When Syra woke again, her head throbbed, and she became immediately aware of being restrained. Her body was strapped tightly to the jump seat in the back of the ship. For a moment, disoriented, she blinked, trying to gather her bearings. The hum of the ship's engines vibrated softly beneath her, but something else caught her attention—a slow, wet sound, like someone struggling to breathe.

  Her eyes darted toward the front of the ship, where the man who had knocked her out was slumped against the wall. Blood soaked his dark clothing, and his hood had fallen back slightly, revealing his pale, white hair above his half-face breathing mask. She couldn’t see his eyes, but he wasn't looking at her, his hands were shaking as he pressed a sterile cloth to the wound. He looked as though he were about to about to lose consciousness.

  Syra's chest tightened as panic flared inside her as she tanked against the cuffs causing them to bite into the bones of her wrist. "What the hell did you do?” her voice came out hoarse, “How-how did we get past the Arc?"

  He didn't even glance in her direction. The ship rumbled and shook as it ascended through the asteroid field. A million scenarios went through her head. How long had she been out? Ten minutes? Twenty? And how had the Arc not obliterated them once they emerged from the mine?

  "You've got to be kidding me," her mind raced as she tugged at the biometric cuffs. "You hijack my ship, knock me out, and now you think you're just gonna die on me?"

  His voice cut through the air, low and cold, in a language she didn't recognize. "Vekhri sek sahal doska."

  Syra froze. What was that language? Yennish? Elxor? It sounded old. Like Kessaryon. She couldn’t tell, but the message was clear enough: shut up.

  She opened her mouth to snap back at him, but something about his tone, and the sheer exhaustion that radiated off him, stopped her. Panic still buzzed beneath her skin, but it was the sight of him that finally made her look at him. Really look at him. The man didn’t look at her. Didn’t even flinch. Instead, he tore open a side pouch and fumbled with a thin medkit, fingers clumsy. He tried to peel open a synth-patch, missed the edge, then cursed.

  Beneath the tattered veil, she could see hints of a hard jawline and a faint blue glow.

  He growled through gritted teeth and rolled his head back against the wall. His eyes looked onto her, piercing violet, under dark furrowed brows that glared at her when he noticed her staring. His nose, mouth and chin were covered by a black breathing apparatus. His chest rose and fell jaggedly, each breath a painful effort.

  She didn't know who he was or where he came from, but his presence felt less threatening as he lay bleeding in front of her, looking defenseless. He’d be so easy to finish off, Syra thought, if she could stomach it. She’d been in firefights, shot to kill but she’d never been in a position to end someone’s life on purpose, especially when that someone was doing a fine job dying on his own.

  She forced herself to think clearly. Clearly enough to understand with certainty he was not Dominion. And certainly not Sennian. There was no way he could’ve hitched a ride from the weave looking so out of place, and certainly not by bypassing major security clearances to get onto the Arc.

  Whatever – or whoever – was in the ice couldn’t have gotten to her before Renwick and Lucan had gotten to her.

  But he had the artifact.

  Syra glanced up at forearm and pulled her sleeve down with her teeth.

  There.

  The small circular spiral mark that had burned itself into her skin.

  What the hell did it mean?

  She looked over at the man again. Could the artifact teleported him here? She couldn't even believe she was asking herself that question. It sounded insane. Yet here he was.

  Her hands twisted painfully against the cuffs, fingers scraping the metal as she struggled to free herself. "This is just my luck."

  The ship shuddered slightly, reminding her of the mess they were still flying through. Her stomach churned, torn between fear and rage. She didn't even know who this guy was or what he wanted, but he'd put her life on the line for reasons she couldn't begin to understand.

  She scanned the cockpit, looking for anything, any sign of help or a way out. Her eyes flicked back to him, his chest barely rising and falling, his skin growing paler by the minute. “Do you even know how to fly this ship? Because if you don’t we’re both dead anyway."

  He shuddered, as he disengaged off the side piece of his armor, the piece depressurizing and popping outwards, the blood hot and sticky between the plate. He blew out short, quiet pained breaths, as his hands dropped to his side.

  “What happened to you?”

  He didn’t respond.

  Just then, she felt the tingling rush of nanites in her arm and glanced up.

  Her father's words echoed in her head. The mind is a computer of the highest caliber.

  Syra glanced at the man, whose eyes were now closed. She didn't know how to use nanites. She figured it was similar to that of a Neurolink, a computer controlled by the brain, and with that in mind Syra closed her eyes and commanded the nanites to bypass security.

  The nanites rushed through her arm, causing her to bite back a shudder of discomfort.

  With a faint hiss the cuffs unlinked.

  Syra blinked in surprise. “That worked?”

  The man's head shot upwards, and Syra’s hands fell away. “Unless you want me to put a blaster round through your chest,” he said raggedly, the faint whine of a blaster charging up pierced the air, “I’d suggest you stay right where you are.”

  His accent was foreign but the Common Tongue left his mouth expertly meaning he'd been around long enough to know it.

  The stench of blood hung heavy in the air, mixing with the stale ship atmosphere. Syra didn’t move and glanced down at the blaster now aimed at her from his hip. "I'm not going to do anything." she said. "But I might not have to. We sit here long enough, and you'll bleed out before I need to."

  The man was barely holding himself together.

  The air between them crackled with unspoken tension. Her voice dropped to a quieter, steadier tone. "Look, you're hurt. Badly. I know how to stabalise—"

  Those sharp violet eyes narrowed, silencing her once more. "I don’t need your help." he hissed, his fingers trembling as they pressed against his wound.

  “From where I'm sitting it kinda looks like you do."

  He said nothing and she rolled her eyes and glanced at the instruments on the console, noting that the ship had stabilized and they were accelerating through space. "Where are we going?”

  Pushing off the wall, he rose, surprising her, every movement jagged, labored, but somehow purposeful. His body swayed as he pushed off the wall, making his way toward the controls. Despite the obvious pain, his fingers moved with precision across the console, as if he'd been born to navigate it. He didn't hesitate, flipping switches and adjusting the ship's settings like he knew it inside out.

  Syra raised an eyebrow, watching him with wary interest. "Don't get blood on the seats," she muttered. "It's Rashik leather."

  His head tilted towards her for the briefest of moments, unimpressed. His hand tightened on the control panel as he steadied himself, ignoring her quip. The hum of the ship shifted as the engines powered up, responding to his touch.

  Syra couldn't help but feel a mix of annoyance and grudging respect. Whoever he was, he clearly knew what he was doing, even if he was about to pass out from blood loss.

  Syra sat in the cockpit, trying to make sense of the situation. The ship's controls blinked steadily, but the silence gnawed at her.

  "Come on—"

  He turned around with an exasperated growl and pointed the blaster at her again causing her to flinch. “You tried to kill me."

  "Oh, I'm sorry, am I supposed to welcome in someone who hijacked my ship, held a blade to my throat and forced me to leave behind the only man who could clear my name?" she said and then narrowed her eyes, "you condemned those people to die.”

  “Yes,” he said dangerously. “I did.”

  Syra's arm itched, the burn spreading under her skin like fire. She hissed in pain, clenching her jaw. "What the hell did that thing do to me?"

  Across from her, the stranger stood silent, his face mostly veiled, only his intense violet eyes visible through the layers of fabric. His imposing form was further hidden beneath a cloak that shrouded intricate armor, the dark fabric layered to obscure everything but the glint of metal.

  He regarded her for a moment, unreadable. "Show me where your aid is," he said, his voice low, rough with pain. "And then maybe I'll tell you."

  Syra gritted her teeth, annoyed at his evasiveness but more concerned about the pulsing mark on her arm.

  "Left wall compartment," she said, nodding in the direction. "Now tell me what it is.”

  He strode to the wall, pressing on the hidden panel. The compartment clicked open, revealing the medkit. He pulled it free, but instead of answering her, he started rummaging through it, searching for the synthetic bio healers. Syra watched, her impatience growing.

  "So?" she pressed.

  "I said maybe." He said pointedly. With a resigned grunt, he practically fell onto the chair and let out a long slow exhale.

  "That's bullshit."

  He unclasped his heavy cloak letting it fall off his shoulders and hit the ground with a metal clang. He pulled off his gloves by biting the fingertips and pulling, to reveal a muscular veined hands.

  Blood dripped from beneath his armor, and he moved stiffly, prying the abdomen plates from his side. The armor clanked to the ground, revealing a gaping, blue-bloodied wound. Whatever had slashed him had done so with brutal efficiency. The gash was deep, possibly organ-deep, and his breathing made it clear how much pain he was in.

  Syra's grimace deepened as she took in the injury. It was worse than she had expected, the edges of the wound raw and jagged, wet with blood and torn flesh. He tried to steady his breathing, but every inhale came out in a harsh rasp.

  "I'm not in the habit of killing dying men," she retorted. "You need another set of hands to do what you think you're about to do. And then you're going to tell me about this damn mark."

  He paused, the stubbornness in his posture finally breaking as he considered her offer. The tension between them crackled, thick with unspoken mistrust and the grudging realization that he had no choice.

  "Do not make me regret this," he said at last.

  Syra moved closer, her pulse hot in her ears. Whatever secrets he was keeping, she'd get them out of him. But first, she had to keep him alive—and figure out what kind of nightmare she had just stepped into.

  Grabbing the kit, she knelt in front of him, setting the smooth white box down beside her. His eyes tracked her movements, suspicion flickering behind the pain, but he said nothing.

  Syra pulled out a vial of advanced regenerative bio-serum, a small injector, and a high-tech patch that could temporarily bind even the worst wounds. This wasn't the kind of medical gear found on ordinary ships—this was reserved for the commander.

  Renwick.

  Each piece was designed to stabilize a body on the brink of collapse. But even this tech couldn't work miracles; it would buy them time, not completely heal him. "I'm going to have to take more of this armour off of you," Syra said, "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

  He closed his eyes, fingers pressing into hidden compartments in the armours indenture releasing another piece and then the rest of his damaged chest plate where she saw another wound torn through the fabric beneath. Not as bad, but still deep. A bitter groan escaped the man's lips as he let the pieces fall to the ground with a metal clatter. The side piece released, revealing a bloodied sticky cloth underneath. She could see the faint shimmer of a gauge where the wound and flesh began.

  "What happened?"

  "Let's not speak, yes?"

  “Touchy," she murmured, grabbing the vial and loading it into the injector. The device hissed as it primed, and she pressed it against the uninjured side of his abdomen. With a quick press, the serum entered his bloodstream, designed to stimulate cell regeneration and dull pain receptors.

  He sucked in a sharp breath, his muscles tensing. The serum worked fast, his body slumping against the chair. His eyes flickered closed for a moment, his jaw clenching as the pain dulled to a more bearable level.

  She grabbed an antiseptic spray, the container glowing faintly as she shook it. It was designed to sterilize wounds on contact, using a fine mist infused with nanites that would clean and close micro-tears in tissue. She shook it until it glowed indicating the nanites were activated and sprayed it over the gash, the mist sinking into his torn flesh and fizzing softly. His whole body stiffened, and he let out a low groan through the mask but he stayed still, enduring.

  "Almost done," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. Her fingers moved quickly, pulling out the high-tech wound patch.

  It was thin, flexible, and embedded with micro-healing filaments. Peeling off the backing, she pressed it gently over the wound. The patch adhered instantly, the filaments activating with a faint glow, creating a temporary seal and stimulating his cells to knit together faster.

  He growled in pain, shuddering, his hand gripping the edge of the chair so hard that the metal creaked under the pressure. His eyes opened, locking onto hers with an intensity that sent a chill down her spine. Even through the pain, he was watching her, wary but still calculating.

  “Lucky for you,” Syra muttered, stripping away the last of the bloodied cloth, “I’ve had just enough medical training to keep someone alive long enough to go to jail."

  Still nothing from him. Not a twitch. Not a grunt. Just that eerie, silent watchfulness.

  She narrowed her eyes. “You could at least pretend to be grateful. I’m not exactly thrilled about patching up someone who stole my ship.”

  No reaction. As usual.

  She huffed, reaching up toward his shoulder. “Fine. Don’t talk. Just don’t move.”

  With practiced fingers, she pushed aside the collar of his tunic—

  Her breath stilled in her throat.

  A faint glow pulsed at the base of his neck, shifting beneath his skin—soft, rhythmic, alive.

  An Ember.

  A Sovereign Ember.

  White hot dread dripped over her.

  For a moment, her body refused to move. The world around her dimmed, her own breath deafening in her ears.

  This wasn’t possible.

  There were four.

  There had only ever been four.

  What was this perversion of its technology doing inside of his head?

  Her fingers twitched, still hovering near his skin, and she willed herself to pull away—move, breathe, do something—but all she could do was stare.

  A Sovereign Ember. On him.

  Her throat tightened. No one else is supposed to have one.

  And yet, there it was. Burning with quiet, undeniable proof.

  A fifth.

  Her stomach twisted sharply. A chill spread through her limbs.

  Slowly, carefully, she let go of his tunic and leaned back, her breath shallow. She willed herself to keep her face neutral, but her fingers betrayed her—curling slightly, trembling.

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  She swallowed hard.

  "How," she whispered, her voice barely audible, "do you have one of those?"

  He didn’t move.

  Didn’t answer.

  She forced herself to look at him—really look at him—but his face was unreadable. Not surprised. Not confused.

  He knew she’d see it.

  Her fingers curled into her lap. Her breathing was too tight.

  This didn’t make sense.

  If he was a Sovereign, she’d know his name. She would have heard of him. The Sovereigns weren’t ghosts, they weren’t unknowns—they were everything. Dominion lived and died by their rule. Every species across Sennian space was ensured to have the faces of the Sovereigns burned in their minds.

  A fifth Sovereign.

  Her voice was barely steady when she spoke again.

  "Who the hell are you?"

  This time, Rix finally moved. His head tilted slightly, his violet eyes unreadable as they settled on hers.

  The air between them felt thin, stretched, charged with something unseen.

  And when he finally spoke, his voice was quiet.

  Measured.

  "I suggest," he said, "that you stop asking questions."

  Syra leaned back on her heels, standing up, unable to comprehend the man in front of her. "Great. Just...fucking great. I got out of one shit-show and have landed straight back into a another one," she said.

  Without a word, the man stood, moving with a rigid grace that made Syra wonder how he was still on his feet. "Don't do anything stupid." He said.

  Syra felt the weight of the situation crash down on her. She wasn't in control, not anymore. She was trapped on her own damn ship, the brand still burning on her arm, and this stranger had no qualms about killing her if she didn't do what he said.

  Gritting her teeth, she slowly raised her hands, a signal that she wasn't going to fight him anymore—not now. "Fine," she said, the word heavy with bitterness.

  He moved to the war table in the center of the ship, reaching into the folds of his strange, tattered clothing and pulled out a small, gleaming object. Syra couldn't quite see what it was.

  The device shimmered. Then, bloomed.

  It cast a faint glow across the cockpit. Syra's words died in her throat as she watched. A figure began to materialize, a projected image—hazy, flickering. The man's attention locked on it immediately.

  Syra stood frozen, unsure of what she was seeing. It looked like a holoview message, but the quality was too real, too lifelike. A mans face spoke in quiet hushed words she couldn't understand.

  Whatever news he was delivering , this stranger didn't like. He muttered something under his breath, words Syra didn't understand. His tone was sharp—angry, filled with tension she could feel even from across the room. His violet eyes were locked on the shimmering light, burning with emotion. His fists clenched at his sides, trembling slightly as the image continued to flicker.

  Then, all at once, a shout of frustration ripped from his throat, echoing through the ship as his hand shot out, swiping at the device. The image vanished instantly, the light blinking out. He cursed again in that same language—angry, raw, almost pleading—and in a sudden motion, he ripped the mask and veil from his face.

  Syra blinked, breath hitching as the veil slipped away and his face came into full view. He was striking in a way that was almost startling handsome—sharp jaw, high cheekbones, skin tinged with a faint, silvery-blue hue that caught the cockpit light like starlight on frost. His eyes were a shade of violet that didn’t belong in the real world—like starfire caught in amethyst, burning from the inside out. There was nothing soft about them; they weren’t the kind of eyes you got lost in—they were the kind you crashed into. Electric. Ancient. Too bright for someone who looked like he might bleed out any second.

  Handsome didn’t even begin to cover it.

  For a moment, she forgot what she was supposed to be doing.

  Then something else caught her eye—a faint glint behind his ear. Small, diamond-shaped, barely visible unless you were looking.

  A neural enhancer?

  Syra instinctively reached for her own behind her ear, fingers brushing the familiar round disk. She frowned.

  She’d seen dozens of models across Dominion ranks, Sennian upgrades, black market mods. But she’d never seen one shaped like that.

  She tried to suppress the flush rising to her cheeks, tried to keep her expression neutral, but it was no use. She was momentarily taken off guard by his sudden transformation. But there was no time to dwell on it.

  He staggered, his entire body taut with an unbearable tension. His hand clutched his side, pain evident in the hard lines of his jaw. He threw the device he'd been holding across the floor with a strangled, guttural snarl, the sound full of fury and something deeper, something broken. He leaned heavily against the wall, his breath coming in uneven, ragged gasps.

  "Everything okay?" Syra ventured cautiously, her voice low and tentative.

  His eyes met hers, wild and enraged and he spat out a string of foreign words, his voice cracking, reverberating with rage, but beneath the venom was an unmistakable undercurrent of despair. Syra flinched, despite not understanding, and simply stood there. The words were raw, cutting through the air, heavy with a pain that made her stomach heave.

  Syra raised her hands, palms out in defense, stepping back a little. "Alright, alright." she said, trying to sound calm but unable to mask the concern in her voice.

  But he wasn't seeing her. He was somewhere else, his fury giving way to something far worse. The rage in his eyes flickered, and his face twisted with a hopelessness that seemed to fracture something inside him. His breathing hitched, and he pressed his hand harder against his side, the physical pain overshadowed by whatever internal devastation he was enduring.

  He let out a strangled sound, screaming enraged as he slammed his fist against the wall. His jaw was set so tight it looked painful, the muscles in his neck and shoulders trembling as if holding back an onslaught of grief.

  Syra's stomach twisted at the sight of him. The suffocating tension made it hard to breathe, and she felt the weight of his anguish pressing down on them both. She didn't know what message he'd just received or what it meant, but she could see it had destroyed something inside him.

  He stood with his back to her, unmoving, hands coiled into tight fists, chest heaving.

  She shouldn’t have cared. But something about this situation was starting to make her think maybe he was a victim in all of this.

  She watched him. What was he thinking? She lowered her hands slowly, stepping forward. "Look... I don't know what you saw, but if we're gonna make it out of this alive, you're gonna have to talk to me and tell me what's going on?"

  For a long moment, he didn't move. The silence stretched out between them, thick with unspoken words. Then, finally, he exhaled, and then glared at her. "Where are we?" he snapped.

  "We're in the Yenna system. Outer rim territory. Close to the Sennian system."

  His expression didn't change but something in his posture did.

  "Sennia still holds dominion over the border planets?"

  "As far as I know."

  He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. "What about the sovereigns?"

  "What about them?"

  "Who are they?"

  What was with all these questions? How long had he been in that ice? "There's only the one right now. Unity."

  "Only one? And Unity is reigning?"

  "Yeah…" she frowned.

  He didn’t answer immediately. His violet eyes burned into hers, like he was measuring her response—searching for something in her words. "There have always been four Sovereigns."

  "Well, yeah. But only one rules right now. That’s how it works."

  His expression didn’t shift, but the air in the room did.

  "You’re certain?"

  She rolled her eyes. "Yes, I’m certain. The Reigning Sovereign rules, the other three sleep until they're needed. They don’t all sit on the throne at once. That would be a disaster."

  "Since when?"

  She narrowed her eyes. "Since always."

  His fingers twitched. Just barely. And he muttered something in that strange language.

  No visible reaction. No obvious emotion. "And what of Valeri Prime?"

  She knew that name. Most old-timers in the Dominion Fleet did, even when others had forgotten. It was a world in a small cluster solar system sitting parallel to the Sennian system. The large blood red Sennian sun grounded both systems. Beyond the reach of most civilized systems, Valeri Prime was a world that had been lost to history after its failed bid for independence. That rebellion had been crushed brutally by the Dominion centuries ago, the battle leaving the planet a dry husk, like that of a desiccated flower. She'd seen it once, sitting in orbit for a mission – it was shown as an example to the trainee cadets of what happened to fallen worlds. The stories that circulated were few and fragmented, but one thing was clear: it was a place of ruin.

  "What about it?" He wasn’t seriously going to try and convince her he was from Valeri Prime, was he?

  His jaw tightened. "Who holds it?"

  She shifted uncomfortably. "The Dominion still owns it. But no one actually lives there."

  He went unnaturally still. "Explain."

  She huffed, crossing her arms. "It’s cursed. Everyone knows that. No one sets foot there unless they’ve got a death wish."

  "Cursed?" he scoffed in disbelief, almost disgust.

  "Yeah, cursed," she scoffed back. "They say monsters roam the ruins. Ships that land don’t come back. You can feel it, even from orbit. The place is wrong."

  "You’re mistaken.”

  Syra huffed, exasperated. "Yeah, well unlike you, I've been in its orbit so I can vouch from first hand experience."

  He didn’t respond to that. Just studied her—intently, unwavering.

  And that’s when Syra realized—

  He wasn’t arguing.

  He was processing.

  Like someone who had just woken up in a world that no longer matched the one he remembered.

  Whatever world he had come from, whatever message he'd just seen—it was all over. Ruined. She didn't need to understand the details to know that much. She hesitated, unsure of what to say next. This man—this stranger—had just lost everything, and she was stuck here, tangled up in something she didn't understand.

  "Enter these coordinates." His voice was cold now, detached, as he handed her a data pad with a set of numbers she didn't recognize at first glance. Syra glanced down at the coordinates, keying them into the ship's navigation system without much thought—until they blinked up on the screen.

  Valeri Prime.

  She blinked, a chill running down her spine. "You're serious?" she muttered under her breath, trying to keep the alarm from creeping into her voice. "I'm not going anywhere near that gods forsaken planet."

  "I am and you will, vekhri," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument.

  She glanced up at him, standing by the hull window, glaring at her. The grief in his expression was palpable, even though his face remained stony and unreadable. Syra's fingers hovered over the controls for a moment. "And risk my life, again? Ships that go there don’t come back..."

  "I don't believe in superstition."

  "Yeah, well I do. And you may be willing to throw yourself head first into the fire but you're not dragging me down with you."

  He kept his gaze out in the void, no longer angry. Just tired. A deep look of exhaustion that he wasn't showing her. "I need to see it for myself."

  She didn't know what to say, what to do—he was clearly wounded in ways far deeper than she could comprehend. The physical injury she'd patched up was just the surface of the damage.

  She turned back to the controls, her fingers moving over them more slowly now, as if every keystroke was laden with the weight of what they were doing. “This is so fucking stupid.”

  And yet, she was taking him there. She shook her head incredulously.

  Syra risked another glance at him. His face now clearly showed the bruises and cuts on his skin casting shadows across his sharp features. But it was his eyes—the anger, the sorrow behind them—that made her pause.

  "It'll take us three days to reach Valeri Prime."

  "Then start flying."

  Syra scoffed and turned back to the console, frowning, "What's your name, anyway?"

  He stopped what he was doing, clearly reluctant to answer. His posture stiffened slightly, and for a moment, she thought he might refuse. But then, he said, "Rix."

  "Rix?" she repeated, testing the name on her tongue. "Is that your real name?"

  "It's what you need to call me."

  Something told her she wouldn't get much more out of him, and honestly, she wasn't sure she wanted to know. There was something about Rix—something dark and broken—that made her uneasy. But right now, she was stuck with him, and the only thing she could do was try to survive the next step of whatever this mess was.

  "Fine, Rix," she said, heading toward the pilot's seat. "First class ticket to being monster chow. Gods...that's just...great. Anything else, your eminence?"

  "Utilities?' he said his usual cold exterior still in place but with a hint of weariness in his voice.

  Syra raised an eyebrow. She thought about making a smart comment but refrained, thinking it would probably be best if he cleaned himself up.

  "Crew's cabin is up a floor," she said, jerking her head toward the ladder that led up to the living quarters. She didn't bother hiding the skepticism in her voice. "Everything's there. Towels, bathroom. There are clothes in the locker,” the lockers from the crew he forced her to leave behind, “try not to get lost."

  As Rix began to make his way slowly through the door, Syra's thoughts wandered to the Renwick and the rest of his team. She still had no clue what had happened to them inside the mine, but the memory of the Commander's voice, panicked and crackling with static, lingered in the back of her mind. Despite her history for the Dominion, part of her wondered if they were okay. Probably not. She figured the odds weren't in their favor, but she shoved the thought away. She just hoped the lifepod ship she dropped for them was helpful.

  Rix had been standing near the galley, his rigid posture a little looser than before. Syra could tell he was exhausted—his injuries, the stress, the blood loss.

  She was watching him out of the corner of her eye, only half paying attention as she adjusted their course. She wasn’t about to ask if he was okay—he’d made it clear he didn’t want her concern, and truth be told, she wasn’t even sure she had any to spare.

  When he didn’t move, she looked sideways at him in confusion. He’d stopped at the doorway, his hand steadying against the doorframe, before his body wavered.

  And then, without a word, he collapsed.

  “Oh, shit—”

  Syra shot out of her seat, her heart lurching as Rix’s body hit the floor with a heavy thud.

  She reached him in seconds, skidding to her knees beside him. His skin was damp with sweat, his breathing shallow and erratic. She pressed her fingers to his neck, feeling the weak, rapid thrum of his pulse.

  “Damn it.” She exhaled sharply, pushing aside the irritation rising in her chest. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

  She grabbed the med scanner from the supply compartment and pressed it to his wrist. The screen flickered with readings—his blood pressure had tanked, his body was in shock, and his core temperature had dropped dangerously low.

  Syra frowned. This wasn’t just exhaustion. His body was shutting down.

  She stared down at him. The haunting thought of letting him perish naturally just didn't sit right with her.

  Her hands tightened into fists. She didn’t like him—hell, she was barely tolerating him—but she wasn’t about to let him die on her ship.

  Muttering a curse, she hooked her arms under his shoulders, straining under his weight as she dragged him toward the nearest bunk. He was heavier than he looked, all lean muscle and dead weight, and her arms burned as she pulled the narrow mattress off the bunk and onto the floor. There was no way she was lifting him off the ground.

  His head lolled to the side, his white hair damp against his forehead.

  Syra clenched her jaw and reached for the emergency stim. It wasn’t meant for trauma like this—it was designed for post-cryo shock, dehydration, metabolic crashes—but it was the strongest thing she had. High-dose electrolytes, glucose, neural stabilizers…it might be enough to keep him from tipping over the edge.

  She pressed the injector to the muscle of his shoulder, thumbed the release, and fired.

  The device hissed softly, delivering the mix directly into his bloodstream.

  The stim wouldn’t fix him—not by a long shot—but with any luck, it would buy her time.

  Time she really shouldn’t be spending on someone who had put her in cuffs.

  And yet, here she was.

  Rix didn’t stir.

  Syra sat back on her heels, exhaling sharply. She rubbed a hand down her face, the weight of everything pressing down on her.

  His breathing was shallow. Labored. But consistent.

  Barely.

  She stood, joints protesting from the strain of dragging him across the damn ship, and wiped her hands on her pants. He wasn’t bleeding out anymore, and the stim would keep him from flatlining—for now.

  It’d have to be enough.

  She crossed the medbay in a few stiff steps and opened the storage compartment. Pulled a thermal blanket out one-handed and tossed it over him, half-heartedly straightening it just enough to keep him from freezing.

  Then she grabbed a sealed water pouch from the dispenser and dropped it on the floor beside the mattress with a dull thud.

  “That’s it,” she muttered. “You’re on your own now.”

  She gave him one last glance. His face was pale, expression slack, the cut near his collarbone still faintly seeping. He didn’t look like a soldier. He barely looked like a person.

  Syra sighed.

  Not her problem.

  She stepped out, let the medbay door seal shut behind her, and headed back toward the cockpit without looking back.

  No more stims. No bedside watch. No handholding.

  He could live or not. Either way, she was done.

  However, her conscious wouldn’t let her rest.

  Thirty minutes later she stood in the corridor, arms crossed, staring at the closed door like it had personally offended her. Then, with a muttered curse, she stepped inside.

  The medbay lights were dim, pulsing softly above Rix’s unmoving form. He hadn’t shifted from where she’d dumped him—face pale, hair damp, lips colorless.

  Syra exhaled through her nose and crossed the room.

  She didn’t say anything. Just picked up the vitals scanner, ran it across his neck again.

  BP: Low.

  Neural activity: stable.

  Temp: 35.2°C.

  “Still alive,” she said under her breath, more to fill the silence than anything else.

  She set the scanner down and looked at him—really looked this time.

  He didn’t seem so dangerous now. Not sprawled out like that, not with that wince on his face even in unconsciousness. She had seen soldiers like this before. After battle. After failure. There was a weight in their bodies when they stopped pretending they could carry it.

  She rubbed the back of her neck, uncomfortable. This wasn’t her job anymore. She wasn’t a captain. Not a medic. Not a damn caregiver for a stranger who’d held a blade to her throat hours ago.

  Still, she reached for a clean cloth, wet it, and gently wiped the sweat and dried blood from his temple. His skin twitched at the contact, but he didn’t wake.

  “This is so stupid,” she muttered. “You don’t even want my help.”

  She tossed the cloth into the bin and stood there for a beat, arms hanging loose at her sides. Then she crossed to the wall and grabbed a sealed water pouch from the rack. She hesitated—then placed it on the table beside him.

  Just in case.

  Not because she cared. Just because it was protocol. That’s what she told herself.

  As she turned to go, her eyes caught on the faint rise and fall of his chest.

  Syra paused at the doorway, one hand resting on the frame.

  “You’re not my responsibility,” she said quietly. “Don’t make me regret giving a shit.”

  She left without waiting for an answer. The door hissed shut behind her, sealing him in with the quiet.

  Syra slumped into the pilot’s seat with a grunt, the console lights washing her face in soft blue. She didn’t touch the controls right away. Just stared out the viewport at the stars streaking by, watching them blur like rain on glass.

  The ship hummed around her, steady. Unbothered.

  Unlike her.

  She ran a hand through her hair, pushing it back from her face, then leaned forward with her elbows on her knees. Her muscles ached. Her wrists were still sore from the cuffs. Her chest felt too tight, like she hadn’t exhaled properly since the moment he collapsed.

  Not your problem.

  She’d repeated it so many times now it had started to feel like a prayer. Or a warning.

  Syra reached forward and tapped a few commands into the nav system. The course to Valeri Prime was holding steady. Three days out. Maybe less if she pushed the engines. Maybe more if he died on her floor and she had to haul the body into the airlock.

  She dragged in a slow breath and let it out, long and quiet.

  Her eyes flicked to the system monitor. One medical feed still blinked faintly in the corner—his vitals, linked to the medbay.

  She reached to switch it off.

  Paused.

  Then didn’t.

  Instead, she minimized the window and left it running in the background.

  Syra leaned back in her seat, arms crossed, and closed her eyes. Just for a second.

  She wasn’t checking on him.

  She just… wanted to know if she’d have a corpse to deal with in the morning.

  That was all.

  Right?