The twin suns of the Vestian Reach, golden Tor Alpha and its pale companion Tor Beta, cast long, sharp shadows across the freshly turned earth of Agon-Tor. Corym grunted, yanking the head of his hoe out of the soil. It wasn’t wood and metal fetched from a smithy, but solid, holographic light cast directly from the device strapped to his belt – an emitter, its once-white ceramic casing chipped at the edges, revealing dull grey metal beneath. Its single, central lens, a disc of polished blue crystal, pulsed with a steady, rhythmic light.

  He straightened, arching his back with a groan, and wiped a bead of sweat from his brow with a dirt-stained forearm. The air hung warm and still, carrying the rich scent of iron-heavy loam and the fainter, greener smell of young vine shoots climbing nearby support lattices. Another row done. Another tiny fraction of Agon-Tor prepared for the grain cycle. He kicked absently at a clod of earth, watching it crumble.

  From his pair of headphones, a tinny voice murmured. It wasn't music today, but one of the crackling, intermittent broadcasts found on the corners of the Net – vox-casts shunned by the official Cluster network. This one called itself "Static Feed," and today featured a dry-voiced academic holding forth.

  "...fragments we recovered from the Xerxes debris field suggest pre-Cluster propulsion methods far exceeding current efficiencies," the academic stated, his voice punctuated by bursts of static. "Of course, the official Dynasty position dismisses such findings as misinterpretations of naturally occurring mana resonances, but the artifact signatures align distinctly with legends from the Era of Silence - tales of ships that folded space, rather than simply traversing it..."

  Corym sighed, only half-listening. Folded space. Sounded marginally more interesting than folding laundry, which was likely waiting for him back at the homestead. He drove the hoe into the earth, the glowing blade biting deep before he hauled it backward, churning dirt. Still, the talk of debris fields and forgotten legends stirred something in him, a familiar restlessness. He paused, leaning on the shimmering handle, and gazed upward.

  Past the almost invisible shimmer of Agon-Tor's atmospheric shield, the void stretched, an endless canvas of deepest indigo brushed with swirls of emerald and gold gas clouds. Distant stars glittered like scattered diamond dust, and the faint, ghostly outlines of other worldlets hung suspended in the Reach – Eaorn’s Belt, Veythos, Sqraax Prime. So close, cosmically speaking, yet worlds away. His world was turning soil. Theirs? Mining rare minerals, perhaps, or trading strange artifacts, or simply... not being here.

  He pushed the thought away. Duty called. His grandfather, Peter, wouldn't appreciate him daydreaming when there was seeding to prepare for. But the yearning remained, a constant hum beneath the surface, as much a part of him as his coppery hair and sunset-gold eyes – traits that marked him subtly different from his dark-haired, brown-eyed family. He sometimes felt like a stray seed blown in from another field entirely, fostered but never quite belonging. The silence surrounding his father, a topic Anna gently deflected and Peter met with stony silence, only amplified that feeling.

  "…insistence on standardized aetheric drives," the voice from the crystal crackled, drawing his attention back, "while practical for control and regulation, arguably stifles the very innovation that birthed interstellar travel. Bazduk’s regime prioritizes stability over progress, ignorance over exploration..." A wave of harsh static drowned out the next few words. Probably for the best. Talking ill of Bazduk the Sorcerer King, even on a pirate broadcast, was asking for trouble.

  He felt it then – a change. Not from the broadcast in his ears, but in the world around him. A sudden coolness against the back of his neck, despite the twin suns’ heat. The air grew taut, electric. The distant, perpetual scent of ozone, leaking from the void beyond the atmosphere, sharpened significantly. He scanned the vast horizon, the cloudless sky. Nothing visible. But he knew. He could taste the metallic tang of ionized particles on his tongue, feel the shift in pressure deep in his bones. A storm was coalescing out in the void, a big one, winding itself up before it rolled over Agon-Tor.

  A slow smile spread across Corym’s face, easing the tension in his shoulders. An early end to the fieldwork. Justified, even. He attacked the current row with renewed determination, the glowing hoe flashing beneath rich soil. Finish this, maybe start the next one just to show willing, and then… the Forlorn Pronghorn. The familiar, noisy embrace of the village pub, the clatter of mugs, the boisterous laughter. Kannon and Firon would likely be holding court by the dartboard already.

  The last patch of earth turned. He tapped the silicone plate on the emitter. The hoe vanished, the blue eye fading to a soft glow. Dusting his hands on his trousers, he turned and broke into a steady jog across the field towards the collection of low, sturdy buildings nestled into the shallow valley that served as the heart of their homestead. The wind was picking up now, whipping strands of hair across his face, carrying the first, cold scent of rain.

  Then, a shadow swept over the land, vast and silent.

  Corym tripped, catching himself before he fell, his head snapping upwards. Something huge and pale ripped through the upper atmosphere, eclipsing Tor Alpha for a stunning moment. It was a ship, unlike any freighter or ore hauler he’d ever seen. Shaped like some great hunting bird, its hull plating was the colour of old bone, scored and patched, yet radiating a latent power that hummed against his teeth.

  Thin lines of contained energy, like blue lightning trapped under glass, traced intricate paths along its wings and fuselage. It moved with impossible speed and near-total silence, angling sharply downwards towards the rocky northern sector, the only place on Agon-Tor flat enough to accommodate anything larger than a crop skimmer.

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  His heart hammered against his ribs. He stood frozen, watching until the pale shape disappeared behind the craggy horizon. That ship… it felt dangerous. Old. Visitors were rare enough; ships of that calibre simply didn't come to agrarian outliers like Agon-Tor. He swallowed hard, a cold premonition settling over him. Shaking his head, trying to dismiss it as nerves or the oncoming storm, he urged his legs back into motion, running faster now towards the familiar solace of home.

  The heavy wooden door swung inward smoothly. Corym ducked inside, the sudden warmth and dim light a welcome contrast to the growing gloom outside. The main room was large and comforting, its walls a patchwork of exposed bedrock, thick timber beams dark with age, and plaster smoothed and painted a warm ochre.

  A massive stone hearth dominated the far wall, its mantle cluttered with clay pots, carving tools, and faded holo-images of family members long gone. Within the hearth’s depths, several large, uncut geode crystals pulsed with a steady, orange light, radiating a clean, efficient heat that filled the room. The air smelled of woodsmoke from the cookfire beside the hearth, baking bread, and Anna’s root vegetable stew.

  His mother looked up from kneading dough on a floured section of the heavy wooden table, her brow furrowed. "Corym? Done already? Is something wrong?" Worry painted shadows under her dark eyes. The years since… well, since him, had etched themselves onto her face, though kindness still softened her features.

  "Storm's coming, Ma," he said, pulling off his mud-caked boots near the entrance, careful not to track dirt onto the woven floor rugs. "Felt it gathering."

  From his customary armchair by the hearth, a solid piece of furniture upholstered in worn but sturdy leather, Peter lowered his spectacles, peering at Corym over the top of the agricultural report displayed on his hand-held slate. "A likely story! More like you heard the lads calling from the Pronghorn, eh? Got a rendezvous planned?" He winked, the lines around his eyes deepening.

  Corym felt his cheeks flush. "It’s not like that, Gramps! And there is a storm coming." As if on cue, a low rumble echoed from outside, shaking the thick windowpanes set deep into the walls. The wind began to moan around the eaves. Seconds later, the hard, percussive drumming of rain started against the glass.

  His grandmother, Elyra, set aside the sock she was darning, her needles clicking softly. Her silver hair was neatly pinned, her movements precise and economical. "Let the boy be, Peter. He knows the weather better than the official forecasts." She smiled at Corym, a calm, steady presence in the room. "Go wash up. Stew's almost ready. Plenty of time for the pub later, if the storm eases."

  "Told you," Corym muttered, heading towards the washbasin in the corner. The comforting domesticity, the familiar teasing, began to push the unsettling image of the ship to the back of his mind.

  They ate at the long table, the sounds of the storm raging outside a counterpoint to the clink of spoons in bowls and the easy flow of conversation. Peter grumbled about the rising cost of fertilizer shipments from off-world. Anna worried about a blight affecting the krellis vines down by Miller’s Creek. Elyra recounted village gossip about the Overseer’s son managing to crash another landskipper. Corym chimed in occasionally, but mostly listened, the warmth of the stew and the familiar presence of his family slowly soothing his unease.

  After the meal, as Anna cleared the table and Elyra settled back to her darning, Corym felt the familiar pull. He stood, stretching. "Think I'll head out now. See if Kannon’s made it down yet." He reached for his waterproof cloak, heavy and smelling faintly of old rain.

  "Button up well," Anna advised, stacking the bowls.

  "And tell Firon’s father I haven’t forgotten about that hydro-spanner!" Peter called from his chair, already engrossed in his slate again.

  Corym paused at the door, his gaze drawn, inevitably, to the ironwood chest in the shadowed alcove beside the hearth. It sat squat and solid, its dark wood scarred by time, the rune-etched bronze bands seeming almost black in the dim light. It hummed with a barely perceptible energy, a subtle vibration felt more than heard.

  He shouldn't. He was heading out. But the image of the pale ship, the intensity of the storm, the slight difference he’d felt earlier… He walked over to it, resting his hand flat on the cool wood of the lid. He spoke the passphrase, a meaningless string of sounds learned by rote, focusing his intent. The runes flared momentarily, the intricate locking mechanism within the bands shifting with soft, metallic clicks. He lifted the heavy lid.

  The Egg lay nestled in its bed of faded, sapphire-blue velvet.

  Tonight, it seemed to pulse with a more insistent light. The swirling veins of living silver embedded in its deep blue-black surface seemed brighter, almost liquid, shifting subtly in the dim light. He reached in, his fingers brushing against its smooth, cool surface.

  The faint, rhythmic vibration felt stronger than ever, a steady thrum-thrum-thrum resonating up his arm, like a tiny, powerful engine idling deep within. What was this thing? This inert stone that felt so intensely, inexplicably alive? This legacy from a father he never met, guarded for reasons shrouded in family silence?

  The responsibility felt heavier tonight, more real. Keep it safe. Keep it hidden. From what? From people who arrived in silent, bone-white ships?

  "Stop mooning over that relic, boy!" Peter’ voice startled him. "If you're going to the Pronghorn, go! Can't impress any lasses standing there gawking at a glorified paperweight."

  Corym hastily closed the lid. The runes pulsed once, brightly, as the locks re-engaged. He pulled his cloak tighter around him, the rough fabric a grounding sensation. "Right. Going now."

  He pushed the door open and stepped out into the full fury of the storm. Wind tore at him, driving sheets of icy rain horizontally. Lowering his head against the elements, Corym plunged into the tempest, the steady thrum of the Egg seeming to echo the frantic beating of his own heart.