The static on the screen flickered, sharp lines of distortion crawling across the edges before fading into a ghostly feed. Footage from dead cameras, resurrected long enough to reveal their secrets.

  Specter had done her part. The data was unstable—fragmented by salt corrosion, digital decay, and whatever countermeasures Cronus had buried within their souls. But a single, undeniable truth burned through the interference.

  A girl.

  Barely more than a teenager, restrained, unconscious, being escorted by Cronus operatives into an unmarked transport.

  Sibyl was silent. His layered mind interlocked with the possibilities of the looping footage. The Key.

  Cipher, leaning back in his chair with a nebulizing diffuser to his left and a heat diffuser to his right, a strong peppermint aroma filling the air. "So, all that overtime paid off, huh?" His finger drummed against his knee, mind already racing through the implications. "The Key is a teenager. Because of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be?"

  Sibyl didn’t move, didn’t answer immediately. His silence spoke louder than words.

  Cipher sipped his ginger tea, exhaling through his nose. "You're telling me the kid eaters we're going to burn down half the galaxy searching for a key—to open some cosmic door—with just teenage angst? Seems like a design flaw."

  The footage continued, flickering. The girl’s face was unclear, but the outline of her form, the way the guards flanked her with militant precision—this wasn’t an ordinary prisoner transfer.

  It was a retrieval.

  Cipher narrowed his eyes. "Whatever she is, whatever they need her for, they’ve been waiting for the right moment to pull her out."

  Sibyl silently nodded once. "Specter confirmed there were no signs of prior activity in the facility before the retrieval. Something about this doesn't sit well with me. It's like she wasn’t supposed to exist."

  Cipher clicked his tongue. "Hate to break it to them, but you don’t get to just erase people. We have the footage now. People don’t stay ghosts forever."

  A pause.

  Cipher turned slightly in his chair, retrieving his ever-handy lavender oil. "That’s not even the fun part. You’re gonna love this—Gaia ran into someone interesting."

  Sibyl’s tone didn’t waver. "Elaborate."

  Cipher grinned, pulling up another feed—a live relay from Gaia’s last recorded engagement—the Razor.

  "You remember that old Titan development graveyard out in Bermuda? The one Luna’s been keeping tabs on but never made a move to claim?" Cipher let the video play—a sleek, outdated prototype dancing through combat like it was born in war, cutting down Votaries with unreal precision.

  "Turns out someone brought a relic back to life," Cipher continued, nodding toward the feed. "Gaia and her people ran into this guy, and from what I hear, he wasn’t just good—he was untouchable. Took down fully equipped Titans in a training model with just blades."

  Sibyl finally leaned forward, watching the Titan’s movements, his expression unreadable.

  "And that’s not even the best part," Cipher smirked, crossing his arms. "Guess whose emblem wasn’t just on that machine—but on his clothing too?"

  Sibyl already knew before Cipher answered.

  The Dragon.

  For the first time, something shifted behind Sibyl’s calculating stare. Not surprise. Not fear. A recognition of purpose.

  Cipher noticed it instantly. His smirk faded slightly, replaced with something more serious. "Alright, now I’m actually concerned. I know that look. You’re already planning something—I will be hacking in my sleep again, aren't I?"

  Sibyl finally spoke. "Veil is going to investigate."

  Cipher blinked. Then he just stared—a rare moment of silence from him.

  For all of his expertise in hacking, infiltration, and digital warfare, for all the times he had outmaneuvered Luna’s intelligence agencies and disrupted Cronus’ firewalls, for all of his genius—Cipher felt a rare moment of pure disbelief.

  "You're sending Veil?" He let out a breath—a half-laugh, half-expletive. "Okay. Damn. You're really serious about this?"

  Sibyl didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

  Cipher ran a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath. "Shit."

  Veil, unknown to even Cipher, didn’t just take on ordinary assignments. A phantom that didn’t investigate just anyone.

  If Sibyl was sending Veil, then things had already escalated beyond what he could handle alone.

  The Key had been taken. The Dragon had resurfaced.

  And now, the hunt was on.

  Sibyl closed the vid-link without a word.

  ☉☉☉

  Suspended between Mars and Jupiter, Hygiea drifted—a forgotten fragment of creation turned sanctuary, labyrinth, and battleground. What was once a distant speck in a telescope was now a hub for humanity.

  Its pockmarked surface bore the scars of millennia, yet beneath its rocky shell, life thrived in defiance of the void. A place of hidden deals and whispered wars, where bartered secrets held more power than any government decree.

  In its hollowed-out depths, flickering bulbs cast pale, wavering light, stretching shadows across rust-streaked corridors. The air was thick with smoke, oil, and the sharp tang of unfiltered air—the scent of a world where survival was negotiated, not guaranteed.

  This was Hygiea’s black market.

  For Nia Caldera, it was more than just a haven for outlaws and exiles. It was a puzzle—one she thrived on solving.

  As Chief of Recruitment for Commander Gaia’s mercenary group, she wasn’t just searching for soldiers—she was searching for survivors. Those who had been discarded, overlooked, or underestimated. Because the ones who had nothing left were the ones willing to fight hardest.

  And right now, she was about to make her next move.

  ☉☉☉

  Inside one of Hygiea's dimly lit bars, the air hung heavy with smoke and stale alcohol. The kind of place where loyalty was measured in credits and where allegiances shifted like orbital patterns.

  Nia leaned forward, her fingers tracing slow circles along the rim of her glass. Three potential recruits sat across from her:

  A former corporate insider, her sharp eyes masking the secrets still lurking in her past.

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  A disgruntled miner, his hands rough with Martian dust, his muscles tensed with years of labor.

  A refugee soldier, his weary stare carrying the weight of battles long lost.

  All different. All dangerous. All exactly what she needed.

  She studied them—not just their words, but the subtle shifts in posture, the flicker of hesitation, the glint of decision.

  Then, she spoke.

  “I won’t lie to you.” Nia’s voice was steady, edged with quiet urgency. “Our mission isn’t easy.”

  The miner scoffed, leaning back. “What’s a bunch of castaways like us supposed to do? You think we’re anything more than a speck to them?”

  Nia met his gaze head-on. “You’ve seen what the world really is. A miner who’s dug deep enough to understand what lies beneath the surface. A soldier who’s fought hard enough to know what’s worth fighting for.”

  She let the words sink in before adding, "You’re not castaways—you’re survivors. And survivors can change everything.”

  A beat of silence.

  The soldier leaned forward, voice calm but pointed. “What’s in it for us?”

  Nia didn’t hesitate. “You’ll be compensated. Supplied. And most importantly—this isn’t some idealistic folly.” She let her gaze drift between them. “This is a fight to rebuild a planet. And you have the skills to make a real difference.”

  The miner hesitated, looking at the soldier, waiting for his reaction.

  Everything depended on the soldier. Convince him, and the others would follow.

  The soldier studied her a moment longer, then gave a small nod.

  The miner exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Fine. I’m in. But don’t expect me to play the hero.”

  Nia’s smile was satisfied, but not smug. “Good. I’m not asking for heroes—just allies who can do the job.”

  Then—

  The room shifted.

  A ripple of unease swept through the bar. Conversations stilled. The background noise of murmured deals and quiet exchanges faded into silence.

  Someone important had just entered.

  “Recruiting soldiers in my Belt, Nia?”

  Like liquid silver, a voice bled into the stillness—beautiful but deadly.

  Nia sighed. Of course.

  Her gaze flicked to the entrance.

  Striding toward her was Tessandrialyth Vale—or just Tess, depending on how much trouble she was planning to be.

  She never wasted an entrance. And this? This was deliberate.

  “Tess,” Nia greeted flatly. “Or should I say, Director Vale? Since we’re frenemies.”

  Tess’ smile was polished, practiced—dangerous. She snapped her folding fan open, the soft flick punctuating the moment.

  Behind her, two operatives flanked her like watchful shadows.

  The miner beside Nia muttered, barely containing his awe. “What the hell is the Overboss of the Main Belt Mining Coalition doing here?”

  Tess didn’t acknowledge him. Her focus stayed on Nia. "If you were so desperate for recruits, darling, you could’ve asked me directly."

  Nia tilted her head, unimpressed. "Didn’t realize I needed your permission, Tess."

  Tess’ eyes gleamed. "Neutrality is a fragile thing, Nia. It requires balance. And I do so hate it when someone upsets my balance."

  She snapped her fan shut with a fencer's precision—quick, controlled, her verbal parry flowing effortlessly into a counter. "And your group, my dear, have a talent for chaos.”

  Nia smiled, slow and knowing. "And yet, will neutrality shield those on Earth when the next storm arrives for them?"

  Then—

  Nia’s comm buzzed.

  Her eyes flicked down, scanning the incoming message. Her brow tightened. Gaia.

  She turned back to Tess, her usual composure slipping just slightly. “Excuse me for a moment.”

  Stepping away, she answered.

  "This better be good."

  Gaia’s voice buzzed through the line, tight with urgency.

  “Nia, we’ve got a situation.”

  Nia straightened. "Go on."

  “—A Razor—” Gaia’s words were clipped, unreadable. “A relic—a pilot—Dragon.”

  Nia’s pulse quickened. "What?"

  Gaia continued. “He took down a detachment of Lunar Titans. Alone. With blades.”

  Nia’s breath caught.

  Gaia hesitated—something rare.

  Then, she finally said it.

  “He says he’s from Saturn.”

  Silence.

  "Saturn?" Nia echoed, the word slipping out before she could stop it.

  Nia exhaled sharply, turning back toward Tess, the weight of the revelation sinking in.

  The bar was dead quiet. A slow ripple of disbelief spread through the gathered mercenaries.

  Then—

  Laughter erupted. Disbelief, amusement, sheer absurdity.

  Nia ignored it, focusing on Tess.

  She let Gaia finish before making her way back over to the table.

  She rolled her shoulders, regaining control of the moment. “Captain Gaia is requesting assistance.”

  Tess arched an eyebrow. "Oh? And what could my favorite freedom fighter possibly need from me?"

  Nia paused just long enough for impact.

  Then, she spoke.

  “She wants to trade you a Dragon.”

  ☉☉☉

  The fire crackled, its embers dancing like distant stars. Scar sat at the center of the gathered rebels, their attention held in quiet anticipation.

  He let the moment stretch before speaking.

  "Helraks," he began, voice steady, deliberate. "Warriors from Enceladus."

  A ripple of intrigue spread through the group. Scar leaned forward slightly, lowering his tone as if sharing a guarded secret.

  "Their weapons? Cryo-tempered, Aitkenium-forged masterpieces."

  He let the words hang, watching expressions shift from curiosity to awe.

  "Cryo-tempering isn't just a technique—it's an art. Extreme cold compresses the metal, making it denser, harder—nearly unbreakable."

  A murmur of understanding passed between them.

  "But strength alone isn’t enough. The Helraks believe that subzero temperatures sing to the metal, embedding their warrior spirit into the blade itself."

  He mimed the swing of an unseen weapon, his voice dipping into a whisper.

  "One strike," he said, "and it’ll cut through Ferrex plating like paper. A sacred legacy, forged from steel and ice."

  A hush settled over his words like frost on their imaginations, matching the cold night air.

  Then—

  Lyric stormed into view, each step radiating barely contained fury.

  The gathered mercenaries exchanged knowing glances. A few smirked, already placing bets in hushed tones.

  "Nia," someone whispered, and others nodded in agreement. The infamous rivalry had become legend, a never-ending battle of wits and grudges.

  Scar barely noticed. His fingers idly traced the scarf at his neck, his thoughts drifting away from Lyric’s theatrics to something—or rather, someone—far more distant.

  Will Nova really be sleeping for a century or two? Somehow, I wouldn't put it past him.

  The thought lingered, pressing but not overwhelming.

  Lyric’s voice, however, was impossible to ignore.

  "Scar! Gaia wants you."

  He blinked, finally focusing on her.

  "She’s sending you to one of the rocks in the sky to meet the Wicked Witches."

  Scar tilted his head, eager to confirm. "Witches ride brooms, right?"

  "Yeah," Lyric deadpanned, "and I'd like to stick a broom up—"

  Her words were drowned by laughter. Someone near the fire chuckled.

  "First Aliens, now Witches?"

  More voices joined in, and the term spread like wildfire through the camp.

  Scar overheard a veteran mutter, "Newbies are about to learn that lesson firsthand."

  As if on cue, anguished cries rang out in the distance—fresh recruits caught in Lyric’s wrath.

  "Listen up!" Lyric’s voice cut through the chaos like a whip. "Consider this your final warning: the Wicked Witches—Nia and Vale—don’t care how green you are. If you’re not ready, they’ll eat you alive before breakfast."

  Scar pushed past the sounds of suffering, making his way toward Gaia.

  She stood at the edge of the camp, arms crossed, watching the flames with an unreadable expression. When she turned to him, her gaze was steady but edged with urgency.

  "Scar, I’m sending you to meet Lyric’s 'Wicked Witches.' One is Liteunant Nia Caldera—my Chief of Recruitment. The other is Director Tessandrialyth Vale."

  Scar frowned. "Will these Witches help me find the person I am searching for?"

  Gaia’s expression didn’t waver.

  "Tess has her eyes and ears in a lot of places."

  A beat passed.

  "They have the resources and connections to help you find what you're looking for."

  She paused, eyes locking onto his.

  "Nia can navigate the shadows better than anyone. Vale? She runs the Belt. If anyone’s holding the key to what you need, it’s her."

  Scar inhaled slowly, nodding.

  "But tread carefully," Gaia warned. "These women play a different kind of game, and they don’t trust easily."

  Scar shifted his weight, thoughtful.

  "I know this is part of a debt you’re repaying. Still... I’m grateful."

  Gaia’s expression softened just slightly.

  "Liteunant Lyric will escort you on the way there."

  Scar turned, only to find Lyric glaring at him like she’d rather toss him into orbit than escort him.

  "I’ll make sure he gets there in one piece, Commander. But after that? He’s on his own."

  "Lyric," Gaia’s tone sharpened. "Fighting? No problem. Social situations? That’s where he might need a little guidance—he’s more gullible than he realizes."

  Lyric groaned, throwing her hands up. "Fine. But don’t expect me to babysit after I hand him over. Add ‘witch liaison’ to my ever-growing résumé."

  Scar exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair.

  He adjusted his scarf, the firelight casting long shadows across the ground.

  "Something tells me the Witches don’t care much for hand-holding either."

  He rolled his shoulders, letting out a quiet sigh.

  Wherever this leads... I just hope it leads me to her.