The high chamber of the newly claimed pyramid thrummed with a low, resonant hum, the echoes of victory still reverberating through its gilded halls. Sobek sat upon a throne of polished obsidian, its surface etched with serpentine motifs that gleamed faintly under the flickering torchlight. The air carried the faint tang of incense and the sharper sting of scorched stone—a reminder of the chaos that had preceded this tenuous peace. He rubbed his temples, the dull ache pulsing in rhythm with the storm of frustration brewing within him. Jakkan’s defeat had been a triumph, yes, but the aftermath revealed a rot so deep it gnawed at Sobek’s patience. Jakkan hadn’t merely been incompetent—he’d been a slothful caricature of a god, a monument to mismanagement that disgusted Sobek to his core.

  He leaned forward, elbows resting on the throne’s armrests, his golden eyes narrowing as he surveyed the chamber. The walls bore the faded grandeur of Jakkan’s reign—murals of conquest now chipped and dulled, their once-vibrant colors muted by neglect. This world had been a treasure squandered, its people kept in squalor while Jakkan hoarded technology and power for himself. Sobek’s lip curled faintly. He had seen poorly run domains before, but this was a failure of vision, a betrayal of the very divinity the Goa’uld claimed. It offended him—not as a moral failing, but as a practical one. A weak civilization served no purpose; a flourishing one, guided by a firm hand, could become an empire.

  His thoughts shifted to the new order he was forging. Across the planet, his religious hierarchy was taking root, a framework of faith and discipline designed to bind this fractured world to his will. At its heart were Hana and Karri, his most fervent priestesses. Their devotion had only deepened since their punishment, a fact that both surprised and pleased him. He’d worried the lashes might fracture their loyalty, drive a wedge of resentment between them. Instead, the discipline had forged them anew—unwavering, resolute, their eyes burning with a zeal that bordered on the divine. They had become extensions of his will, spreading his doctrine with a fervor that turned whispers of his name into chants of reverence. Sobek allowed himself a rare moment of satisfaction. They were a testament to his methods: loyalty born not just of fear, but of purpose.

  Hathor’s presence lingered like a shadow over his victories. She and her entourage had watched his every move since the conquest, their golden eyes sharp and unyielding. The moment Sobek had secured Jakkan’s Stargate, he’d reestablished contact with Vulcan IV, dispatching orders to bolster infrastructure and integrate this new territory into his domain.

  Where Jakkan had suppressed his people, Sobek saw potential in controlled advancement—roads rebuilt, aqueducts restored, technology shared just enough to inspire awe without relinquishing control. A weak flock was a burden; a strong one, properly guided, was a weapon.

  He’d briefly considered sparing Jakkan, forcing the broken System Lord into servitude as a vassal. The thought had flickered through his mind—Jakkan’s knowledge, his remnants of power, bent to Sobek’s will. But the idea withered as quickly as it had formed. Jakkan was unreliable, his forces fragmented, his spirit too steeped in arrogance to be reshaped. No, there could be no half-measures. Eradication was the only path.

  Now, Sobek stood upon the grand viewing deck of the pyramid, the city sprawled beneath him like a tapestry of ruin and renewal. The remnants of Jakkan’s capital lay in the shadow of the pyramid’s towering steps, a jagged landscape of shattered stone and smoldering embers.

  Thousands of former slaves and subjects gathered below, their faces a mosaic of fear, hope, and uncertainty. The air buzzed with their murmurs, a low hum that rose and fell like the tide. At the apex of the great staircase knelt Jakkan, hands bound behind his back with cords of braided naquadah, his once-regal robes tattered and stained with ash. Even now, the fool bellowed commands, his voice hoarse and defiant, as though his shattered throne still held sway.

  Sobek stepped forward, his bronze-and-emerald armor glinting in the late afternoon light, the weight of his golden headdress a crown of authority. He raised a hand, and the crowd fell silent, their eyes fixed on him with breathless anticipation. “The time has come,” he announced, his voice rolling over the masses like thunder, amplified by the chamber’s acoustics and the sheer force of his presence. “By decree of the Council, Jakkan is to be banished from this mortal realm. His reign of neglect ends here. From this day forward, Hathor and I shall rule. Together, we bring order! Together, we bring prosperity!”

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  Hathor stood beside him, her crimson gown flowing like liquid fire, her golden eyes gleaming with a regal confidence that seemed to bend the very air around her. She offered a knowing smile, her presence a silent endorsement of his words. The crowd erupted in response, a thunderous roar of approval that shook the stones beneath their feet. Chants of “Sobek! Hathor!” rose in a crescendo, their voices raw with devotion.

  With a subtle motion of his hand, Sobek signaled the mothership hovering above—a sleek, obsidian beast that cast a shadow over the plaza. A pillar of searing energy lanced downward, its blinding white light engulfing Jakkan. His screams pierced the air, a shrill wail of defiance and agony that lasted only a heartbeat before silence fell. His form disintegrated in a flash of divine retribution—or so it appeared. In truth, it was meticulously staged, a spectacle of technology masquerading as godhood. The effect was immediate: the crowd surged forward, falling to their knees, their cries of loyalty echoing through the ruined capital like a hymn.

  Sobek allowed them their moment, his gaze lingering on the sea of bowed heads before turning to Hathor. She regarded him with a newfound intensity, her golden eyes narrowing slightly as if peering into the depths of his soul. “I see now what you mean, Sobek,” she said, her voice smooth and deliberate, carrying a hint of grudging respect. “Your methods of control are… unconventional, yet undeniably effective. This is something I will reflect upon.” Her gaze drifted skyward for a moment, lost in thought, before snapping back to him with sharp intent. “Once you conquer the other rogue System Lords, I will call upon you again. For now, I must return and discern the Council’s next moves.”

  She stepped closer, her presence enveloping him like a warm breeze laced with steel. Lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, she murmured, “Continue to serve me well, Sobek, and you will wield power beyond what any of my other progeny have ever dreamed.” Her words hung in the air, a promise and a challenge entwined.

  Then, with a graceful turn, she departed, her entourage falling into step behind her like a procession of shadows. The hem of her gown brushed the stone as she descended the stairs, leaving Sobek alone with the weight of her words.

  He took a deep breath, the crisp air filling his lungs as he steadied himself. Turning back to the deck’s edge, he called out, “Hana. Karri.”

  The two priestesses emerged from the gathered advisors, their steps swift and purposeful. They knelt before him, their dark hair catching the fading light, their simple robes adorned with crimson sashes bearing his sigil. “My Lord,” they intoned in unison, their voices a harmony of reverence.

  “Continue your efforts in establishing the priesthood,” Sobek ordered, his tone firm yet measured. “Elevate the former Jakkan Jaffa wherever possible—grant them roles within the new order, but ensure their loyalty is absolute. Report your progress to me directly.”

  Hana’s eyes flickered upward briefly, meeting his with a quiet intensity. “Yes, my Lord,” she said, her voice steady and resolute. Karri echoed her, softer but no less determined, her head dipping lower in deference.

  Sobek dismissed them with a nod, watching as they rose and retreated to carry out his will. Next, he summoned his Jaffa commanders. The warriors assembled before him, their armor still bearing the scars of battle—scratches and scorch marks marring the once-pristine surfaces of serpent, jackal, and hawk helms. He cast a scrutinizing gaze over them, noting the weariness in their stances but also the fire that still burned in their eyes. They had fought well, but another trial loomed.

  “Prepare our forces,” Sobek commanded, his voice resonating with unyielding resolve. “We move against Wu Ren next. She was Jakkan’s ally—his fall will reach her ears soon, and she will be ready. I want every piece of intelligence we have on her forces, her defenses, her weaknesses, delivered to me by tomorrow. She will not be given the same chance to resist.”

  The commanders pounded their fists to their chests in a unified salute, their voices rumbling in assent. “As you command, Lord Sobek!” They dispersed with purpose, their steps heavy but determined, leaving Sobek alone on the deck.

  He lingered there, his gaze drifting skyward. Despite Jakkan’s failures, this world held a stark beauty—its endless sky stretched wide, painted in rich hues of amber and violet as the twin suns dipped below the horizon. The temperate breeze carried a faint sweetness, a stark contrast to the harsh, dust-choked winds of Vulcan IV. For a fleeting moment, a smile ghosted across Sobek’s lips, softening the hard lines of his face.

  But the moment passed. There was work to be done, wars to be waged, an empire to forge. Turning from the vista, he strode toward the chamber housing Jakkan’s sarcophagus. Its golden surface gleamed in the torchlight, a relic of decadence now repurposed for his needs. He stepped inside, the lid closing with a soft hiss, enveloping him in darkness. Rest would renew him, for soon, he would march to war once more.