Turn sent.
Gorakhan couldn't sit still. Nervousness and excitement merged together to the point that she felt sick. The radio could be heard in the background. The admiral of the first Decados fleet of dreadnoughts, commanding the flagship of the navy, announced that church forces had been engaged. Elsewhere, Nikolai was giving a speech, in his deep and silky voice, ostensibly to assuage the populace, but more to threaten his family rivals. Gorakhan turned off the radio and waited, beads of sweat collecting at her brow.
Elsewhere...
The doors to the monastery burst open. At the entrance stood the elite of the elite Decados from the Kossacks legion. Huge, clad in obsidian plate, wielding heavy-metal swords that weighed two hundred pounds each. These men, if they could be still be called that, were genetically engineered and born for malice. They could not live ordinary lives. All they knew was victory and death. Compassion, empathy, softness, these words could never describe one of their ilk.
The monks sat unnerved. Not one of them feared death. The prophet had spoke of this day - that a false prophet would come to tear down all that they had built on De Moley, and a holy war would spark across the galaxy. The monk's throat was quickly slit by the approaching Kossack. Brother battle defenders quickly rushed into the hall, but there was little they could do. All throughout Decados space, church forces were slaughtered and routed. Their cities sacked, monks desecrated, ships splintered. As the inquisitor lay bleeding out on the floor of one sacred church, his dying thoughts crossed his mind: "Where is the patriarch?"