Velos-5 was a place of stone and dust, a world that had long forgotten the shimmer of glory it once claimed. The people who lived there were born to scrape by, to survive with grit and wile, in a land where the red dust storms came like whispers of death and the sun barely showed itself through the thick haze. There was no nobility here—only the harsh realities of life and the brutal hunger for wealth and power. For those who lingered at the edge of civilization, this was home. The Crimson Ghost—a ship more rust than shine—sank into the windswept wastelands of Velos-5 with the clamor of dying engines and the cruel groan of old metal. Its hull, pitted by countless battles and too many years of neglect, cast a long shadow over the parched, cracked surface. The storm clouds were gathering again, just as they always did. It was the season for the dust, when the wind tore at skin and stone, and the ground itself seemed to rise up in intense fury.

  Aboard the ship, the mood was grim. There was no camaraderie between the crew, but neither was there open strife. It was an unspoken understanding that they were all in it together—whether they liked it or not. There were no friends here, only allies of convenience. Jace Wilder, called Wraith for his quiet, haunting presence, stood by the main console of the Crimson Ghost, watching the planet’s horizon warp as the ship descended. His face was a canvas of hard lines, the pale scar along his cheek a testament to old, forgotten battles. The cigarette hanging loosely from his lips was the only sign of life, the ash threatening to fall but never quite finding the courage to.

  “Almost there,” he said, his voice rough and heavy with years of smoke and regret. The engines sputtered again, coughing up clouds of exhaust as the ship groaned in protest. Jace’s hands, steady as a surgeon’s, flicked the controls with a care that had become second nature. He had flown through worse, seen worse.

  “It’s too quiet,” muttered Aria Nova, her voice laced with a young woman’s apprehension, tempered by the edges of experience. She sat at the co-pilot’s station, her fingers flying over the worn keys. Her blonde hair, tangled and unkempt, hung in loose curls around her face, the sharpness in her eyes revealing a mind quick to see danger, even when it hid behind a fa?ade of calm.

  “There’s something about this place,” she continued, barely lifting her eyes to meet his. “Something feels wrong.”

  Jace glanced at her from the corner of his eye, the flicker of a smile tugging at his lips, though it was more a shadow than a true expression. “Wrong's never been a stranger to us.”

  The voice of the comms officer crackled through the ship’s speakers, a voice as dry and ancient as the dust that enveloped the planet. “Crimson Ghost, you are cleared for landing. The storm's brewing, so make it quick, you hear? Don’t get caught out here for long.”

  Jace didn't respond, his fingers tracing the worn edges of the controls. He wasn’t one for words. Words were easy. It was action, after all, that made the difference. He only nodded, a quiet acknowledgment to the voice, before the ship came down with a clatter and a shudder, its landing gear scraping against the ground with a sound too harsh for the ears.

  The Red Sands outpost, more a collection of makeshift structures than a true station, sprawled out before them—a collection of rusted, half-fallen walls and a patchwork of old technologies left to rot beneath the oppressive sky. The neon lights flickered with the last vestiges of hope, casting eerie shadows that twisted like ghosts in the dusty streets. Nothing grew here except desperation.

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  “Get your gear. Let’s make this fast,” Jace said, his voice distant and cold, like a man who had long given up on things like hope and trust.

  Aria didn’t argue. She grabbed her jacket, the leather worn from use, and slung it over her shoulders with a practiced flick. Her hand hovered over the sidearm strapped to her thigh, but it was more out of habit than any true desire to fight. Jace was right—this place was like all the others they had visited. The only rule was survival of the fittest.

  The streets of Red Sands were as narrow as the lives of the people who walked them. The buildings leaned in on each other, like old friends who had grown too close for comfort, their surfaces covered in the grime of years, of dust storms, of blood spilled in forgotten corners, and of the grueling lives of the slaves forced to inhabit and toil on this planet. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and smoke, a scent that carried the weight of too many lost souls.

  They moved through the streets with the practiced ease of those who had learned to blend in, to remain unnoticed. There were no glances exchanged, no words spoken, save for the occasional grunt or muttered curse. The locals kept to their business, eyes darting nervously, unwilling to acknowledge strangers—strangers like Jace and Aria, who brought with them nothing but trouble.

  In the back corner of the bar—an establishment that could barely hold its own against the elements—a cold looking woman sat waiting. She was older than Jace, but not by much. Her face was a mask of quiet calculation, her eyes hard and unforgiving. The name Piper was whispered on the wind in these parts, and it was enough to send a shiver through anyone with sense. She had dealings with men who were as dangerous as they were desperate, and that made her a powerful figure worth fearing.

  Jace sat across from her without a word, his dark eyes scanning her face for any hint of what she wanted. Aria took the seat next to him, her posture tense, as if ready to spring into action at the slightest sign of trouble.

  “I’ve got what you need,” Piper said, her voice a low rasp that carried the weight of too many secrets. She slid a data pad across the table, the screen glowing faintly in the dim light. “But it comes at a cost.”

  Jace’s lips twisted into a slight smile—if one could call it that—and he leaned forward. “Everything does.”

  Piper’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, it seemed like the world itself held its breath. “You’re looking for the Vanguard, I take it. But it’s not a simple treasure hunt. There’s more than just credits waiting for you out there. It’s cursed.”

  Jace laughed, but it was the kind of laugh that tasted like ashes. “Cursed or not, it’s still the biggest payday in this sector. That’s enough for me.”

  “Is it?” Piper’s voice was sharp now, her gaze unwavering. “There are others hunting for it. And they’re not as... forgiving as you.”

  Jace looked at her, but the question in his eyes was clear. “Who?”

  She didn’t answer immediately, only took a slow sip from her drink before sliding the data pad over. “You’ll find out soon enough. His name’s Viktor Kryll. And you don’t want to meet him unprepared.”

  Jace’s smile vanished. Kryll was no name to be taken lightly. He was a ghost of a man, as cold and unforgiving as the storms that ravaged this planet.

  Without another word, Jace stood. His fingers twitched at his side, but they didn’t reach for his gun—not yet. This wasn’t a time for violence. Not yet.

  But soon. It always came to that.

  “Time to find out who’s standing in our way,” he muttered.

  As the Crimson Ghost roared to life, cutting through the dust and storm, Aria glanced at Jace. “You think we’re ready for this?”

  Jace didn’t answer right away. He just watched the fading lights of Red Sands disappear behind them. “We don’t have a choice.”

  The stars outside the window blinked coldly back at them. And in the distance, the shadows of the Vanguard loomed, waiting to be uncovered.

  But as they would soon learn, some things buried deep beneath the surface should stay hidden. Some treasures—some curses—are better left untouched.