The transporter pad shimmered and flashed out beneath Captain Raku’s boots with a harsh snap that felt more like being dropped harshly than being set down gently. The air aboard the IKS Vaq’Haw tasted faintly metallic and dry. High-energy systems running close to their tolerances heated the environment’s ozone. It was a smell Raku remembered well enough from prior away missions or old station visits. Something about KDF vessel always felt familiar. The distant, rhythmic thrum of the Klingon warship’s heart beat like a drum.

The difference in illumination between both vessels stood out immediately to the Starfleet officers.

This was not the sterile white of the Cardinal’s corridors, nor the deliberately warm gold of the ship’s Ten-Hut lounge. The scarlet illumination aboard Klingon vessels like the Vaq’Haw saturated every surface without dimming it. The glow was tuned precisely for the heavily evolved eyes of a Klingon. Their advanced rods and cones evolved to read threat and motion under crimson suns and bloodlit skies. They could see better in low light, including that of the red end of the illumination spectrum.

The ruddy glare did not wash out, nor bleed into the brightly lit screens and buttons across the decks. Instead, the illumination cells embedded in the walls held their hues fiercely because of advanced, gel-based technology. Yellow warning glyphs burned as sharp as sparks. Green status lights shone with emerald clarity. The technology behind it was unfamiliar compared to the crystalline or filament based systems of many Federation races. The glow of the Klingon gel-sensors allowed every wavelength to keep their integrity beneath the red lamps.

Jagged Klingon script marched along the bulkheads in glowing lines, angled and aggressive. Everything looked more carved than written or printed. The symbols looked less like formal text and more like declarations scrawled through graffiti. Metallic deck plating was patterned in overlapping hexagonal slabs made of reinforced armor.

Lieutenant Commander M’kath stepped off the Vor’cha deck beside Captain Raku Mobra, posture rigid and eyes alert. His dark skin absorbed the red light and made his features appear carved from shadow and fire. His light-brown ponytail hung neatly between his shoulders. The Cardinal’s Klingon carried a bearing of restrained discipline wrapped around a core of coiled aggression. This ship felt closer to home for him than any Starfleet corridor, yet the crew of the Cardinal felt closer to a family than many of his relatives. M’kath’s torn feelings were reflected in the way his jaw set and broad shoulders squared.

Lieutenant Raii materialized last, late to arrive for transport. He rolled his neck upon arrival, as if testing to ensure it was beamed back together properly. The Orion JAG advisor’s emerald skin glowed richly under the red lamps. His fluorescent orange hair flared like a glowing signal fire. His muscular frame strained slightly against his uniform. He tailored his uniform tight to remind everyone how much time he spent in gyms.

“So,” Raii murmured as his eyes studied the glyphs written across the corridor. “Do we think they’re friendly?”

M’kath huffed. “They are as friendly as we Klingons are,” he said dryly. “They did not write that to intimidate you. It simply says ‘Deck Six’.”

Raku inclined his head to study more text alongside a flashing panel of amber lights.

An honor guard waited at the corridor’s end. The Klingon was clad in heavy armor. Other Klingons walked across the deck, armed with disruptors and blades. They did not acknowledge the three officers. The guard stepped forward and barked, “Clear the way for Starfleet.” The group of KDF warriors fell in formation alongside him. Their clawed boots struck the deck loud enough to echo through Captain Raku’s chest.

As they moved deeper into the Vaq’Haw, the officers became increasingly aware of the ship’s differences from Federation design philosophy. There was no attempt to soften lines or disguise power conduits. Thick armored ribs ran openly along the ceilings. Conduits pulsed with faint inner light, like veins beneath skin. Everything here declared function first, crew second.

The corridor opened into a vast chamber that felt Spartan compared to the Cardinal’s conference rooms. A simple set of stone desks sat in the corner of an empty room between hanging banners. There were few other adornments besides these. Elder members observed quietly as they sat.

This was not a meeting room. It was a council floor.

The space rose two decks high. The floor sloped gently downward toward a central platform. It forced anyone that entered to descend before speaking. Klingons lined the edges of the chamber. Officers, warriors and aides stood in silent observation across from the seated council. No chairs waited for the visitors. They were meant to stand and be seen standing.

At the far end, upon a raised balcony, stood yo’HoD K’Vel of the House Ma’Tok.

He was broader than Raku expected, portly but solid. K’Vel carried the build of a man who had once been athletically immense, yet now carried that mass differently. His once deep red-brown hair had begun to gray at the temples and along the ridges of his skull. His eyes were as sharp as they were in his youth. They still appeared drained from the stress of responsibility.

Beside him stood la’ Melvar of the House K’Chungh.

Melvar was leaner, his fair skin mottled pink beneath the red light. He wore a thick black beard braided tightly against his chest. It framed dry, cracked lips twisted into an expression between a smirk and a sneer. His eyes were dark, restless and always searched for leverage.

“Captain Raku of the Federation,” K’Vel called. His voice boomed without amplification because of the empty room’s acoustics. “You stand aboard the IKS Vaq’Haw. Speak your purpose.”

Raku Mobra stepped forward and stopped at the edge of the central platform. He did not bow nor incline his head. His voice was respectful but firm as he spoke. “I come as commanding officer of the USS Cardinal, on behalf of Starfleet Command. With me are Lieutenant Commander M’kath, my chief tactical officer, and Lieutenant Raii, legal attaché. We seek dialogue regarding Khamor IV and the Khamorian Shards.”

A low murmur rippled through the assembled Klingons. Melvar’s smile widened.

“Khamor IV belongs to the strong,” Melvar said smoothly. “We have claimed it. We mine it. The matter is settled.”

Raku met his gaze evenly. “It is not. The Romulan Free State contests the claim. They worked with the Akaru to claim Khamor III. They coordinated this with the Akaru, whose space you now operate within. They raised concerns regarding the ecological and structural stability of Khamor IV to the Romulans, which is why they moved to the third planet. The Romulans state that if anyone should be mining on Khamor IV, it should be them. The Akaru believe any subterranean activity here will trigger catastrophic spatial distortions. They believe relics under this planet’s surface are the reason why this part of the Shackleton Expanse still has distortion eddies.”

Melvar scoffed. “The Akaru hide behind songs and prophecies. They fear rumors of shadows under their soil.”

“They fear previously-confirmed prophecies targeted around ancient relics,” Raku corrected calmly. “And the disturbances that follow their excavation. Starfleet scans confirm increasing subspace instability beneath Khamor IV’s crust. Continued aggressive mining could destabilize the entire system.”

K’Vel lifted a hand to forestall his executive officer’s immediate retort. “We know the risks,” the yo’HoD said. “We also know the rewards. My House does not seek war, Captain. We seek survival. Resources feed ships. Ships feed Houses.”

“And Houses feed power,” Melvar added with a hiss. “The Romulans would strip Khamor bare and slink away behind treaties.”

M’kath’s lip curled. “You speak of slinking,” he rumbled as he stepped forward. “Yet it is you who whispers behind these shadows rather than roars of honor.”

Melvar’s eyes snapped to him. “You wear Klingon blood thinly, Starfleet,” he said. “Do you speak, or only stand?”

“I speak when words matter,” M’kath shot back. “And I listen when fools reveal themselves.”

A ripple of tension cracked through the chamber.

Melvar’s grin sharpened. “You sound soft.”

M’kath took another step forward. His nostrils flared as he said, “My name marks me for war,” he said. “For mud and blades and broken teeth. I still fire weapons. I still fight hand to hand. Unlike you, others do not bleed for my ambition.”

The letters M and K were heavily symbolic in Klingon names. K names were destined for command and bridge duty. M names were meant for a life of intergalactic infantry.

The chamber erupted in shouts.

Raii moved instantly to step in front of M’kath, palms raised. “Enough,” he said sharply. The Orion’s voice cut through the noise. “This is not a duel. This is a negotiation governed by interstellar accords.”

Murmurs continued, even louder.

K’Vel slammed his fist against a hollow metallic rail. The sound boomed like thunder. “Silence!”

The chamber stilled.

K’Vel leaned forward, eyes locked on Melvar. “We shall not provoke blood here,” he growled. “Not Romulan. Not Akaru.”

Melvar bowed his head stiffly. Resentment simmered beneath the glance he shot towards M’kath.

Raku seized the opening. “The Romulans are not here to conquer,” he said. “They are refugees. Hobus destroyed their homeworld. They seek a place to live. That does not make them weak.”

“It makes them desperate,” Melvar muttered.

“And desperation breeds conflict,” Raii said smoothly. “Which is why joint stewardship frameworks exist.” He activated his PADD. Lines of text translated into Klingon script were projected into the air. “Federation Arbitration Code 47-B, subsection nine. Klingon–Romulan cooperative resource claims are permissible under neutral oversight, provided ecological impact thresholds are respected.”

Melvar sneered. “Chains.”

“No. Just a few boundaries,” Raku countered. “The Akaru will not tolerate military bases on Khamor IV. Nor will Starfleet. Federation liasons made clear there was to be no military expansion within Shackleton before all parties set off. Just try to lean more towards sustainable harvesting than building fortifications. Shared access in resource gathering is essential.”

K’Vel was silent for a long moment.

Beyond the armored hull of the Vaq’Haw, asteroids drifted through filtered sunlight. The system’s star cast fractured beams through the Khamorian Shards. It speckled Khamor IV in broken gold light and shadow.

Finally, K’Vel straightened. “We will meet,” he said. “With the Romulans. With the Akaru. I will hear all claims before any blood is spilled.”

Melvar’s jaw tightened, but he did not speak.

Raku inclined his head in a measured gesture of respect. “That is all Starfleet asks. That is all I ask.” He tried to express a look of relief, understanding and hopefully camaraderie.

As the chamber slowly filled with relaxed murmurs, Raku felt the weight of the moment settle. This system was a tinderbox. For now, the flame had been stayed.