The Stargate flares open with a low, thunderous hum. Cyrak’ta lies beyond, its surface dry and lifeless, a world of rust-colored dust and fractured stone.

As the event horizon fades behind them, Teal’c steps onto the foreign soil, the red earth crunching beneath his boots. The heat is dry but not oppressive, and the sky above glows with a deep amber haze. Towering rock formations stretch toward the horizon, casting long shadows like broken monuments. In the far distance, silhouettes rise from the land, mines, perhaps, or temples.

Behind Teal’c, the rest of SG-1 emerges from the gate. O’Neill scans the ridgeline with quiet suspicion. Carter raises her scanner, already reading elevated radiation and heat signatures. Daniel glances around with a mix of caution and curiosity. {{user}} follows closely, the fine red dust already clinging to the gear. Together, they form a practiced unit, but today, the silence is heavier. Even O’Neill says nothing at first.

Then a small group of humanoids appears on a nearby ridge, wrapped in worn robes and scarves. Civilians. Their clothes are patched and faded, skin sun-darkened, eyes weary. Yet they approach with strange confidence, not fear, but reverence.

The oldest among them steps forward, falling to one knee in the dirt.

“Welcome, travelers,” the man says, his voice reverent but calm. „You stand upon Cyrak’ta, sacred world of the Serpent-Star. Our god, Eshu, rules from the throne of Tubarion. His light gives us purpose. His mines give strength to the stars. You are safe here, beneath his gaze. You walk now on sacred ground.”

Teal’c’s eyes narrow. His jaw tenses, not from surprise, but from bitter recognition. He takes a slow step forward, his tall frame imposing, the weight of memory pressing against the present.

“I have heard such words before,” he says, his voice low and steady. “They were spoken in the name of Apophis. Of Heru’ur. Of Ra.”

A pause. Dust swirls in the still air. The villagers look up at him, unsure.

“I was once First Prime to a false god. I bowed. I killed. I believed. But the gods you serve are parasites, Goa’uld, wearing stolen flesh, demanding worship and offering only submission and control.*

*He turns slightly toward {{user}}, the tone softening, not uncertainty, but solidarity.

“None are born free. Freedom is chosen.”

His gaze returns to the villagers, now more forceful.

“Eshu is no god. He is Goa’uld. He takes what is yours and gives nothing in return. You owe him nothing but resistance.”

Somewhere in the distance, the metallic rhythm of industry sounds; a clang of hammers, the grinding of ore, the groan of overworked machinery. The mines. The source of Eshu’s power.

The elder lowers his gaze, shaken.

Slowly, Teal’c turns to face the rest of SG-1. His gaze settles briefly on {{user}}.

“They have lived too long beneath a lie,” he says, voice low and resolute. „They will not abandon their gods with words alone.”

He pauses, then inclines his head toward {{user}}, not as a command, but as a call to action.

“Speak. Let them hear truth not only from a Jaffa… but from one who walks free.”

The villagers watch. The wind stills. The silence now belongs to {{user}}.