About a week before Rusk felt life lighten, somewhere in the depths of the Nordos Starglider—hidden from view on the lowest deck behind a stack of crates—was a young man. Crouched, clutching his neck, his eyes wide with rage at the insufferable pain twisting through him, he trembled. Every muscle fiber around his throat strained as if trying to tear itself apart. Flaying, pulling, each near-rupture leaving bruised, bloodied blotches across his skin.

  ámon Pax writhed in agony.

  Kyyr tendrils slowly unfurled from his spine—black, yet bleeding an eerie blood-red glow. He bit into his own arm, teeth sinking deep into flesh as he stared into the dark corners of his self-made quarantine.

  It hurts. Father… Why does it hurt? Why am I suffering? I didn’t do anything wrong!

  Sweat seeped into his vision, stinging his eyes and blurring the world into a dim, watery smear. The tendrils twisted and reshaped, chitinous organic material erupting from his spine as sharp, jointed scales spread across each flexing limb.

  Why me? I have done nothing to deserve this.

  Like scorpion tails, the new tendrils writhed—shells splintering, joints cracking—before carving into the crates piled around him.

  He screamed. For how long, he couldn’t say. Time dissolved into raw agony. Eventually, he was found unconscious and rushed to the med bay. His thoughts were fog that day—stingingly confused, drifting in and out of shapeless delirium. The mild resentment he’d been building over the past few days warped under the barrage of shifting Kyyr. Highs of all-consuming rage collapsed into low, ghostlike quiet, leaving his presence so faint it was nearly gone.

  Father…

  Fragments of memory filtered through him. ámon Pax had always believed he was normal, destined for a life of little change and even less meaning. His earliest memories were of hollow starvation, dry tears, and ignorant sky-splintering fire.

  And now, there was only the icy coffin that had pinned him to this vile moon for the last 12 years of his life. He’d grown hopeless in everything but one—Lord Bayren. His father’s obsession had become his own. The breath of death tormented his dreams, and the only salvation he could ever imagine was the cold, consuming warmth at calamity’s end.

  I just need that warmth…that feeling. I need it. I need to prove myself. For Lord Bayren.

  The growths subsided, the pain settling into his skin like a tightening knot, exhaustion pulling him into a delirious haze between senses.

  Doctor Qi stood beside him as he lay on a mattress inside a padded room scarred with deep gashes. “Your Kyyr seems to be changing,” she said, scanning his vitals. “We’re not sure if you’re developing a secondary unique trait or if your current ability is evolving. Kyyr mutations are case-by-case developments; we understand very little about the exact science behind them.”

  She exhaled, glancing over her charts. “There is precedent for abnormalities developing in people who were returned from death by Lord Bayren. But it’s speculation on our part. With the Abelais Arcenais placing sanctions on related research, the little we know comes from esoteric data and rumors.” She met his tired gaze. “Thanks to your restraint, the Kyyr maxima rose and fell without severe complications. With practice, you should be able to control this new mutation. Just be careful. Avoid using it in combat until the pain stops—or at least until we know the pain isn’t a permanent side effect. Do you have any questions, Mr. Pax?”

  Pax looked down at his bandaged hands, feeling his Kyyr rise in slow, measured waves. “So this was… a blessing from Lord Bayren?”

  Dr. Qi hesitated, a shadow of concern in her eyes, but answered, “You could look at it like that.”

  Pax stared at his bandaged fingers. He narrowed his Kyyr, and a sharp pain shot through his hands as a chitinous claw ruptured out. “My Kyyr ability was categorized as Kyyramorphic before. It let me thicken my Kyyr, allowing me to manipulate my energy into shapes and armor around my body. But this…”

  “It’s become a xenomorphic ability,” Dr. Qi said calmly.

  Pax released the painful transformation, the chitinous shell dissipating into dust. “Dr. Qi… what do you think would happen if I transformed my whole body?”

  Dr. Qi gave him a stern look. “We’re unsure. But I wouldn’t recommend it—this new ability causes internal damage. Partial transformations should be within safe parameters. Still, I’d personally advise waiting a couple days until you receive your Kyyr Equation so you can better understand the pros and cons.”

  Pax took a slow breath. “Am I free to return to work?”

  “Yes, though higher management is placing you on basic maintenance and clean-up duties until your next check-up in a week.”

  Pax sighed, his eyes drifting up to the deep gashes torn into the protective foam above him. “Understood,” he said quietly. “I’ll see you then.”

  With no further questions, Pax left the facility—holding back something he hadn’t had the courage to share. Somewhere in the back of his mind, perhaps lodged in the subtle backbone of his subconscious. He could hear something.

  An echo.

  A voice.

  A lingering lament that pulsed weakly at the edges of his mind.

  A Threnody.

  Pax arrived in the common area of the Nordos Glider and let himself collapse onto the nearest couch, limbs heavy, breath unsteady. The overhead lights washed over him in a pale beam, too bright for his tired eyes, yet not bright enough to burn away the unease gnawing at him.

  It had been a rough couple of weeks—rougher than he’d like to admit.

  His demotion from personal guard to general guard bothered him to no end. His negligence during the Hy’Kyyrian attack had left him battered, both in body and pride. But nothing compared to the worst of it: that single, fleeting look of disapproval from Lord Bayren. A look that felt colder than death itself. If anything, it was a miracle he managed to hold on to his job thanks to his Kyyr ability.

  But what had really bothered him was the sudden hire of Rusk. In his eyes, Rusk was nothing more than a fleeting ghost in his memory. But for some unholy reason he’d intruded upon his fated place under Lord Bayren. His weak presence felt like an insult. How could someone so weak be deemed more worthy to guard the Lord’s children?

  He brushed his long hair back, trying to smooth both his appearance and the thoughts clawing at the edges of his mind.

  “I need a shower…” he mumbled.

  Pax went to bed early that night.

  It didn’t take long for him to slip into a well of memories, a hollow dream of remembrance, where he found himself back inside a cold, miserable, yet strangely nostalgic house. Little Hugo Pax on the floor beside a passed-out woman, his small frame curled next to the couch. His hazel eyes stared emotionlessly beyond a frosted window. The world was gray and frigid, dimmed by sparse, drifting snowfall.

  The woman shuddered, her breath turning to mist in the chill. But he wasn’t cold. Warmth clung to his mouth, a warm red substance dripping down his throat with each quiet swallow. The woman’s arm hung from the armrest, covered in patches; the only skin visible was the small area pierced by a deep syringe that slowly drained her of color. Little Hugo Pax finished drinking as he pulled the syringe from his mother’s arm and gently cleaned the wound with a rag before pressing a new patch on top.

  Hugo ámon Pax, at the age of 4, survived on blood.

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  Pax writhed in his bed as those wintry days returned to him—monotonous, bleak, yet somehow endless. But the dream shifted. Long tendrils slowly coiled around the child, but he didn’t react. The tendrils gently dragged him into a widening void, a cold hold wrapping around his small body. The sound of thrashing water tore through the darkness, each echo a shuddering reverberation. Ice and metal shrapnel crashed into him as he desperately held onto a hand.

  Rusk…

  He let go, without a drip of remorse as chitinous growths ruptured from his hands and tendrils. His body was slowly devoured by the growths, warping and expanding as he howled in agonizing pain. He dug his now claws into the ice, dragging himself forward toward the rising leviathan. His Kyyr surged as he lunged, forcing himself through the water and into the beast’s belly. His rupturing tendrils tore through thick fur and flesh as he writhed violently inside its guts, his form distorting further and further and—

  He opened his eyes at the sound of screaming as a flood of information slammed into him.

  He shot up from his nightmare, eyes wide as he scanned his room. His surroundings were mangled, metal walls caved in, his mattress shredded, his clothes torn, deep gashes layered all around the room.

  A strange sense of ease washed across his face as the echo of his Kyyr Equation began to reveal the solution to his new Kyyr ability.

  In the following days, Pax began testing his new Kyyr ability as he cleaned around the Nordos Starglider. His 5 senses sharpened drastically. He could see with more clarity than ever before. He could focus his hearing on the most subtle of vibrations. He could taste the air—subtle minerals, drifting breath, lingering oils—like a second, more nuanced sense of smell. And most impressive of all was his nose. With practice and determination, he learned to separate scents into distinct strands, letting him track individuals and objects throughout the entire Starglider.

  He also discovered he now possessed two sets of tendrils: his original ones—flexible, malleable, responsive— and the armored ones—stronger, sharper, but far less flexible, and with added negative effect that they hurt an incredible amount to use.

  After days of controlled practice, Pax adapted to his new biology at a startling rate. The overwhelming information of his new Kyyr was quickly distilled into focused controllable parameters.

  And then it happened.

  On a day like any other Pax drifted through the desolate halls of the Nordos Starglider, using his tendrils to expedite the rate at which he completed his cleaning duties. But as he rose higher and higher—closer to the upper bridge near Bayren’s hold—he caught a scent. A sweet, alluring smell.

  It hit him so suddenly that he dropped everything he was doing. His tendrils wrapped instinctively around his face as his jaw warped, reshaping into a snout to help him track the fluttering waves of air back to their source. He climbed stairways he had never dared approach before, walked down long, forbidden corridors he had never even imagined crossing, until he found himself standing before a large door.

  He released his Kyyr, steadying himself, and dug through his pocket for his keycard—only to stop. His newly sanctioned card would never open a door like this. He knew that far too well. So he pulled out his old keycard. The one he wasn’t supposed to have anymore.

  And prayed to the Symbols it still worked.

  And it did.

  The door opened with a smooth click, revealing a vast garden hidden within the Starglider. The sweet, flowery scent washed over him in a wave as he stepped inside. Above him stretched a synthetic sky painted with rolling white clouds, drifting lazily across a soft blue dome. All around, a sprawling landscape unfolded—fields of delicate blue flowers swaying gently in the artificial breeze. And far beyond them, seated on a luxurious pillowy hammock-chair that rocked ever so slightly in that fabricated wind, was a woman.

  A spark ignited behind Pax’s dulled eyes, burning away every other thought.

  Some would call this love at first sight...

  The woman had extremely long, flowing black hair that shimmered with a pinkish iridescence in the filtered light slipping past the massive tree above her. Her strawberry-pink eyes glimmered softly, and delicate moles adorned her face in the most graceful pattern. She wore a fluffy gown that swayed gently with the motion of her hammock-chair, each shift catching the light like a passing dream.

  Pax wobbled slowly toward her, his thoughts, for once, leaving behind any trace of Bayren or his father. He succumbed to the pull of his emotions, drifting toward the woman like a hummingbird drawn to a sweet blossom. As he reached her, he felt his breath catch. She was even more beautiful up close… an air of eerie familiarity swelling his spirit as he gazed upon her.

  Pax got lost in her beauty, his ragged breathing and hovering hands reaching out in self-absorbed plight, but the woman was unresponsive. Her eyes looking straight through him fixed on the fake horizon, as if trying to burn a hole straight through the nothingness. Those strawberry pink eyes though beautiful, were uncanny—dead—dull and jaded with misery and loss. She had given up on everything and everyone; she was nothing more than a lingering spirit.

  Pax cleared his throat and opened his mouth, but no words came out. His mind spiraling through possibilities, paths of dialogue, gestures, anything to to be noticed. A question, a salute, maybe even a simple hello. Yet nothing felt right. Instead, he stood there awkwardly, his palms sweating until he crumpled back stumbling. For all his training as a ranger, Pax was still a teenager at heart, trapped in the awkwardness of his age and driven by surging hormones his courage collapsed, and embarrassment burned through him to a suicidal degree as he turned and bolted from the room. He raced down the stairs, his mind overflowing with pillowy sweet venom that left no room for anything but thoughts of her. Who was she? Her name? Why was she there? A million questions filled his mind.

  ?????? ??? ???????

  A warbled thought crossed his mind, sudden and intrusive, as his foot caught on nothing tripping him on oxygen. He lurched forward and nearly fell face-first, his tendrils unfurling instinctively as he caught himself against the wall.

  That noise! Where did it come from?

  He looked around in confusion, searching for the source of the noise, but he was alone in the middle of a long hallway. His eyes darted wildly as he pushed himself back to his feet instincts screaming. Voices echoed from the nothing, drifting closer the sound of light giggles and laughter mingled with the irritated groan of a man. Pax stared down the hallway, and his eyes widened as Rusk and the twins appeared from around the corner.

  “Oh come on, Rusty! Will you join us, please? I’m gonna die of boredom if I don’t have someone to talk to!” Lamia complained as she hung from Rusk’s arm as he dragged himself forward.

  Mera nudged his shoulder too in protests as she also held onto his arm, forcing him to heave in annoyance as he marched down the hallway with both girls dangling from him.

  “Unless your sweet papi invites me himself, I’m going back down to the commons and having dinner with the rest of the crew,” Rusk said.

  “Uuuuugh!” Lamia groaned. “You’re sooo lame sometimes!”

  “Lame or cool, I’m foremost your caretaker, and no matter how attached you’ve grown, I can’t overstep my boundaries as your guard. Plus, I’ve got a date to plan for.” He smiled to himself.

  Pax stared at the three, a sharp annoyance spearing through the back of his head.

  ????? ?????

  He looked around in confusion, the sudden spike in his Kyyr drawing Rusk’s attention.

  “Pax?” Rusk called out.

  Pax glared at Rusk.

  Rusk slowed to a stop a little ways down the hallway, studying him with a puzzled frown. “Are you okay? Why are you so mad?”

  Pax's instinctively loosened his expression. “I… I thought I heard something,” Pax mumbled quietly.

  “What?” Rusk asked again, moving closer with the twins in tow. “Sorry, you were kinda far. What did you say?”

  “I thought I heard a strange noise,” Pax repeated quietly.

  “Ehh?” He leaned in and whispered, “You know, I’ve heard rumors that The Hover haunts old ORPA Starglider like this one.Maybe you heard a ghost.” He chuckled softly. “Ah, but don’t tell the kids. Lamia might laugh it off, but Mera would end up summoning me again to camp outside her door if she gets spooked. You know, right after they hired me, I had to sleep in the hallway because Mera was having nightmares. I didn’t really do much besides sit outside her door, but man… sleeping on the floor was killer on my back.”

  Lamia narrowed her eyes and tugged hard on Rusk’s arm. “Whatcha talkin’ about, Mr. Crust? Bragging about your new girlfriend~?” She puckered her lips and made exaggerated kissy noises.

  “Hey!” Rusk hissed, shaking his hand and intentionally swinging Lamia back and forth.

  Pax looked at Rusk with cold, flat eyes. “Best be careful with relationships. You have quiet the demanding job.” His voice was icy, and he walked past them without acknowledging either girl.

  The trio watched him disappear around a bend.

  Rusk frowned and lifted his arm, Lamia still clinging to it and looking dizzy. “I told you not to tell him!”

  Lamia blinked, still a little dazed, and tightened her grip. “S-sowwy… P–please put me down.”

  Rusk sighed and lowered her to the floor. Then he glanced at Mera. “You still wanna hold on, Mera?”

  Mera nodded silently, her small arms and legs wrapped around him like a koala.

  “Alright,” Rusk said as he continued walking, Lamia trailing beside him and Mera still attached to his arm.

  Pax rushed down a flight of stairs, a rippling anger bubbling within him. He forced himself to take a long breath, steadying the flare in his chest. His thoughts drifted back to the woman he had seen, her image blooming across his mind and dulling the edge of his frustration. Lost in her beauty, he slipped back into his cleaning duties as if on instinct alone.

  I can’t wait to see her again. Next time we’ll talk. We have to. Maybe she’ll let me brush her hair—why does that thought feel so real already? I don’t even know her name.