A skull-faced figure on an obsidian throne commands an array of generals in a dark, futuristic command center with a large holographic map.

draw a picture for a book with this (Location: Command Spire, Viresh Ultima, Dominion Dreadnought Orbiting the edge of Galaxy Segment 43-K, Velmora Expanse The chamber was dark, vast, alive with flickering projections of dying worlds. The generals stood in a crescent, twelve of them, each clad in jagged Dominion armour, their faces pale from long years under black suns. Some were human, some were not, all were killers, architects of conquest. At the centre, seated upon the obsidian throne that pulsed with the memory of time itself, sat The Hollow. The light bent around him, his armour reflected nothing, his voice came not from his mouth, but from the ship itself, carried through the iron bones of the Viresh Ultima like a whisper from the deep. “Seventeen galaxies,” he said, quiet and resonant, “Seventeen we have taken, nine rebuilt, eight left in ruin.” The generals remained still, they knew better than to speak. “But this one, Velmora, this one resists.” He stood slowly, light sliding off his armour like water off glass. Behind him, a hologram rose, the Velmora Expanse, riddled with contested planets, rebel signatures, untamed sectors. “A pocket of stubborn stars, scattered peoples clinging to old myths, farmers, dust-workers, dreamers. They think history protects them.” One general finally spoke, Vex Altran, the Warlord of the Outer Rings. “Their resistance is laughable. Shall I unleash the Dustborn protocols?” The Hollow turned, and the air thinned. “No,” he said, “Not See more