Celestial Shadows: Chronicles of the Forgotten War

By Lucian V. Mercer

Celestial Shadows: Chronicles of the Forgotten War

Beyond the stars, a whisper calls… and doom awakens.

Humanity is adrift. Earth is a faded memory, its glory long gone, replaced by struggling colonies clinging to life on the cold fringes of the galaxy. Hope is a scarce commodity, whispered only in ancient myths. But then, a faint, rhythmic pulse echoes from the deep void – a signal from a time before time, a message from a civilization swallowed by a cosmic hush.

Captain Orion Vale, a seasoned explorer with a haunted past and an unyielding spirit, answers the call. Aboard his battered starship, the Horizon, he and his diverse crew venture into the treacherous heart of a vibrant, living nebula, chasing the signal into uncharted darkness. What they find defies all understanding: an impossibly ancient station, a silent monument holding secrets that could rebuild humanity… or tear it apart.

But this isn't just a journey of discovery. Unseen hands pull at the threads of fate. A ruthless criminal empire, the Nebula Cartel, led by the enigmatic 'Curator,' lurks in the shadows, trading in forbidden power and ancient relics. They too seek the mysterious Star-Seed, the very heart of the ancient station, believing it holds the key to absolute control. And as the Horizon plunges deeper, Orion uncovers a terrifying truth: the Cartel's ambition is fueled by an insidious, cosmic evil – the 'Shadow,' a force that devours light and unity, turning even the purest hearts to betrayal.

Friendships shatter. Loyalties fray. As an all-consuming war ignites across the frontier, heroes rise and fall, and the cost of defiance is measured in devastating loss. Crippled and adrift, with betrayal lurking within their own ranks, Orion and his crew must make a desperate, final stand. For the Star-Seed is not merely a relic; it is a prison for the 'Shadow,' and its containment is failing.

Can a fractured humanity, haunted by echoes of a forgotten war, achieve the unity needed to face a darkness that feeds on despair? Or will the universe unravel, consumed by the 'Celestial Shadows' forever?

Dive into an epic saga of cosmic mystery, thrilling space battles, profound sacrifice, and the enduring power of hope. The stars are calling. Will you answer?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lucian V. Mercer
• Release date: May 29, 2025
• ISBN: 9798231309429

Lucian V. Mercer

Lucian V. Mercer is a master of dark storytelling, weaving tales where ambition, betrayal, and forbidden power collide. Known for his razor-sharp prose and intricate characters, Mercer draws readers into shadowed worlds that blur the lines between hero and villain. Raised between forgotten cities and windswept coasts, his early years fueled a fascination with the unseen forces that shape destiny. When he isn't crafting ruthless empires or haunted anti-heroes, Lucian vanishes into hidden corners of the world, chasing forgotten myths and whispered legends. His writing echoes with an unmistakable signature — sharp, brooding, and unforgettable. Genres: Dark fantasy, psychological thrillers, gothic science fiction, mystery Motto: "In every shadow, there is a kingdom waiting to rise."

Book preview

Prologue: Whispers in the Void

Far beyond the shimmering, swirling clouds of galaxies we know, where the ancient stars barely glowed in the endless dark, a soft, secret signal began to pulse. It wasn't like the sharp, buzzing static of a broken radio, or the deep rumble of a distant spaceship. No, this was different. This was a sound you could almost feel in your bones, a whisper that seemed to echo through the silent, biting cold of deep space. Think of it like a slow, steady heartbeat, impossibly old, coming from somewhere far, far away, from the very threads of the universe itself. It hummed with a quiet power that promised big discoveries, but also a strange, creeping fear. It was a sound meant to reach not just our machines, but something deep inside us, a forgotten part of our souls.

For thousands and thousands of years, this signal had been hidden. It was a faint ripple in the vast ocean of the cosmos, a ghost nobody noticed. It had drifted silently past glowing gas clouds that looked like giant, bruised flowers in the blackness. It had slipped by massive black holes that swallowed light whole, and woven through countless star systems, some bursting with new life, others long dead and empty. But then, as if an invisible clock had finally chimed, or a grand, unseen machine had reached its turning point, the signal changed. It grew stronger, clearer, its rhythm becoming just distinct enough to catch the attention of anyone out there smart enough to hear such a faint, unusual call. It seemed to beckon, a silent song reaching across distances too vast to imagine, promising truths that might shake everything we thought we knew, or perhaps, help us build something better from the pieces.

Back then, Earth was little more than a fading story, a bittersweet memory. Humanity, spread thin across the stars, clung to life on small, struggling colonies. These weren't the shiny, perfect cities from old tales. Oh no. They were tough, practical outposts, often built from old spaceship parts and whatever else they could find. Some were dug deep into dark asteroid belts, where people lived simple, hard lives, digging for rare minerals in a silence so thick you could almost taste it. Their very breath was precious, endlessly recycled. Others clung precariously to the edges of moons they'd tried to make like Earth, fighting against thin air that kept leaking away, sudden ground shakes, and the heavy loneliness of being the very last of their kind. Still others lived on huge, self-sustaining ships, generations old, always drifting through the cosmic currents. Their people were born, lived, and died inside metal walls, their only constant the distant, uncaring stars that seemed to mock their fragile journey. Every outpost, every ship, was a constant battle against the emptiness of space, shrinking resources, and the slow creep of giving up. They were proud and tried to be independent, but deep down, they were terribly fragile.

Many generations had passed since the Great Exodus, a desperate fleeing from Earth. Our old home had been ruined by nature's collapse and a world tearing itself apart. Old Earth now felt less like a real place and more like a sad lesson in old computer files and dusty history books—a distant, beautiful blue marble, but forever scarred, a graveyard of a forgotten way of life. The memory of its once-grand countries, its amazing discoveries, its beautiful art, was just a whisper now. In its place, a mix of small, separate settlements had grown. These new human homes were often suspicious of each other, struggling hard to figure out what being human even meant anymore in the endless void. Maps of the galaxy from this time were a mess of unknown areas, forgotten shortcuts, broken travel points, and the sad trails of exploration ships that had simply vanished, their hopes and dreams swallowed by the vast unknown. Trust was a rare and precious thing, and just surviving was the only rule.

It was against this plain, hard life and quiet sadness that rumors of a forgotten power began to bubble up. At first, people called them crazy ideas, then they became unsettling possibilities that couldn't be ignored. These stories spoke of a very old object, a relic from a time so unbelievably far back that even the wildest myths couldn't fully name its creators or its true purpose. On the research station Aethel, a slow, floating library-ship known for its strange history files and theories about alien languages, smart people had long talked about a Great Cataclysm. They believed this huge event had happened before even the oldest known space civilizations, a cosmic disaster so big it had wiped the galaxy's memory clean, leaving only hints and confusing bits of information—a kind of galactic forgetting. They called it the Cosmic Hush—a time when the universe itself seemed to hold its breath after something truly awful happened.

The mysterious signal, coming and going but always there, was met with all sorts of reactions, showing just how divided humanity was. For the strict, practical folks at the Central Trade Authority, who cared most about money and keeping things stable, it was just leftover space dust, a natural thing made stronger by a weird star lineup. Nothing more than a curious blip on a scanner. For the alien scientists of the Unified Colonial Alliance, who tried to put back together the broken pieces of universal knowledge, it was an interesting puzzle, worth studying from afar, but certainly not worth chasing headfirst into danger. Yet, for others, especially the intense, often desperate, followers of the 'Star-Seers' on the lonely, industrial moon of Kepler-186f, it was something much bigger. With wild, reverent eyes, they saw it as the last message from an advanced, maybe even god-like, race, a long-foretold sign of salvation from the stars themselves. Or, even scarier, a warning of chaos about to explode, a sign of a coming, unavoidable doom that would clean the galaxy of all its impurities. Their old prophecies, scratched onto old paper and spoken in quiet, shaky voices, told of a 'Great Awakening' when the stars themselves would shift in their patterns, and a 'Celestial Shadow' that would soon fall upon all living things, putting out the last, flickering lights of humanity. These extreme groups, though often ignored, were growing, their desperate hope and fear making them open to new, dangerous ideas.

In these dark, endless reaches of space, legends began to form, breathing vibrant life into the everyday struggle to survive. Whispers traveled faster than light, carried through the secret channels of experienced smugglers who knew every hidden warp point, and across the coded networks of deep-space miners always chasing the next big find. Stories spread of heroes who would rise from the forgotten corners of the galaxy, people made strong by isolation and hardship, their futures forever tied to the ancient call. Tales were told of battles that would shake the heavens, fights not just between spaceships armed to the teeth, but between clashing ideas, desperate groups fighting for power, and ancient, powerful forces waking up in the deep dark. And always, running through these scary and exciting stories, was the immense, heavy burden of choices that would decide the path of destiny itself—choices that might either bring back the lost glory of humanity, allowing it to once again reach for the stars in unity and peace, or send it into an endless night where there would be no dawn, only a cold, silent end.

Within the vast, uncaring void, every distant sparkle of light, every soft hum of energy, every echo of ancient power, told a story of wanting – a deep desire for purpose beyond just staying alive, for connection in the huge emptiness, and for a powerful future that felt both terrifying and thrilling. The cosmos, a silent observer, held its breath. Its gas clouds swirled like old warnings, its distant pulsars marking the unstoppable march of time, waiting for its next big story to begin.

And then, a lone starship, the Horizon, a medium-sized vessel built for long trips and deep-space discovery, made for finding things, not for the harsh reality of war, set its course towards the unknown. Its crew, a mix of different backgrounds, skills, and personal hopes, had no idea about the true weight of the journey they were about to begin. They simply followed the whisper, a tempting call into the deepest, most dangerous secrets of space. Their advanced sensors, which at first ignored the signal as just a random anomaly, had slowly, steadily, started to lock onto its constant beat, pulling the ship, almost against its own programming, directly towards its source. The whisper, after silent ages, had finally found its answer. The stars, it seemed, were about to share their oldest secrets.

Thus began the chronicle of Celestial Shadows—a huge story not just of brave space travel and exciting exploration, but of interstellar war that would spread across star systems, tricky crime that involved ancient powers, and a deep mystery that no human could fully grasp. Because every new truth found in the depths of space would come with a heavy price, and every secret uncovered would only lead to more questions, twisting the very fabric of their reality and forcing them to face what existence truly meant. The journey of our heroes was about to truly begin, a dangerous adventure that would echo forever like the soft yet urgent whisper of that long-forgotten call, woven into the wild, changing tapestry of the cosmos. The shadows were gathering, but so too, was the promise of discovery.

Chapter 1: The Call of the Cosmos

Captain Orion Vale stood on the observation deck of the starship Horizon, his gaze fixed on the endless, shifting tapestry of deep space. It wasn't just a view; it was a living, breathing canvas that no human eye, no matter how many times it had seen it, could ever truly get used to. Millions upon millions of stars, like handfuls of raw, glittering diamonds scattered across a canvas of endless black velvet, stretched out forever, cold and magnificent, utterly indifferent to the small, fragile lives that watched them from within their metal cocoons. The sheer, terrifying immensity of it all had always called to him. It was a silent, powerful song that pulled him away from the safe, familiar places, away from the tired rules of old Earth, and beyond the fading, half-forgotten maps of charted space.

For Orion, this wasn't just about seeing new stars or charting empty quadrants on a screen. It was about feeling the universe deep in his bones, feeling its profound silence, tasting the biting chill of the void even through the ship’s thick hull. It was about smelling the faint, metallic tang of recycled oxygen that was their very breath, a constant reminder of their isolation and their fragile existence. It was about knowing, deep in his gut, that every single pinprick of light out there held a story, a secret waiting to be found, a mystery older than humanity itself. He felt a deep, almost aching pull to that unknown, a quiet hum inside him that perfectly matched the universe’s own endless, silent hum. For Orion, this wasn't just a job; it was his very reason for being, his core purpose, etched into his soul as deeply as the star charts were etched onto his mind. It was a hunger for discovery that burned brighter than any distant sun, a fire that had never dimmed.

Orion often found himself here, on the observation deck, long after his official duties were done for the day. He’d stand for hours, sometimes until the faint light of dawn kissed the outer hull, just watching, letting the profound silence of the void seep into him. It helped him think, helped him clear his head after the endless decisions and heavy responsibilities of command. It was where he wrestled with the ghosts of past failures and the weight of future choices. He liked the steady, low thrum of the Horizon's powerful engines, a soothing vibration that was more home to him now than any planet he’d ever visited, even the few struggling colonies that humanity clung to. After years of chasing distant lights, of living in the metallic shell of his ship, the inside of the Horizon felt like the only truly safe, truly real place left in the galaxy. His dark hair, usually neat and combed for formal appearances, was often a little messy from running his fingers through it during moments of deep thought, a quiet habit he’d picked up years ago, a way to wrestle with the unseen burdens of leadership.

Orion wasn't the kind of captain who barked orders or needed to show off his power. He led by example, with a quiet strength and a clear head that made his crew trust him without question. He was lean, but powerfully built, his movements always purposeful and steady, a silent efficiency in every step. There were faint lines around his sharp, observant eyes, etched there from years of squinting at distant stars on long watches, and from the heavy burden of command he carried every single day. His face, often serious and thoughtful, carried a deep wisdom that came from hard-won experience. He'd seen enough battles, lost enough good friends, and watched enough star systems fall apart to know that space wasn't just beautiful and full of wonder; it was also brutal, uncaring, and often deadly. He carried the quiet grief of those losses deep inside him. Yet, that very brutality, the constant reminder of humanity’s fragile place in the cosmos, only made the siren call of discovery stronger, more urgent. It was the burning promise of finding something truly new—a truth, a resource, a new home, a way to save their kind—that kept him going, especially now that the old Earth felt like little more than a forgotten dream, a whisper on the wind, a faded photograph in a dusty album.

The Horizon itself was a marvel of engineering, a true home for its two hundred souls. It wasn’t a warship, bristling with heavy cannons and reinforced armor, designed to tear other ships apart. No, the Horizon was a dedicated, long-range exploration vessel, built for enduring the deep black for years on end, pushing the boundaries of known space. Its sleek, dark grey hull, built from advanced alloys, was designed to absorb stray radiation and reflect harmful cosmic rays, a silent guardian against the harshness of the void. Inside, it felt lived-in, a comfortable mix of high-tech efficiency and human warmth. The corridors hummed with the constant, soft whisper of life support systems and the gentle glow of efficiency lights, casting long, dancing shadows as the ship adjusted its course. Every panel, every console, every bunk felt familiar and worn, marked by the touch of countless hands. It was a self-contained world of purpose, a small, vibrant bubble of life, carrying humanity’s hope far from the struggling, often desperate colonies that were now their only known homes. Every person on board, from the bridge crew to the engineers deep in the rumbling engine room, to the hydroponics specialists tending the vital food gardens, contributed to its steady heartbeat. They were a family, forged in the crucible of long voyages and shared risks, bound together by the loneliness of the void and the common dream of discovery, a shared purpose that transcended their individual backgrounds.

A Routine Scan, An Unseen Ripple

It was during what should have been a thoroughly routine scan near the outer rim of a crumbling Earth colony – a dusty, overworked mining outpost called Ember’s Reach – that the anomaly first appeared. Ember’s Reach was a harsh place, its surface scarred by ancient asteroid impacts and deep canyons, still smelling faintly of processed ore even through the Horizon’s advanced environmental filters. The sky above it was a perpetual twilight, choked with industrial haze and the faint glow of distant, dying suns. The colony itself was a testament to human stubbornness: a collection of prefabricated domes and hastily erected structures, clinging to existence on a planet slowly dying from relentless over-mining. Its people were tough, worn-out, and suspicious of outsiders, especially the clean, disciplined crew of a Star Alliance ship like the Horizon. They saw the Alliance as a distant, uncaring authority, only there to take, not to give.

The Horizon was merely performing a standard supply run check, making sure the old, often unreliable supply lines were still holding for the struggling colony. It was usually a dull, monotonous task, one that often filled the bridge with quiet sighs, the rustle of data pads being endlessly updated, and the faint, comforting sounds of crew members drinking synth-coffee from chipped mugs. The main viewscreen showed the same predictable patterns: distant nebulae, faint star clusters, and the occasional flicker of a passing freighter. But not today. Today, the steady, comforting hum of routine was about to be violently shattered.

Suddenly, the quiet rhythm of the bridge was broken by a sharp, surprised sound. Specialist Taryn Sparks Kael, a young, brilliant comms technician, let out a sharp gasp from his station. He was still barely out of the academy, young enough to still hold onto a sense of wide-eyed wonder at the universe, but old enough to know the brutal realities and unexpected dangers of deep space. Sparks was known for his quick, agile fingers that danced over consoles like a musician on a synth-piano, and an even quicker, sharper mind that could untangle the most snarled signals from across light-years. His usually calm voice, which could easily pinpoint a rogue freighter’s dying squawk or an ancient satellite’s faint pulse, was now tight with a mix of disbelief and raw excitement.

Captain, you're going to want to see this, Sparks managed to say, his breath catching in his throat, his words tumbling out in a rush. He barely breathed as he worked the controls, his brow furrowed in intense concentration, his thick glasses slipping down his nose. His hands were flying across the holographic panels, a flurry of motion, trying to make sense of the new, strange data flickering across his screens. The tension on his face was clear to everyone.

Orion, who had been reviewing a ship’s maintenance log with Commander Thorne, strode quickly to the main console. His heavy, standard-issue boots made soft, rhythmic thuds on the deck plating, a familiar sound of command. Lieutenant Maris, the ship’s chief astrophysicist, was already there, her usually steady hand hovering, almost trembling slightly, over a shimmering holographic display. Maris was a woman of calm, unwavering logic, her grey hair often pulled back in a severe, no-nonsense bun, her sharp blue eyes always gleaming with scientific curiosity. She had seen countless cosmic oddities in her long career – rogue planets, dying stars, strange nebulae, gravitational anomalies – but even she looked utterly stunned. Her usual calm demeanor was shattered, her scientific detachment replaced by pure, unadulterated awe and a hint of fear.

The main screen shimmered, then focused, showing a series of rhythmic pulses, appearing as faint, emerald-green waves against the inky blackness of the void. They weren't coming from a star, or a pulsar, or a black hole. They were coming from... nothing. Just the deep, dark void beyond the last known galactic maps, a region marked on their oldest charts simply as The Great Silence. The signal itself wasn't a raw, chaotic energy burst; it was subtle, almost musical in its precision, clearly coded, like a message wrapped in silence, humming with an intelligent purpose.

It's not interference, Maris murmured, her voice barely a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might break the delicate, unseen connection to this ancient mystery. The frequency signature is unlike anything in our database. It's... structured. Organized. Like a deliberate pattern, a language. It’s too perfect, too deliberate to be natural. She zoomed in closer, her fingers flying across the console, showing the precise, repeating pattern of the waves. It was almost melodic, a complex sequence of long and short pulses, forming a rhythmic beat, like a complex song played on a forgotten instrument from a time before humanity ever reached the stars, a melody from a civilization long turned to dust.

The rest of the bridge crew, sensing the monumental nature of the moment, gathered in hushed anticipation. Security guards, usually standing silently by the doors, edged closer, their faces reflecting the strange green glow of the screen. Navigators paused their calculations, their hands hovering over their charts. You could feel the tension, thick in the air like dust motes caught in a sunbeam, a palpable mix of fear and exhilarating wonder. Technicians, their fingers flying across consoles, furiously began to decode the transmission. Lines of alien data, baffling symbols and flowing lines that seemed to hum with an ancient intelligence, populated the screens faster than they could read them. Moments stretched into what felt like hours, each second ticking by with agonizing slowness, as the ship's powerful computers strained, whirring softly, to make sense of the otherworldly message. Then, a sharp, choked gasp from Sparks’ station cut through the tense silence, louder this time, filled with a breakthrough.

Captain, Sparks managed to say again, his voice trembling now with unconcealable awe, his eyes wide behind his glasses. "We've got something concrete. Initial translation... it's incredibly faint, barely there, but... it’s a language. An ancient language. And it's... calling. It's calling out to us." He wiped a hand across his forehead, leaving a smudge of sweat on his skin, his excitement overcoming his usual academy-trained composure.

Orion leaned closer to the console, his heart thrumming a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He could feel the eyes of his entire bridge crew on him, waiting for his reaction, for his orders. Calling what, Sparks? What does it say? Give me anything you have, no matter how fragmented or strange.

Sparks, still staring at the screen, managed to adjust a dial, his fingers precise despite their tremor. The signal strengthened just enough for a snippet of raw, unrefined data to appear on the main viewscreen, flickering through layers of static like an old, dying flame trying to hold on to the last of its light. It wasn't words they immediately understood, not yet. But it was definitely information. Complex symbols, flowing lines that seemed to hum with intelligence, like a forgotten poem from a long-lost civilization, or a blueprint of a technology that defied their understanding. Then, a few fragmented words appeared in the rough translation window, flickering, unstable, almost fading away: ...Seek... Star-Seed... Light... Void... Forgotten... Time... Awake...

This signal, one of the senior technicians, a grizzled veteran named Engineer Jax, spoke up, his voice hushed, filled with a wonder that erased years of ingrained cynicism. Jax had been on the Horizon for decades, always patching up old systems, his hands rough and scarred from a thousand repairs. He was a skeptic by nature, a man who trusted only what he could touch and fix, what was tangible and real, but now, even he looked utterly shaken, his eyes wide, reflecting the green light of the display. "Captain... this could be the remnant of a civilization we’ve only dreamed of, the ones from the old legends. The myths... the old stories of the 'First Architects,' the ones who supposedly built the very first star lanes and created the warp drives we use today... they said they vanished without a trace, a long, long time ago. But what if... what if they weren't myths after all? What if this is them? What if this is proof?"

The possibility hung in the air, a breathtaking, terrifying thought that made the hairs on Orion's arms stand on end. It stirred something deep within him – a primal longing for truth that had always driven him, a promise of discovery that utterly overwhelmed any lingering fear, any thought of the immense risks they might face. It was the very reason he existed, the reason any of them were out here, pushing the boundaries of what was known, beyond the flickering lights of settled space. The universe was vast, yes, but it was also full of untold secrets, and this, this faint whisper from the void, was one of the biggest. It felt like the universe itself was finally opening its oldest, most guarded vault, and they, the crew of the Horizon, were standing right at the door, privileged and terrified.

He glanced at Maris, whose face was illuminated by the green glow of the screen, her eyes bright with a rare, almost childlike intensity, her scientific mind racing a million miles a minute,