The universe, it seemed, had a very cruel and very sarcastic sense of humor. They had just pulled off the most incredible, most impossible feat of cosmic engineering in history. They had worked with their mortal enemies. They had put an exploding sun in a box. They should have been celebrating, or at least taking a well-deserved nap.

Instead, they were being robbed.

Lord Malakor's shadow-ship, a thing of jagged, black edges and pure, smug evil, hung in space beside the now-drained and completely helpless Reality Loom. His timing was perfect. His entrance was dramatic. He was a master thief, and he had just shown up to steal the universe's most valuable prize while the security guards were all distracted by an exploding star.

Before anyone could even begin to process what was happening, Malakor acted.

Thick, black, smoky tendrils, like ropes made of pure shadow, shot out from his ship. They weren't solid. They were half-real, half-nightmare. These shadow-tethers latched onto the colossal, glowing ring of the Reality Loom.

The Syllogist, its logical mind finally recovering from the star's death-scream, was the first to react.

Warning! Unauthorized appropriation of a strategic asset is in progress! its thought-voice blared, sounding for all the world like a very calm, very polite car alarm. Cease and desist, Lord Malakor!

Malakor's deep, rumbling chuckle echoed in their minds. "Cease and desist? My dear, pointy friend, I am just getting started."

The Luminary, her powers also depleted from the Star Shroud ritual, could only watch in horrified fury. "You are a parasite, Malakor! A scavenger, feeding on the scraps of a greater conflict!"

"And you are a fool who left the front door of the universe's biggest bank wide open," Malakor purred back. "Thank you for your contribution."

The Bastion Alliance fleet, ever the fighters, immediately opened fire. A storm of plasma bolts and torpedoes shot out from their ships, a furious and defiant barrage aimed at Malakor's shadowy vessel.

But it was like trying to shoot a ghost.

Their weapons, their solid, physical projectiles, passed right through the phantom ship. The torpedoes flew through one side of the black, jagged hull and out the other, continuing on into empty space. The plasma bolts just… vanished into the darkness of the ship, absorbed without a sound.

"His ship isn't entirely in our reality!" Zara yelled from her station on the "Odyssey," her voice a mix of frustration and scientific awe. "It's phased, existing partially in some kind of shadow dimension! Our weapons can't touch it!"

Malakor wasn't just towing the Reality Loom. He was doing something far stranger. He was pulling it into his own, private corner of the universe.

A tear in reality, a shimmering, black wound in the fabric of space, began to open up behind his ship. It was a gateway to his shadow dimension. With a deep, groaning sound that they felt more than heard, he began to drag the colossal, multi-ton Reality Loom, the ultimate prize in their cosmic war, through the shimmering, black doorway.

On the bridge of the "Odyssey," there was a stunned, horrified silence. They had survived the battle. They had survived the trap. They had survived the supernova. And now, they were being outplayed, outsmarted, and robbed blind at the very last second.

But in the middle of that stunned silence, something remarkable happened.

There was no panic.

The crew of the "Odyssey," who had faced down every kind of impossible, reality-ending threat imaginable, did not run around screaming. They did not fall into despair. They just stood at their posts, their faces grim, their jaws set.

And they looked to their leaders.

They looked at Ryan. He was still weak, still leaning heavily on Scarlett for support, the great ritual having taken almost everything he had. But he was standing. And on his face was not a look of defeat, but of a slow, burning, and very dangerous anger.

They looked at Scarlett, who was supporting him, her own face a mask of cold, hard fury. She looked like a wolf who was watching someone steal her favorite bone, and was quietly planning a very messy and very painful revenge.

They looked at Emma, who was not staring at the thief in horror, but was already looking down at her console, her brilliant, strategic mind already calculating new odds, new strategies, new plans. She had already accepted the loss and was moving on to the next move in the game.

They looked at their Matriarchs, their strange, powerful, and deeply human leaders, all standing together, a silent, united front in the face of this new, infuriating disaster.

And the crew felt a quiet, powerful sense of calm settle over them. Their faith, their hope, was not in a magical, reality-weaving space-ring. It was not in powerful weapons or cosmic artifacts.

Their faith was in each other. Their faith was in their family. They had lost their greatest weapon, yes. But they still had their greatest strength.

As the last, shimmering edge of the Reality Loom was dragged through the black, shimmering rift, Malakor's final, mocking words echoed in their minds.

"Do try to keep up, little flower," he purred. "The game is so much more fun when you have all the best toys."

And with that, the rift in reality sealed itself shut, leaving only an empty, quiet patch of space where the universe's most powerful artifact had once been.

Lord Malakor, and the Reality Loom, were gone.

They had survived. But they had been outplayed. The war was not over. In fact, a whole new, and much more dangerous, arms race had just begun. And their greatest rival now held the ultimate weapon.

The silence on the bridge was deafening.

And then, a small, quiet beep came from Emma's private console.

It was a new message. A tiny, quiet, and highly encrypted data packet. She opened it.

It was from their secret, grumpy, and very mysterious friend. It was from Lord Valerius.

The message contained a single, cryptic, and incredibly intriguing sentence.

"He did not win. He took the bait."