Syra sat curled sideways in the pilot’s seat, one leg slung over the armrest as the stars streaked by in silence. She spent the last hour scrubbing coagulated blood from the floor and searching for anything that could give her some answers as to who Rix was.

  The ship hummed beneath her, steady and indifferent. The cockpit lights were low, casting a faint glow across her face as she stared at the slim, glassy panels underneath her fingertips as she calibrated systems for the fifth time, to fill in the time. She glanced down at her communicator-slate—what most people called a Threadlink—buzzed faintly with backlogged messages. She hadn’t checked them since they left the Weave.

  Her finger hovered over the call icon for too long.

  Edran Jharis — last active: 2 days ago.

  She bit the inside of her cheek. She wanted to call him. Tell him she was alive. That she’d made it off that godsdamned rock. That she'd survived the mine, the Dominion, everything.

  But she hadn’t really made it out, had she?

  Not yet.

  Not whole.

  And not clean.

  If she reached out now, it wouldn’t just be a call. It would be a warning flare—and her father didn’t deserve to get pulled back into this mess. He’d sacrificed too much to get her out in the first place. She touched her forearm, felt a strange tiny bumps where the nanites sat underneath the skin. If she thought about it too long it made her feel queasy.

  Syra let the screen dim without pressing the icon.

  She scrolled instead, scanning the most recent notifications. None from Colt. None from her father. A half-dozen unread holo's from Aella from a week and a half ago; her mother. The thumbnail previews were blurred by default, but she could already guess what they said.

  Probably something about “the Light of the Eternal,” or “cleansing the path through celestial truth.” Syra didn’t need to hear it.

  Syra thumbed one open. Just one. Curiosity won over better judgment.

  Aella's voice projected from the communicator.

  Syra—

  The Light tells me you are close to change. Let’s talk. I would like to know how you're doing. —Mother.

  Something twisted and ugly reared its head through her psyche – contempt. Scoffing, she deleted the message with a sharp flick of her thumb.

  She tossed the communicator onto the console and leaned her head back against the chair with a long, quiet exhale.

  She was alone. Safer that way. Safer for everyone that mattered.

  And Rix was still asleep.

  She let her mind wander and thought about Colt, and if he’d left the system when she told him to. She wondered if he had come back to check on her in the Weave to find her gone. She wondered if he spoke with her father after all these years to ask about her. For some reason, a shroud of doubt fell upon her. It’s not that she didn’t believe he would…but would he? Or would he have continued on with his business like usual? She’d seen him do it before. Only reason why it hadn’t mattered then was because it wasn’t her being caught.

  And someone had sabotaged her ship.

  The thought of it sunk into her gut with a sickening thud. Colt had no reason to betray her. Those off-worlders he’d hired looked shady, but they had no reason to do it either. Someone within the Weave? Someone from Dominion?

  Her head ached and exhaustion was beginning to catch up with her. Sighing loudly, she pinched the bridge of her nose.

  She needed to stop thinking. She was here now. That was all that mattered.

  She glanced at the clock on the console, eyebrow twitching. It had been fifteen hours. At what point did she consider it a medical emergency?

  Her gut told her he needed it. He'd fought to stay conscious for too long, and his body finally gave up. But it still felt unnatural.

  She spent the last hour scrubbing coagulated blood from the floor and searching for anything that could give her some answers as to who Rix was and she worried he'd wake up and try and kill her if she tried to look through his pockets.

  Still, she couldn't deny that the peace had been nice. The cockpit had been quiet, the ship her own again for a while. But even as she appreciated the solitude, the tension hadn’t left her chest.

  Because eventually, he would wake up and eventually they would have to get moving.

  And when he did?

  She’d have to deal with him all over again.

  ∞

  The first sign was the security feed an hour later.

  A flickering motion in the med-bay. Small. Subtle.

  Then—a sound.

  A ragged inhale, loud enough that Syra's head snapped up out of dead sleep.

  She turned toward the hallway, heart kicking up a notch.

  A beat passed.

  Then another.

  And then—a heavy thud.

  "Shit," she muttered, glancing at the security feed.

  Rix was awake.

  And disoriented as hell.

  She moved quick, slipping through the corridors, and by the time she reached the medbay door, it was already half-open.

  Syra stopped in her tracks and took him in. At least he wasn’t dead.

  Rix was standing next to the bunk, hand tightened around the railing unsteadily. His hair was a mess, his violet eyes were hazy, unfocused, flicking across the room as if trying to piece together where the hell he was.

  His posture was rigid, like every joint had to remember how to move again.

  Syra leaned on the doorway, crossing her arms. "You look like shit."

  He didn’t immediately respond. Instead, he braced himself, exhaling through his nose as he ran a hand over his face. His fingers pressed briefly against his temples—like even that much movement sent a spike of pain through his skull.

  Then he gritted out a single word.

  "Where?"

  "Medbay," Syra answered easily. "You passed out. Hard. Thought you kicked the bucket for a second there."

  His jaw tightened, as if annoyed by the idea of that. "I was hoping it was a nightmare." he murmured.

  The bio-patch over his side was glowing faintly, but not in the way it was supposed to. The edge had begun to lift, saturated with a slow, dark stain that was seeping through the synthetic layer—deep blue blood soaking the edges like ink in paper.

  “Shit,” she muttered, but didn’t make a move. “You’re bleeding through the patch.”

  Rix didn’t respond. He was too busy trying to stay upright, his jaw clenched, one arm wrapped instinctively over his wounded side. His eyes were intensely bloodshot and the effort it took to move was written in every line of his body.

  “You should lay back down,” Syra said, already crossing the room toward him. Her voice wasn’t scolding—it was tight with concern she didn’t want to admit she had.

  He said something in that strange language of his before saying, “Get out."

  The bio-patch flickered. “You need to replace the bandage.”

  He took a step in her vague direction and stumbled. Syra’s hands shot out, steadying his large, tall frame with a grunt. “Alright, big guy. Sit your ass down before you make me re-stitch you like a broken hull plate.”

  Rix stiffened under her hands, his body coiled tight. But he didn’t pull away.

  He couldn’t.

  Because he wasn’t fine.

  And they both knew it.

  His body wasn’t responding right. His breathing was off. His skin was damp, like he was still fighting off something internal.

  And then it hit her.

  The signs. The symptoms.

  It wasn’t just exhaustion. It wasn't just the blood loss.

  She'd seen cryo-sickness before.

  Hell, she’d had it before.

  The headaches, the nausea, the light sensitivity. It was the worst hangover you’ve ever had times two. It got easier each time you did it...for some people.

  Syra exhaled sharply. "How long were you in the ice?"

  Rix didn't answer immediately.

  Then, finally—"A long time." He spoke.

  That wasn’t an answer.

  But the way he said it made Syra’s stomach twist. She thought about asking about it until his face went slack and she thought he might empty the contents of his stomach onto the floor. Instead he didn’t. He turned away, hand lightly hovering above his side.

  Dominion pilots underwent intense cryo-training, enduring stasis periods of up to six months to prep for long-haul missions. Even that was disorienting—never mind being trapped in an asteroid for who knows how long.

  "You need to rest.”

  "Don’t tell me what I need," Rix muttered, voice rough with disuse.

  "You slept for fifteen hours," Syra shot back. "Your body’s still catching up. Don’t be an idiot."

  Syra sighed, knowing she'd have to convince him differently.

  "Unbelievable." she muttered. "Look, I'll get you to Valeri Prime. But you need to tell me what this mark is and why the hell it's burned into my skin. That's the only reason you're still breathing. So if you're worried I’m going to kill you in your sleep, don’t waste the energy—I won’t. Not until I get answers.”

  His jaw ticked, eyes narrowing—not in anger, but in reluctant consideration. Like a man cornered and hating that he knew she was right.

  "You expect me to trust that?" he muttered.

  "No," she said. "I expect you to be smart enough to recognize a conditional truce when you hear one."

  He looked at her for a long moment, face unreadable. Then—like every fibre of his being was at war with itself—he exhaled through his nose.

  “Fine,” he bit out. “But don’t expect gratitude.”

  “Wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

  Rix glanced away, bracing himself against the wall again, the conversation clearly costing him more than just pride.

  But he didn’t argue again.

  And that was enough. For now.

  ∞

  Syra hadn’t expected him to be the most compliant patient—if anything, she figured he’d last maybe four hours before his stubborn ass dragged itself back to the cockpit just to prove a point. But when six hours passed and there was no sign of him, she started getting antsy.

  By the six-hour mark, she was actively checking the security feeds but couldn’t tell if he was still breathing.

  He’d shifted, his position slightly different then when she had first dropped him in there, but she didn’t see it happen.

  And as the hours continued to tick by, Syra was convinced he had actually died in his sleep.

  She didn’t want to go in there. She really didn’t.

  But.

  If he was dead, she’d rather find out now than be greeted by the stench of a rotting alien man a few hours overdue.

  So she stood outside the door, staring at it for a full thirty seconds before finally muttering, “This is stupid,” and overriding the lock.

  The door slid open silently.

  Syra stepped inside, her stomach already tightening.

  The room was dim, the only light coming from the faint amber glow of the ship’s systems. It cast strange shadows over the small sleeping berth.

  And Rix?

  Was still as a damn corpse.

  Syra stilled.

  The silence pressed in.

  For a horrible, gut-wrenching second, she couldn’t tell if he was breathing.

  Then—finally—his chest rose barely.

  Syra exhaled, relieved and annoyed all at once. "Gods, man."

  He didn’t move.

  His breathing was deep, steady. Heavy. And now that she could actually see him properly, he looked… different.

  For the brief time she’d known him he never let his guard down, even for a moment, constantly bracing himself like he was waiting for a fight. But right now he was utterly slack.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  His hair had dried into its usual pale, almost silver-white. His skin had the faintest blue tint—barely noticeable at first glance, but unmistakable the longer you looked. It still threw her off. Not vivid. Not dramatic. Barely there but just...alien enough to make her second-guess what she was seeing. The most unsettling part?

  He looked human.

  It shouldn’t have surprised her, but it did. Maybe because until now, he hadn’t felt like one. He'd been a warrior in armour pointing a blaster at her. Not unconscious, heavy against the floor with his breath shallow and uneven, he wasn’t a weapon or a threat. Not anymore. Just bloodied skin, bone, and the slow, fragile rhythm of someone barely hanging on.

  Without the scowl, the snarl, the cold fire in his eyes—he seemed younger. Mortal. Like the kind of person who could break.

  And Syra hated how that shifted something in her.

  Because it was a lot harder to resent him when he looked like he might not wake up.

  Syra exhaled through her nose, glancing at the small ration pack she’d left by his bedside. Untouched.

  Syra could see the bio patch degrading and so she knelt beside him, medkit in hand. “Rix.” She said loud enough to wake him.

  He didn’t stir.

  Oh well. It was probably better he wasn’t awake for this.

  The faint light pulsing beneath the adhesive had dulled, and blood had begun to seep through the edges in slow, glistening trails. It wasn’t gushing—nothing urgent—but it was steady, soaking into the fabric beneath him. It needed replacing.

  Syra hesitated, then reached forward. The first patch disengaged by peeling the top two corners and pulled firmly simultaneously, causing it to release easily.

  The wound beneath was brutal—deep, raw, still visibly regenerating. Threads of fibrous tissue pulled together with each pulse, twitching like something alive beneath the surface. The regenerative serum was working, but slowly. It looked less like healing and more like the body trying to grow back unnaturally.

  She’d seen soldiers die with lesser wounds. No soldier she knew would’ve survived this. No one should’ve.

  She reached into the kit, pulled on some gloves and prepped the area for fresh patch, and applied it gently to the wound. The tech hissed softly as it engaged, sending out its stabilizing filaments across torn flesh sticking to the skin.

  His body flinched in response, muscles contracting briefly before relaxing again.

  Rix shifted then—just slightly. His head turning away from her as if in deep sleep. A bead of sweat slid down his temple. The motion pulled the collar of his shirt aside, exposing the curve and nape of his neck.

  The faint glow. Subdermal. Subtle.

  The shape was unmistakable.

  A strange looking lemniscate. Symmetrical, fluid—an endless motion captured in stillness. Bioluminescent. Small. Softly glowing, as if in rhythm with his heartbeat.

  The Ember.

  She stared, frozen, eyes locked on the gentle pulse of faint blue beneath his skin. Her heart thudded against her ribs. She’d watched holo's, read classified briefs. But never had she seen one up close enough to examine.

  There were only four.

  There had only ever been four.

  She simply couldn’t wrap her head around it.

  And yet, here it was. Undeniable. Nestled at the base of his neck like it belonged there. Like it had always been there. No incision mark, no scar. Just there.

  Her stomach twisted. Her thoughts scattered.

  She sat back on her heels, blinking, as if that might somehow make it disappear. As if it might change what she saw, but it didn’t.

  It was still there. Quiet. Alive. Ancient. She wondered what kind of information he was receiving from it. If he could consciously control it. If the Ember had anything to do with the fact that he was still alive. It would solidify the theory that the Embers kept them young or at least staved off death long enough not to die. A thought sharply arose. How old was he?

  Syra looked at his face—still, pale, damp with sweat. He didn’t look like a Sovereign. He looked like a man, but he wasn’t. But one who could dismantle the whole system if he wasn’t careful.

  Something the Dominion never mentioned. Something no one was supposed to know about.

  Rix shifted then—just slightly. His breathing steady but shallow, and as the motion tugged his jacket slightly open, something glinted near his chest.

  Syra froze.

  Nestled in the inner lining of his half-unzipped jacket—tucked low near the seam, like it had been deliberately hidden—was a strange object.

  She stared at it. Not large. Not flashy. But round, almost featureless if not for some smooth golden grooves around the length of it. Faint enough she might’ve missed it if she wasn’t already crouched this close.

  The artifact.

  It was no larger than the palm of her hand, resting snug against the inside pocket like it belonged there. A matte, obsidian-black stone with an embedded spiral of gold etched across its surface—no, not etched. It moved. The golden veins shimmered subtly, spiraling inward, like a living infinity knot. She could see no buttons, no interface, nothing mechanical about it. And yet…it pulsed.

  Not like the Ember.

  This was quiet. Watching. Sleeping.

  Syra swallowed.

  Her eyes flicked back to Rix. He hadn’t stirred.

  Still unconscious. Still half-dead.

  Still a mystery.

  She hesitated, fingers twitching near the edge of the jacket. Her mind screamed at her not to. She didn’t know what the hell that thing did. For all she knew it could fry her brain, mark her again, or worse, wake Rix up.

  Her hand slid inside the coat before she could stop herself.

  The moment her fingers brushed the surface, a pulse of heat raced up her arm. Not enough to burn—but enough to jolt her like a live wire. The golden flared—just once—and settled again.

  Syra gasped and yanked her hand back, stumbling a little. Her heartbeat slammed against her ribs, her breath shallow.

  Still, Rix didn’t move.

  The artifact lay there, completely unbothered. Silent. Waiting.

  Her arm still tingled where it touched her. Like something had recognized her.

  Again.

  She backed away slowly, forcing herself to calm down, to replace the bio-patch properly and wipe away the blood. She pulled his jacket closed again, covering the artifact as if it might disappear if she just stopped looking.

  But it wouldn’t.

  Whatever it was, whatever it had done to her—it went far beyond anything she understood about the universe and Rix was the only person who could give her answers.

  ∞

  When Syra woke again, it was sudden, sharp, as though her mind had lurched from sleep straight into alertness. The quiet hum of the ship was familiar beneath her, steady and reassuring, but something had shifted. She blinked, disoriented, trying to shake off the lingering heaviness of sleep, when her eyes caught movement near the cockpit console.

  Rix.

  She froze, her heart jolting in her chest. He stood there, silent, staring out the viewport. Cleaned up, his previously bloodstained clothes exchanged for dark, fitted garments from the crew's locker. His pale hair was damp, brushed back from his face, accentuating the sharpness of his features and the unnatural beauty of his skin, tinted in shades of faint, moonlit blue.

  He looked strangely composed—though she could see the way his knuckles whitened slightly as he gripped the console edge, his posture stiff, shoulders tight. Syra had seen men push through pain like that before. Soldiers, pilots, commanders—too stubborn or proud to acknowledge they were hurt, or that they needed rest.

  She hadn't even heard him get up. Hadn't noticed the quiet hiss of the medbay door, the gentle shuffle of feet along the corridor.

  Slowly, Syra sat up, careful not to make any sudden movements. Her joints protested, stiff and sore from the awkward position she'd fallen asleep in. She studied Rix carefully, taking note of his posture.

  “How the hell are you still walking?” she said, finally breaking the quiet. Her voice was softer than she meant it to be—not quite the accusation she’d intended.

  Rix turned his head just slightly, his eyes were no longer intense. Instead they were the kind of violet that didn’t draw attention—muted, like old bruises fading beneath the skin. His saeyes meeting hers over his shoulder. In the low cockpit lighting, they almost glowed—sharp, watchful, impossible to read. “We needed a course adjustment.”

  Syra stared at him for a long moment. “Right. You going to tell me what it is yet? The thing that branded me?”

  Rix didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the dark beyond the viewport.

  Then, barely above a murmur, he said, “You patched me up.”

  “Yeah, well. I like my ship blood-free.”

  A faint breath left his nose—could’ve been a laugh. Could’ve just been pain. Still looking forward, he added, quiet but deliberate, “Thank you.”

  It wasn’t grand. Wasn’t dramatic. Just two words, carefully placed between walls he clearly didn’t lower often.

  Syra shifted in her seat, caught off guard. “Don’t get all sentimental on me now.”

  “I won’t,” he said. And this time, she was sure—he was amused.

  Briefly. Quietly.

  But it was there.

  Syra watched him, trying not to stare, her posture relaxed but her mind anything but. She didn’t trust him—not even close. He was still a stranger. A dangerous one. With too many secrets and a temper that ran hotter than a reactor breach. And someone with a damn Sovereign Ember in his head.

  But damn if he wasn’t a fine-looking stranger.

  The kind you didn’t meet in real life. The kind that usually belonged in the glossy advertisements or some overpriced Dominion drama. Tall, lean, but carrying strong muscle, sharp where it counted. That alien beauty—the kind that made her blink twice when she caught it under the ship’s lighting. His pale hair still damp, the angles of his jaw catching the faint glow of the console. That faint bluish hue to his skin…it should’ve made him look inhuman.

  Instead, it just made him look like trouble.

  The dangerous kind.

  And Syra had always been too good at finding that.

  “The artifact is called the Paragon.” He said stiffly, shifted his weight slightly, like the conversation made his skin itch. “It’s one of four. Old. Older than anything we know. They're not Dominion. Not Valthari. Not even of this cycle.”

  Syra's eyes narrowed in question, “Valthari?”

  “My people. Were my people,” Rix said, jaw clenched, voice low enough it almost didn’t reach her.

  Syra’s brow furrowed, connecting the dots. “What happened to them?”

  “Sennia happened,” he said.

  Syra blinked. “Wait—Sennia? What do you mean?"

  "The war between Valeri Prime and Sennia."

  “I thought—” she stopped herself, the pieces rearranging in her mind. “That war was…what? Two hundred years ago?”

  "One hundred and fifty seven years." He said darkly.

  Syra stared. “That would mean—"

  "Yeah," he muttered, turning his gaze back toward the stars. “It does.”

  Syra swallowed hard. "We were taught it was an attempted secession. A failed insurrection. Valeri Prime tried to break the Accord. Provoked Sovereign Valor. That’s the story.”

  Rix’s jaw ticked. He didn’t speak for a moment. When he did, his voice was quiet, but venomous.

  “That’s not a story. That’s propaganda."

  "Well what's the true story?"

  "Valor destroyed my home-world and silenced all loyal to us," Rix said, "And he's spent the last century covering it up."

  Syra stared at him, caught off guard by the quiet finality in his voice.

  She tried to picture it—losing Kessyra. It may not have been a paradise, but it was hers. Dusty skies, drought-starved fields, the scent of braided oil and soil after rain…it was home. The idea of losing all of it—everyone with it—left a hollow weight in her chest.

  And he’d had that taken from him.

  Erased.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice a tad lower. She did feel bad in a way. The pieces of the story were slowly coming together and he truly seemed like someone who was brutally wronged, if he were telling the truth.

  Rix didn’t respond.

  He was staring out at the void again, the stars reflected in the faint sheen of his eyes. His jaw flexed once. Then again. But he didn’t speak, didn’t move.

  Syra couldn’t tell if he was angry or grieving. He looked... still. Too still.

  His hand, resting on the edge of the console, had gone white-knuckled.

  He didn’t blink.

  He didn’t breathe.

  When he finally spoke, it was like he had to force the words out, carefully measured and neutral.

  “Just focus on getting us to Valeri Prime.”

  Not cold. Not dismissive. Just—contained.

  But Syra felt the wall go up. Whatever was behind it, he wasn’t ready to share. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to be the one who made him.

  Syra stood a few feet away, arms crossed, jaw tight. “You said you’d explain what this thing is. The mark. The artifact. All of it.”

  “I said none of that."

  "You agreed when I let you rest instead of killing you."

  His jaw tightened and for a moment he looked like he wanted to say something rude. Except he didn't. "I don't know why it marked you," he said, "I don't know why any of this is happening. All I know is I was sent to retrieve it and it...froze me and I slept through the destruction. I know nothing beyond it's description." Rix sighed. “There are people who studied it before the war. A few still alive. One of them’s in Vextar. If you're really set on answers... that's where we go.”

  Syra stared at him. “You’re not going to tell me everything, are you?”

  “I don’t know everything,” he said, voice even. “But I know where to start. But first we get to Valeri Prime."

  ∞

  The ship drifted in near silence, the hum of the engine low and steady beneath their feet. Syra sat at the controls, boots up on the console, lazily chewing a strip of dried fruit she'd found in a ration pack. One hand idled over the nav.

  Behind her, Rix scrolled through a translucent thread of news reports, eyes flicking side to side. His expression didn’t change, but the silence between them had grown heavier.

  “Anything good?” Syra asked dryly, not turning around.

  “No,” Rix said.

  Syra snorted. “Yeah. Welcome to the galaxy.”

  A soft chime pinged on the console. Proximity alert.

  Syra sat up straighter, swinging her legs down.

  “There,” she said, squinting at the screen. “Got it.”

  Through the viewport, a planet slid into view. Dark. Dead. Covered in rust-red cloud banks and long shadows.

  Valeri Prime.

  Rix stood slowly from his seat, the datapad in his hand dimming as he set it aside. He stepped up behind Syra, his eyes drawn to the looming curve of the planet beyond the viewport.

  Valeri Prime.

  Syra stared down at the planet, her gut twisting.

  She didn’t know what Valeri Prime used to look like. All she knew was what they were told during Dominion training ops—never go near it. Kill zone. No signals. No survivors. A dead world buried under the weight of its own silence.

  She’d never expected to see it again, let alone be drifting above it.

  And now, with its scorched skin and sunless clouds stretched below her, she understood why they called it cursed. You didn’t have to know the history to feel it. The place radiated a kind of quiet dread, like it remembered being alive—and resented you for it.

  Its surface was cracked and dry, stained in burnt ochres and greys. Storms churned slow and violent across the upper atmosphere, like old wounds that refused to close. From up here, it looked…hollow. Like something sacred that had been emptied out.

  Syra didn’t say anything. Just watched him from the corner of her eye, waiting.

  Rix stood motionless, hands braced against the edge of the console, his shoulders stiff.

  He didn’t speak, but something in his jaw shifted. A flicker of tension that didn’t ease.

  His home. Or what was left of it.

  “Is it what you expected?” Syra asked, voice quiet.

  He didn’t look at her. “No.”

  Syra didn’t speak at first. Didn’t want to. But after a long stretch of weighted quiet, she flicked off the autopilot and leaned forward, adjusting their altitude. The ship groaned under her hands, straining against the dense, unstable winds.

  “Still think this is a good idea?” she muttered.

  Rix didn’t answer. His eyes were locked on the world below like it might vanish if he blinked. There was no hate in his expression. No fire. Just something colder. More dangerous.

  Grief with a purpose.

  Whatever it had been, whatever wonder it once held—it was dead now. Long buried under soot and silence.

  "Take us in. Coordinates are set."

  But her hands flexed over the controls. “Rix,” she said, slowly, carefully, “I know you’ve got some grand mission thing going on here, but I’m not landing this ship.”

  He growled in frustration, “We’re already here.”

  “Exactly,” she snapped. “We made it. You can look. Reflect. Scream at the clouds if you need to. But I’m not taking us down into that hellscape.”

  Rix turned his head just enough to glance at her, violet eyes unreadable. “Land this ship, vehkri, or I will do it myself."

  "You're on a suicide mission," She snapped.

  Rix stood motionless, eyes fixed on the planet below. “There’s something down there I need,”

  Syra didn’t look at him. “What could possibly be worth it?”

  His voice was low, edged with something harder. “It’s not about worth. It’s about what’s left.”

  Syra’s jaw tightened. She locked the console, spun toward him. “You want me to drop into the middle of a Dominion-blacklisted kill zone, with unstable pressure systems, toxic fog, and no fucking backup—because you think you’ll find what you’re looking for? I guarantee you nothing is worth getting torn apart by the animals down there.”

  “There’s no activity on the scanners,” he said.

  “They don’t show up on scanners! hat’s why no one comes back. They’re fast, they’re silent, and they don’t ping on radar. Dominion, smugglers, scavengers—no one survives this drop.”

  Rix turned toward her slowly, face unreadable. “You’ve seen them, then.”

  She hesitated. The silence hung too long.

  “I don’t have to,” she said. “I know enough. People don’t come back from this planet. Not alive.”

  "Then your fear is useless to me." He stepped closer—slowly, deliberately—until the console cast shadows across the sharp angles of his face. His voice dropped to something quiet. Dangerous. Scary. “You’re going to land this ship. Because if you don’t, I’ll override the console, drag you out of that seat, and do it myself. And I won’t be gentle about it.”

  She froze.

  “You really think I won’t?” he asked, leaning in just enough for her to feel the heat behind the words.

  Her jaw tightened, pulse thudding in her ears.

  “You're going to get us both killed.”

  The tension snapped taut between them.

  Syra’s hand moved—slow, reluctant—hovering over the thruster controls.

  “Stupid,” she muttered, powering up descent thrusters. “This is so, so stupid.”