The ship groaned gently as it adjusted course, metal stretching around a thousand tiny calculations. Syra had already run every systems check five times. Fuel levels, nav coordinates, backup oxygen. She’d even recalibrated the stabilizers manually just for something to do with her hands. A few hours ago she'd found Rix crouched under the control panel, half in shadow, tools scattered around him. The soft glow of a diagnostics screen flickered over his face, jaw tight with focus. He didn’t speak when she stepped into the room. Just reached deep into the exposed guts of the console, then yanked out something small enough to seem insignificant—sleek, dark, almost forgettable.

  A Dominion tracker.

  Her stomach twisted.

  She hadn't even considered it. Of course the ship would’ve been tagged. Of course it could’ve broadcasted their coordinates the entire time.

  Rix stared at the device for a moment. Then, without hesitation, he stood and crushed it beneath his boot with a satisfying crack. No speech. No gloating. Just quiet, calculated intent.

  They were off the grid now. No signal. No trace.

  And somehow, that simple act—more than anything—made her realize just how serious this had become.

  He wasn’t planning to run anymore.

  He was planning to disappear.

  And he was making sure she disappeared with him.

  Vextar wasn’t far now, but the hours crawled.

  She hated waiting.

  It was nearing bedtime. When they wake up they'd be in Vextar's orbit. Then she'd know what the artifact wanted with her. She took a breath and tried not to itch the mark. She didn't let her mind wander beyond that. She simply focused on them telling her that she would be free to go. But what then?

  Pacing the length of the corridor for the third time, she slowed in front of the common room.

  The door was cracked open.

  Inside, the lights were low. Not dark—just dim enough to blur the edges of things. Her boots made no sound as she stepped closer and leaned against the doorway.

  The room was tidied, orderly, his armor sat neatly in a pile on the cabin table and the bunk was tucked in its place towards the wall as if the last few days didn't happen at all.

  Rix sat cross-legged in the center of the floor. Motionless. His posture was unnaturally still, hands resting gently on his knees, palms up. Breathing slow. Controlled. Like someone trying very hard to exist inside his own body.

  The artifacts lay between them. Dull metal. No pulse. No light. Just a strange, featureless metal orb and a pyramid of fractured metal. They looked like trinkets people would try to sell you for a cheap credits—ordinary, if not curious. A scam usually, that came with a convincing story that led many adventurers astray. Except these came with the knowing that they were as old as time and were once worshipped. And he had them.

  Rix looked awful.

  His hair was damp with sweat. His shoulders were tense, drawn tight like a wire stretched too far. He'd stripped from his armor but hadn’t changed clothes since they left the ruins. His skin still held the faint, blotchy undertone of cryosickness—he was running on fumes, and pride.

  Syra lingered in the doorway. "Any luck?"

  Rix didn’t respond, but cracked opened his eyes and then slowly slumped, clutching his side and holding back a face of discomfort. "No."

  "What are you trying to do?"

  "Anything." he said quietly. The room fell into silence again, heavy and uneasy. "Back in the asteroid when I saw it for the first time, it was glowing. Hovering above the stone. When I reached for it, everything went dark. And then when I woke again Dominion soldiers were pointing rifles in my face."

  There was one question Syra had been burning to ask. "How did you make it onto my ship?"

  “I fought someone,” he said finally, voice low. “Well-trained. Fast. They injured me and was able to take the artifact from me,” Rix continued, pressing his palm briefly to his side. “I caught them in the leg. They dropped the artifact. I didn’t think, I just reached for it.”

  Syra leaned forward. “And?”

  “I woke up in your ship. Alone. I saw you. I saw the ship. There was no question as to what I had to do.”

  She stared at him. Her jaw tensed.

  “Was it…” Her voice faltered, just for a second. “Was it a tall guy? Scar on his jaw? Dark hair?”

  Rix narrowed his eyes as if thinking about it, "He was wearing a Dominion Commanders sigil on his armor."

  “Renwick,” she muttered, barely louder than a breath. Her chest tightened. “He was my commanding officer. He led the mission.”

  “I see,” Rix said, securing the artifacts away in their protective encrypted orbs. His eyes then narrowed in thought, "That day, you said he was the only one who could clear your name. What did you mean?"

  Syra let out a breath, half a laugh, half a breath of discomfort. "The only reason why I was in that damn asteroid in the first place was because I was hired to do it. I used pilot for Dominion," she thought about telling him about her exile but stopped herself. He didn't need to know that just yet. "I was arrested for going somewhere I definitely wasn't supposed to be. To my surprise, they recruited me again. But whether they wanted my skills or my dispensability is another question. I just think they didn't want to kill anymore Sennian officials."

  Rix made a face.

  "What?"

  "They struggled getting into the asteroid?"

  Syra thought about the difficult descent and frowned, "The first team they sent went down in powered suits. The gravitational disturbances threw them into the walls of the cave. The second team took a ship but there was a systems malfunction due to the interference and the ship crashed killing three."

  "Hm," he said thoughtfully, "There were no disturbances when my team and I descended into the asteroid."

  "Maybe because you weren't frozen in its ice." she said, almost a bite, "The ice was glowing, almost like the blue color of the Ember. Pulsing as if it were breathing. Whatever happened down there it lit the whole place up like a Sovereign's day tree and I can only guess you were the variable."

  She looked away, toward the far wall, thinking about the ghost of Renwick. She kept reminding herself that Rix, the man in front of her, had forced her to leave them behind. She should hate him, just on principle alone, but she couldn't help but wonder if she would've done the same thing in his place.

  As if reading her thoughts, Rix then said, “I saw someone enter the life-pod before the asteroid crumbled,” he said quietly. “An Arc was stationed outside the asteroid when we left. I'm sure that someone has been rescued by now.”

  She exhaled. That sat heavy on her chest—but not in the way she thought it would. She wasn’t sure if it was guilt, or relief. Probably both. “Mm,” she hummed, unable to articulate how she felt about that.

  "The loss of life is is not lost on me," Rix said carefully, "I did what was necessary for my survival, I won't apologize for that. I do apologize for the loss of your team and my part to play in that."

  Syra sighed, "Thanks. But they weren't really my team. I'd only just met them. But Renwick promised to clear my record if I did this mission - now he's gone and I'm stuck on this ship worth more than half the Weave with a fugitive who has a goddamn Ember in his head."

  They fell into a fragile silence.

  Rix leaned back against the wall, “I didn’t choose your ship. The artifact did. The artifact chose you as well.”

  Syra blew out a breath, “Why me?”

  “I don’t know,” Rix said.

  He stared at the artifact, his expression unreadable. His throat shifted—one tight swallow—and when she finally glanced at him, she saw something there. Grief, maybe. Resentment. A weight too old to name.

  Syra tapped her boot against the floor once, twice. Then stopped. She didn’t look at him when she asked. “Valeri Prime…what was it like?”

  Rix didn’t answer right away. She hadn’t expected him to. His gaze shifted and when she glanced at him she saw the way his throat bobbed with restrained emotion. “Why do you care?”

  Syra exhaled through her nose. “Well, I’m not going to pretend you haven’t lost your entire world and much more, no matter how much of an ass you are.”

  She let the words hang in the space between them. A low current of honesty. No sympathy. Just truth.

  Rix’s jaw worked once. Then, finally, he spoke. “It was beautiful,” he said. His voice was low, but steady now. “We weren’t conquerors. We created. Negotiated. Preserved. Valeri Prime was a convergence of everything we could have been. Culture. Diplomacy. Science. What we saw on Valeri Prime was...wrong. The Ember wasn’t a weapon. It wasn't worn by anyone. It was...guidance. A mirror. Something reverent and to be respected.”

  That made her brows furrow, "What do you mean it wasn't worn by anyone?"

  "The Ember chooses it's host and for centuries, it didn’t choose anyone.”

  She blinked, silent. Something about the way he said it—like someone speaking of a god that had stopped answering.

  “And then it chose you,” she said slowly.

  Rix didn’t look at her. But the tension in his jaw said enough. He didn’t need to confirm it. The silence did that for him.

  “You were trained to be a Sovereign?”

  “I was trained to be an Ascended,” he said tightly. “Sovereign is a Sennian title. Political. Tainted. Human.”

  Syra blinked, caught off guard. “But the Sovereigns bear Embers don't they? Does that make them Ascended too?”

  He muttered something sharp in Valthari, his tone was clipped. Irritated. Tired. “The Sovereigns carry derivatives,” he said. “Engineered fragments. Theirs are branches of the Ember, whereas mine is is the root. They are pieces carved out from its technology—cut down, sterilized, fitted for command.”

  Syra frowned. “So…not the real thing.”

  “They’re real,” Rix said. “But they're limited. While they enhance all skills to some degree, each was made to specialize a specific trait. Tools. Efficient. Focused.”

  She nodded slowly. “And yours?”

  “Mine is the source.” He looked at her fully then. “It gives you more than instinct. More than skill. You don’t just react—you anticipate. You see threads others miss. Patterns. Outcomes. Histories. You learn from all those who bore it before you.”

  "So it talks to you?"

  "It's an intuition. A deep knowing. Like a thought that isn’t yours, revelations that come from learned experience and consciousness transferred to the Ember from its predecessors."

  Syra took in his words and tried to process the fact that the Ember was living inside this mans head. "That's a lot to carry all on your own," Then, almost absently, a fragment of old education surfaced—some half-remembered lesson from her academy days. “Didn’t Elenthea Aetherwyn bear an Ember? And go mad?”

  An expression crossed his face that told her maybe she'd asked too many questions. His voice was low, “What do you know of Elenthea Aetherwyn?”

  Syra hesitated. “She founded the Ember Faith, didn’t she? First to bond with it? Sennia paints her as a prophet. A kind of saint. I just—” she trailed off, the rest dying on her tongue. “That’s what we were taught.”

  "They taught you a myth. She bore the Ember,” he said. “Like I do. But back then…there were no guides. No safeguards. She was the first to assimilate with the Ember after years of failed Trials. The first to survive the bond. Whether she survived is a topic of debate - it drove her to insanity. But everything we know about the Ember now—its depth, its abilities, its will, even its danger—we only know because she documented it. Through all of it. Even at the end.”

  Syra was quiet.

  “In Valthari culture,” he continued, “She’s seen as the ultimate sacrifice for knowledge. A guardian who learnt the wisdom of it so we wouldn’t have to.”

  Syra shifted slightly. “But in Sennia…”

  “I know what Sennia says,” Rix said, voice tightening. “They turned her into a religious symbol. Scrubbed the mind from the body and carved out only what suited them. They desecrated her memory with polished lies.”

  Syra hesitated.

  “Then why hasn’t it done the same to you?” she asked softly. “Driven you mad.”

  He looked at her, steady. The faint glow of the Ember lines beneath his skin seemed more pronounced in the quiet. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe it still will.”

  Syra leaned back slightly, her voice lower. “So...you’re not like the Sovereign's then.”

  “No,” Rix said, as if the very thought disgusted him. “I’m not.”

  He didn’t say it with pride. He said it like a truth that had cost him everything. "Fifty thousand years of reign and it's been erased in a century. My people are gone. I don’t know who was left. All I have are rumors and what little your Dominion archives didn’t bother redacting.” Rix looked down at his hands, “The artifact’s are all I have. If I can’t figure out what’s wrong with them—if they're broken—then that entire mission meant nothing and I abandoned my people when they needed me most."

  “You think it’s broken?” she asked carefully.

  “I think it looks like a rock and a pyramid.” He rose into a standing position, "Enough with the questions. You're giving me a headache."

  "For now," Syra said defiantly, but was grateful for what she did get out of him, "Until we get to Vextar at least."

  "How far?" he muttered.

  "About five hours. Try and get some sleep," She tossed him a ration bar, and he caught it with one hand.

  "What's this?"

  "Food. Eat it."

  He turned the bar over in his hand like it had personally offended him.

  “This isn’t food,” he muttered. “It’s prison food wrapped in foil.”

  Syra smirked, because he wasn't wrong. “Don't be so fussy. You’ll live.”

  He peeled the corner of the wrapper back, sniffed it once, and frowned harder. “I’m not hungry."

  "Don't be a snob. You need to eat,” she said, a bit sharper this time.

  "I'll eat in Vextar. Where I'm sure the food won't clog my large intestine."

  Syra rolled her eyes, "Whatever you say."

  Just before Syra walked away, Rix said, "Syra," She jolted at the way he said her name. When she looked back in question he was watching her carefully, "Thank you for what happened on Valeri Prime."

  Syra thought about saying something smart but refrained, sensing it was genuine, "Just keep your body from collapsing while we’re both stuck breathing the same air. Then I'll believe you.”

  ∞

  

  As they approached Vextar, the ship jolted slightly as it transitioned into the planet's atmosphere. The planet below was a glittering expanse of towering spires and neon lights, the city sprawling endlessly in every direction. Syra had never seen anything like it; she'd heard stories about Vextar, the wealth, the power, the crime—it was a place most sensible people avoided unless they had a death wish or deep pockets and Syra had never had a reason to go to Vextar. She knew Colt spent a lot of time here though.

  But Syra wasn't thinking about the city. She was watching the blinking light on the console and the readout flashing: Incoming Scan.

  Her stomach clenched as the ship slowed. A swarm of small official crafts had surrounded them, scanning for contraband before entry. Syra's fingers drummed nervously on the controls. They had no contraband, and Rix had pulled out their tracker, so she had no reason to be nervous. But it was an old habit to be paranoid and even more so now she was sitting with a fugitive in a Dominion sanctioned ship.

  Rix sat back, his body tense, his jaw set. He didn't say a word, but she could feel the tension radiating from him.

  The ship was cleared, and they were granted access. Syra let out a breath she didn't know she was holding, but the unease remained.

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  As they descended off the ship, Syra took in the crispiest breath of air she'd ever taken in her life. Deep into her lungs, air so chilly it made her nose tingle. "Ahh, you smell that? Fresh air." She breathed in again. So hard it made her dizzy. Her legs felt like jelly, and she was having trouble concentrating. The atmosphere of Vextar was strange. Almost thin. The air felt too easy to breathe. Syra closed her eyes, willed herself to focus. It wasn't unusual to experience off-ship symptoms. Syra just had to remind herself she'd done it a thousand times and not to throw up in the nearest bin.

  They ventured into the city, and the chaos of Vextar swallowed them whole.

  Syra’s breath caught—not from fear, but from sheer sensory overload. Towering skyscrapers of seamless glass and chrome loomed on either side, curved and elegant like blades turned skyward. Holoview billboards cascaded down their lengths in pulsing light, advertising everything from luxury DNA-altering treatments to market stall deals on synthetic meat and knock-off Dominion gear. The ads shimmered and shifted, some interactive, whispering as they passed.

  Above, sleek speeders sliced through the air in layered lanes, leaving glowing trails in their wake. Personal ships hovered idle on repulsor lifts, tethered like animals at rest. Drones zipped between levels, delivering goods or scanning crowds. The vertical sprawl of the city was dizzying—levels upon levels of commerce, shadow, and decay built one atop the other like a hive.

  Below, the streets were alive. A woven maze of neon-soaked alleys, smoke-veiled market corridors, and storefronts pulsing with rhythmic color. There were people everywhere. The air was dense with spice, coolant vapor, music, and the low, constant thrum of a thousand private deals unfolding at once. Syra could feel it under her boots—the pulse of illicit trade, the burn of too much tech in too little space.

  There was beauty in the chaos. But also menace.

  It exuded danger, not in overt threats but in the way eyes lingered too long from alley mouths and security bots rolled by just slow enough to remind you not to get comfortable. Hidden predators watched from behind mirrored lenses and tinted visors.

  And through it all, Rix moved like a ghost who’d walked this city in another lifetime.

  He didn’t slow. Didn’t gawk. Barely spared the neon decadence a glance as he wove through the crowds with a deliberate stride, avoiding touch, ignoring calls, like a blade that had no interest in parrying. They walked for ten minutes down a narrow street. Syra followed, scanning everything. “Why are we here?”

  In typical Rix fashion, he ignored her question.

  The deeper they walked, the worse the feeling in her gut got.

  They turned down a corridor layered in purple haze and plasma signage, and that’s when she saw it.

  A nightclub carved into the side of a tower—its exterior a living light show of kinetic shapes and gleaming obsidian. Music didn’t just thrum—it shook the walls, bass spilling out in heavy waves that vibrated through her chest. Outside, twin bouncers were mismatched in every way except for their size. One was a towering, four-armed Xethar brute with skin like obsidian glass and a bio-scanner embedded in his throat, pulsing faintly as he spoke. The other was leaner but no less intimidating—a pale, feline-eyed Varn with silver tattoos crawling up his neck and a prosthetic arm that whirred softly when he flexed it. They stood in bodymod armor, weapons holstered in plain sight. People waited in line, some laughing, others watching everything with the dead-eyed stillness.

  Syra’s apprehension spiked. She stopped short.

  “Wait. A nightclub?” she said, eyeing the glowing entrance. “You’re serious?”

  Rix didn’t even look at her. “You won’t go into a ruin. You won’t go into a nightclub. At this rate, I’ll need a committee to approve anything you’re willing to walk into.”

  “Why the fuck are we here?”

  But he was already flashing a bracelet she hadn’t seen before. The bouncers glanced, nodded, and let him through without a word.

  Syra hesitated. The bass thudded like a second heartbeat in her skull.

  Then she followed—because she didn’t trust him, but she trusted being left behind even less.

  Syra was two steps behind him when the bouncers moved.

  One thick arm extended across her chest, halting her like a wall slamming shut.

  "Back of the line," The Xethar said, eyes staring down at her. His voice had the smooth detachment of someone who'd crushed skulls for less.

  Syra stiffened, already reaching for her ID chip out of reflex before remembering she didn’t exactly have clearance anymore.

  “I'm with him,” she said, jerking her chin toward Rix's retreating back.

  The bouncer didn’t move.

  Syra opened her mouth to argue, but before she could say a word, Rix’s hand was suddenly in hers.

  He didn’t stop walking—just turned enough to grab her wrist, fingers sliding down to her hand with disarming ease.

  The contact was firm. Unhesitant.

  The bouncer paused—just long enough for the silence to crackle.

  Then he stepped aside without another word.

  Syra followed, heart pounding—not from fear, but from the way his hand felt around hers. Steady. Warm. Unapologetic.

  He let go the moment they were inside. Not dramatically. Just... casually. Like it hadn’t meant anything at all.

  But her palm tingled where his fingers had been.

  And behind them, the bouncer muttered something in a language she didn’t recognize—low, reverent, and wary.

  She didn’t need a translator to understand the vibe:

  Rix wasn't just another patron.

  And she wasn’t supposed to be here.

  But she was now.

  Inside, the club was everything Syra imagined Vextar to be—decadent and dangerous. She'd been in nightclubs before, but this was something else. The ceiling looked like the underside of a massive jellyfish, its tentacles lit up with purple light. Around the sides of the room were inlets where patrons stood and overlooked the room, pulsing with dim lights, shimmering holographic figures lost in the haze of smoke. Ethereal women danced in silks and barely-there lingerie covering parts in odd places. The air was thick with a heady mix of sweat, spice, and something else Syra couldn't place.

  Rix moved with cold precision, making a beeline for a door in the back. His bracelet scanned again, and the door slid open, revealing a small corridor with a door. A private room.

  Syra stepped in behind him, doing her best to mask the unease curling in her gut. The door slid shut behind them with a soft hiss, and the bass from the club floor below became a dull, distant thrum.

  They stepped into the room, and Rix's gaze locked onto the man in the center of the room—lounging like a king on a velvet-draped couch, drink in hand, draped in luxury and overconfidence. Around him moved a constellation of women, each one stunning in their own surreal way—adorned in shimmering fabrics and bioluminescent jewelry, eyes glowing faintly in hues not found in any natural species. They were built to captivate, and they did—effortlessly.

  Rix's energy darkened the room like a foul smell. "Oh shit," Syra muttered. This wasn't going to be good.

  At a glance, the man could’ve passed for human. Almost. But the longer she stared, the more off he looked.

  His limbs were just slightly too short, too thick at the joints, like a doll made by someone who’d seen a human once, years ago, and got most of it right. His skin shimmered in pale lavender hues that shifted under the light like scales beneath oil. Veins of bioluminescence pulsed faintly beneath the surface—slow, rhythmic flickers of green and blue trailing across his collarbone and up his throat.

  His face was wide, almost cherubic. He was dressed sharp, though—layers of deep blue silk and embroiled finery tailored to his compact frame, a collection of rings on his fingers that looked more like relics than fashion. One hand rested lazily on the thigh of a nearby companion, the other clutched a crystal tumbler full of something expensive enough to burn through your sinuses.

  Then he saw Rix.

  And everything about him changed.

  The skin on the mans face rippled with white flecks. Fear?

  “By the Sovereign…” he breathed. “C-Calyix?”

  The women fell still, instinctively sensing the shift in energy. One of them—tall, silver-skinned, with a cybernetic lattice of light trailing her spine—slipped back into the shadows. Another placed a delicate hand on the man’s arm, unsure whether to stay or run.

  Rix hissed something in another language she didn't recognise and the women disengaged and slowly left the room. The door hissed, then sealed the room in suffocating silence.

  Whatever happened between them it was obvious this man knew his wrongdoings. "N-now Rix, let's not-"

  The man's pitiful stammer was abruptly silenced by a high-pitched, lethal whisper as the blade cut through the air, so quick and precise that it sounded like a metallic breath. The blade struck his thigh with brutal precision, embedding itself deep in muscle. He crumpled to the floor, a pained wail tearing from his throat, echoing through the room. Not loud enough for others to hear over the bass of the music.

  Syra jumped back, eyes widening at the sudden violence, her pulse racing, each heartbeat pounding in her ears.

  Rix said nothing. Just walked forward with the heavy quiet of a man who’d bled too much to believe in coincidence.

  Syra turned her face away. She’d seen interrogations before—but this wasn’t an interrogation. This was grief with a pulse.

  The heavyset man writhed, clutching his leg, silver blood seeping between his trembling fingers. He tried to drag himself back, his breaths coming in panicked gasps, as Rix stalked towards him. "Let me explain. Let me explain...Rix... I didn't—"

  Syra could feel her stomach churn. She didn't understand why she was here, why she had to witness this. This wasn't just business—this was personal. Rix gripped the hilt of the knife causing him to cry out,

  "You told me I had time,” Rix said. His voice was low, dark with betrayal. “You told the elders the threat wasn’t imminent. You told my mother not to worry, that Sennia wouldn't attack Valeri Prime if I left.”

  “I saw what I saw," Kaelor said shakily. "The visions are never definite.”

  “You told me to leave Valeri Prime,” Rix growled. “To search for the artifact. You said it was the only way to protect our people.”

  “It was!” Kaelor snapped. “The Paragon was supposed to stop everything, it had to be secured. You were the only one who could bear it fully. I saw a great silence coming. I thought the silence was the invasion. I was wrong. I was—”

  “You were sure!” Rix snarled, voice trembling.

  Kaelor’s voice cracked. “I was trying to save us.”

  “Yet instead you buried us with prophecy.” He unclipped the blaster from his side.

  Kaelor flinched, eyes wide.

  Rix's chest heaved, eyes murderous. He spoke rapidly in Valthari, but when he spoke, it was fury, laced with a venom Syra could feel even though she couldn't understand the language. The growl in his voice sent terrifying shivers down her spine. She was just glad she wasn't on the receiving end of this mans wrath.

  The man on the floor whimpered, shaking his head. "Je'da, Rix, je'da dothra khuz je mzu—"

  Rix cut him off. Syra couldn't understand it, but she didn't need to. The message was clear—there was no room for forgiveness here.

  Rix stepped forward, looming over him. The man shrank back, his face twisted in pain and fear. "You thought it was over, didn't you?" Rix said coldly, switching to common tongue now, his voice deadly calm despite the fury roiling beneath. "How long did it take you to forget? How much did those bloodsucking vermin give you?"

  "Nothing, I don't work for Dominion anymore. Haven't for over a century." the man's eyes held a hint of defiance. he said when, anguish flickering across his face before steeling himself, "it took me fifty years to stop thinking about it every waking moment. Those beasts, the terrors Dominion released—"

  Rix ripped out the knife and then gripped onto the man's leg, fingers digging into the wound. The man screamed in pain and Syra turned away. She had seen her fair share of violence but didn't like to witness the suffering of others. "How the fuck did they make it through orbit?"

  "Something went wrong, I had no control over it—" his voice cracked, "The plan went wrong. It's like they knew I was there. I tried to get comms out. The Dominion destroyed the satellites, the communication buoys, the space station - it was over before I could blink."

  "Lies." Rix snarled. "We were fortified. We had a fucking plan!"

  Syra felt a chill run down her spine. She had seen anger before, but nothing like this. Rix wasn't just angry—he was destroyed. This was the wreckage of his life, his past, all laid bare in front of her.

  Syra remained silent, her heart racing, trying to process everything that was unfolding.

  "The variable was that in all my predictions you were on Valeri Prime when Sennia invaded."

  Rix's eyes flickered with something akin to bafflement.

  Syra wanted to speak, to say something—but what could she say?

  The man flinched as Rix held up his blaster. The man below him, whimpering, clutching his bleeding leg, had the look of someone who had already accepted his fate. The sound of his shallow, panicked breathing filled the room, thickening the air with fear.

  Syra couldn't stay silent any longer. "Wait, I don't want to go to pri-"

  "Quiet, vekhri." Rix snapped.

  Syra swallowed hard, her pulse racing. She could barely think. Part of her wanted to look away, to retreat from the tension that hung heavy in the room, but her body refused to move. The silence in the room stretched on, suffocating. Syra's heart pounded in her ears as she watched Rix wrestle with his decision. His grip on the blaster tightened, his body rigid.

  She didn't know why she did it, but she spoke, her voice low but firm, cutting through the tension. "Rix. This isn't the way."

  He didn't move, didn't even glance her way, but she knew he had heard her. His focus remained on the man at his feet, but something in his stance shifted slightly, the rage still simmering just beneath the surface.

  "You've made your point," she said, swallowing the fear that tried to creep into her voice. "You kill him and we'll have Vextar security on our asses quicker than a fly on shit and we will go to prison, no matter who you are."

  Rix's jaw clenched, and for a second, she thought he would ignore her. But then, slowly, he lowered the blaster. His hand trembled slightly as he did, though his face betrayed nothing.

  The man on the floor sobbed in relief, his hands still clutching at his leg, shaking uncontrollably. Syra felt her own breath ease, tension unwinding just slightly.

  Then Rix held his blaster back up and Syra turned away, "Sovereign be good."

  "I—I have information! Information that could help you. I swear, I can—"

  Rix's eyes narrowed, his grip on the blaster unyielding. "I don't need anything from you."

  "No, wait!" the man begged, his voice desperate. "I have contacts—people high up in the Dominion. I can help you! I can give you names, locations, whatever you need!"

  Syra watched Rix carefully, her stomach twisting in knots. For a split second, she thought she saw something flicker in his eyes—hesitation, maybe, or consideration. Whatever it was, it was gone just as quickly, replaced by the cold, hard exterior she had come to associate with him.

  Rix lowered the blaster slightly, just enough to keep the man from feeling like he was about to die that second. He stepped closer, looming over him. "My father trusted you and he is now dead. What makes you think I want to make the same mistake?"

  "I—I have access to Dominion files. Locations of their bases, the high-ranking officers. I can get you that information, Rix. You just need to give me time. I never wanted any of what happened. Believe me. I was just one of the lucky ones to live."

  "How do I know you won't go to nearest Dominion officer?"

  "Because I made a promise to Tali."

  Rix's eyes slitted, snarling as he pressed his foot down into the man's leg causing the man to cry out in anguish. Rix said something low to him, causing the man to tremble. He didn't even try to fight back. "Speak her name again and I'll cut your tongue out."

  "I'm s-so sorry, Calyix." He trembled. "I will explain everything. P-please don't kill me."

  Rix's expression didn't change, but Syra could see the gears turning in his head. He didn't trust this man—anyone could see that—but he wasn't about to throw away useful intel, either. And this man clearly knew something.

  Rix leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low growl. "If you're lying to me—"

  The man nodded frantically, his hands shaking. "I'm not lying, I swear. I'll get you everything you need. Just give me a few days, and I'll make the arrangements."

  Rix straightened, holstering his blaster but keeping his eyes locked on the man. "You have twelve hours to get me solid information or I'm not just coming back for you, I'm coming back for everyone."

  The man nodded again, wincing in pain from his leg. "Twelve hours. I'll—I'll get everything ready."

  Without another word, Rix turned on his heel and stalked toward the door, his expression cold and unreadable. Syra hesitated for a moment, glancing down at the man still clutching his leg, before following Rix out into the hallway.

  The neon lights of Vextar painted the grimy streets in flickering hues of red and blue, giving the night a surreal, almost dreamlike quality. Syra's heart was still pounding as they exited the club, her footsteps quick and angry, following Rix out into the alley. She could still hear the sound of the knife hitting that mans leg ringing in her ears, the look of shock on the man's face as he crumpled to the floor, clutching his leg.

  The door hissed shut behind them, sealing off the thumping bass of the club. The night air hit her like a slap—cool, sharp, full of city static and neon haze. Syra didn’t stop moving until they were halfway down the alley, boots scuffing wet pavement, her breath catching on the edge of panic.

  Then she wheeled on him.

  “What the fuck was that?”

  Rix didn’t flinch. Just kept walking.

  Syra grabbed his arm, spinning him to face her. “No. No, you don’t get to walk away from that. What the hell was that, Rix?”

  He looked down at her hand, then up—expression unreadable. Like she hadn’t just watched him stab a man in a private suite and stare him down like he was already dead.

  “He talked, didn’t he?” he said.

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “You wanted one?”

  “I wanted a warning!” Her voice cracked. “I wanted to know why the hell I was dragged into that mess without a single heads up that it was going to turn into a fucking bloodletting.”

  “You weren’t dragged. You followed me in.”

  Syra laughed once, disbelieving. “Are you serious?”

  She paced away from him, hands on her hips, chest tight. “You scanned us through like it was just a conversation. That wasn’t a meeting. That wasn’t strategy. That was—” She turned, eyes sharp. “That was vengeance.”

  His mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something colder.

  “It was necessary.”

  “You stabbed a man in a nightclub.”

  “He’s lucky that’s all I did.”

  Syra froze.

  Then, quietly: “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  Rix didn’t answer right away. He looked past her, to the end of the alley where Vextar’s lights pulsed like a slow heartbeat. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. Measured.

  “He told me I had time. That the threat wasn’t imminent. That I could go.”

  Syra’s pulse was still racing. “So what?”

  “So I went,” he said. “And when I came back, Valeri Prime was gone. My family. My city. My people. All of it—burned. Because I believed him.”

  The weight of his words landed heavy, sudden. Her anger stuttered—but didn’t die.

  She crossed her arms. “So you punished him.”

  Rix’s jaw clenched. “I reminded him what was left.”

  Syra looked away. Her breath trembled as she pulled it in. “You didn’t need me there for that.”

  “I did.”

  She met his eyes.

  He added, flatly, “I didn’t trust myself to stop.”

  That silenced her.

  Not because it made her feel better—but because it made too much damn sense.

  She stared at him a moment longer. At the man who didn’t flinch. Who didn’t explain.

  Rix’s voice was flat. “We need to make one more stop.”

  Syra stared at him, arms still crossed, heat still buzzing under her skin. “No. No, you don’t get to change the subject like that.”

  “I’m not,” he said, already walking again.

  “Rix.”

  He paused at the edge of the loading ramp, looking back at her over his shoulder. His face was unreadable, but there was something colder behind his eyes now. Not cruel. Just… sealed.

  “The Sightseer wasn’t the only one who knew what the artifact could do,” he said. "There's someone in the marketplace."

  Syra frowned, still standing her ground. “So what? You’re planning to walk into another club and stab your way to answers again?”

  “If I have to.”

  “That’s not an answer, it’s a problem.”

  Rix didn’t flinch. “Then you’d better be there to stop me.”

  She glared up at him, feeling her pulse quicken in a mix of anger and disbelief. "I didn't ask for this. I didn't ask for you to hijack my ship, and I sure as hell didn't ask to be dragged into your personal vendetta."

  Rix's voice was low, dangerous. "You think this is just about me? That I'm dragging you along for fun?" He leaned in closer, his gaze pinning hers. "The artifact marked you. I don't know why, but until I figure it out, you're stuck with me."

  Syra blinked, momentarily thrown. Her anger faltered, replaced by confusion and a creeping sense of dread. Her hand touched the itchy burning mark on her forearm through her shirt. "No fucking way, take my damn ship and drop me back off in the Weave, I'll have no part in this."

  He ran a hand through his hair, visibly irritated. "There's no walking away now."

  Her stomach twisted. "You can't be serious," she snapped. "You expect me to just... what? Follow you around while you maim people and get us both killed because some ancient piece of junk 'marked' me?"

  Rix's eyes bore into hers, his expression cold but controlled. "You're in this whether you want to be or not. So you can either fight me every step of the way, or accept that for now, you don't have a choice. I'll strap you to the grav drive chair again if you piss me off."

  Syra felt her hands shake with the weight of his words, the gravity of the situation finally settling in. She didn't want to believe him, but something about the way he said it—the intensity in his eyes, the way his voice carried an edge of warning—told her he wasn't lying.

  "So, what?" she bit out, crossing her arms defensively. "I'm just supposed to do whatever you say until you figure out why this thing 'marked' me?"

  "That would be ideal," Rix said flatly. "And right now, I'm your best shot at doing that."

  Syra's anger flared again. "This is such bullshit!"

  Rix's eyes narrowed. "I'm not asking you to like it. I'm telling you how it is."

  Syra's fists clenched at her sides. "And what happens when you figure it out? When you get what you need from me? You'll just let me go?"

  There was a beat of silence, a flicker of something unreadable in Rix's eyes, but then he turned away from her, already walking toward the ship. "We'll cross that bridge when we get there."

  Every instinct told her to get the hell away from this man, to cut her losses and run.

  But she couldn't. Not yet.

  Not until she knew what this artifact meant for her.

  And, as much as she hated it, not until she understood why being tied to Rix felt like it was part of something bigger.