The road into Oakhaven, Agon-Tor’s main settlement, was more accurately a river of mud. Corym trudged along its uneven edge, his boots sinking almost ankle-deep with every step, the relentless rain plastering his cloak to his shoulders. The storm howled around him, snatching at his hood, but here, closer to the clustered buildings, its fury was somewhat blunted. Weak light spilled from the occasional window, reflecting murkily on the slick, puddled surface of the road.

  He passed the shuttered stall of old Master Xyrs, the woodcarver. Usually, even late in the cycle, Xyrs would be out, working by lamplight, but the stall was dark, the heavy storm shutters bolted tight. Further on, the lamppost nearest the granary flickered erratically, casting odd shadows. It had been flickering for cycles, but replacement parts were slow to arrive from off-world these days, Gramps always complained. Resources trickled out to the Core Systems under King Bazduk’s decrees, leaving fringes like the Vestian Reach to make do and mend. It wasn't tyranny crashing down daily, not here, not yet. It was a slow strangulation, a gradual decay disguised as 'Cluster efficiency.'

  He could see the warm, welcoming glow of the Forlorn Pronghorn ahead now, its painted sign depicting a depressed, wearly looking antelope, creaking rhythmically in the wind. Just a few more steps. He rounded the corner by the Overseer’s drab administrative building, its small quadrangle usually empty after hours, but tonight—

  Two figures stepped out from beneath the building’s overhanging eaves, blocking his path. They wore the drab grey uniforms and reinforced body armor, helmets obscuring their faces behind dark visors, standard-issue pulse batons held loosely at their sides. They were bulkier than most farmhands, their presence an assertion of authority that always felt slightly out of place in Oakhaven’s sleepy rhythm.

  "Hold there," one of them said, his voice distorted by the helmet’s speaker grille. It held the flat, bored tone of someone doing a job they didn’t particularly enjoy but wouldn’t shirk from.

  Corym stopped, his heart giving an unpleasant lurch. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, just walking home—no, walking to the pub in a storm. But guilt was a currency the guards traded in.

  "Evening, officers," he said, keeping his voice level, pulling his hood back slightly so they could see his face in the dim light. "Just heading for a pint."

  "In this deluge?" the second guard asked, his voice higher-pitched, younger maybe. "Bit late for honest folk." He stepped closer, his helmet lamp briefly flashing across Corym’s face.

  "Fields took longer than expected," Corym replied, forcing a casual shrug. "It's not that late, is it? Sun’s barely been down a couple hours."

  The first guard gestured towards the relative dryness beneath the eaves. "Step over here. Routine check."

  Routine. Nothing felt routine tonight, not after seeing that ship. Corym complied, stepping out of the direct path of the driving rain. The mud sucked at his boots. "Everything alright?"

  "Just doing our jobs," the first guard said curtly. "Arms out. Let's see your emitter."

  Corym sighed inwardly but raised his arms. Resisting would only make things worse. The second guard ran a compact scanner over him – a quick, impersonal beep. The first guard unclipped the emitter from Corym's belt. Its white casing looked grimy under the harsh helmet lamp, the chips and scratches more obvious. The blue eye pulsed steadily.

  The guard activated the emitter’s small display screen with a gloved thumb, swiping through the sparse applications Corym had loaded. "Cultivator settings... irrigation timers... soil analysis..." He paused. "Personal library..." He tapped the icon. A short list appeared. "Standard Almanac... 'Principles of Hydroponics'... 'History of Agon-Tor Settlement'... 'Fundamentals of Arcane—'" He stopped abruptly. His head snapped up, visor fixing on Corym. "'Fundamentals of Arcane Resonance'?"

  Corym’s blood ran cold. He’d downloaded that text months ago from a risky corner of the Net, hiding it behind a disguised file name. He hadn't even looked at it in weeks. Basic mana theory wasn’t strictly illegal, but anything touching on practical application, historical magic, or realms beyond simple energy channeling was heavily suppressed under Dynasty directives. Too unpredictable. Too hard to control.

  "It’s just theoretical," Corym stammered, feeling sweat prickle despite the cold rain. "Energy fields, mana resoncances… historical interest only."

  "Historical interest banned historical interest," the guard stated flatly. He manipulated the emitter controls. A prompt flashed: Delete File: Fund_Arc_Res.dat? "Confirm deletion."

  Corym hesitated. It was just a book, text on a screen, but it felt like more. It felt like a connection to something forbidden, something potentially powerful. Something different. Deleting it felt like severing a hidden lifeline. "Look, it’s just—"

  "Confirm. Deletion. Now." The guard's hand rested significantly on the pulse baton at his hip. The implied threat was clear.

  Defeated, Corym nodded mutely. The guard pressed the confirmation icon. The file vanished from the list. He shoved the emitter back towards Corym. "Consider this a warning. Next time, it's formal confiscation and a report to the Sector Overseer." He paused. "And there's the matter of possessing restricted materials. Standard penance applies."

  "Penance?" Corym asked, confused, clipping the emitter back onto his belt.

  The second guard stepped forward, holding out a hand expectantly. "Monetary recompense. Fifty credits."

  Corym went slack-jawed. Fifty credits was nearly a week's pay for casual field labour. "Fifty? For a book I didn't even—"

  "The tariff is non-negotiable," the first guard interrupted. "Unless you'd prefer to discuss it further down at the holding cell?"

  Anger flared in Corym’s chest, hot and quick, but futile. Arguing would achieve nothing but more trouble. He grit his teeth, reached into the small pouch at his belt, and pulled out the meager collection of chipped credit tokens he’d earned shifting grain sacks last week. He counted out fifty, the metal cool against his skin, and dropped them into the guard's waiting palm.

  The guard pocketed the credits without comment. "Alright. On your way. And stay out of trouble."

  They watched him, unmoving figures in the rain, as Corym turned and trudged the remaining distance to the Forlorn Pronghorn, his earlier anticipation soured, replaced by a simmering resentment and a gnawing worry.

  Why the sudden strictness? Were they always this thorough, or was it connected to the pale ship? Were they searching everyone, looking for something – or someone? He glanced back, but the guards had already melted back into the shadows beneath the eaves. He pushed open the heavy, scarred wooden door of the pub and stepped inside.

  The wave of noise and warmth hit him like a physical force. The Pronghorn was packed, steam rising from damp cloaks, the air thick with the smells of roasting meat, spilled ale, and pipe weed. Laughter competed with shouted conversations and the rhythmic thud of darts hitting the board in the far corner. Lanterns fashioned from polished brass tubing cast a warm, yellow glow over the dark wood panels and sturdy tables crowded with patrons – mostly locals, farmhands, miners from the nearby asteroid belts taking shore leave, and a few dusty-looking traders.

  He scanned the noisy room, shaking rain from his cloak, and spotted them hunched over pints at a scarred table near the back. Kannon, solid and dependable, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, was nursing an ale and looking worried, as usual. Firon, broader, louder, with a grin that always seemed too wide for his face, was laughing at something, gesturing emphatically with his mug.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Corym threaded his way through the crowd, earning a few nods and mumbled greetings. He clapped Firon on the shoulder. "Making space for one more?"

  Firon looked up, his grin widening. "Corym! Finally dragged yourself out of the mud! Thought the storm might've dissolved you.”

  “Not quite.” Corym chuckled.

  “Pull up a stool! Kannon owes us a round – lost spectacularly at Hazard Dice again."

  Kannon sighed. "Only because your dice are weighted, Firon, and you know it." He looked Corym up and down. "Rough walk?"

  "You could say that," Corym muttered, slumping onto the offered stool. He felt drained, the encounter with the guards leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. "Had a run-in with the local enforcers."

  Kannon leaned forward, his expression sharpening with concern. "What happened?"

  Corym quickly recounted the search, the book, and the confiscated credits. Firon slammed his mug down. "Fifty credits! The nerve of those bastards! Picking pockets is what that is!"

  "Keep your voice down," Kannon warned, glancing around nervously. "Still… They're usually more lenient unless you're really causing trouble."

  "That's what I was thinking," Corym said, rubbing his temples. "Maybe it's because of that ship?" He quickly described the pale, silent vessel he’d seen cutting through the sky earlier.

  Firon’s eyes widened. "A silent, white cruiser? Here? No kidding?"

  Kannon frowned. "I heard docking control hailing an unscheduled arrival an hour back, assumed it was just a freighter diverted by the storm…"

  Just then, the pub door creaked open again, letting in another blast of wind and rain. Three figures entered, stamping their feet and shaking water from unfamiliar-looking garments. The chatter in the pub dipped noticeably as heads turned.

  They were clearly off-worlders. One was male, lean and dark-haired, with sharp features and watchful eyes that scanned the room with unsettling intensity. He wore dark, practical clothing of a cut Corym didn’t recognize, and strapped across his back was a sword – not a ceremonial piece, but a functional weapon, its hilt wrapped in worn leather.

  Another was shorter, fidgeting constantly, peering around through thick goggles perched on his brow, his hands stuffed into the pockets of a multi-layered coat that seemed to have far too many pouches and odd attachments.

  The third… Corym’s breath caught.

  She was tall, carrying herself with a quiet confidence that drew the eye. Her hair was a startling, luminous platinum, cascading straight down her back like spun moonlight. Her face was pale, serene, with high cheekbones and steady, intelligent eyes the colour of a winter sky. She wore similarly-cut clothes to the man, except they were a softer, faded blue - like dusk bleeding into dawn.

  "Whoa," Firon breathed beside him, nudging Corym sharply in the ribs. "Check out the snow queen. Reckon she flies that fancy ship?"

  Corym couldn’t look away. He’d never seen anyone like her. She felt… different. Set apart. He flushed, shaking his head, forcing his gaze back to his mug. "Probably," he mumbled. "They look like the types."

  Kannon watched the newcomers warily as they found an empty table in a corner, attracting curious but cautious glances from the other patrons. "Definitely not traders. That one with the sword looks like he knows how to use it."

  They returned to their drinks, but the atmosphere in the pub had shifted, charged with a new tension. Corym kept stealing glances towards the strangers' table. The fidgety one seemed to be explaining something technical to the swordsman, using rapid hand gestures, while the woman sat quietly, looking bored.

  After a few minutes, the swordsman stood up and headed towards their table. Corym instinctively straightened, Kannon and Firon tensing beside him.

  The man stopped before them, offering a tight, polite smile that didn’t quite reach his calculating eyes. "Good evening," the man said, his voice cultured, with an accent Corym couldn't place.

  "Alright?" Kannon responded cautiously.

  "As well as can be expected in this weather," the man replied smoothly. "My companions and I encountered some unexpected engine trouble. Had to make an unscheduled stop." He nodded towards his table. "We're just passing through. Wondered if you could point us towards somewhere respectable to spend the night?"

  "Not much choice," Firon said, sizing the stranger up. "There's the Traveller's Rest by the northern sector. Basic, but clean enough. Mostly caters to freighter crews."

  "Appreciated," the swordsman said. The man's gaze lingered, sweeping over them before settling intently on Corym. "Forgive my saying," he remarked, his tone casual, almost conversational, "but you have rather striking colouring for Agon-Tor. Quite different from your friends here." His eyes flickered over Corym’s hair and eyes. "Family from off-world, perhaps?"

  The question hit Corym like a physical blow. It was too direct, too personal, coming from a complete stranger. All his earlier unease came flooding back, sharp and suffocating. The Egg. The silent ship. The guards. This man's probing questions. It felt connected, somehow. He drew himself up, meeting the man’s gaze coolly. "That's none of your business."

  The swordsman's smile didn't falter, but his eyes sharpened fractionally. "My apologies. Didn't mean to pry. Traveler's curiosity." He gave a slight nod. "Thanks for the information." He turned and walked back to his table.

  A few moments later, the three strangers gathered their things and slipped back out into the raging storm, leaving a wake of silence and speculation behind them. The heavy pub door thumped shut, leaving a sudden pocket of near-silence around their table amidst the general din. Corym stared at the door, his mind racing, the stranger's pointed questions echoing unnervingly. Firon let out a low whistle.

  "Bloody hell," Firon muttered into his mug, shaking his head. "Off-worlders asking about family history? Proper weird, that." He took a large gulp of ale, his eyes still wide.

  Kannon didn't say anything immediately. He casually scanned the nearby tables, his gaze flicking over the patrons who were now returning to their own conversations, though several still cast curious glances towards the door the strangers had just exited.

  Satisfied, or perhaps just deciding it didn't matter, he subtly lifted his heavy mug a fraction of an inch off the scarred wooden tabletop and tapped it down gently. Tap. He paused, took another casual look around, then tapped it twice in quick succession. Tap-Tap. Another pause, seemingly just fiddling with his drink, then a final, soft tap. Tap. One… two… one. An old childhood signal between the trio: Danger passed. All clear.

  He immediately raised the mug to his lips and took a long, deep drink, draining nearly half of it, his knuckles white where he gripped the handle. He set the mug down with slightly exaggerated care.

  "Nosy fucker," Firon muttered, staring after them. "Asking questions like that."

  Kannon looked concerned. "That wasn't just curiosity, Corym. He was fishing for something."

  Corym’s heart was pounding. The stranger's casual question felt like a key turning in a lock he didn't know existed. Off-world family? The silence surrounding his father suddenly felt heavy, ominous. He pushed his stool back abruptly. "I... I have to go."

  "What?" Firon protested. "You just got here! We haven't even finished this round!"

  "No, I... I need to get home," Corym insisted, grabbing his cloak. The warmth and noise of the pub felt suffocating now. "Something doesn't feel right."

  His friends exchanged glances, seeing the genuine fear in his eyes beneath the bravado. "Alright, mate," Kannon said quietly. "Go on. Be careful heading back."

  Corym nodded, unable to speak. He pushed his way back through the crowd, ignoring the curious looks, and burst back out into the storm. The rain hadn't lessened, and the wind seemed even stronger, tearing at him as he stumbled back along the muddy track towards home, his mind racing. He needed to check. He needed to be sure.

  He practically fell through the homestead door, slamming it shut against the gale, dripping water onto the floor rugs. The main room was quiet, lit only by the pulsing glow of the geode crystals in the hearth. His mother and grandparents must have already turned in. Panting, he shrugged off his soaking cloak, letting it fall in a heap by the door. He didn't bother with his boots, crossing the room in quick strides, mud squelching beneath his feet.

  He went straight to the alcove, heart hammering against his ribs. His hands trembled as he placed his palm on the ironwood chest and spoke the passphrase, his voice tight with anxiety. The runes glowed, the locks clicked open. He flung the lid back.

  There it lay. Safe. Undisturbed. The Egg pulsed with its soft, internal light, the silver veins shimmering reassuringly in the dimness. Relief washed over him, so potent it made him dizzy. He reached in, just needing to touch its cool, smooth surface.

  "What's that?"

  The voice came from directly behind him. Smooth. Cultured. Utterly familiar.

  Corym froze, his blood turning to ice water in his veins. Slowly, dread coiling in his stomach, he turned.

  The swordsman stood silhouetted in the doorway leading from the entrance hall, rain dripping from his dark coat, his eyes reflecting the hearth-light, fixed intently on the open chest and the pulsing Egg within Corym's trembling hand.