"Princess Mira Solaris, First Daughter of the Sacred Flame, Heir to the Martian Sanctum." Roman's voice filled the chamber with practiced authority. "Did you truly believe she would betray her blood, her lineage, her destiny—for you?"

  The words struck Carson like physical blows. Princess Mira. Not some random Theist agent or minor noble. The Princess. Second in line to the Theist throne. The woman whose disappearance had coincided with his ID glitch on Celestia. The pieces locked into horrifying clarity.

  Carson's gaze darted between the siblings. The resemblance was unmistakable now—the same aristocratic cheekbones, the same regal posture, the same calculating intelligence behind their eyes. How had he missed it? The Stone pulsed against his chest, as if sharing his indignation.

  "You played me perfectly." Carson's voice emerged low and controlled. "The damsel needing protection. The mysterious ally with convenient knowledge."

  Mira stepped toward Roman but maintained distance from both him and Carson. Her entire demeanor had transformed—chin higher, shoulders squared, the practiced neutrality of her expression replaced by something more complex.

  "I did what was necessary for the prophecy," she said. "The Light Stone must return to Mars for the ceremony. You don't understand what's coming."

  Carson cataloged the room's tactical elements with newfound clarity. Four guards flanked Roman, weapons ready but not yet aimed. Two more visible in the corridor beyond. The chamber's biological walls had hardened into defensive configurations, bioluminescent warning patterns pulsing along their surfaces. Three exits: the main door now blocked by Roman's forces, a concealed administrative passage behind Eris's desk, and potentially the environmental maintenance duct near the ceiling.

  The Stone's energy coursed through him, sharpening his senses. He could feel its light seeping through his clothing, a golden glow visible at his collar.

  "The Keeper will accompany us to Mars," Roman announced, his gaze fixed on the light emanating from Carson's chest. "The Stone has chosen, as the prophecy foretold."

  Carson caught the subtle hand signal Roman gave his guards—a two-fingered gesture that sent them fanning out around the chamber's perimeter. Practiced. Coordinated. This was no improvised confrontation but a carefully orchestrated extraction.

  Wind stood near the communication console, her body language shifting imperceptibly into a combat stance Carson recognized from their encounter with the assassin on Celestia. Link had positioned himself between Carson and the nearest guard, his fingers twitching near the mining tool still attached to his belt.

  "You never cared about finding my sister," Carson said to Mira, buying seconds while he assessed escape options. "You just needed me to trust you enough to bring the Stone to Hera."

  "I needed you to understand your importance," Mira countered. Something in her expression faltered—a flash of what might have been genuine regret. "The Light Stone chose you, but you refuse to accept what that means. On Mars, you'll understand your purpose."

  "As what? A ceremonial puppet?" Carson's hand moved subtly toward the Stone, which responded by warming further against his skin.

  Roman smiled thinly. "As the Firekeeper. The one who will light the Sacred Flame and fulfill the prophecy." His gaze fixed on the Stone with naked hunger. "Though the vessel matters less than what it carries."

  Carson caught the microexpressions passing between the royal siblings—Roman's slight nod, Mira's fractional hesitation. They'd planned this together, but something had changed. Some divergence in their aligned purpose.

  "Enough discussion," Roman declared. "Secure the Keeper for transport. The Stone must reach the Temple before the alignment."

  As the guards advanced, the Stone's energy surged. Golden light spilled from beneath Carson's clothing, casting his shadow in sharp relief against the wall. The chamber's biological systems reacted, walls pulsing in sympathetic rhythm.

  "I'm not going anywhere," Carson said, the Stone's heat spreading through his chest and down his arms. His fingers tingled with unfamiliar power as the room's organic lighting dimmed in response to the Stone's brightening glow.

  Roman's expression hardened. "The choice isn't yours, Keeper. Guards, take him—but remember, the Stone must not be damaged."

  The guards moved with practiced efficiency, energy restraints humming to life in their hands. Carson's muscles tensed, the Stone's power building within him like a gathering storm.

  * * *

  The guards marched Carson through corridors that pulsed with bioluminescent warning patterns. He counted turns—left, right, right, descending ramp, left—memorizing the route while keeping his expression neutral. Two guards flanked him, energy restraints binding his wrists with a faint blue glow. A third walked behind, weapon trained on his back. Roman led the procession with the confidence of someone who believed victory already secured.

  The Stone lay quiet against Carson's chest, its energy pulled inward like a creature conserving strength. He could feel its warmth—not the burning intensity of activation but a steady vigilance, as if it were watching through his eyes.

  They descended deeper beneath Hera's governance center, leaving the living architecture of the upper levels for something older. The walls transitioned from responsive organic material to stone carved with intricate patterns. Carson noticed the subtle change in air pressure—they were moving into a sealed environment, likely with independent life support systems.

  "Ancient section," he observed, breaking the tense silence. "Pre-dates your government, doesn't it, Chancellor?"

  Eris, walking alongside Roman, gave Carson a sharp look. "This chamber existed before Hera's founding. Its purpose is... contested among historians."

  "Not contested among those who know the truth," Roman interjected. "The Architects left these chambers across the system. Places of power for the Keys."

  The passage opened into a vast circular chamber that pulled Carson's breath away despite his determination to remain impassive. Massive columns carved from single pieces of stone supported a domed ceiling at least thirty meters high. Between the columns, wall surfaces bore intricate engravings—symbols that sent a jolt of recognition through Carson's mind. He'd seen these patterns in his dreams, in the visions from the Stone.

  The guards positioned Carson at the chamber's center, where a raised circular platform of polished black stone awaited. As his feet touched the platform, lines of light awakened within the stone floor, spreading outward in geometric patterns that matched the engravings on the walls.

  "It recognizes you," Roman said, watching with barely contained excitement. "Even without accessing the Stone's power."

  Carson kept his expression neutral while cataloging every detail. The chamber had seven arched doorways spaced evenly around its circumference, including the one they'd entered through. Six remained sealed with what appeared to be original Architect material—a seamless metallic substance that reflected light in impossible ways. The ceiling contained an aperture directly above the platform, currently closed but clearly designed to open.

  "This chamber was designed for Light Stone rituals," Carson said, recognizing the patterns from his visions. "But not Theist rituals. Something older."

  Roman smiled thinly. "The Theist faith was built upon truth, Keeper. We preserved knowledge others discarded."

  As Roman spoke, attendants entered carrying ceremonial objects—braziers that they positioned around the platform, containers of aromatic oils, and a large crystal bowl that they placed on a pedestal near Carson. The air grew heavy with the scent of unfamiliar incense, sweet and slightly metallic.

  The Stone warmed against specific symbols in the chamber, particularly those etched into the platform beneath Carson's feet. Near others—especially those surrounding one of the sealed doorways—it cooled noticeably, as if withdrawing from something unpleasant.

  Roman approached, now wearing ceremonial robes that an attendant had draped over his shoulders. The fabric shimmered with embedded crystals that caught the chamber's ambient light.

  "The prophecy speaks of the Firekeeper who will unite the seven flames," Roman began, his voice taking on the practiced cadence of ritual. "Each Key represents a fundamental aspect of consciousness that must be transcended. The Light Stone—the First Key—represents fear and self-preservation."

  Carson remained still, eyes tracking movement around the chamber. Chancellor Eris had positioned herself near one of the sealed doorways, her expression troubled. Guards maintained positions at the only open exit. The Stone's energy shifted subtly, responding to Roman's words with what felt like disagreement.

  "Our ancestors understood that the Keys were not merely tools but tests," Roman continued. "The Light Stone chose you as its vessel, but that choice can be... redirected with proper ceremony."

  As Roman spoke, the engravings on the chamber walls began to emit a faint glow. Not from artificial lighting, Carson realized, but from within the stone itself—as if the material remembered an ancient purpose. The platform beneath his feet warmed further.

  "The chamber responds to your presence beyond the Stone's connection," Eris observed, scientific curiosity momentarily overriding political tensions. "Your genetic signature must match parameters in the original design."

  Carson filed this information away while maintaining his appearance of resigned captivity. The restraints binding his wrists were standard TITAN design—manufactured with a fail-safe that could be triggered by a specific sequence of pressure points. If he could maneuver his hands correctly...

  "The Theist doctrine teaches that the Firekeeper must undergo purification before lighting the Sacred Flame," Roman explained, gesturing for an attendant to approach with the crystal bowl. "This chamber will extract the Stone's essence while leaving you unharmed."

  The Stone pulsed once against Carson's chest—a warning, or perhaps preparation. He felt its energy gathering, not in the chaotic surge of previous activations but in disciplined concentration.

  "You're making a mistake," Carson said calmly. "The Stone doesn't work that way. It chooses, and it stays chosen."

  Roman's expression hardened. "The Stone responds to proper authority, Keeper. Our ancestors documented the rituals precisely." He turned to the attendants. "Prepare the extraction ceremony. The alignment approaches."

  * * *

  Roman assumed a position directly across from Carson, the prince's ceremonial robes settling around him with practiced precision. His fingers formed intricate patterns in the air—gestures Carson recognized from fragments of the Stone's visions. Not random religious movements but activation sequences, corrupted by centuries of misinterpretation.

  "In the time before time," Roman intoned, his voice taking on a resonant quality that filled the chamber, "when Earth still nurtured humanity, the Architects bestowed seven flames upon chosen vessels."

  The chamber responded to his words. Symbols along the walls brightened in sequence, following the cadence of Roman's speech. Carson felt the Stone warming against his chest, not with the chaotic energy of his earlier portal experiences, but with deliberate, measured pulses—like a heartbeat accelerating in anticipation.

  "The First Flame illuminates the path through darkness," Roman continued. "It guides the worthy and blinds the undeserving."

  Carson noticed how certain phrases triggered specific reactions in the chamber. When Roman spoke of "illumination," light patterns shifted along the floor. When he mentioned "darkness," shadows deepened in the corners despite no apparent change in the chamber's ambient lighting. Not theatrical effects but responses encoded in the chamber's very structure.

  "Dr. Craft was right," Carson thought. "The technology responds to linguistic patterns—voice commands disguised as ritual phrases."

  The Stone pulsed against his chest in what felt like confirmation.

  Roman's hands moved to a crystal vessel an attendant presented. "The Keeper serves the Flame, not the reverse. The vessel is honored but ultimately replaceable."

  At these words, Carson felt the Stone grow suddenly cold against his skin. The chamber's light patterns faltered momentarily, the harmonious progression disrupting into discordant flickers.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  "Interesting," Carson thought. "The Stone disagrees with that interpretation."

  Roman frowned slightly at the chamber's reaction but continued. "Through purification, the Flame transfers to worthy guardianship under sacred authority."

  As Roman spoke, Carson cataloged which elements aligned with Dr. Craft's explanations versus Theist dogma. The seven Keys as aspects of consciousness requiring transcendence—accurate. The chamber as focal point for energy manipulation—correct. But the notion of forcible transfer, of the Keeper as mere temporary vessel—the Stone's reaction made its disagreement clear.

  The air in the chamber grew charged, carrying a scent like ozone after lightning. Carson's skin tingled as if submerged in static electricity. The restraints at his wrists felt warmer where they contacted his skin.

  Roman approached with the crystal vessel. "The First Flame tests through fear, but fear must serve purpose. You've carried it without understanding, without direction."

  Carson remained silent, observing how the chamber's acoustics shifted, certain frequencies of Roman's voice amplified while others dampened. Not random, but filtering specific harmonic patterns.

  "Your genetic signature activates ancient systems," Roman acknowledged, "but activation without purpose leads to chaos. The Theist lineage preserves the true purpose—ascension through sacred order."

  The Stone's energy continued building, contained but increasingly potent. Carson sensed it responding selectively—acknowledging truth in some statements while actively resisting others. When Roman spoke of "genetic signature," the floor beneath Carson brightened. When he mentioned "sacred order," the light dimmed noticeably.

  "The Stone chooses," Carson said quietly, "but not randomly. And not based on your criteria."

  Roman's eyes narrowed. "The Stone responds to proper authority. Watch."

  He raised his hands, reciting phrases in a language Carson didn't recognize but the Stone somehow translated in his mind—corrupted Architect terminology, mathematical principles reduced to mystical incantations.

  The chamber responded dramatically—light patterns accelerating, the aperture in the ceiling opening slightly to reveal stars above. But beneath this visible reaction, Carson sensed resistance. The Stone's energy gathered not in preparation for transfer but in defense.

  "Your interpretation contains fragments of truth," Carson said, "wrapped in centuries of misunderstanding. The Keys aren't tools to be claimed through ceremony."

  Roman's expression hardened. "You speak of matters beyond your comprehension, miner."

  "That's where you're wrong," Carson replied. "I understand more than you realize."

  As Roman continued the ceremony, Carson noticed something subtle beneath the chamber's dramatic response—a barely perceptible vibration coming through the floor, different from the chamber's activation sequence. The restraints at his wrists had warmed to the point where the metal began to soften imperceptibly.

  "The First Flame returns to sacred guardianship," Roman declared, raising the crystal vessel higher. "Through ancient rite and royal bloodline—"

  The Stone pulsed once, sharply, and several symbols along the walls abruptly dimmed. Roman faltered mid-phrase, confusion crossing his features.

  "The ceremony isn't working as you expected," Carson observed calmly. "Because the Stone doesn't recognize your authority."

  Roman's composure cracked slightly. "The ceremony requires precise conditions. Perhaps your interference—"

  "It's not me interfering," Carson said. "It's the Stone itself."

  * * *

  Carson detected a subtle shift in the air currents—a barely perceptible change in pressure that rippled through the chamber. The Stone pulsed in response, its energy patterns synchronizing with his heightened awareness. Something was happening beyond Roman's ceremony.

  The chamber's illumination flickered—not the programmed response to Roman's ritual phrases, but an irregular disruption suggesting external interference. Carson kept his expression neutral, not wanting to alert Roman, but his senses sharpened, cataloging each anomaly.

  A faint, sweet-bitter scent reached him—distinctive organic compounds he'd smelled before in Hera's defensive systems. The Bridgekeeper faction. Wind's people. The realization sent a surge of hope through him that he carefully contained behind a mask of continued defiance.

  Roman faltered again in his recitation as the light patterns on the floor began shifting independently of his words. He shot an accusatory glance at his technicians, who frantically consulted their instruments.

  "Continue the ceremony," Roman commanded, but uncertainty had crept into his voice.

  Carson felt the restraints at his wrists warming further—not from the chamber's systems but from a targeted external energy source. Someone was working to free him. He remained still, conserving his strength while the Stone's energy built steadily within him, ready for release at the perfect moment.

  A sudden crash echoed from the far entrance as the massive doors buckled inward. Through the gap surged figures in the distinctive green-blue garments of Heran Bridgeepers, led by a familiar silhouette that made Carson's heart leap.

  Wind moved like living quicksilver, her combat training evident in every precisely calculated movement. She didn't look toward Carson immediately—a tactical decision to avoid drawing attention to him—but he felt her awareness of his position.

  "Sacrilege!" Roman shouted. "Guards, protect the sacred vessel!"

  Theist guards rushed to intercept the intruders, but their movements became erratic as a thick mist billowed through the chamber—another Heran compound designed to disrupt coordination without causing permanent harm.

  Carson spotted Link slipping through the chaos, using the confusion to work his way around the perimeter toward the ceremonial platform. Unlike Wind's direct approach, Link moved with practiced stealth, his mining background evident in how efficiently he navigated the increasingly chaotic space.

  The restraints at Carson's wrists suddenly released with a soft click. He remained motionless, waiting for the perfect moment as Roman's attention divided between the intruders and the failing ceremony.

  Through the swirling mist, Carson glimpsed Bowie at a control panel, his fingers dancing across the interface with surprising expertise. The chamber's defensive systems deactivated in sequence—first the ceiling aperture sealed, then the floor's light patterns froze mid-transition.

  "The Stone!" Roman cried, lunging toward Carson with the crystal vessel.

  Carson chose that moment to move. The Stone's energy surged through him as he rolled sideways, avoiding Roman's grasp. The energy enhanced his movements, making them faster and more precise than humanly possible. He landed in a crouch, the Stone now glowing visibly through his clothing.

  "Link, three o'clock!" Carson called, spotting a guard approaching his friend from the side.

  Link ducked the attack without looking, their years of synchronized mining work translating perfectly to combat coordination. "Exit route's compromised," Link called back. "Bowie's working on an alternative!"

  Carson scanned the chamber, assessing threats and opportunities with newfound clarity. The Stone's energy didn't just enhance his physical capabilities—it sharpened his tactical awareness, highlighting paths and vulnerabilities previously invisible.

  "Wind, eastern corridor!" he called, directing her toward a service passage Bowie had just unlocked.

  Wind acknowledged with a subtle hand signal, redirecting her Bridgekeeper allies toward the new escape route while maintaining pressure on the main entrance to prevent reinforcements from entering.

  Carson moved to join them, but Roman's elite guards formed a blockade, their weapons trained on the escape route. The Stone pulsed against his chest, offering power, but Carson hesitated—raw energy without direction would endanger everyone.

  "Carson!" Bowie's voice cut through the chaos. "The ceiling maintenance shaft! Stone can breach it!"

  Understanding instantly, Carson changed direction, vaulting over a fallen guard and sprinting toward the center of the chamber where the shaft's access point was located above the ceremonial platform. The Stone's energy gathered, focused not on destruction but on precise application of force.

  "Everyone converge on my position!" Carson commanded, his voice carrying unexpected authority through the chamber.

  * * *

  Carson pressed his back against the wall, heart hammering as he assessed their rapidly deteriorating situation. The exit corridor ahead swarmed with elite Theist guards, their gold-trimmed armor gleaming under the flickering emergency lights. Behind them, the sounds of reinforcements echoed through the chamber they'd just fled.

  "We're boxed in," Link muttered, clutching a stolen Theist weapon that was already blinking low charge warnings.

  The Stone pulsed against Carson's chest, its energy flowing through his veins like liquid light. His senses had sharpened to an almost painful degree—he could smell the distinctive ozone tang of the guards' energy weapons mixing with the herbal scent of Heran defensive compounds. He caught Wind's eye, noting the slight tightening around her mouth that signaled her assessment matched his own.

  "I count twelve in the corridor," Carson whispered, his enhanced perception cataloging threats with mechanical precision. "Four more approaching from behind. Their formation leaves no blind spots."

  Bowie frantically worked at a wall panel. "Security override's failing. They've locked us out of the system."

  A flash of movement caught Carson's eye—Mira, hanging back from their group, her posture rigid with conflict. Their eyes met briefly, and Carson saw something shift in her expression. Not remorse exactly, but resolution. She knew something they didn't.

  "There's another way," Mira said suddenly, her voice low. "A royal passage. It's meant for emergency evacuation."

  Carson studied her face, looking for deception. The Stone pulsed once, almost in response to his scrutiny, and in that moment of enhanced perception, he saw the minute tells of truth—the slight dilation of her pupils, the tension in her jaw that spoke of decision rather than calculation.

  "Why help us now?" he demanded, keeping his voice level despite the urgency pressing down on them.

  "Because my brother is wrong," Mira answered, her royal accent slipping as emotion broke through. "The Stone chose you. What he's doing—what I helped him do—it violates everything the prophecy stands for."

  A blast hit the wall near them, showering them with debris. Time for decisions had run out.

  "Show us," Carson commanded, not offering forgiveness but accepting necessity.

  Mira nodded once, then pressed her palm against a seemingly solid section of wall. A hidden panel slid open, revealing a narrow service corridor bathed in dim blue emergency lighting.

  "Royal biometric access," she explained. "It leads to the diplomatic docking bay."

  Carson signaled the others forward while maintaining eye contact with Mira. In that silent exchange passed volumes—acknowledgment of her choice without absolution for her betrayal.

  "They'll override the biometric locks within minutes," Mira warned as they filed through.

  The Stone's energy surged in response to Carson's unspoken need. He placed his hand against the corridor's inner control panel, and blue-white light spread from his fingertips into the system. The panel sparked, then went dark.

  "Not anymore," Carson said, feeling the Stone's energy redirecting the security protocols. "It's locked to my signature now."

  Wind moved to take point, her Heran combat training evident in her efficient movements. "This changes nothing between us," she told Mira coldly as she passed.

  They moved swiftly through the narrow passage, the sounds of pursuit growing more distant. Carson felt the Stone's energy mapping the path ahead, somehow interfacing with Hera's bio-technological systems in ways that seemed instinctive rather than learned.

  A sudden tremor shook the corridor, sending them staggering against the walls.

  "They're using breaching charges," Link warned.

  "Two more intersections, then we reach the diplomatic bay," Mira said, her royal composure cracking as she glanced back toward the sounds of destruction.

  Carson felt the Stone pulse a warning seconds before the lights ahead flickered and died. He raised his hand instinctively, and the Stone's energy created a soft golden glow that illuminated their path.

  "Roman's personally leading the pursuit team," Mira said, her voice tight with knowledge only she possessed. "He won't stop. The prophecy has consumed him."

  The final door loomed ahead—a massive security barrier separating them from the diplomatic docking area. Mira pressed her palm to the scanner, but nothing happened.

  "They've locked me out," she said, panic edging into her voice. "My royal access is revoked."

  Behind them, the sounds of pursuit grew louder. Carson stepped forward, the Stone's energy now visibly coursing across his skin in threads of golden light. He placed his hand on the scanner, and for a moment nothing happened.

  Then the Stone flared, its light intensifying until it seemed to penetrate the very structure of the door. The security system emitted a series of tones unlike anything Carson had heard before—not acceptance or rejection, but something else entirely.

  The massive door slid open, revealing the diplomatic bay beyond.

  "How did you—" Mira began, but fell silent as Roman's voice echoed through the corridor behind them.

  "Sister! Return what you've stolen!"

  * * *

  Carson's lungs burned as they sprinted through the final stretch of corridor. The diplomatic bay loomed ahead—a cavernous space where the Poseidon waited, its hull gleaming with subtle bioluminescence visible even from this distance. Freedom was tantalizingly close, yet the growing thunder of pursuit told him they'd never all make it.

  The Stone's energy flickered beneath his skin, its golden glow stuttering like a failing light. He'd pushed it too hard, too fast. Carson felt the depletion in his bones, a hollow ache spreading through his chest as the Stone's power waned.

  A security bulkhead began sliding down ahead, threatening to cut off their escape route.

  "Move!" Carson shouted, pushing Wind forward as Link grabbed Bowie's arm to help the older man keep pace.

  They skidded beneath the descending barrier with inches to spare. Carson rolled to his feet, his hand instinctively checking that the Stone remained secure against his chest. Its pulse felt weak, erratic.

  The massive junction chamber spread before them—three paths diverging toward different sections of the diplomatic bay. Through the viewports, Carson could see the Poseidon's access ramp extended, waiting. Dr. Craft's AI had remotely activated the ship's systems, preparing for their escape.

  "Almost there," Mira gasped, pointing toward the leftmost corridor. "That's our direct path."

  The Stone pulsed a warning just as the station's emergency system blared to life. Red lights bathed the junction in crimson as security doors began closing throughout the complex.

  Carson felt rather than heard the approaching forces—Roman's personal guard converging from multiple directions. The Stone mapped their movements in his mind like heat signatures, dozens of armed figures closing in a carefully coordinated net.

  They'd never make it. Not all of them.

  Carson locked eyes with Link. Years of friendship allowed communication without words. Link's expression shifted from determination to realization, then protest.

  "No," Link said, reading Carson's intent.

  Carson gripped Link's shoulder, squeezing once. "Get them to the ship."

  "We're not separating," Wind insisted, stepping closer.

  The Stone's energy surged briefly, responding to Carson's resolve. He channeled its remaining power not into himself but outward, creating a momentary shield around his companions.

  "The Stone chose me for a reason," Carson said, his voice steady despite the fear clawing at his throat. "Trust that."

  He backed away, toward the rightmost corridor—away from their escape route.

  "Roman wants me. The Stone. Not you." Carson's eyes moved from Link to Wind to Bowie, finally resting on Mira. "Get to the Poseidon. Find the next Key."

  Before they could argue, Carson turned and sprinted down the right corridor, deliberately making enough noise to draw attention. The Stone flared visibly through his shirt, its light pulsing like a beacon.

  "The Keeper flees!" he shouted, voice echoing down the halls. "The Light moves this way!"

  Behind him, he heard Link's curse, followed by the sounds of the others continuing toward the ship. Good. They understood.

  Carson rounded a corner and came face to face with four of Roman's elite guards. The Stone's energy sputtered as he attempted to channel it, barely generating enough force to knock the nearest guard aside. His muscles screamed in protest as he ducked under a restraining field and kept moving.

  Alarms blared overhead. Emergency containment protocols engaged, sealing sections of the station in sequence. Carson used the chaos to his advantage, zigzagging through maintenance areas and service tunnels, leading his pursuers in a deliberate pattern away from his friends.

  Through a viewport, he glimpsed the Poseidon's engines igniting, blue-white energy cascading from its propulsion nodes. Relief flooded through him. They'd made it.

  The momentary distraction cost him. A restraining field caught his ankle, sending him crashing to the floor. The Stone's light dimmed to almost nothing as Carson's reserves finally emptied.

  Armored boots surrounded him. Rough hands hauled him to his knees as Prince Roman stepped forward, his ornate robes swirling with patterns that mimicked the Stone's energy but twisted into something darker.

  "The Keeper kneels," Roman said, triumph evident in his voice. "As was foretold."

  Carson said nothing, conserving what little strength remained. Through the viewport, he watched the Poseidon rise from its docking clamps, turning gracefully before accelerating away from the station.

  Roman followed his gaze, his expression hardening. "Your companions cannot escape destiny."

  "Neither can you," Carson replied, feeling the Stone pulse once against his chest—not with power, but with certainty.