Now, not one of them could muster the courage to speak. Kayvaan's patience snapped. He took a slow step forward, voice laced with barely restrained fury. "Have you found any traces of them? When? Where? Someone here must have an answer!"
Still, silence. Kayvaan let out a breath through gritted teeth. Then, with deliberate force, he began pacing, hands curling into fists. "No one?" he repeated. His voice was deceptively calm, but his eyes burned with cold fire. "Not one of you is going to speak?" His hand drifted toward his hip, only to clench around empty air. 'Damn it'. He wasn't armed. This was the official residence of the planetary governor—his residence, technically, but it had been reduced to a nest of bureaucrats. His weapons, his armor, his tools of war had all been left outside. So instead, his glare turned lethal. "Believe it or not," he murmured, "I am this close to sawing your heads off with a chainsword."
Still, silence. His fingers flexed. "If I cracked your skulls open, I wonder what I'd find inside. Certainly not a functioning brain. Straw, maybe. Dust and cobwebs."
A voice finally broke the quiet. "My lord, please—anger will not solve this."
Kayvaan turned his head sharply. "Mordaine?"
Countess Mordaine stepped forward, her expression calm but her presence commanding. "It's me, my lord," she said, bowing slightly. Kayvaan exhaled through his nose. He studied her for a moment, taking in the sight of a woman who had changed much over the years.
It had been thirteen years since they had crossed paths. Back then, Mordaine had been young, ambitious, reckless. A twenty-year-old firebrand who had plunged headfirst into the brutal world of interstellar trade. Now, at thirty-three, she had become something greater. The wild, impulsive girl was gone. In her place stood a woman who had turned the Shrike Family Corporation into a powerhouse that stretched across multiple sectors. A woman who wielded economic power as effectively as any commander wielded a fleet. "How long have you been back?" Kayvaan asked.
"Not long," Mordaine admitted. "I hadn't expected to return to this."
Kayvaan sighed. "You're right. I shouldn't waste time being angry at these imbeciles." He cast one last glare at the officials. "This isn't beyond my control. I'll handle it."
Mordaine gave a small, knowing smile. "Of that, I have no doubt."
Kayvaan turned back toward the group. His gaze settled on one of the intelligence officers. "You," he said, pointing. "Yes, you. Step forward."
The man hesitated, then obeyed. "Tell me everything," Kayvaan ordered. "From the beginning. When were the greenskins first sighted? Where are they concentrated? What's their estimated strength?"
The officer swallowed but managed to answer. "Three months ago, unusual incidents were reported in the remote Velmorian region. At first, they seemed trivial—residents reported missing supplies, stolen food, minor property damage. Then, the murders began. At the time, local authorities dismissed them as isolated crimes. The police sent three investigative teams." Kayvaan's expression darkened. The officer hesitated before continuing. "None of them returned." A heavy silence settled over the room. "When it became clear something was wrong, the regional government finally requested military assistance. A reconnaissance unit was dispatched."
Kayvaan could already guess what came next. "They vanished too."
He exhaled slowly. "Three days ago, satellite imaging and aerial recon confirmed the worst," the officer continued grimly. "The enemy is confirmed as Orks. Velmorian has fallen."
Kayvaan closed his eyes for a moment. Three months. Three entire months since the first signs of incursion. And he was only hearing about it now. He let out a bitter laugh. "Hah. Wonderful. Fantastic. So three hundred and forty thousand people were trapped in a warzone, and no one thought to inform me?"
A civil affairs official cleared his throat. "That palce is a remote district," he said cautiously. "It's possible there are survivors."
Kayvaan turned to him slowly, his expression unreadable. Then, suddenly, he spat on the floor. "You idiot," he growled. "Do you even know what Orks are?"
The official paled.
Kayvaan took a step closer, looming over him. "Tell me—have you ever faced them in battle? Have you seen what they do? Or are you speaking from the comfort of an office, hoping reality will be kinder than the truth?"
The man opened his mouth but no words came out.
Kayvaan's eyes narrowed. "Orks do not capture. They do not negotiate. They do not take prisoners. The moment they arrived, those people were already dead. They just hadn't stopped breathing yet."
No one dared to argue.
Kayvaan exhaled sharply. "Even if a handful survived, they won't last long. Unless we strike now—unless we purge these greenskins with fire and steel—there will be no one left to save."
Silence.
But Kayvaan could already feel the hesitation in the air. Finally, he shook his head. "But we won't, will we?" No answer. Because the answer was obvious. The armies of Reach could not deploy quickly. A few hundred elite strike teams? Maybe. But moving an entire force—hundreds of thousands, even millions of troops?
That was a logistical nightmare. Orders had to be signed. Supplies had to be arranged. Warships had to be fueled and armed. Deployment schedules had to be drawn up, reviewed, and revised. And Orks? Orks didn't wait.
Kayvaan clenched his fists. This was a disaster waiting to happen. And if they hesitated now… it wouldn't stop at Velmorian sector, It would be the whole damned planet.
The full-scale economic expansion of Reach had come at a cost—one that was now laid bare. The planet's conventional military forces numbered only a million, and that included vast numbers of logistics personnel. Worse still, those forces were scattered across the world, requiring at least a week to mobilize and deploy into a functional fighting force.
Kayvaan clenched his jaw. 'A week.' The fools in this room had no concept of what that meant when facing Orks. Three months was already an eternity for greenskins. Given enough sunlight and moisture, that was all the time they needed to turn a single stranded Ork into a full-blown warband. Now, with an entire state overrun, Velmorian was no longer just a battlefield—it was a breeding ground. And these bureaucrats didn't even realize it. In some ways, ignorance was a mercy. If they truly understood how much damage their incompetence had wrought, they might panic. Then again, panic might be preferable to the arrogance on display.
Kayvaan had spent years trying to educate them. He had forced them to study xenos threats, had brought in lecturers, had even published simplified material for public servants. But none of it had mattered. These people had knowledge—they simply chose to ignore it. Because, for centuries, Reach had never been touched by war. But that illusion had shattered. And now, they would all learn. Kayvaan exhaled sharply, forcing his emotions into check. Anger would solve nothing. The only thing that mattered now was fixing this mess before it spiraled beyond control. "Enough," he said at last, voice calmer but no less sharp. "The situation is what it is. What matters now is how we deal with it." He turned to the military staff officer present. "Is Central Command taking any action?"