Corym surfaced through layers of thick, cloying darkness, like swimming up from the bottom of a deep, cold lake. His first sensation was the sound of a low, resonant hum. His second was the dull throb in his cheek and jaw, overlaid with a strange, cool tingling sensation. He blinked, his vision swimming back into focus slowly.

  Sterile white panels formed the ceiling above him. The air smelled clean, sharp, antiseptic, a stark contrast to the earthy scent of home or the damp mulch smell of the storm. He was lying on a padded surface – too firm to be his bed – covered by a thin, scratchy blanket. The humming intensified, resolving into a gentle, melodic chant interwoven with the electronic murmur of machinery.

  He turned his head carefully, the movement surprisingly painless. Beside the bed stood the woman from before. Her striking platinum hair was gathered loosely at the nape of her neck, revealing the elegant line of her jaw. She wore simple, practical clothing now – faded blue trousers and a matching tunic that seemed both soft and durable. No coat, no discernible weapons, yet she commanded the small space with an aura of quiet intensity.

  Her hands, pale and slender, hovered a few inches above his injured face. From her outstretched fingers flowed faint streams of silvery-blue light, gossamer threads weaving complex, soothing patterns just above his skin before being absorbed. It was like cool water flowing over a burn, an active, intelligent energy that untangled knots of pain and encouraged damaged cells to mend. It was magic, raw and controlled, wielded with practiced grace.

  Her storm-grey eyes, previously scanning his face with detached concentration, shifted, meeting his gaze directly. The flow of light from her hands subsided, though the cool tingling remained.

  "You're awake," she observed, her voice low and even. It held no surprise, only calm assessment. "The charm has taken hold. The deeper tissue should regenerate fully within the hour."

  Corym slowly pushed himself up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He touched his cheek gingerly. Where Vantis's blade had cut him, the skin felt smooth, intact, only a slight puffiness and lingering coolness. "You... healed me," he stated, the words feeling inadequate.

  "It required less energy than anticipated," she replied simply, stepping back slightly. "You’re a lot stronger than you look." She paused. "You should rest more, but I suspect you have questions."

  He certainly did. He looked around the compact room properly now. Definitely a medical bay. Gleaming cabinets lined one wall, their contents hidden behind opaque doors. Monitors mounted above the bed displayed pulsing lines and strings of symbols he didn’t recognise. Efficient, sterile, functional. "Where... is this?"

  "You are aboard the Pelican," she explained. "We brought you here after you lost consciousness in the field."

  Just then, the hatch slid open with a quiet pneumatic hiss. The shorter man from the pub hurried in, pushing a pair of heavy, brass-framed goggles up onto his forehead. Their absence revealed eyes of a startlingly bright, almost unnatural red, framed by dark lashes. His black hair was cut short, slightly ruffled, and his lean face with intelligent features might have marked him as having ancestry tracing back to the lost colonies of the Xian Rim, though such things were rarely discussed anymore. He wore a multi-pocketed, grease-stained coverall over his clothes.

  "The nav-computer diagnostics are still throwing anomaly flags," he said quickly, addressing the woman, "I think Ceephax is deliberately withholding the primary routing data because it exceeds his programmed risk parameters, the obstinate bucket of bolts—" He stopped mid-sentence, his red eyes widening slightly as he noticed Corym sitting up. "Ah. Right. You're… conscious. Excellent timing. Stabilizing, are we?" He offered Corym a quick, slightly awkward nod. “The name’s Modelo.”

  “Uh... Corym.”

  "The patient requires recovery time, not diagnostic reports," the woman chided gently.

  "Right, right," Modelo agreed readily, running his hands through his hair. He looked back at Corym. "Look, uh, if you're feeling up to it… maybe come out to the main cabin? Bridge? Whatever Vantis is calling it this week. We, uh… we need to talk. Properly."

  Corym nodded slowly, his mind still trying to catch up. He glanced down at his bare legs – he was only in his underclothes. "Yeah, alright. I just need to…"

  The woman’s gaze followed his, a slight flush rising on her pale cheeks. "Your clothes were soaked. Damaged from the… altercation, and the emitter exploding. We took the liberty." She gestured towards a small alcove shelf beside the bed.

  His own familiar tunic and trousers lay there, neatly folded. They looked clean, dry, and surprisingly intact. The burn mark on the tunic from the destroyed emitter had been meticulously repaired with fine, almost invisible stitches. Even his heavy boots stood beneath the shelf, devoid of mud.

  "We'll wait for you on the bridge," the woman said, turning to leave. Modelo followed her out, already launching back into his complaints about the ship’s obstinate droid.

  Left alone, Corym dressed quickly, the familiar roughness of his own clothes a small comfort in this utterly alien environment. He splashed cold water on his face from a small basin inset into the wall, grimacing at the slight puffiness where the cut had been. He still felt shaky, hollowed out from the magic he’d somehow unleashed, but the questions churning inside him propelled him forward. He took a deep breath and pushed the hatch open, stepping out into the corridor beyond.

  Strip lights recessed into the ceiling, leading towards the ship's forward section. Exposed conduits and thick bundles of shielded cables ran along the bulkheads, evidence of countless repairs and modifications. The air hummed with the low thrum of the ship's systems, a sound very different from the geode-hearth at home. He emerged into a larger space – the bridge.

  It was functional, not spacious. Worn seats faced an array of flickering console screens displaying star charts, diagnostic readouts, and incomprehensible strings of code. The deck plating was scuffed, the bulkheads smudged with grime and old stains. In the center of the room, starkly out of place amidst the technology, sat the solid, ancient ironwood chest from his family’s hearthside.

  Vantis stood near the main console, arms crossed, observing Corym's entrance with that same unnerving, detached calculation. The sight of Vantis, cool and smug after attacking him and invading his home, reignited Corym's anger.

  "You!" he snapped, forgetting Modelo and the woman standing nearby. "I’m so done with your shit. Breaking into my house, dragging me onto your ship?"

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Vantis turned slowly, raising an eyebrow. "Calm down, farm boy. You collapsed. We couldn't exactly leave you bleeding in the mud, could we? Bad form. Besides," he gestured towards the humming systems around them, "diplomacy seems to be back on the table."

  "After you tried to take my head off!" Corym retorted, taking a step forward, fists clenching.

  "Technically," Vantis corrected smoothly, "I barely scratched you. Which our resident healer," he nodded towards the woman, "Ashryn, seems to have patched up admirably. Consider it an… energetic introduction."

  "Enough, Vantis," Ashryn said, her voice sharp with warning. She turned to Corym. "He's right about one thing. We needed to get you somewhere safe, and ensure you weren't seriously injured. Please, sit. We do have a great deal to discuss."

  The red-eyed man emerged from the kitchenette, carrying a steaming pot and several chipped ceramic mugs. "Coffee?" he offered, pouring a dark, fragrant liquid. "It’s Terran-blend. Strong stuff. Might help facilitate conversation." He seemed to be actively trying to diffuse the tension.

  Corym eyed the offered mug suspiciously, then glanced at the woman, who had taken a seat at one of the secondary consoles. She met his gaze calmly. "We do owe you explanations, Corym," she stated quietly. "Many of them."

  He relented, taking the mug. The coffee was black, bitter, and scalding hot. He took a careful sip, the warmth spreading through his chest.

  "Corym," she began, her clear grey eyes meeting his, "Vantis wasn't entirely forthcoming back at the pub, nor entirely truthful in his methods. For that, I apologize again. We operate… outside certain official channels. My mother," her voice softened almost imperceptibly, "was Arewyth Geal-Lydin."

  Corym choked on his coffee. Arewyth? The Herald? The Arewyth? He stared at her, stunned. The resemblance, now that he looked closer – the regal bearing, the luminous quality she seemed to possess – suddenly clicked into place.

  "We operate under... difficult circumstances. We are remnants, children of those who fought alongside Arewyth Geal-Lydin against Bazduk. We scavenge, we search for allies, for anything that might counter the Dynasty's grip. We call ourselves Last Laugh."

  "And this quest brought you to Agon-Tor? To my house?" Corym pressed, needing to connect the dots.

  "We followed old trails," the woman explained. "Fragmented records left by members of the Companions. Hints of assets hidden away during the final days of the war. Your world was mentioned in logs left by..." she hesitated almost imperceptibly, "...by the warrior Renmyr. He spoke of securing a valuable asset here, entrusting it to local safekeeping."

  Modelo spoke up, fiddling with the cuff of his coverall. "We intercepted Dynasty archival data recently. Cross-referenced Renmyr's logs with Agon-Tor settlement records from twenty standard years back. There were mentions of... disruptions. Off-world visitors fitting the description." He looked uncomfortable. "While you were unconscious, I analyzed the blood on the bandage used for your wound. The genetic markers..." he trailed off, glancing towards Vantis.

  Vantis stepped up to the main console. "As if we needed tests to confirm the obvious," he scoffed, tapping commands onto the console surface. A holographic display flickered to life above the console, showing swirling star charts. Then, with another command, the star charts resolved into an image – a holo-portrait.

  "Recognize him?" Vantis asked, his voice deceptively mild.

  It showed a man with a stern, handsome face, lines of care etched around his eyes, his hair a striking shade of sunset gold, almost identical to Corym's own. Beside him stood a younger Vantis, dark-haired and scowling, looking barely into his teens.

  "He came here, didn't he?" Vantis said, his voice oddly flat, looking not at the image, but at Corym. "Twenty years ago. Renmyr." He tapped the image of the golden-haired man. "Our father." He paused, a flicker of dry, bitter humour entering his tone. "Seems he found Agon-Tor quite… welcoming. Left more than just memories behind when he skipped town ahead of the Dynasty fleet. My mother," he added, almost as an afterthought, "will be less than amused."

  Corym stared at the holo-image, then at Vantis, then back at the image. The resemblance between himself and the man Renmyr was undeniable. It was like looking at an older, harder version of himself reflected in a dusty mirror. His father. One of the Herald's companions. A legend. And Vantis… Vantis was his brother. Half-brother. The world tilted violently. He gripped his coffee mug tighter, taking a long, scalding gulp.

  "The... the Egg," Corym managed, his voice thick. "He left it? Why?"

  "The Egg," Ashryn said gently, breaking the stunned silence, drawing his attention back. "Your father left it here for safekeeping. He knew its importance, and likely hoped this quiet corner of the galaxy would keep it hidden."

  "It's not just a relic," Modelo elaborated, his earlier awkwardness replaced by focused technical enthusiasm. "During the war, the Herald's Companions obtained viable genetic samples from Nidhogg – Bazduk's great dragon." He shuddered slightly. "Couldn't kill the beast, but they theorized... replication. Cloning. Create a power to match a power. A dragon derived from Nidhogg, but hatched under different stars, maybe loyal to a different cause."

  "It really is an egg," Corym breathed, the word catching in his throat. He looked towards the solid, familiar chest sitting impossibly on the starship bridge. "A dragon egg." The pulsing life he'd always felt...

  "Precisely," Ashryn confirmed. "Alive, but dormant. Waiting."

  "Waiting for what?"

  "Specific conditions. A precise matrix of geothermal and arcane energy," Modelo said. "To trigger hatching. Renmyr hid it because the necessary facility, the incubator, wasn't completed before... well, before the end. The Herald fell, the company scattered. But the incubator was eventually finished, hidden deep in uncharted space, its existence known only through fragmented data we recently decrypted."

  Corym felt drawn towards the chest. He stood, walked over to it on unsteady legs, the eyes of the others following him. He knelt, placed his hand on the age-darkened wood, and whispered the passphrase. The locks disengaged. Lifting the heavy lid, he reached in.

  The Egg felt cool and smooth in his hands, its surface like polished obsidian swirled with veins of luminous, quicksilver-like material that seemed to shift and flow beneath his touch. It felt heavier than it should, dense with contained power. And the vibration, the steady thrum-thrum-thrum, pulsed against his palms with undeniable life, stronger now than he’d ever felt it before. It felt… awake. Aware.

  "We need to get it to the incubator," the woman said, her voice soft but firm. "It's the only way."

  "Where?" Corym asked, unable to look away from the swirling patterns within the Egg. "Where is this place?"

  Modelo manipulated controls on his data-slate, projecting a detailed star chart beside the holo-image of Renmyr. It depicted vast, swirling arms of the galaxy, dotted with known systems, but his finger traced a path far beyond the delineated borders of the Cluster, out into a region marked simply as 'Sector Null – Grey Zone'.

  "Eylarun’s Deep," he said, tapping a point within a dense, ominous-looking nebula on the chart's farthest edge. "It's a graveyard system, orbiting a collapsing red giant. Void space. Uncharted. No reliable jump points charted past the Xyrtuun Reach." He drew a line representing their projected course, spanning immense gulfs of darkness. "Distance is... formidable. Hundreds of parsecs through potentially hostile, completely unknown territory."

  Corym stared at the map, the impossible distance, the stark name “Eylarun’s Deep'. He looked down at the living Egg pulsing in his hands – a dragon's heart beating against his own. He thought of his quiet life on Agon-Tor, the familiar fields, the pub, his family. It all felt a universe away now, a life belonging to someone else. He held a legend's legacy, a monstrous potential, and the terrifying prospect of a journey into absolute darkness.

  He finally looked up, meeting the intense gazes of the Herald's daughter, the nervous engineer, and the man who was, impossibly, his half-brother. "So," Corym asked, the single word heavy with the weight of his shattered past and uncertain future. "What happens now?"