In the elder days, when the universe lay beneath the heel of the Domnus, that great and terrible race turned their gaze inward, seeking mastery not only over the stars but over the very essence of their own being. With cruel precision, they wrought experiments upon their own flesh, shaping lesser echoes of themselves in pursuit of a perfect lineage.

Thus were born the Rejected—taller than the Domnus, their sinew tempered by an unnatural grace, their skin painted the hue of deep sapphire, and their blackened eyes reflecting no light of reason. Yet for all their might, they were deemed unworthy, for the spark of intellect that burned so brightly in the Domnus flickered dim within them. These beings, their minds deemed dull and their purpose unfulfilled, were cast aside, abandoned upon the cold and forsaken world of Supremus Nella, known in whispered tongues as the Sovereign Laboratory.

But fate, ever the great weaver, had not yet severed the thread of their destiny. For when the Dark descended upon the Domnus, unmaking them in a tide of oblivion, the abandoned children stirred. Left amidst the ruins of their creators' grandeur, they bent their minds to the forgotten relics of their forebears, seeking purpose in the remnants of a race that had cast them aside. In time, they shed the shame of their rejection and took for themselves a new name—The Sovereign Reverent—so-called for their undying reverence to the lost Domnus, yet resolute in their own claim to sovereignty among the stars.

Thus, the Sovereign ventured forth from their cradle-world, their hearts set upon the same path their makers once walked. They sought dominion, their fleets spilling across the void like a tide, for they believed it was their right to take up the mantle of the Domnus and shape the galaxy in their image. But they would soon find that they were not alone in their hunger for conquest…

For a time, this was the way of the galaxy—Sovereign Reverent and Cyborii alike carving their empires from the bones of the weak, shaping the stars in the image of their lost makers. But then, from the darkness of the void, came a race unlike any before—the Terrans.

Led by their ancients, the Old Ones, these wanderers from the forsaken Terran system wielded a power beyond the Sovereign’s understanding—Affinity, the force that bound the soul to the universe itself. Though the Sovereign had grown mighty in war, they found themselves undone not by fleets or fire, but by the quiet wisdom of these immortal warriors.

Where once the Sovereign sought to claim the galaxy through conquest, the Old Ones showed them another path—the way of unity, of harmony forged not through chains, but through kinship. And so, begrudgingly at first, the Sovereign Reverent set aside their hunger for dominion, standing alongside the Cyborii to build something greater than either had known.

Thus was born the United Solar Systems of the Galactic Council, the great council of the stars, where all races might stand as equals beneath the banners of peace. And as the Old Ones passed into legend, seeking the mysteries of Dwethia, the Sovereign remained as the stewards of this fragile unity, standing as both rulers and protectors of a galaxy that had once trembled beneath the wrath of the Domnus.

Yet the stars turn ever onward, and no peace lasts forever. Shadows stir at the edge of the void, whispers of forgotten horrors and empires yet to rise. The Sovereign hold their place among the stars, but even they know—history is never truly written, only waiting to be reforged.

In the elder days, when the heavens still burned with the embers of creation, there came from the void great travelers upon wings of fire. They descended unto an untamed world, where the land seethed with creatures unlike any other—beasts of shifting form, clad in scales as hard as the iron of the deep earth. These were a people of instinct and hunger, whose nature was bound to the consuming of flesh, for in the devouring of another’s strength, they themselves would be made stronger.

The strangers who came upon them were not as the creatures of that land, but beings of vast knowledge and great power. They walked with forms unchanging, adorned with garments woven from the threads of the firmament, and their tongues spoke of distant stars and wisdom unknown to the beasts of this world. To these wanderers, the shapeshifters were given a name from forgotten tales—Orcs, a word that had once meant terror and war.

The strangers, whom the orcs knew as gods, bestowed upon them many gifts. They wove for them words of power, by which they might bind the unseen forces of the world. They bade them raise great temples, vast as mountains, where the names of these celestial visitors might be sung for all time. But such worship was hollow, for the gods soon grew restless, as was their nature, and sought to take their leave.