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T he lift ascended in near silence, the hum of the artificial moon the only sound against the backdrop of Dorane’s thoughts. His gaze was fixed on the metallic walls, but his mind was somewhere else—on someone else.

Roan Landais was dead.

At least, that’s what the Legion wanted everyone to believe.

Dorane wasn’t convinced. He wouldn’t be. Not without proof. Roan wasn’t the kind of man who died easily, certainly not at the hands of his father and uncle. If anyone could cheat death, it was Roan.

And me.

His lips quirked slightly at his thoughts. How many times had they cheated death together?

The lift doors slid open with a soft whoosh, opening to the uppermost levels of the moon base where his personal headquarters overlooked Cryon II’s sprawling, ever-expanding construction. Through the reinforced glass windows, he could see the neon-lit streets stretching far below, a labyrinth of steel, light, and shadows. The distant glow of welding torches flickered like fireflies in the night. Drones, construction machinery, and supply shuttles hovered in intricate formations as they assembled yet another sector of Cryon II’s artificial world.

It was a place of ambition and ruthlessness, much like himself. His mind wasn’t here, though. It was on a different world, in a different time.

Plateau – Eighteen years before

“Where’s that scrawny sewer rat disappeared to now?”

Hor Dicer’s voice carried over the clang of cargo being unloaded, sharp and grating, thick with frustration.

Dorane didn’t look back. He never looked back. That was the first rule of survival. Instead, he slipped through the narrow gap between two crates, his body twisting with the ease of someone who had learned to navigate tight spaces out of necessity. He crouched low, waiting, listening.

The heavy footfalls stomped past, a string of curses trailing behind them. He let out a slow breath, pressing his fingers against the fresh bruise on his ribs. The dull ache was a reminder—Dicer had hit him last night, hard. It wasn’t the first time. But it would be the last.

If he stayed, he swore he’d kill the bastard.

The thought sent a dark thrill through him, but he forced it away. He had no time for revenge. Not yet. Right now, he had to get as far from that freighter as possible. His escape had led him here—wherever here was. He didn’t even know what planet they’d landed on.

He scanned the area before he stepped out of the shadows of the freighter. A hiss of disbelief slipped from him and his breath caught in his throat. Across a woven bridge, a market sprawled before him in a dizzying riot of color and sound. It was unlike anything he had ever seen.

The air was thick with the scent of spices, sizzling meats, and something sweet and floral carried on the humid breeze. Stalls lined the cobblestone paths, their owners calling out in languages Dorane only half understood. Above, winding bridges connected the floating islands, their jagged cliffs draped in thick vines and bioluminescent flora that pulsed faintly in the morning light.

And the sky—gods, the sky.

He turned in a tight circle, staring up at it in wonder. It wasn’t the dull gray haze of smog-choked atmospheres that he was used to. It was vast and open, swirling with golden light that reflected off the massive moth-like creatures gliding effortlessly between the islands. Their translucent wings caught the sun, scattering light like fractured gemstones.

Dorane had never smelled air this clean. Never seen a place that wasn’t falling apart at the seams. It was beautiful.

He hated it.

Places like this were for people who belonged. People who had someone who cared about what happened to them. Places like this were not for gutter rats like him.

His fingers curled into fists as the words echoed through his mind. He didn’t belong, but that had never stopped him before.

A shadow passed overhead, breaking his trance. A Legion transport. He turned just in time to see a group of soldiers striding toward a towering structure of onyx-black stone. Their rigid postures and pristine uniforms were unmistakable—Legion.

Dorane’s stomach turned.

He had seen what the Legion did to planets. He had watched their soldiers tear through the slums, hunting down those who resisted, those who fought back. His parents had been among them. He could still hear his mother’s scream, still see his father’s blood painting the alley walls.

He spat on the ground, his eyes narrowing with anger as his lips curled into a sneer. That was when Dorane saw him. A boy his own age, walking a few paces behind the soldiers, head held high, expression unreadable. His uniform was too clean, too stiff, his boots polished to a shine that had never known dirt. His dark hair was neatly combed, his features sharp and proud—but there was something about his eyes. Something that didn’t match the rest.

Dorane knew how to read people. It was what kept him alive. And this boy— this boy didn’t fit. Dorane’s lips curled into a smirk. Was the boy some rich kid playing soldier?

Curious, Dorane decided to follow him. The boy fell behind the others, his eyes darting from the line to the market. Dorane’s lips twitched when he saw the boy’s shoulders relax as the last of the progression of soldiers crossed the bridge. He followed the soldier boy into the market. The boy stopped at a vendor’s stall, scanning the wares with a careful, almost too-neutral expression. The stall owner, a short, stocky man with deep red skin and tusk-like protrusions from his lower jaw, grinned widely.

“Something for the young officer?” the merchant asked, voice oily with practiced charm.

Dorane leaned casually against the next stall over, just within earshot. He could already tell—this kid wasn’t used to being talked to like that. He was used to commands, not conversations.

The soldier hesitated.

Dorane smirked and waved his hand at the food. “I didn’t think Legion brats ate food from places like this,” he said, loud enough to be heard. “Don’t they just inject nutrition slop straight into your veins?”

The boy’s sharp brown eyes flicked to Dorane’s, unreadable. He didn’t react right away, which made Dorane like him slightly more. Most kids in his position would have bristled, barked something back.

Instead, the boy turned back to the stall, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a few credits. “I’ll take two,” he said, his voice quiet but firm.

The merchant nodded and handed him a pair of wrapped pastries. The boy held one out to Dorane, who blinked at him in shock.

“Are you buying me off, Legion ?” he drawled.

“No,” the boy said simply. “I just don’t want to eat alone.”

Dorane snorted, taking the pastry from his hand. “That the official training manual response, or do you actually think that works?”

The boy tilted his head slightly. “It worked, didn’t it?”

Dorane’s smirk faltered. Alright, maybe this kid wasn’t as soft as he looked. Dorane took a defiant bite. “Fine,” he muttered around the mouthful. “But if it’s poisoned, I’ll haunt you.”

The boy didn’t smile, but something in his expression shifted. “Noted.” Dorane watched as the boy turned to the vendor who was watching their exchange with amusement and asked, “Is this poisoned?”

“No. It would be very bad for business if I killed all my customers,” the merchant chuckled.

“Thank you,” the boy responded before turning back to Dorane.

“Point taken,” Dorane reluctantly admitted.

“My name is Roan, by the way. I—Do you want to go somewhere—to talk?” Roan asked as they walked through the marketplace.

Dorane didn’t miss how Roan’s eyes kept scanning the crowd. He noticed that every time a Legion soldier came into view, the boy changed directions. Dorane had been in plenty of tight spots before, but sneaking away from a bunch of Legion guards with a high-ranking officer’s kid was a first.

“Sure. I’m Dorane LeGaugh,” he introduced.

“Follow me,” Roan murmured, changing directions again when a group of three soldiers came into sight.

Dorane caught on fast: this boy, Roan, was practiced at slipping away. He had no wasted movements, no hesitation as he wove them through the winding paths of the market. Dorane had to admit, he was impressed.

They crossed a narrow bridge, the wind tugging at their clothes as they stepped onto another floating island. This one was smaller, quieter. Trees with long, drooping leaves lined the edge, their roots twisting around jagged rock formations.

Roan followed a long, winding path as if he knew where he was going, and they emerged at an overlook where several low walls allowed visitors to sit and gaze out across the vast landscape. Dorane gulped when he saw the sea of floating islands. It was magical. Roan walked over and sat on the edge, looking out at the sky. Dorane hesitated, then plopped down beside him.

They sat in silence for several minutes, watching the massive moth-flyers glide between the cliffs. The creatures moved with lazy grace, their glowing wings illuminating the darkening sky.

Roan spoke first. “You don’t like the Legion.”

Dorane huffed a laugh. “Understatement of the year.”

Roan was quiet for a moment. “Why?”

Dorane turned to him, incredulous. “Are you serious? Your Legion took my planet, killed my parents, and threw me to the streets like garbage. You’re really asking me why I don't like the Legion?”

Roan’s hands curled into fists, a torrent of words behind his eyes and every line of his body, but the only words he gave were: “It wasn’t my choice.”

Dorane studied him, hearing what could have been a statement of defensiveness but instead was a startling glimpse of rage and helplessness. An invisible cage pressing down on the soldier boy’s shoulders. Dorane exhaled, shaking his head. “No. But you keep going back to them.”

Roan’s jaw tightened. “You think it’s that simple?”

Dorane shrugged. “I think you’re too good at avoiding Legion soldiers for a kid who’s supposed to be following orders. You choose to go back. Why?”

Roan didn’t answer. Instead, he watched the moth-flyers, his gaze distant.

Dorane leaned back on his elbows. “I can think of lots of reasons… but if you don’t wanna share, that’s fine. At least I got a shot at being free. What about you?”

Roan’s expression darkened.

“I don’t know,” Roan admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Dorane was silent before he playfully nudged Roan.

“Well, that’s a shitty way to live. You don’t have to if you don’t want to. You can always escape. If you decide you want to live the free life, let me know. I’ll show you all the ropes.”

For the first time, Roan smiled.

And in that moment, a friendship was forged in the brilliant light of Plateau, between the orphan and the soldier—the boy who refused to be caged and the boy who didn’t know if he’d ever be free.

It wasn’t until after they had parted ways that Dorane discovered the boy was none other than Roan Landais—son and nephew of two of the meanest, most ruthless men in the galaxy.

And it hadn’t changed a thing.

“Boss.”

Asta’s voice cut through his thoughts. Dorane turned from the windows in the sparsely furnished office on the upper level. Cold metal walls, minimalist furniture, and an expansive view of the moon base’s sprawling structure below were a long way away from that day eighteen years ago.

Asta stood near the central console, her yellow-green slit-pupiled eyes scanning the holographic screens flashing reports in rapid succession. The flickering glow reflected against her dark, dusky skin, accentuating the sharp angles of her face. She looked tense. Focused.

Jammer was at her side, arms crossed, his massive armored frame dwarfing the control panel as he scowled at the data scrolling across the displays.

Dorane’s gaze flickered between them. “Tell me.”

Asta didn’t hesitate. “There’s definitely been an attack on the Legion.”

That caught his attention.

Dorane stepped closer, watching the screens as Asta pulled up live surveillance footage from Tesla Terra’s airspace. A graveyard of destruction filled the display.

Legion Battle Cruisers—obliterated.

Debris—scattered across the void, tumbling lifelessly in Tesla Terra’s orbit. His salvagers were going to have a field day cleaning it up. That much debris would provide a lot of building material.

“Get the salvagers there,” he ordered.

Jammer chuckled. “Yeah, no sense in letting all of that just burn up in re-entry.”

Asta whistled under her breath and shook her head. “Would you get a look at that? Now there’s a sight for my poor eyes.”

Dorane exhaled slowly, his hazel eyes narrowing. The entire Legion fleet was retreating, battered and broken, but something… was off. This didn’t have the feel of a major Gallant/Legion attack. If it had been, the wreckage would have been a mixture of Gallant fighters and warships, not just the Legion.

His fingers danced over the holographic interface, enhancing the playback. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for until?—

There.

A flicker. A flash of movement in the chaos.

Dorane slowed the feed, adjusting the contrast, isolating the anomaly.

And then he saw it.

Amid the swirling wreckage, where fire and twisted metal rained like falling stars against a black canvas, a faint outline emerged. The telltale ripple of shields flashing against debris impact.

A ship. A shuttle.

One that shouldn’t have been there.

Dorane felt his pulse steady and his lips curved. He only knew of one person who could pull off this level of destruction and escape right under the Legion’s nose. The person would have to know what was on the ship and how to get on and off, and that would require intimate knowledge—very intimate knowledge—of the Legion’s military tactics and warships.

A slow laugh rumbled from his chest. He shook his head, pure admiration laced with amusement.

“Way to go, my friend,” he murmured, eyes locked on the phantom ship as it vanished into the void.

Asta’s ears twitched. “What?”

Dorane grinned, stepped back, and rolled his shoulders. Roan was alive.

Of course he was.

He shot Asta a knowing look.

“Just an old friend who is too mean to kill and too stubborn to die.”