Dawn filtered through the shielded viewport of the Pelican's bridge, casting long, pale fingers of light across the utilitarian space. The frantic energy of the previous night’s confrontation and revelations had ebbed, replaced by the low, steady hum of the ship's life support and the quiet activity of its occupants. Corym sat nursing a mug of bracingly strong, bitter coffee on the worn bench seat, the strange quiet amplifying the disorienting sense that his entire life had been upended in less than a standard day cycle.

  From the cramped galley alcove behind the main consoles came the unmistakable, comforting aroma of frying bacon and brewing tea – scents so incongruously normal they felt almost dreamlike aboard this fugitive vessel. The source was the ship's droid, Ceephax, whose bronze limbs moved with meticulous, almost formal precision.

  "Breakfast service is imminent, gentlemen, madam," Ceephax announced, its voice a smooth, synthesized baritone reminiscent of an overly proper butler. "Bacon sandwiches prepared according to customary Terran specifications. Earl Grey tea steeped to optimal temperature. Will supplementary fried eggs or toast be required?"

  "Just the sandwich, Ceephax, thanks," Modelo mumbled, squinting at a flickering diagnostic screen, his red eyes reflecting the cascading data. He still wore his multi-pocketed coveralls, though he'd swapped his heavy goggles for a pair of rectangular glasses. "And maybe spare me the lecture on optimal steeping times today?"

  "As you wish, Master Modelo," Ceephax replied evenly. "Though precision ensures consistency, a virtue often undervalued in sudden circumstances."

  Vantis, seated before the primary navigation console, made a noise that might have been agreement or just disdain. He wasn't looking at star charts this morning, but meticulously cleaning his sword with an oiled cloth, the polished steel gleaming dully in the low light. His movements were precise, economical. He seemed contained, observing the room from under lowered lids.

  Ashryn sat on a cushion near the viewport, not meditating exactly, but gazing out at the swirling star patterns visible beyond the shields. There was a stillness about her, as always, but Corym thought he detected faint lines of fatigue around her storm-grey eyes, a subtle tension in the set of her shoulders. Even the daughter of the mythical Herald, whispered about in fragmented legends as the one foretold to challenge the Sorcerer King, presumably got tired.

  Corym felt like a poorly integrated component in their complex machine. He sipped his coffee, the heat welcome against the inner chill of uncertainty. His gaze drifted to the scorched, ruined emitter casing lying on a nearby workbench like a dead insect.

  Modelo noticed his stare and walked over, picking up the destroyed device. "Seriously, though," he said, glancing at Corym, his red eyes wide with a mixture of professional curiosity and sheer disbelief. "What possessed you to channel that kind of power through this antique? It’s a series 3 emitter! Rated for maybe point-five kilo-thaums peak output. You must have pulsed… gods, upwards of ten? Fifteen? Just blowing through the safeties like they weren’t even there." He poked gingerly at the fused crystal matrix. "Lucky it just fried the casing and didn’t take your leg off."

  Corym flushed, taking a gulp of coffee. "I dunno," he mumbled, shrugging dismissively, though the memory of the raw power surging through him, burning and fierce, sent a shiver down his spine. "I just… freaked out. Panicked." He tried to rationalize the inexplicable surge. "I've messed with the firmware before, you know? Tinkered with the projection matrices, pushed the power limits a bit… just for laughs." He hesitated, then added, trying to make it sound less like pure, uncontrolled magic. "There are those old Net simulations… blade combat trainers? Maybe I just subconsciously pulled up a cached weapon form? Forced the shape?"

  Ashryn opened her eyes, her calm grey gaze resting on him. She didn’t seem entirely convinced by his explanation. "Pushing mundane technology requires will," she stated quietly. "Overriding its fundamental nature, forcing it into a completely different energy configuration, especially one as coherent as a weaponized blade… that requires more than simple tinkering, Corym. It demands significant innate sensitivity. A raw connection to ambient mana." Her assessment was detached, analytical, yet carried an undertone of gentle probing. "It is… unusual. Especially for one without formal training."

  "What Ashryn means," Vantis interjected, glancing up from his weapon, "is that controlling such energies, even unintentionally, suggests you’ve got potential. A crazy amount of sensitivity." He paused. "Such sensitivities, particularly untrained ones, can be… volatile. And noticeable."

  "Noticeable how?" Corym asked, a prickle of unease running down his spine.

  "Large energy surges leave residual signatures," Modelo explained, gesturing vaguely at the ruined emitter. "Like ripples on a pond. Faint, usually dissipate quickly. But sensitive scanning equipment, like the kind Dynasty long-range patrols use, can sometimes detect them, especially if they're actively looking for anomalies."

  Corym’s unease solidified into cold dread. He thought of the guards the night before, their sudden interest in his reading material. "Shit," he breathed, setting his mug down with a clatter. "The guards… last night, when I was heading to the pub. They stopped me, searched me."

  Vantis stopped cleaning his sword, looking sharply at Corym. "Searched you? Why?"

  "Routine check, they said," Corym recounted quickly, the memory making his skin crawl. "But they went through my emitter’s files. Found this old book I downloaded… banned stuff, about mana theory, arcane resonance. They made me delete it. Fined me fifty credits." He looked from face to face, seeing their shared understanding coalesce into grim certainty. "I thought it was just them being bastards, shaking me down. But what if… what if they were already looking for something? For someone acting strange?"

  "A report flagging possession of restricted materials," Ashryn murmured, her brow furrowed. "Coupled with our unauthorized arrival, and the energy signature from your… duel with Vantis." She met Corym’s panicked gaze. "It paints a picture, Corym. One that Dynasty Intelligence analysts are trained to interpret. They may not know what they're looking for yet, but Agon-Tor just moved much higher on their list of places needing closer scrutiny."

  "And when the Dynasty scrutinizes," Vantis added grimly, setting his sword aside, "they tend to be thorough. Background checks, bio-scans, interviews… If they make the connection between you and Renmyr, or detect your sensitivity…"

  "You become a person of extreme interest," Modelo finished quietly. "Along with anyone associated with you."

  His family. Kannon. Firon. The floor seemed to drop out from under Corym. His existence, his heritage, his uncontrolled power – it was a danger to everyone he cared about. "No," he whispered. "My grandparents… my mother…" He surged to his feet. "I have to warn them. Tell them I left, ran off-world… something! They need a story. My friends, too…"

  "Hold on," Vantis commanded sharply, rising as well. "Running back there in a panic is suicide. You could lead them straight to your family's door, assuming they aren't already watching."

  "We need a plan," Ashryn agreed, her voice steadying him slightly. "A way to deliver a warning without confirming their suspicions or leading them to you."

  "I could try interfacing with the local comms network?" Modelo suggested tentatively. "Leave an anonymous message?"

  "Too traceable," Vantis dismissed immediately. "Needs to be face-to-face. But we can't all march into town." He glanced around the cramped bridge. "Ship needs guarding. Egg needs guarding."

  "Then I will go," Ashryn stated, her decision immediate, unquestionable. She moved towards the storage locker, retrieving a dark grey cloak. "I am less likely to draw overt attention than either of you. Corym knows the terrain, the people. We approach cautiously, deliver the warning discreetly, and return. Minimum footprint."

  Vantis looked like he wanted to argue – Corym saw a flicker of something protective, or maybe just controlling, in his eyes – but Ashryn met his gaze with quiet determination. After a moment, Vantis gave a stiff nod. "Fine. But stay alert. Maintain comms discipline unless absolutely critical. Ceephax, full sensor sweep of the immediate sector. Notify us of any unidentified energy signatures."

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  "Affirmative, Master Vantis," the droid replied without looking up from plating another sandwich. "Surveillance protocols engaged to maximum sensitivity."

  Corym felt a knot of fear tighten in his gut, but seeing Ashryn calmly pull the hood of her cloak up, ready to walk back into potential danger with him, lent him a sliver of borrowed courage. "Okay," he said, taking a deep breath. "Let's do this."

  The path was slick with mud, sucking at Corym's boots with each step. The air felt washed clean by the storm, but carried a heavy tension that mirrored the knot in his own stomach. Beside him, Ashryn moved with a quiet, ground-eating stride, her hooded cloak shielding her from the weak morning sun and any curious eyes. The silence stretched between them, filled only by the squelch of mud and the distant cry of a falcon circling overhead.

  After several minutes, Ashryn broke the silence, her voice low and even, not turning her head. "How are you holding up, Corym?"

  He glanced at her cowled profile, surprised she’d spoken. "What?"

  "Last night," she clarified, her gaze still scanning the path ahead, the scattered homesteads nestled against the hills. "Learning about… Renmyr. The Egg. Having to leave." She paused. "It’s a great deal to process."

  Corym kicked absently at a loose stone, sending it skittering into a puddle. "Yeah," he admitted, the word rough in his throat. "Yeah, it is." He ran a hand through his hair. "It’s all happening so fast, I… I dunno. Can't really get my head around it. Feels like I woke up in someone else’s life this morning." He fell silent for a moment, then added quietly, "Mostly, right now, I'm just worried sick about getting back there. Warning them."

  Ashryn nodded slowly, accepting his deflection. "Understandable. Family is a powerful anchor." There was a faint, almost wistful note in her voice that vanished as quickly as it appeared.

  They walked on in silence for another stretch, navigating a particularly treacherous patch of mud near an overflowing irrigation ditch. Corym risked another glance at her. Despite her steady pace, he could see the faint shadows under her eyes, the slight tightness around her mouth that hadn't been there the night before, even amidst the chaos.

  "You, uh..." he began tentatively, feeling awkward initiating personal conversation after everything, "you look pretty tired, actually."

  She turned her head slightly, her storm-grey eyes meeting his from the shadow of her hood. A tiny, fleeting smile touched her lips, gone almost instantly. "Perceptive."

  "Well," Corym mumbled, looking back at the path, "I guess… this kind of life… chasing shadows, looking over your shoulder all the time… it must be rough. Exhausting."

  She sighed softly, the sound barely audible over the squelch of their boots. "It has its costs," she admitted quietly. "Sleep is… often a luxury. Proper meals are inconsistent. And the quiet moments are rare." She seemed to consider her next words carefully. "But it's not all bleak."

  "Isn't it?" Corym asked, surprised. All he could see was danger, uncertainty, the constant threat represented by Vantis' casual readiness for violence.

  "There are moments," she mused, her gaze drifting towards the horizon, where the green curve of Agon-Tor met the star-dusted void. "Finding a safe harbour, even for a night. Sharing a meal that Ceephax hasn't tragically misinterpreted from his recipe archives." Another flicker of that rare smile. "Modelo trying to teach Vantis patience during engine repairs – usually resulting in thrown tools." She paused. "Sometimes, late cycle, we run old exploration survey simulations on the main console… pretend we're charting unknown stars instead of running from known enemies. Or we play cards."

  "You play cards?" Corym asked, picturing the intense Vantis and the fidgety Modelo sitting down for a game.

  "Vantis cheats, naturally," she said, a dry note entering her tone. "He thinks no one notices. Modelo notices everything, but rarely calls him on it directly. Usually gets his revenge by 'accidentally' rerouting Vantis's preferred coffee blend to the recycler."

  Corym found himself chuckling despite the knot of fear in his stomach. It humanized them, made them seem less like descendants of legends and more like… people. Messy, complicated people trying to survive.

  "And Vantis?" Corym asked, bolder now. "You known him long?"

  "Since we were children," Ashryn confirmed, her voice becoming carefully neutral again. "Our parents… their paths were intertwined through the Herald's Company. We grew up in the hidden camps, the safe houses, the shadows left after the Dynasty’s purge." She looked back at the path. "His… intensity… isn't new. He channels his grief differently than some. He's always been… like that."

  She fell silent then, signalling the end of the brief interlude. The village of Oakhaven was coming into view now, nestled in its shallow valley. The momentary connection faded, replaced by the sharp, pressing reality of their task. Ashryn pulled her hood lower, melting back into anonymity, her focus entirely on the path ahead, searching for threats. Corym felt his own anxiety return in full force, the conversation fading like mist as the familiar rooftops of home came into sight, carrying with them the weight of imminent danger.

  They avoided the main track where they’d encountered the guards, taking a longer, meandering route through the back lanes and kitchen gardens on the village outskirts. Finally, they reached the familiar rise leading to his family's homestead. It looked unchanged, smoke curling from the chimney, the terraced fields behind it showing the neat furrows Corym had plowed just yesterday – a lifetime ago, it seemed.

  He pushed the heavy door open cautiously, heart pounding. Ashryn slipped inside behind him, melting into the shadows of the entryway as Corym stepped into the main room.

  The comforting smell of baking bread filled the air, but the atmosphere was thick with tension. His grandmother wasn't humming in the kitchen; silence emanated from that direction. His grandfather, Peter, sat rigidly in his grox-hide armchair, not reading or working, but staring fixedly at the door, his face etched with worry lines that seemed deeper than usual.

  Peter’s head snapped up as Corym entered. Relief warred with explosive anger in his expression. "Where have you been?" he roared, surging to his feet, his voice trembling with fury and fear. "Disappearing all night! Your mother's half frantic, barely slept a wink before heading out! Vanishing into that storm without a word! Do you have any idea...?" He stopped short as he registered the cloaked figure standing silently behind Corym. Suspicion immediately replaced the anger. "And who is this? More trouble you’ve dragged home?" He squinted, his gaze sharp. "Were you with them? The off-worlders? The ones who arrived on that ghost ship?" Word travelled fast in Oakhaven.

  "Gramps, please, let me explain," Corym began, stepping aside, gesturing towards Ashryn.

  Ashryn chose that moment to push back her hood, letting the morning light illuminate her pale hair and striking features. She met Peter’s stare directly, her grey eyes steady, holding no malice, only a calm gravity.

  Peter staggered back as if physically struck, his face paling, recognition flaring violently in his eyes, immediately followed by a wave of profound bitterness and dread. "Gods preserve us," he breathed, sinking back into his chair, looking utterly defeated. "Another Herald." He ran a trembling hand over his face. "I knew it. Twenty years. Twenty years I hoped that damned curse Renmyr left behind would stay buried." He glared at Corym, then towards the spot where the chest usually sat, his eyes narrowing further, though he couldn't see it was gone from his vantage point.

  "You knew?" Corym whispered, stepping closer. "You knew who he was? What the Egg…?"

  "Knew he was trouble," Peter hesitated, shaking his head sadly.. “Your mother… Anna was young. He filled her head with stories of heroism, fighting tyrants across the stars. Stayed maybe a month. Long enough." His jaw tightened. "He left promises he never kept, a burden she never deserved, and that damned box he swore was vital to saving the galaxy." He spat the last words out with weary bitterness. "I knew he was trouble the moment I laid eyes on him!"

  Corym felt winded by his grandfather's raw pain and fear. Before he could even try to form a response, a heavy, urgent pounding hammered at the front door, making them all jump.

  THUD. Pause. THUD-THUD. Pause. THUD.

  The sound was jarringly loud in the suddenly silent room. Peter gripped the arms of his chair, his knuckles white. Ashryn, already alert, seemed to draw into herself, becoming a coiled spring of readiness.

  "Corym! You in there?" Kannon's voice, tight with poorly concealed panic. "Mate, open the door! We need to talk! Something's happened!" Firon’s deeper voice mumbled agreement in the background.

  Corym automatically started forward, relief warring with the churning unease in his gut. Kannon sounded genuinely terrified.

  But the knock came again. THUD… THUD-THUD… THUD. The rhythm snagged in Corym’s memory, sharp and discordant. He froze, listening intently to Kannon's desperate calls. One… two… one. He mouthed the sequence, cold dread washing over him as the meaning clicked into place with sickening certainty. The childhood signal. Danger Past. All Clear. The absolute wrong signal for Kannon’s panicked tone.

  He grabbed Ashryn's arm, pulling her away from the door, towards the back exit that led onto the hillside. "Don't answer," he whispered, his voice shaking. "It's a trap. The knock – it's an old 'all clear' signal we used as kids. He'd never use it now, not sounding like that." His eyes, wide with terror, locked onto hers. "Someone's out there with them. Making them do it." He practically dragged her towards the back. "We need to run. Now!"