Chapter 17: Return of the Lord

Laconia — Capital World of the Hecate Dominion

As Harry, Sam, and the elves stepped through the shimmering veil of the Stargate onto Laconia, a sharp change in atmosphere met them like a wall.

The air smelled of scorched stone and scorched sky.

The area surrounding the Stargate—once an open garden of carefully cultivated native flora—was now a hardened military installation. Reinforced bunkers had been constructed in layered rings, each staggered with overlapping fields of fire, providing a comprehensive defence. Along their parapets stood sentries—Jaffa warriors in full armour, Ma'Tok staffs aimed and ready.

Twenty of them, at least, maybe more. All of them locked onto Harry.

Before Sam could question it, Harry raised a hand to stop her and took a step forward.

"What is happening here?" he demanded, switching mid-sentence into the cold, resonant voice of a Goa'uld.

The voice that declared him God.

Behind him, he felt Sam freeze. She gasped audibly, her disbelief echoing in the tense silence. Harry made a mental note—he would need to explain this sooner rather than later. He had deliberately kept his actual status vague, but now there was no way to conceal it. Too many plans depended on this moment going smoothly.

From the nearest bunker, a Jaffa stepped forward and fell to one knee, head bowed low.

"My Lord," he said, voice reverent. "You have returned to us."

"I have decided to grace you with my presence once again," Harry replied, his tone measured and echoing with power. "There was a matter elsewhere that required my divine intervention. But I return to find… militarisation. Why have you built these fortifications? No—do not answer. I will see for myself."

He approached the Clavis—the small pedestal-shaped device beside the gate. Instead of entering symbols, he pressed a hidden panel beneath the surface. A small compartment slid open with a faint hiss, revealing a crystalline hand scanner.

Harry placed his palm on the plate. Blue light scanned his skin.

The Clavis was his design, based on Ancient technology, built to verify both identity and lineage through DNA and Ancient gene compatibility. But more importantly, it recorded all Stargate activity on his worlds.

Harry set the temporal parameters to begin the moment he had left—and braced himself.

The information didn't appear on a screen. Instead, it was sent directly to his optic nerves—a stream of memory-images, sound, and light. He stood perfectly still as the data flooded in.

He saw the ships arrive. The orbital bombardments. Jaffa outposts incinerated by plasma fire. Bastet's insignia burned into captured cities. He saw his people suffer.

And then he saw the retaliation—his First Prime rallying the loyal, retaking worlds, reclaiming the system through grit, sacrifice, and fury.

His domain—his—had been violated.

Bastet would pay for that.

When the vision ended, Harry opened his eyes. They were glowing faintly with restrained fury.

All the Jaffa had emerged from the bunkers now, kneeling before him in perfect formation.

"What were the casualties?" he asked coldly.

A senior Jaffa stepped forward, helm tucked under one arm. "My Lord. The attack came without warning. In the initial wave, we lost several worlds. Thousands fell before we could rally. But your First Prime gathered our strength. We reclaimed what was lost—in your name."

The warrior lowered his head. "Twenty-five thousand Jaffa gave their lives. Twice that number were wounded. The war has cost us dearly."

Harry absorbed the number like a blow to the chest. He nodded once.

"You did well," he said finally. "And your death will be remembered."

He turned toward the temple.

"We go now to the heart of the Dominion."

Twenty Jaffa immediately moved into escort positions around him and his companions, forming a silent guard. Sam stayed close behind, her head moving side to side, taking it all in.

The land bore scars. Whole districts of the capital had been levelled by bombardment. Smoke still curled from some rooftops. Walls pockmarked by staff blasts stood beside collapsed homes. Civilians—malnourished, gaunt, and tired—paused in their work to drop to their knees as he passed, whispering prayers in old Goa'uld dialects.

Sam whispered, "This was a warzone."

Harry nodded grimly. "Still is. Just one that's on pause."

The main temple—his temple—came into view. For the first time, Harry truly saw it.

It was massive.

Far more immense than any Earth structure. No cathedral, fortress, or palace came close. It rose like a mountain carved by divine will. Towers spiralled into the sky, ringed by statues of serpents, dragons, and wolves—all creatures from Goa'uld and human mythology alike. The walls gleamed black and gold under Laconia's sun.

At the foot of the grand stair, his First Prime awaited him—armour polished, eyes steady.

"My Lord," said Grouder, bowing deeply. "You returned to us."

Harry didn't respond verbally. He gave a sharp nod and motioned them to rise.

The transition inside the temple was seamless. Outer guards gave way to his retinue—elite Jaffa handpicked from across the Dominion. The corridors inside were immaculate, with guards stationed at every intersection. The structure was a fortress and sanctuary in one, echoing both Hecate's designs and Harry's subtle changes.

The throne chamber was exactly as he remembered from his memories, but memory had done it no justice.

It was colossal.

Two towering bronze and wood doors led into the main hall, which spanned nearly seventy meters from end to end. The floor was made of polished black marble, etched with ancient runes and Goa'uld hieroglyphs. Arched ceilings rose high above, supported by obsidian pillars that reached into the darkness. Columns of light filtered through ceiling slits in calculated rays, illuminating the Throne.

And there it sat—on a dais of five black stone steps—his seat of power.

Carved from volcanic rock and fused with polished metal, the Throne shimmered with subtle enchantments. Behind it, emblazoned on the wall in golden relief, was the sigil of Hecate—an ancient symbol of magic, now blended with a stylised lightning bolt that was distinctly Harry's.

He ascended the steps and sat.

At once, his guards formed up, two at each step, their backs to him, scanning the room.

Grounder remained at the bottom, flanked by others. Sam and the elves stood just beyond the stairs, silent and watchful.

Harry spoke, his voice steady.

"Tell me, Grounder. What happened while I was away?"

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