Page 4

GUVAN

T he limo hums to a stop on the dirt road, the holographic driver flickering out of existence as I kill the projection.

I step out into the crisp Montana night, the chill biting at the exposed skin of my human disguise.

The river glints under the moonlight, Silver Stream winding its way through the landscape like a lazy serpent.

I tilt my head back, scanning the stars.

There—a faint ripple in the air, a distortion that doesn’t belong.

The cloaked shuttle lands with a soft thud, the grass flattening beneath its weight as it decloaks. Jareth steps out, his yellow scales catching the pale light, his smirk already in place.

“Gary,” he says, his tone dripping with mock formality. “Looking as dashing as ever. That human disguise really brings out your… eyes.”

“If you’ve got something to deliver, deliver it,” I grunt, cutting through his nonsense. “I don’t have time for your commentary.”

He reverently hands me the package. I take it and carefully tuck it under my arm.

"Thank you. Are there any other reports from up top?"

“Actually, yes.” Jareth crosses his arms, his tone shifting. “There’s a disturbance downtown. A protest against your dam project. Pyke thought you should know.”

My jaw tightens. “They’re protesting the dam? Do they not understand it’s for their own good?”

“Humans,” Jareth says with a shrug. “They’re emotional creatures. They don’t always see the bigger picture. But hey, maybe you should try talking to them. Diplomacy, remember?”

“Diplomacy,” I repeat, the word tasting bitter. “Right. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Jareth claps me on the shoulder, his grip firm. “You’re doing good work, Guvan. Even if they don’t see it yet.”

I grunt, brushing off his hand. “I don’t need their approval.”

He steps back toward the shuttle, but hesitates, turning to me with a look I can’t quite place. “One more thing. This isn’t from Pyke, by the way. This is me, as your friend. You’ve been holed up in that cabin for too long. It’s not healthy.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “What are you getting at?”

“Calm your ridges,” he says, holding up his hands. “I’m just saying, you need someone. A friend. Or better yet, a woman.”

I roll my eyes, turning away. “I don’t need anyone.”

“Suit yourself,” he says, climbing back into the shuttle. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The shuttle hums to life, cloaking itself once more before rising into the night sky. I watch the distortion fade into the stars, then turn back to the road. The package feels heavy in my hands, but not as heavy as the weight of Coldwater’s disdain. Diplomacy. Right.

I climb back into the limo, the holographic driver reappearing as I settle into the backseat. The tires crunch over the dirt as we pull back onto the main road, heading toward the town and its angry mob.

I don’t need anyone. Least of all a woman. But as the lights of Coldwater come into view, I can’t help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, Jareth has a point.

The holographic driver flickers back to life, and I program the route to take me through downtown Coldwater.

The limo glides forward, the headlights cutting through the darkness.

I’m not concerned about the protestors. They can shout and wave their signs all they want.

They don’t understand what’s at stake. What I’ve already sacrificed for them.

The package sits heavy in my lap, the wrapping crisp and precise.

My fingers tremble slightly as I undo the folds, the paper falling away to reveal the crystal globe.

Sunrise on Vakuta. The name alone is enough to make my chest tighten.

I cradle it in my hands, the mosaic of red and orange scales catching the dim interior light.

The warmth of it, or maybe the memory of it, seeps into my skin.

I close my eyes, , I’m back there. My mother’s voice, low and soothing, fills the air as she sings a lullaby. My father sits across from me, his hands steady as he works the final touches into the globe. The scales he uses are his own, my mother’s, and mine. A family, immortalized in crystal.

The memory fractures. They’re gone. Dead in the war. All I have left is this.

A tear slips down my cheek, landing on the globe with a soft plink .

I wipe it away quickly, but another follows.

And another. My shoulders shake, the weight of it all pressing down on me.

I squeeze the globe gently, afraid I’ll shatter it but needing to feel something, anything, that connects me to them.

The limo slows as we approach the outskirts of downtown. The flicker of torches and the faint sound of chanting reach me, but I don’t look up. I can’t. Not now. Not when the ache in my chest is this raw.

Jareth’s words echo in my mind. You need someone. Or better yet, a woman. I scoff, but the sound comes out hollow. He’s wrong. I don’t need anyone. I’ve survived this long without them.

But as I sit there, the globe clutched to my chest, the lie feels heavier than the truth.

I am lonely. More than I’ve ever admitted, even to myself.

The tears come harder now, silent sobs wracking my body.

I don’t have the luxury of breaking, but for this moment, in the back of this limo, I let myself. Just for a moment.

The limo eases into downtown Coldwater, the streets eerily quiet for a town that’s supposedly in the throes of protest. I wipe the dampness from my cheeks with the back of my hand, the residue of vulnerability clinging to my skin.

The globe sits heavy in my lap, its weight grounding me as I peer out the tinted window.

Discarded signs litter the sidewalk, their slogans— No Dam Way —scrawled in bold, angry letters.

A few stray flyers cling to the lampposts, fluttering in the chilly breeze.

The remnants of a crowd, but where are the people?

My eyes scan the area. No mob. No shouting.

Just a couple of bikers leaning against their motorcycles in front of city hall, their posture relaxed, almost bored.

They’re decked out in blue, black, and red, their jackets adorned with a red cobra emblem. It means nothing to me.

“Huh.” I mutter to myself, leaning back in the seat. “Guess they got tired of yelling.”

The holographic driver glances at me through the rearview mirror, his expression neutral. “Would you like me to stop, Mr. Irons?”

“No,” I say, waving a hand dismissively. “Keep driving. Nothing to see here.”

The bikers don’t even look up as the limo glides past. One of them lights a cigarette, the flame flickering in the dim light. The other laughs at something, the sound harsh and grating, but they’re not bothering anyone. Just loitering, like bikers do.

I turn away, my attention shifting back to the globe in my hands.

The subtle warmth of it seeps into my palms, a quiet reassurance.

I run a thumb over the smooth crystal surface, tracing the intricate patterns of scales locked inside.

Red and orange, fire and blood, the colors of Vakuta. The colors of my parents.

“Take me home,” I tell the driver, my voice firmer now. “The cabin.”

The limo accelerates, leaving the hollow shell of the protest behind.

I stare out the window, the passing streetlights casting fleeting shadows across the interior.

The globe feels heavier now, not just in weight but in meaning.

Jareth’s words echo in my head again. You need someone. Or better yet, a woman.

I scoff, but it’s a weak defense. The truth is, I’ve been alone for so long I’ve forgotten what it’s like not to be.

This globe is the closest thing to company I’ve had in years.

It’s a monument to who I was, who I lost, and who I’ve become.

A reminder that I’m still here, even if no one else cares.