Page 20

19

T he warmth of Aetherial’s twin suns had begun to seep into the late morning air as Dorane stepped out onto the landing platform. The scent of warm sand, metallic starship fuel, and Kryla’s spiced market air filled his lungs. The light was golden, soft yet bright, casting elongated shadows across the stone walkways and the smooth hulls of docked ships.

His eyes found Mei instantly.

She stood with the others—Ash, Sergi, Kella, La’Rue, Julia, and Roan—her dark head tilted slightly, listening intently to something Ash was saying. Even in this group, amidst warriors and strategists, she stood out. A presence both fluid and sharp, quiet but commanding.

As if sensing him, she turned.

A small smile played at the corner of her lips, and then, in a gesture both simple and deeply meaningful, she bowed her head.

Dorane felt something shift in his chest.

He crossed the distance between them, his boots echoing softly against the stone. Mei met him in the middle, the others parting slightly as if instinctively understanding that this moment belonged to them. Together, they turned toward the wide, open doors that led out into the settlement.

He let his fingers brush against the small of her back as they walked. “Everything ready?”

Mei lifted her gaze, amusement flickering in her dark eyes. “Would I be here if it wasn’t?”

Dorane chuckled, the sound deep in his chest. “Point taken.”

They reached the outer landing where the skidders were parked beneath a curved overhang, shielding them from the worst of the rising heat. The sleek airbike was matte black, its surface dusted with fine, golden sand. It was built for speed and endurance, its double-seater frame designed for long journeys across the unforgiving desert terrain.

Dorane slid his rifle blaster off his shoulder, securing it in its sheath on the side of the skidder before glancing toward the high wall of the settlement. He could sense menacing eyes watching them.

Zoak.

The Turbinta assassin was out there, hidden in the shadows, waiting. Mei felt it too; he could see it in the way her fingers flexed at her sides, the way her weight shifted slightly as if preparing for an attack that wouldn’t come—not yet.

Good. Let him watch. Let him stew, Dorane savagely thought.

He swung a leg over the skidder, gripping the handlebars before offering his hand to Mei. She slid her hand into his and climbed on behind him with practiced ease, settling onto the smooth leather. She sat back against the padded seat, within easy reach of a second rifle blaster. She would provide coverage should they need it along their trip.

In minutes, they were past the settlement walls, the desert swallowing them whole.

The air was dry, but not unbearable, the desert stretching endlessly before them in golden waves of shifting sand. The skidder sliced through the open terrain, kicking up a fine trail of dust as they navigated the winding road.

They were dressed for the journey—sand-colored garments made from a special material designed to repel heat and protect their skin from the abrasive winds. Their headgear shielded their faces from the fierce rays of the suns, while their goggles cut through the glare. Their breathing masks filtered out fine particles and helped regulate body temperature.

Dorane pushed the skidder to its limits, weaving through jagged rock formations and open dunes, the landscape a breathtaking display of nature’s artistry.

“The canyon up ahead is beautiful,” Dorane murmured through the commlink that connected them. “The rock contains a natural element only found on Aetherial. The walls were carved over thousands of years by sand and wind, shaping the stone into waves. The minerals within create the colors.”

Mei leaned slightly to the side, observing as they passed through towering canyon walls streaked with rich shades of red, violet, gold, and deep indigo. Light filtered through the narrow gaps, casting brilliant shafts of color across the ground.

“It looks like the stone is glowing,” she murmured, her voice filled with wonder.

Dorane smiled. “It is. The minerals refract the sunlight, changing as the suns move across the sky. My mother used to bring me here when I was a child. She said the canyon was alive, always shifting, always speaking—if you knew how to listen.”

Mei was silent for a moment. Then, softly, she said, “She was right.”

Dorane’s grip tightened on the controls.

“I wish you could have met her,” he murmured, his heart filled with a wistful sorrow.

“So do I.”

A half hour into the journey, they pulled into a shaded alcove at the base of a cliff, the overhang offering protection from the harshest rays. Dorane cut the engine, the silence of the desert settling around them like a living thing.

Mei slid off the skidder first, stretching her arms before unsealing a storage compartment and pulling out a canteen. Dorane did the same, taking a long drink before sitting on a rock ledge.

“We’ve given Zoak enough time to reach the village,” Mei noted, pulling down her mask.

Dorane wiped the sweat from his brow, nodding. “He’ll be expecting us. His focus is entirely on us now.”

“On me,” Mei corrected, lifting the canteen to her lips.

Dorane studied her for a long moment. Then, without a word, he reached into the second storage compartment and pulled out the Gallant Staff.

Mei’s eyes widened slightly when she saw what he was holding. The Staff was crafted from a rare, dark alloy, inlaid with fine silver filigree. It was smooth and balanced, yet deceptively sturdy. Symbols of the Gallant Order ran along its length, etched in a language far older than the stars themselves.

Dorane ran his fingers along the engravings before offering it to her. The cool metal hummed faintly under his touch, the symbols alive with history.

For a moment, he could almost hear his mother’s voice.

“The Staff is not just a weapon, Dorane—it is a promise. A burden, if you let it be, but also a guide. It will teach you, if you are willing to listen.”

He had been a boy then, barely able to lift it, watching in awe as she wielded it with impossible grace. He had tried to mimic her movements, had fallen more times than he cared to admit. She had only laughed, ruffling his hair. “One day, my son.”

Now, he was passing it on—not to his brother or sister, but to an Ancient Knight of the Gallant; to the woman he loved more than life itself.

His throat tightened. His mother would have loved Mei.

Mei’s fingers tightened around the Staff, and he saw it then—that quiet flicker of understanding.

“This belonged to my mother,” he said, his voice quieter now. “She carried it as a Knight of the Gallant Order before she left the war behind. It was a part of her. It was the same for my father.”

Mei took it reverently, her fingers tracing the metal. “Dorane…”

His eyes searched hers as he wrapped his fingers around hers when she started to hold it out. Their reaction to each other, their connection, was an almost palpable thread binding them.

“I would be honored if you carried it now.”

Something flickered in Mei’s gaze—something deep, something anchored.

“Are you sure?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Dorane exhaled. “More sure than I’ve ever been about anything.”

He activated the Staff’s biometric security. The engravings flared softly, adjusting to Mei’s touch, the technology within recognizing her as its new master.

“The Staff will respond only to you now,” he murmured. “It will not allow another to wield it.”

Mei turned it over in her hands, adjusting her grip experimentally. Dorane watched as she shifted into a stance, testing the weight.

“You’ve used a staff before,” he noted.

She glanced up, amusement in her eyes. “It was one of my favorite weapons to train with.”

Dorane smiled. “Then let’s see what you can do.”

He withdrew his father’s Staff from the sheath at his waist. Extending it, he twirled it once before he lowered into a ready stance. Mei mirrored him, and for the next thirty minutes, they moved together. Strike. Parry. Counter. Their bodies flowed in sync, the Staffs humming as they connected.

Dorane’s breath caught as he watched her.

The way she moved—it reminded him of his mother.

She was grace and precision, power and control.

A deep emotion unraveled inside him when he disarmed her with a well-placed maneuver, only for her to flip backward and reclaim the Staff in one fluid motion.

He stepped forward, his breath slightly uneven.

Mei’s studied him with a calm that belied the hammering pulse at the base of her throat. Her eyes were bright with exhilaration when he cupped her face and kissed her.

Deep. Slow. Reverent.

He pulled back just enough to whisper, “No matter what happens, I need you to know—I love you.”

Mei’s breath hitched. Emotion flickered across her face, raw and unguarded.

Then, in one swift movement, she tugged him down and kissed him back, fierce and unyielding, as if she could carve the words into his very soul.

When they finally parted, she pressed her forehead to his.

Her voice was hushed but firm. “Then don’t die before this fight is over.”

Dorane let out a rough chuckle, his hands tightening around her waist.

“I wouldn’t dare.”

Zoak moved like a specter across the desert, his skidder carving a silent path over the wind-swept dunes. The twin suns had begun their slow descent, stretching his shadow long across the sand, but the heat remained relentless, pressing against him like a living thing. He barely noticed.

The rhythmic hum of the skidder beneath him was a constant, steady vibration—a pulse against his skin, a heartbeat of the hunt. His muscles were loose, his mind razor-sharp, honed into singular focus. This was what he lived for. The moment before the kill.

As the canyons rose in the distance, carved by the winds of a thousand storms, Zoak allowed himself a small, satisfied smirk. Dorane had made this easy for him.

He knew exactly where the man would go.

Back to the beginning.

Dorane wanted to take the woman to the ruins of his old village—to the bones of his past, to the ghosts that whispered in the sand. Zoak could almost taste the bitter irony. The fool sought closure, perhaps.

I will give him that, Zoak thought darkly. His past, his present, and his future—ending where it all began.

The skidder wove through the narrow canyon passes, the air shifting cooler in the shadowed ravines before opening back into the scalding heat of the sunlit dunes. Zoak’s slitted pupils adjusted to the glare instantly, his body moving fluidly with each shift of the skidder. He had traveled these types of landscapes before.

For others, the Aetherial desert was a death trap—unforgiving, ruthless. To him, it was a hunting ground.

The canyon where the village was located appeared on the horizon, concealed by the high, rough walls formed by a river that dried up long ago. The rounded structures, once home to families and laughter, were now hollow ruins, their dome roofs cracked, walls scorched and half-buried in sand blown in by storms.

Remnants of fire and destruction still marred the ground, deep gouges in the earth where explosions had turned homes into unmarked graves. The village was a corpse, and soon, it would welcome two more bodies into its graveyard.

Zoak pulled the skidder off the main path, guiding it behind a jagged outcropping of rock where the canyon sloped down toward the valley. The vehicle would be hidden here, out of sight from the high road leading into the village.

He dismounted with the fluid grace of a predator, his boots sinking slightly into the sand as he moved toward the edge of the slope, lifting his view-spotter to scan the ruins below.

The village was silent. The wind moved sluggishly through the open streets, shifting dust in lazy curls and kicking up miniature dust devils that danced across the ground before dissolving.

There was no other movement. No sound. Just the hush of abandonment. He had arrived headed of Dorane and his woman.

Zoak’s gaze swept the area methodically. His mind worked in calculations—distances, lines of sight, elevation advantages. He noted the remnants of old buildings, the hollowed-out husk of what had once been a communal gathering space, the dried-out well in the center of the square.

Then his attention flicked toward the graves.

The small mounds along the slope above the village were unremarkable at first. He dismissed them as nothing but old bones—Dorane’s childhood friends, likely. Meaningless.

But as his scope tracked lower, he stilled.

Two mounds. Different from the rest. They were set apart, carefully tended. Real burials.

Zoak adjusted the focus on his view-spotter. The markers were newer, the material smooth and polished. Thick, etched crystal—not the crude, hand-carved stones the other graves bore. Even in the light of the suns, the crystalline structures gave off a faint glow.

He sneered. How poetic. Of course Dorane would visit these graves. That was where Zoak would strike.

He pulled the scope back, adjusting for a better angle. The open area would make it difficult to launch a surprise attack up close—there was too much light, too much space. The woman would sense him. She was too sharp, too attuned to danger. He could not allow her that advantage.

No, this fight would begin from a distance.

His plan shifted. He would strike Dorane first, wound him—not enough to kill, but enough to cripple, to slow him down. The woman would stay close—she would not leave Dorane defenseless. That would give him the opportunity he needed.

Then, he could take his time.

He would drive them into a corner, force them into a position where they had no escape. He would disable the woman, leave her alive but helpless. Then, he would hang them both—like trophies—like messages left for the ghosts of this place.

Let Dorane hear the echoes of the past. Let the woman watch him suffer.

Only when Dorane had breathed his last would Zoak turn his full attention to her .

One slice at a time.

Pleased with his plan, Zoak moved with the silence of a shadow, descending from the ridge with practiced ease, slipping between the half-buried structures like a wraith. He ignored the faded remnants of a past that wasn’t his—broken pottery, a child’s rusted trinket, the blackened remnants of a doorway.

His destination was already chosen.

Across from the graves, stood the shell of an old hut, its roof partially collapsed, its walls blackened with soot from whatever fire had consumed it long ago. The interior was hollowed out, but it provided the perfect vantage point—deep enough to conceal him in shadow, open enough to give him a clear line of fire.

From here, he would wait.

He settled against the farthest wall, pulling his rifle from its holster and laying it across his lap. The sight was calibrated within seconds, the crosshairs settling over the distant graves. He adjusted his angle, testing the view, imagining Dorane kneeling there, head bowed, vulnerable.

He imagined the moment his first shot struck.

A slow, satisfied exhale escaped him.

Yes. This will be perfect.

He would let them feel safe. Let them grieve. Let them lower their guard. His fingers slid absently over the serrated edge of his blade, feeling the ridges catch against his calloused skin. He imagined the edge sinking into flesh, the slow resistance before it gave way, spilling warmth onto the sand. He inhaled, picturing the scent of copper mingling with the dry desert air.

He turned the knife over and carved a slow, deliberate line into the soot-covered floor, tracing a shape from memory—a symbol once burned into his wrist by his old Masters. A mark of shame, they had told him. A reminder of his weakness.

“You want it too much, Zoak. A true Turbinta does not savor the kill—they execute and move on.”

He could still see the old Masters’ sneers, hear their warnings, the threats of dismissal. They had called him undisciplined. Weak.

Fools.

He had proven them wrong.

Yet…

His grip tightened on his rifle as a flicker of unease stirred in his gut.

The woman had mocked him. Had laughed at him. Had waved his threats aside as if they were nothing more than an irritation.

Even now, the memory of her smirk set his blood boiling.

No. He would not let her get inside his head. This time, she would not be the one in control.

But the rage coiled in his chest, hot, unchecked.

He would take his time with them. And when the village was once again filled with the scent of death, he would carve that same mark into the Ancient Knight’s flesh—deep, final, unforgiving.

He closed his eyes, listening to the hush of the wind through the shattered walls, his body still as a coiled viper.

Not yet. Let them feel safe. Let them grieve. Then…

His grip tightened on the blade, the faint scrape of metal against stone the only sound in the dying light.

Then, he would strike.

He could already hear it. Not their screams—no, those would come later. But the moment before. That last heartbeat of silence. The way a body knows before the blade strikes, before the bullet shreds through flesh.

That silence was his favorite part.

He let out a slow breath and settled deeper into the shadows.

And waited.

Let history repeat itself.

Only this time, it would be his name, not the Legion’s, that echoed in the screams.