"You speak of knowledge, Judicator. You speak of experience. I have journeyed through the darkness between the most distant stars. I have beheld the births of negative suns, and born witness to the entropy of entire realities. Unto my experience, Aldaris, all that you have built here on Aiur is but a fleeting dream, a dream from which your precious Conclave shall awaken, finding themselves drowned in a greater nightmare."

—Zeratul, Praetor of the Dark Templar

Prophecy Unveiled

The ashes have cleared. The air is still. Over the face of Aiur hangs a tenebrous mood, as a former paradise struggles to regain a foothold on the cusp of survival. The Overmind is no more, but the Homeworld lies tattered, broken, humbled. Cities stand as mere remnants of the glory they once proclaimed. Judicator, Templar and Khalai alike struggle to rebuild their homes and centers of power. The Conclave has learned its lesson, but the nightmare is far from over.

Out in the morning mist, the Zealots can already be seen standing in a blue glow, holding a silent vigil amid floating pylons and ornate structures. Through the haze, a pair of nameless figures stands like granite before the silhouette of an ancient, commanding temple; one erect, still and undaunted—the other, a four-limbed construct waiting patiently for the storm. Both bear the dark markings of the Sargas tribe. Both have seen countless battles. Both are aware of a presence that may threaten all that they know and cherish. The heart of Aiur still beats with an unmistakable vitality, but a dark, approaching thunderhead cackles derisively on the horizon with a purity of essence so vile it can only belong to one force—the Zerg. The tempest is upon them. The stage has been set.

The First Strike

Our story begins at the outskirts of the province of Antioch. A shadow falls on a nearby temple—a dim, stifling presence, full of primitive drive. The link falters. Shields flicker. A living tidal wave emerges from the nearby hill bank. Claws and teeth swarm into the secluded valley. The temple guards slash into the onslaught. Warriors fall. Pylons are crushed. The luckier Zealots make it to high ground. In the minds of all Protoss defending the temple, suddenly—silence.

There is no escape.

The Antioch Chronicles™ © 1998, Eric Dieter & Ruben Moreno. All rights reserved. The Antioch Chronicles™ trademark and associated logos are the exclusive property of Eric Dieter & Ruben Moreno. Characters and distinctive likenesses thereof, character names, item names, place names, named events, artwork and all other related material not disclosed herein are protected under the laws of the United States of America and other countries. Any reproduction, retransmission, or unauthorized use herein is prohibited without express written permission.

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