opportunism growing louder. The Asgard were a perennial thorn, their technology a wildcard she’d long respected. “A grim picture,” she said, her tone dry but thoughtful. “You paint it well, though. I’ll chew on that with the rest of this meal.”
Sobek chuckled again, raising his goblet in a mock toast. “To grim pictures and good wine, then. We’ll sort the rest tomorrow.”
They rose, exchanging farewells with polite bows, the lesser Goa’uld and her captains trailing behind as Khetar escorted her to her quarters—a spacious chamber draped in crimson and gold, its balcony overlooking the city’s pulsing heart. Once alone, her mind drifted as slave attendants prepared her sarcophagus, its golden surface gleaming in the torchlight like a silent sentinel. She shed her robe, the silk pooling at her feet, and stepped inside, the cool metal a balm against her skin.
Her thoughts swirled—Sobek’s charm, his vision, the risks of alliance. He’d dodged her probe about the blasters, kept his deeper secrets veiled, yet his pantheon idea and dire warnings lingered like the aftertaste of the wine. As the lid hissed shut, sealing her in darkness, she closed her eyes, skepticism and intrigue warring within her, a dance as old as her rule.
