Jaxon awoke to silence.
Not the kind of silence that meant peace, but the kind that felt wrong—too sterile, too controlled, as if someone had erased the sounds from life .
His body felt sluggish, heavy, like he was sinking into an abyss. His throat was dry, his head pounded, and when he tried to move, a sharp ache shot through his muscles. He inhaled, expecting the familiar scent of home—his mother’s cooking, the old, worn-out chair in their domestic room—but all he got was the sharp tang of antiseptic and recycled air.
Something was wrong.
His eyes fluttered open. Dim white lights buzzed above him, casting a sickly glow on the metallic ceiling. He turned his head, wincing as pain lanced through his skull. The walls were smooth and gray, the floor lined with reinforced steel panels. He was lying on a cot, wrapped in a stiff, unfamiliar blanket. His bloodied tunic was gone—he was now in some kind of gray jumpsuit.
This wasn’t home.
Was he on a ship?
He had only been on a ship once.
Panic gripped his chest.
He pushed himself up with shaking arms, his vision swimming. The last thing he remembered was—
Fire.
Screams.
The Reaper.
Jaxon’s breath caught in his throat. He remembered the weight of his mother’s body, her warmth turning cold against his skin. He remembered the blood—so much blood—and the clicking screeches of the creatures that had torn through New Antioch.
His stomach twisted violently.
Where was he? What had happened?
The door to the room slid open with a hiss.
A woman stepped in, clad in flowing black and crimson robes, the insignia of the Imperial Ministry emblazoned on her chest. She was tall and rigid, her dark hair neatly tied back, her gray eyes sharp and analytical.
“You’re awake.” Her voice was emotionless, like she had done this a thousand times before.
Jaxon swallowed, his throat burning. “Where… where am I?”
The woman stepped closer. “You’re aboard an Imperial refugee transport, en route to New Canaan.”
New Canaan.
The name meant nothing to him.
Jaxon clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. “Where’s my mother?”
Silence.
A cold, empty silence that stretched too long. The woman’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered behind her eyes—a quiet acknowledgment of the pain she had likely seen too many times before.
“ your mother…… ?”—“She didn’t make it.”
Jaxon’s breathing hitched.
No.
He shook his head violently. “No, she—she was with me, she—”
“I’m sorry,” the woman said, though the words were hollow. “There was nothing that could have been done.”
“Antioch was lost”
Jaxon’s hands trembled.
It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.
His mother had been holding him. She had been running with him. He could still hear her voice, feel the warmth of her arms—
He sucked in a shuddering breath.
The woman studied him for a moment before speaking again. “You are not the only one. Thousands of children have lost their families to the Xerath. But the Imperium does not abandon its own. You will be taken to New Canaan. There, you will be given food, shelter, and education. You will serve the Imperium.”
Serve the Imperium.
Jaxon barely heard her. His mind was elsewhere, stuck in that burning city, in the moment his world had collapsed.
He clenched his jaw, his breathing ragged.
He didn’t want shelter.
He wanted his mother.
But she was gone.
And now he had nothing.
The journey lasted for hours—maybe days. Jaxon couldn’t tell. He barely ate, barely spoke.
When the transport finally landed, the children—dozens of them, all orphans like him—were ushered out into the cold, gray world of New Canaan.
Jaxon stepped onto the landing platform, blinking against the harsh artificial lights. The sky above was a dull, overcast gray, stretching endlessly across the horizon. Massive fortress-like structures loomed in the distance, their reinforced walls lined with gun emplacements and watchtowers. The entire planet looked like one massive military installation—sterile, efficient, without warmth or beauty.
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This was no city.
At least not like antioch was.
Jaxon’s boots clanked against the steel flooring as he was marched alongside the others down long corridors. The walls were lined with banners of the Sol Imperium, their golden sigils standing in stark contrast to the cold metal surroundings. Armed guards in uniform watched from the shadows, the visors of their hats reflecting the dim lights.
They were led into a vast hall—a massive chamber filled with rows upon rows of metal-framed bunks. Hundreds of children sat in silence, dressed in identical gray jumpsuits.
Jaxon was assigned a bunk near the center.
He sat down, running his hands over the stiff mattress. No pillows. No blankets. No warmth.
This wasn’t home.
It never would be.
Jaxon lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
Around him, muffled sobs filled the air. Some children cried softly into their thin pillows, their bodies shaking. Others lay motionless, staring blankly into the void, as if their souls had already left them.
Jaxon didn’t cry.
He wanted to.
He wanted to curl into himself and scream until his lungs gave out, to tear at the walls, to run—run anywhere but here.
But he didn’t.
Because crying wouldn’t bring his mother back.
His mother was dead.
His father probably was too.
Crying wouldn’t bring any of them back.
Footsteps echoed down the hall. A figure approached—a tall, gaunt man clad in a black uniform, his face pale and devoid of warmth. He scanned the room, his eyes sweeping over the children like one might inspect machinery.
“You will wake at dawn,” he announced. “You will train. You will learn. You will all become something—something greater than yourselves.”
His voice was void of compassion.
“Here, you are not just orphans. You are the future of the Imperium.”
Jaxon clenched his fists beneath the thin blanket.
Not a person.
Not an orphan
He turned onto his side, staring at the space beside him. For the first time in his life, he was truly alone.
And he hated it.
The next morning, the children were woken before dawn.
Jaxon had barely slept, but it didn’t matter. No one was given time to rest.
They were marched outside, where the air was crisp and biting. Instructors in dark uniforms barked orders, directing them into lines. Physical training. Endurance drills. Mental conditioning.
It was a boot camp.
They weren’t here to be cared for.
By midday, Jaxon’s muscles burned. His hands were raw from climbing steel beams, his legs ached from endless laps around the training yard. The older orphans were stronger, more disciplined, but the younger ones—like him—struggled. Some collapsed from exhaustion. They were dragged back to their feet.
There was no sympathy. No kindness.
Jaxon gritted his teeth and pushed through the pain.
He wouldn’t be weak.
He couldn’t be.
It happened in the barracks later that evening.
Jaxon had barely sat down on a chair when someone shoved him from behind.
He stumbled, catching himself on the frame of his chair
Laughter.
He turned, meeting the gaze of an older boy—a brute with sharp features and a cruel smirk.
“You don’t belong here,” the boy sneered. “Weaklings like you don’t last long.”
Jaxon said nothing.
The boy shoved him again.
Jaxon clenched his fists.
The moment the older boy reached for him again, Jaxon snapped.
His small frame lunged forward, fists swinging wildly. He hit the boy once, twice—then felt a sharp blow to his stomach. The air rushed from his lungs, and he collapsed to his knees.
More laughter.
But Jaxon wasn’t done.
With a growl, he tackled the boy, his fists striking harder this time. He fought like a cornered animal, teeth clenched, rage burning through his veins.
By the time the uniformed instructors pulled them apart, Jaxon was bruised and bloodied—but the boy was worse.
A voice beside him:
“Sorry. He’s been here for a while. Likes to act tough.”
Jaxon turned.
A boy who looked slightly older than him was offering his hand, his sharp green eyes amused.
“I’m Darius. But you can call me Holt.”
Jaxon hesitated for a moment before taking the offered hand. His knuckles were raw, and his ribs ached, but the fire inside him still burned. He let Holt pull him to his feet.
“Jaxon,” he muttered. “Jaxon Vaes. Where is here, anyway?”
Holt gave a small, knowing smirk. “New Canaan. They call it the Imperial Orphanage, but we all know it’s a training world for people like us—war orphans.”
He motioned to the other kids scattered throughout the barracks.
“But in Lucian’s case, he was basically donated here by his family.”
Jaxon glanced at the older boy he had just fought—Lucian, the one who had taunted him. He was still sitting on the floor, wiping blood from his nose, glaring daggers at Jaxon.
“Training world?” Jaxon asked, turning back to Holt.
Holt nodded. “Yeah. You noticed all the children here?”
Jaxon frowned. “Yeah.”
“You probably got the speech, right? ‘You will be taken to New Canaan. There, you will be given food, shelter, and education. You will serve the Imperium.’” Holt mimicked the cold, authoritative voice of the instructors.
Jaxon’s stomach twisted. “So that’s what this is? They’re training us for something?”
Holt sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Basically, yeah. We’re here to be shaped into something useful for sol. Soldiers, officers, spies, members of the ministry —whatever they need us to be.”
He leaned in slightly. “Only difference is, we don’t get a choice.”
Jaxon exhaled slowly, glancing around at the other children in the barracks. Some were huddled in groups, whispering. Others sat in silence, their faces hollow and resigned.
“I don’t want to be here,” Jaxon admitted.
Holt’s expression softened. “None of us do.”
Silence stretched between them. Then Holt clapped a hand on Jaxon’s shoulder.
“Listen, it’s good you’re a survivor and all, but Legionnaire Makon doesn’t like stubborn ones. The only reason he doesn’t touch Lucian is because of his family’s power.”
Jaxon frowned. “We don’t have that privilege?”
Holt shook his head. “Nope. We’re just bodies to them—raw material to be shaped.”
Jaxon’s fists clenched.
“Who is Makon?”
Holt scoffed. “The giant man in the black uniform. He was a genome soldier once, but he runs Canaan now. Still insists people call him Legionnaire, though.” Holt glanced around, then lowered his voice. “We like to call him helspawn—but only behind his back.”
Jaxon’s mind whirled with questions, but Holt was already stepping away.
“I’ll leave you to it now,” Holt said, stretching his arms.
“Wait, I have more questions,” Jaxon blurted.
Holt grinned. “I’ll answer all your questions by the morrow, Jax. Wait—I can call you Jax, right?
Jaxon hesitated before nodding. The nickname felt strange, but not unwelcome.
Holt turned to leave but paused.
you know your way to the quarters? Well Im sure you do
“Oh, and you should watch out—Lucian will want his pound of flesh.”
Jaxon glanced at Lucian, who was still glaring at him from the other side of the barracks. He could already see the promise of future confrontations in the boy’s sharp, eyes.
Jaxon wandered back through the corridors, trying to ignore the ache in his ribs.
Twice, he got lost. The halls all looked the same—gray, cold, sterile. No warmth. No signs of life except for the giant gloomy portraits that were in the walkway
By the time he got to the massive quarters, most of the orphans were already asleep, but he could still hear soft sobs here and there.
He lay down on the stiff mattress, exhaustion pressing down on him. His stomach grumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten he’d somehow dropped his amenities bag in the midst of the chaos
He realized, with mild frustration, that he also hadn’t had a bath since…
Since the attack.
He wasn’t sure they had cleaned him upon the ship
Jaxon swallowed hard, pushing the thought away.
He would ask holt how he could get food in the morning.
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