Chapter 13 - Please Stay With Me II

  Henryk

  Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t.

  Yeah, he wasn’t going to be speaking to Piper again. That much was guaranteed. Hell, not just for a minute—forever. He’d made sure of that. He called a Neo-Uber for her, used her phone to call Margaret, and told the driver to take her away. No goodbyes, no second chances. Just a clean break.

  The rest of the afternoon had been a slow-motion disaster, him cleaning up the wreckage of his last hours with Piper. Damn it. His last day, and this was how he chose to spend it?

  Selfish. Idiot. Monster. Killer.

  No wonder Sirine wanted nothing to do with him.

  He stood now, hands locked around the iron bars that separated him from the grand steel mansion ahead. Before, Sirine had come to him, and for a moment, it had felt good—righteous, even. He had saved her.

  But now...

  “A shame you got here so late,” came a voice from the darkness.

  Henryk stiffened. The man was dressed in a crisp black tuxedo, white gloves stark against the night. A thick, gray mustache curled above his lips, and a polished helmet sat atop his head, shadowing his eyes.

  Strange. Even Henryk’s magic couldn’t see through that darkness.

  “Hello?” Henryk called, gripping the bars tighter. His duffel bag rested at his feet. “Look, I just need you to pass a message to Sirine.”

  The man turned, dipping slightly into the booth. “I shall not.”

  Henryk’s breath hitched. “Please. I saved her. I should’ve told her a long time ago, but I—” He swallowed, feeling his throat tighten. “I just—”

  “Whatever you have to say, young man, if you’re not willing to fight for her—if you’re so ready to run away and leave all this behind—why should I even bother?”

  The words landed like a fist to the gut. Henryk’s back slouched, his gaze drifting from the perfect, gleaming asphalt to the shadowed figure behind the dim window.

  “What did you say?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

  “You heard me, boy.” The old man’s voice was unwavering, like a judge handing down a verdict. “I’ve known that girl since she was born. And here, in this world, we fight for what we want. There is purity in strength. Even the Headmaster favored you… despite your mutation. Because you saved his daughter. Twice.”

  Henryk’s eyes widened. “He knows?”

  The man said nothing.

  Henryk let out a bitter, disbelieving laugh. “Unbelievable. One minute, it’s all about being civil, democratic. The next, it’s feudal law. A damn trial by combat.” His voice cracked, frustration boiling over. “I—” He faltered. Say it. Say what you came to say. “I just… I just wanted to tell Sirine that I was sorry.”

  The old man exhaled, a slow, measured thing. “And what would that sorry accomplish?”

  Henryk clenched his fists.

  “You want something from that girl,” the old man continued. “Maybe it’s guilt. Maybe you think she holds your absolution. But you saved her. And now, you choose to leave. If you truly desire a conversation… then fight for her hand.”

  “I can’t!” Henryk’s shout tore through the night, raw and desperate. He thrashed against the bars, the metal rattling under his grip. “Doesn’t everyone get it? I’m just a fool!”

  The old man said nothing at first. Silence stretched between them, heavy as a burial shroud. Then, finally, his voice came—low, deliberate.

  “No.”

  Henryk stilled.

  “You’re young. And idiotic. But I’ve been around a long time.” The old man exhaled, the sound slow and measured, like wind slipping through dead leaves. “You don’t just want to say goodbye. I see it in you. You’ve always got to be the savior, the protector. But tell me… do they need your protecting?”

  Henryk’s breath caught. His fingers loosened against the bars. “W-what do you mean by that?”

  The old man didn’t answer right away. Another sigh, this one heavier.

  “Jace of House Venus. Logan of House Neptune. Two champions. Two men who would have stood beside you, against you, for Sirine’s hand. You know their names.” A pause. “And so does the Headmaster. Do you really believe, out of all the suitors, he chose you because you were the one who could protect her?”

  Henryk swallowed, his voice quieter now. “The one who would protect her…”

  “No.” The old man’s voice carried weight, like a hammer striking an anvil. “The one who would truly love her.”

  The words hit harder than they should have. Henryk found himself staring at the dimmed-out window of the booth, as if searching for something beyond the glass.

  “There are… strange rumors about those two men.” The old man’s voice dipped lower. “And these times, with the Eunuch Emperor…”

  Henryk’s brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”

  A slow shake of the head. “You wouldn’t know. Not from your backwater world.”

  “The Sons of Mars use that term all the time,” Henryk muttered. “But I’ve never heard it from anyone outside their circles.”

  “It’s to be expected. A lot of worlds along the backways have zealots loyal to the Emperor, especially when things get… constrained.”

  Henryk stiffened. “Constrained.”

  “Are you familiar with the ARC Cores?”

  Henryk hesitated. He’d read about them. History books, mostly. His gaze lifted toward the night sky, scattered with cold stars. Damn. If he stood here talking much longer, he might miss his only way back home. But still, something in the old man’s voice kept him rooted. Maybe, just maybe, he could stall long enough. Maybe Sirine would come.

  But then, beneath all of it, there was that whisper—Iman. Piper. Sirine.

  Why did he always have to be the protector? The savior?

  His mother. His little sisters. Even as a boy, he had carried that weight, had stepped into the role without question. Why?

  Was it nature? Or something else? Something deeper?

  “Of course, I’m familiar,” Henryk murmured. His voice was low now, careful. “The ARC Cores were one of the only reasons we had a fighting chance in the Xeno Wars, back when bipedal mechs were still in their infancy.”

  The old man gave a small, approving hum. “Good. But do you know why they were special?”

  Henryk hesitated.

  A chuckle. “They were magic,” the old man said. “Damn near supernatural. Recovered two hundred years ago, just as humanity was staring extinction in the face. Some of them are lost now. The Martian core—destroyed. But the Emperor’s ARC…”

  His voice dropped to a whisper.

  “That one, Henryk… that one lights the universe.”

  Henryk was silent. His breath hung in the cold air.

  “Lights the universe?” he repeated, barely above a whisper.

  “Yes,” the old man murmured, voice steady. “Lights the universe.”

  A pause. The night stretched wide and empty between them.

  “The Emperor,” the old man continued, “or the Eunuch Emperor, as the rebels like to call him. They believe another Empress exists. A child born of the younger brother’s seed. And many would rather see an Empress rise, one who can wield the ARC as a man can, than to let the bloodline die.”

  Henryk swallowed. A chill traced his spine. “And if the line dies?” His voice wavered despite himself.

  The old man let out a slow breath. “That, young Henryk, is the problem we all face. Look up.”

  Henryk did. Slowly, hesitantly. The sky sprawled above him, infinite and cold, pinpricked with light.

  “Some of those stars,” the old man murmured, “planets, moving lights—you know them. Asteroids. Ships. But some of them?” A pause. “Dead zones. Black voids in the sea of light.”

  Henryk narrowed his gaze.

  “For decades, we’ve used the Emperor’s ARC to chart the empire’s spread. Every ten years, dozens of worlds are mapped, claimed, ruled by the Core Worlds. But only those of the blood—those who first stepped into the cockpit at the dawn of war—can wield that power.” The old man’s voice hardened. “That is how the royal family took control.”

  “The path of the universe,” Henryk muttered. He had learned this. Abridged, watered-down history, taught between more basic subjects back home. But here? Here, knowledge stretched deeper, the seams of power more exposed.

  Maybe he really was the dumb country hick after all.

  “With that power,” he murmured, his gaze locking onto the dim glass of the security booth, “a man could carve out an empire. Planets handed out like scraps from a table… if every ten years—”

  “It isn’t foolproof,” the old man interrupted. “Sometimes it’s a sector’s worth of planets. Sometimes, nothing but dead zones.” His voice darkened. “Do you understand now? Everyone here has chosen a side. Even the Headmaster hesitates. The Academy produces heroes, and whoever this planet aligns with… they’ll have an army. A war machine. And the parents? They will not betray their children.”

  Henryk swallowed hard. “I-I…” He faltered.

  “That is why Sirine needs a strong husband,” the old man pressed. “Feudal. A Knight of Mars.” He snorted. “A princess and her knight. It would’ve been perfect. But you’re afraid, aren’t you?” His voice turned dismissive. “Go home, boy. I see it in you. If you can’t face the music, what’s the point?”

  Henryk stood there, motionless, the words hitting him like hammer blows to the ribs. He leaned his forehead against the bars, the cold metal biting into his skin. His breath came sharp, ragged, and when the wind picked up, he realized—too late—there were tears slipping down his face.

  He took a step back. Then another.

  His gaze lifted, drawn to the steel-plated house, pipes running along the windows like veins. And there—standing behind the glass—was Sirine.

  Her white hair drifted in soft waves over her shoulders. Her hands rested in her lap. And her eyes—those cold, piercing eyes—stared right through him. No anger. No sorrow. Just stillness.

  Like he was nothing. Like he was trash on the floor. Something to be swept away and forgotten.

  She wouldn’t understand. She wouldn’t understand what it was like to kill. To watch people die in front of you. To bear the weight of choices that tore you apart. She wouldn’t understand that he had sisters waiting for him, a mother who needed him back home.

  The Sons of Mars didn’t understand either. They called it feudalism. Strength. Honor. Bullshit.

  And yet…

  Stay.

  The word slithered through his mind, whispered in the voice of something dark, something greedy. Stay, and you could be king of worlds.

  The power. The wealth. The pride of his colony. Sirine. Iman. Piper.

  Everything. All of it.

  It stirred in him like hunger, a deep, gnawing thing. A beast curled in his ribs, whispering of gold and glory, of hands reaching for him, soft and wanting, of thrones carved from iron and blood.

  But then—

  His mother’s voice. His sisters’ laughter.

  A phantom sound, carried by the wind, slipping between the cracks in his armor. It cut through the hunger, through the wanting, through the greed that slithered in his gut like a sickness.

  He could take it all. He could be a god.

  But he wasn’t a god.

  He was Henryk. His father’s son, he was a man…like his father, nothing more, and that was okay.

  Being human was a good thing.

  And he walked away.

  Piper

  “This is the drunkest I’ve ever seen you…” Margaret’s voice cut through Piper’s haze, sharp but laced with concern. “I always thought you were the smartest person in the room.”

  A motherly chide, soft but firm. Piper barely registered it.

  She kept her head low. The sun hung heavy in the sky, teetering toward dusk, and the world around her blurred at the edges. Snickers, murmured jokes, side-eye glances—her peers and comrades passed by, fresh from their shifts, their classes, their lives that weren’t currently spiraling into the gutter.

  “Yo, Pipes, you good?” A voice, vaguely familiar, drifted from somewhere to her right.

  Her head lifted—barely. It felt like someone had tied a brick to her neck. Hell, her whole body felt like it was sinking, weighted down by exhaustion, alcohol, and something uglier she didn’t want to name.

  Through the thick, slurring fog of her thoughts, Marcus and Iman pushed through the crowd. Their faces were expectant, maybe a little amused, maybe a little concerned.

  Piper sneered. This was pathetic. She was pathetic. Somewhere along the way, she had lost a shoe—or had she left it at Henryk’s?

  The thought slammed into her like a punch to the ribs. Henryk.

  She wanted to slap herself across the face, shake herself out of this mess, but there were too many people watching. So, she settled for dragging a palm over her face instead, half-aware of how sweaty she felt.

  “Shit, Pipes,” Iman said, coming up beside Marcus, a grin splitting her face—too big, too knowing. “I’m sure it’s ten o’clock on a Friday somewhere in the universe.”

  Piper sneered. “Nice to know you’re back, Iman. How was your little excursion?”

  Iman shrugged, that same devil-may-care grin plastered on her face. She wrapped her arms around herself, the picture of a woman who knew something no one else did. “So, what’s all this about?”

  Another voice cut in.

  Zephyr stepped into the main entrance of House Mercury, his presence drawing a shift in the air.

  Marcus tensed. Margaret, standing beside him, caught the look in his eyes and smiled instinctively. He’s gonna get us out of this.

  Or at least, he would have—

  If Piper hadn’t opened her goddamn mouth.

  “Oh, fantastic. Just the person I wanted to see,” she said, voice dripping with venom.

  She moved. Too fast for a drunk woman. One second she was slumped, the next she was rising, rolling her shoulders, body coiled like a spring.

  Zephyr raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Really?”

  He took a step closer, the sharp scent of alcohol hitting him like a slap. He exhaled, slow and measured, as his eyes swept over her.

  “Christ, Piper, you’re a damn lieutenant,” he muttered. “I don’t care if you drink yourself stupid, but you should’ve at least—”

  Crack.

  Piper’s fist met his face.

  For a heartbeat, everything hung suspended.

  Marcus and Margaret’s mouths fell open, frozen in mid-shout. The gathered crowd recoiled. Sarah and Anderson, standing off to the side, were caught between horror and awe.

  And Iman—

  Iman was grinning.

  “Fuck you, Zephyr,” she murmured under her breath, as if savoring the moment.

  Zephyr staggered back, a curse half-formed on his lips, shock flashing in his eyes.

  He was young—twenty-one, maybe twenty-five at most—but softer than he used to be. Too many hours behind a desk, too many meals eaten sitting down instead of burned off in the cockpit.

  Piper, though—Piper was a pilot.

  A soldier.

  A woman who had to be at her peak, always, because the enemies she fought weren’t just other humans. They were things, alien and relentless. Things that didn’t care that she was nineteen. Things that would tear her apart if she faltered for even a second.

  Zephyr hit the ground first, the air driven from his lungs in a stunned gasp. His left hand shot up, cupping his cheek, his fingers trembling against the burning sting. “P-Piper, what the—”

  It wasn’t just the pain. It wasn’t just the shock. It wasn’t even Piper.

  It was the laughter.

  Not at her, the stumbling drunk who’d just sucker-punched him in front of half the House.

  At him.

  The first-years. The seniors. The veterans. Every single one of them watching, some whispering, some smirking, some outright chuckling at him, Zephyr, the officer who just got laid out in front of his own goddamn people.

  Piper took a step forward, her eyes burning—two mismatched flames of fury and drunken rage. “This is all your fault.” Her voice was a low murmur, slurred but venomous, a snake coiling to strike again.

  Zephyr blinked, once, twice. His fingers twitched against his bruising cheek.

  Then his jaw clenched.

  “Marcus, get them out of here. Now.” His voice had changed, stripped of its usual exasperation, sharpened into something final.

  Marcus stiffened. His gaze darted from Zephyr to Piper, then back again. He swallowed and nodded.

  Margaret, too, had read the shift in the air. She bent down to help Marcus, but Piper’s lips curled, her words laced with resentment. “Go on, help Marcus, then—”

  But before Margaret could move,

  “Iman,” Zephyr said, voice low, edged with something close to a warning. “I’m not asking you.”

  Iman smiled. Wider than before. Her arms folded lazily across her chest. “Nah,” she murmured, tilting her head, eyes glinting. “I got a boot to pick with you, Zephyr.”

  A pause.

  She gestured ahead, casual as a queen ordering a peasant to kneel.

  “Lead the way. We don’t have all day.”

  A few minutes. A silent, tension-soaked walk. An awkward climb up the stairwell.

  Zephyr, Piper, and Iman stepped into the office.

  “Door open or closed?” Iman asked, her voice dripping with amusement.

  “Shut that shit. Now.” Zephyr wasn’t even looking at them.

  Iman kicked it shut.

  “Sit down,” he ordered.

  Iman turned to Piper, flashing a look that all but screamed, He’s fucking pissed.

  Piper barely acknowledged it. “I think we’d prefer standing.”

  “Sit the fuck down.”

  The words cracked like a gunshot.

  Piper, for all her drunken bravado, obeyed on instinct, her body moving before her mind caught up. She slumped into the chair, arms crossed, eyes deadlocked on Zephyr. Iman, however, remained standing, leaning lightly against the table, looking far too entertained.

  Zephyr paced, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides.

  “I should have you kicked out for hitting me,” he said, voice low, sharp.

  Piper didn’t respond.

  He slammed a fist against his own temple, sudden and violent. The sound was sickening. Both women flinched.

  “The fuck is wrong with you?!” he roared, pacing faster now. “You’re drunk as shit, you reek of alcohol, and you think this is a good look? I just promoted you. Ensign to Acting First Lieutenant. I gave you access to command—and you didn’t even last a single goddamn day before you blew it.”

  Piper exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down her face.

  “Listen, Zephyr,” she muttered, voice suddenly quieter, heavier. “I was angry. I shouldn’t have hit you, but…”

  Her fists clenched in her lap.

  “But what?” he spat.

  She lifted her head, glared at him.

  “But if you let Henryk into this House after he won the duel, after the terms were set…” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed down the bile rising in her throat. “A deal was a deal, and now House Mars has taken him. And now he’s leaving because of how—”

  Her words faltered, but the rage didn’t. It burned hot in her throat, laced every syllable with something bitter, something that hurt.

  Zephyr let out a long, ragged breath, his hands dragging down his face before he slumped into his chair.

  “Piper,” he muttered through his fingers, “are you fucking kidding me?”

  He dropped his hands, eyes sharp, disbelieving.

  “Are you really blaming me for Henryk?”

  Silence.

  Piper said nothing.

  Neither did Iman.

  But Zephyr saw something in her. Something unreadable. Calculating. Watching.

  He exhaled again, slow and measured, barely biting down the frustration bubbling inside him.

  His jaw tensed.

  She’d punched him hard enough to rattle his damn teeth.

  And she was barely even looking at him.

  Zephyr exhaled slowly, his fingers massaging his temple before he dropped his hands, revealing that calculating, detached expression Piper knew too well. His bruise was fresh, an angry red blooming across his cheek, but he was already past it. Already dissecting the situation like a puzzle to be solved.

  “Henryk Brown was never going to join House Mercury after that duel,” he said. His voice had smoothed out, the anger buried under layers of cold logic. “Duel or not, he maimed you. And let’s not forget the accusations—attempted rape of House Pluto’s president’s sister?” He let the words linger like a bad taste.

  Piper sneered. “Those rumors are ancient history.”

  Zephyr scoffed. “Really? Because last I checked, Neptune and Venus still have an axe to grind over Henryk. He’s damn lucky their daddies didn’t get involved.” He leaned back, smirking as he turned toward Iman. “Iman, you’re banned from the entire Jupiter System, right?”

  Iman rolled her eyes. “They’ve got, what, a dozen planets? I’m not missing much.”

  Stolen story; please report.

  Zephyr kept going. “But you can’t set foot on their worlds. No passport, no citizenship, no—”

  Iman’s expression soured. “Yeah, yeah, I get it.” She scoffed. “Not like I’m losing sleep over those lunatics. They’d probably strap me to a table, drain my blood, toss it in a vat, and cook up a magical girl or some shit. No thank you.”

  Zephyr nodded as if proving a point before he turned back to Piper. “Your boyfriend made the right call in leaving.”

  Piper’s fist slammed down on his desk, the impact rattling everything on it. She leaned in, her breath hot with fury. “Say that again.”

  Zephyr didn’t flinch. He only narrowed his eyes. “I—I don’t know if this is just the whiskey talking, but Piper, I can tell that you—”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  She straightened abruptly, her whole body radiating barely restrained violence.

  Silence hung thick in the air.

  Zephyr stared. Iman, arms crossed, tilted her head slightly. “Such anger,” she murmured. But then, almost as if to herself, she added, “But something more.”

  Zephyr didn’t blink. His voice remained calm, almost clinical. “Henryk Brown left because the whole world was against him. There was nothing I could’ve done to fix that. If he’d come earlier? Maybe. I would’ve let him in. But Henryk shined too bright, and too many people were watching, waiting for him to fuck up. Logan of Neptune, Jace of House Venus, Gerald of House Pluto… They all had eyes on him. And when he finally had the world in his hands, he still managed to let it slip through his fingers.”

  Piper’s face burned red, but Iman—Iman looked pensive.

  “So this is what happened to Henryk?” she said, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

  Zephyr hesitated. “You were on a mission when—”

  “Yes. With Clive,” Iman said, the name carrying weight.

  “Clive?” Piper’s head snapped toward Zephyr, her eyes blazing. “You sent Iman and the 34th to assist fucking Clive?”

  Zephyr barely had time to react before Piper lunged, her hands fisting in his collar, ready to send both him and the desk flying. It took Iman’s full strength to hold her back, her feet skidding as she grappled with Piper’s rage.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Zephyr bellowed.

  Zephyr's breath was sharp and forced as Piper spun around to face Iman, her body coiled tight, muscles trembling with the weight of unspent rage. Her voice came out like a whip, cracking through the still air. “Me, the fuck is wrong with you!” She shoved herself off Iman, the shove harder than it needed to be, like a spark looking for a fuse.

  Iman’s eyes widened, taking a half-step back. “Okay, now with me…” Her voice dropped low, controlled, but the tension bled through. “You better be careful where you place your hands.”

  “Oh really?” Piper scoffed, the sarcasm sharp on her tongue. “You really wanna do this?”

  Iman’s narrowed gaze held steady, her lips twitching, a smile battling the corners of her mouth. “No, Piper. But… I agree with you.”

  The air in the room thickened. Piper hesitated, her fist still cocked, and she let out a low, humorless laugh. “I always wonder,” she began, her eyes narrowing, voice taking on a more dangerous edge. “Have you always been this cheeky and sarcastic? Or is it just when Henryk comes into the picture? Nice to know you’ve got your allies with Clive.”

  Iman’s eyes went wide, but she wasn’t backing down. “Okay, what the hell did I do?” Her gaze bounced between Piper and Zephyr, the frustration beginning to boil. “Zephyr, explain yourself!” she snapped, her voice high with an edge of desperation. But something shifted in her chest then. A feeling. A pulse that hit her like a rush of blood to the head. Her body slackened, her teeth gritting as she slowly hunched forward, eyes darting to the side.

  “An animal approaches…” Iman whispered under her breath, her green eyes flickering to the side, caught in some invisible, pressing force.

  Then, from the corner of the room, a voice, cold and unnatural, slipped into the conversation. “Zephyr sent me to deal with pests on the backwater worlds. Iman was… excellent support.”

  Clive. The name dripped like oil from the air.

  The man who stepped into view was human, or so it seemed. He was unnaturally tall, his limbs stretched and elongated, hands like pale branches reaching out. His face, though, something about it made the room feel too tight. His eyes were sunken, hollowed-out black pits, as though the life within him had been drained and replaced with something else. The crystalline yellow hair that framed his face caught the light in odd ways, giving him an ethereal, eerie glow.

  Piper’s hand shot up instinctively to wipe the sweat from her brow, but her eyes stayed locked on him. The more she stared, the more he seemed to move—like the shadows themselves were trying to swallow him whole.

  But it wasn’t Iman who noticed it first. No, it was Clive. And he was looking at them like a man watching an old movie play out in front of him.

  “Clive,” Zephyr murmured, his voice lower than usual, the edge of something unfamiliar in it. He wiped the sweat from his brow with an uncomfortable shift of his shoulders, leaning back slightly. “It’s good to see you after your mission…” His voice faltered, as if uncertain, unsure. “I hope you… I hope you’ve been enjoying your time back.”

  Clive sank into a chair with a slow, deliberate grace, his limbs too long for the space, his posture odd. He rested his pale chin on his hand, freshly shaven skin shining with an unnatural smoothness. “It was honestly a bore. Iman could tell you…” His lips curled into something too wide, too unsettling.

  Iman’s eyes flickered toward him, a sudden recognition flashing in her expression. But she slowly shook her head, swallowing hard as she spoke. “Dealing with raiders and bandits is one thing. But Jacen’s Pirates… They’re growing. They’ve been a problem for years and—”

  Clive sneered, the corner of his mouth pulling back unnaturally. “We should’ve just gotten the president to authorize a firebomb on them and their slave worlds. Better to let them burn than belong to the enemy…” His voice was cold, like stone. Unfeeling.

  And then, the room fell silent. The words hung, dead air pressing into every corner, stifling any sound. No one moved. No one breathed. Not even Iman, who had seen much in her days, could shake the shiver that ran down her spine. Clive was too still. Too… something else. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

  Clive sighed, his voice returning to its unsettling calm. “Now, what’s this about Henryk?” He chuckled softly, but it was the kind of chuckle that didn't quite reach the eyes. That hollow laugh.

  Iman and Piper were both stunned into silence, but Zephyr… Zephyr was quiet, his eyes narrowing, as though seeing something hidden behind Clive’s expression. A thought clicked into place, something he hadn’t expected to find. He hadn’t thought Clive would return like this.

  Later, in the solitude of Zephyr’s office, the quiet was thick, the only sound being the crackling of a fire, the glow flickering in the darkened room. Clive sat sprawled in a chair, his hands resting in strange angles, fingers twisted in ways that made Zephyr’s stomach churn slightly.

  Zephyr poured the tea, his hands trembling as he poured it into Clive’s cup, though he tried to hide it. “I didn’t think you’d have a taste for this sort of stuff,” he remarked, his voice forced casual, but the weight of something unspoken hung between them.

  Clive chuckled low, the sound of it too dry, too empty. “How so?” he asked, his voice almost mocking, as though he found the question more amusing than anything.

  Zephyr waved it off, but it was clear he was trying to shake off the unease. “Enough of that,” he muttered, his hand shaking slightly as he set the teapot down. But when he smiled, it was wide, far too wide, and the rows of teeth seemed too sharp for a smile that should belong to anyone human. “I’ve heard rumors. About Simon—the turncoat. He issued a duel against me.”

  Zephyr’s face shifted, a flash of panic crossing his features before he quickly masked it with a cough. His hand went to the back of his neck, a nervous gesture that didn’t feel like Zephyr. “Oh… that,” he chuckled weakly. “Piper handled the whole thing, it was months ago when you were…”

  Clive’s lips curled into a sneer, and the smile widened. “She fubered the whole thing.” His voice dropped, too sweet, too dark. “I gave him a lesson with his girlfriend. And now? He wants more.” He chuckled, deep and guttural. “I’ll give them both a lesson they won’t forget.”

  “Clive, there can’t be any more incidents,” Zephyr said, his voice low, a hint of something dark lurking beneath the calm. His hand came to his face, fingers pressed hard against his temples as if he could push away the weight of it all. “I’ve covered for you before. Hell, I covered for you when the first years were locked in the basement. I took the fall then. But this—this needs to stop. All I need from you is to go back and finish a couple more missions. No more.”

  Clive rolled his eyes, the movement slow, exaggerated, a smirk tugging at his lips. “It’s always one more mission, isn’t it? When is it enough?”

  Zephyr’s breath hitched, a tremor running through his body. He hadn’t expected to speak it, hadn’t prepared for it, but it spilled out like blood from an open wound. “Enough…” His voice grew sterner, the words harder now, like he’d finally found the courage he didn’t know he had. “Enough is when you’ve repaid the lives and people you’ve hurt. I don’t know who’s pulling the strings for you to be here, but I won’t have you hurting anyone else. Not on my watch.”

  Zephyr stood, his chair scraping against the floor, the room feeling smaller with each passing second. He moved with the calm purpose of a man who had just made up his mind. He reached into his side pocket, drew out a folded piece of paper, and handed it to Clive.

  Clive glanced at it, then stuffed it into his pocket without another word. “What is this?” he asked, though his tone was more casual, too casual.

  “Your new mission,” Zephyr said, his voice thick with a mix of frustration and something deeper. “There are rumors about The GrimGar in the backwater sectors. The Mercurian Government wants a proper confirmation.”

  Clive’s laughter broke the tension like a knife cutting through cloth. He raised an eyebrow, an unsettling grin spreading across his face. “Okay. Who am I allowed to take? Which battalion?”

  Zephyr opened his mouth to speak, but Clive raised a hand to silence him. “And Zephyr, I’ve been through hell with Iman and her ‘bloody 34th’,” he sneered, the mockery in his voice biting at every syllable. “All that comradery and brotherhood. Honestly, I want my old guys back. They’ve probably missed me. Been waiting for a chance to let loose.”

  Zephyr’s face darkened, his jaw tightening. “They’ve been under lock and key ever since the whole incident with Emma. Christ, Clive, you could’ve killed her.”

  Clive shrugged, his expression cold, almost bored. “But I didn’t.”

  “Yeah, but you still hurt her.” Zephyr’s voice cracked under the weight of it. “You hurt a lot of people. And for what? Because they’re not ‘your people’? Because they don’t look like you or talk like you?”

  Clive stood slowly, his eyes flashing with something dangerous. He wasn’t done yet. “Looks like Simon and his whore of a girlfriend get to breathe another day. Every day’s a gift, right? But when I come back, Zephyr…” His voice dropped to a whisper that felt like it would cut through the air like a blade. “When I come back, I’ll have more breathing room. We’re all going to have a lot of fun.”

  The door clicked shut behind him, and Zephyr just stared at it, his breath shallow. A moment passed—two, then five—but the silence only pressed harder. He had been expecting Clive to come back in. Just for a minute. But the tenth minute stretched on, and Zephyr sank into his chair.

  The bruise from Piper’s slap still burned, but it was the gnawing feeling in his chest that felt like it might tear him apart. He could still hear their voices, like echoes in the void. Piper’s. Iman’s.

  “Henryk Brown, you are truly an anomaly,” Zephyr muttered to himself, his words a dry rasp. He stood again, his legs unsteady as he reached for the bottle of gin beneath his desk. A glass in hand, he poured himself a drink, the liquid sloshing out in uneven waves, as if even the alcohol knew how badly he needed to drown something.

  “Backwater boy with adventure in his eyes and glory,” he said with a dark laugh, eyes glassy as he turned to look out the window. The stars shimmered beyond the fog, beautiful, almost serene, but Zephyr saw none of it. He saw Piper’s words, felt them like a slap across the face.

  “Damn it… we would’ve made enemies of House Venus and House Neptune. They don’t get it, they never saw a House Execution before. They don’t know what it’s like being the last person standing, watching the people you’ve known for years get cut down… like animals!”

  Zephyr’s voice rose, the words tumbling out of him, raw and jagged. The glass cracked in his grip, blood trickling down his wrist as he stared at what he’d done in shock. The pain felt distant, like it belonged to someone else.

  Tears welled in his eyes, slipping down his face, falling silently onto the desk in front of him. His hands shook as he curled into himself, slumping back into his chair.

  “I am really fucked up.”

  Logan

  Stella’s long black hair was tied back in a simple ponytail, the strands brushing against the collar of her white dress shirt. Her icy blue eyes, cold and calculating, were locked on the desk before her, her hands clasped tightly together. Logan of Neptune sat opposite her, his legs casually propped up, looking far too comfortable for someone whose presence should’ve been more imposing.

  “Logan, can you be honest with me?” she asked, her voice quiet but edged with something sharper.

  “Of course, you’re the president after all,” Logan said, his tone light, dismissive even, as though it were just another routine conversation. He was never one for seriousness, and it always irked her.

  Stella’s gaze lingered on him for a moment, her eyes softening, as if the warmth of the fire that flickered at the far side of the room could somehow melt the chill she carried inside. It wasn’t warmth she needed, though—no, what she needed was a truth she hadn’t heard in far too long.

  “Am I? Am I really?” she muttered, more to herself than him, as the question lingered in the air.

  Logan didn’t respond immediately, his gaze shifting to the rain that began to pelt the windows, the steady rhythm of the droplets somehow making everything feel more somber, more serious than it was meant to be. His eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

  “We may have modernized, but people still listen to those with ARC bloodlines flowing through them,” she continued, the words coming out slow and heavy, as if each one weighed a hundred pounds.

  Logan sat in silence, his eyes scanning the rain but never fully meeting her gaze. Finally, his lips curled into a soft, almost mocking smile. “This whole duel—Henryk got involved.”

  Stella frowned. The name hit her like a slap, and the discomfort gnawed at her stomach. “Yeah, we nearly got lucky getting that mutant hick out of here,” Logan snickered, amusement tinging his words.

  Stella’s gaze turned hard. She hadn’t expected this response, not from him. Not this dismissive, casual attitude toward something so important. “Why do you care so much?” she asked, her voice sharp, cutting through the silence.

  The room went deathly still. Logan didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

  But Stella wasn’t done. “Logan, you did not get involved in this duel. That’s unlike you,” she said, her tone now rising in a challenge, a push that begged for an answer.

  Logan shifted in his seat, his posture shifting just slightly as though he were trying to get comfortable, but his voice came out slow and guarded. “Jaicob’s got a personal score to settle with the Martians.”

  Stella’s eyes narrowed. A dark understanding flickered in her gaze. “Ah, so there was a calling for blood last night,” she remarked, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

  Logan went quiet again, the words hanging between them like smoke. He exhaled sharply, his arms wrapping around himself, as if he needed to shield something, to hold himself together. “Stella, are you trying to say something?” he asked, a sharpness creeping into his voice that she hadn’t expected.

  “Am I?” she snapped, eyes narrowing into slits as the tension in the room thickened. She leaned forward, her fingers drumming against the desk. “I know you, Logan. I’ve known you and your brother for years. And there’s one thing I know about the Neptune brothers…”

  Logan raised an eyebrow, the smirk never leaving his face, though something in his eyes warned her that he knew what was coming. “And what’s that?”

  Stella’s eyes bored into him. “Your pride and ego hold no bounds.” The words were spat, venom laced in each syllable. She pointed at him, her voice rising. “You would’ve savored fighting Piper again. I know how you feel about female pilots.”

  Logan rolled his eyes at that, as though the very notion of a woman challenging him were beneath him.

  Stella chuckled darkly, the sound not reaching her eyes. “Listen, Logan. I know that many within the House listen to your words over mine. I know that one day, you’ll sit in this chair. But that day is not today. And I don’t know if it’s you or if it’s circumstance, but I’ve heard rumors…” Her voice trailed off, an unsettling weight settling over her words.

  Logan scoffed, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. “Rumors? Is that what we’re doing now? Rumors, huh? From what I’m hearing, people are saying that good ol’ Henryk’s actions with Jace’s sister were just a rumor?” he mocked.

  Stella rolled her eyes. “Yeah, they are,” she replied flatly, frustration evident. “Especially with the way he was risking his life on Oceana.” Her hand pointed toward the window as if the planet outside could answer for her. She sighed and leaned back into her chair, her exhaustion creeping in. “...And what are we doing on that planet?” she asked, her voice quiet, drained.

  Logan’s expression twisted, his gaze hardening as he stared her down. “What’s wrong with you?” The accusation was sharp, biting, like an unspoken challenge.

  He continued, his voice gaining force. “We’re bringing orders to people who’ve been oppressed for generations. They’ll have access to schools, an education. They’ll live outside that rigid class system. We’re giving them a chance to be treated like human beings.”

  Stella’s glare could’ve cut glass. She leaned forward, eyes locked onto him. “Yeah, and they’re going to be subjected to our laws. They’ll have to follow the Neptunian creed. And they’ll have to offer us all their mutants—”

  She stopped, mid-sentence, when she saw his face. The way it twisted, contorted, like she had spoken a word he’d never heard before. The raw anger and something else—something broken.

  Logan’s voice was thick, almost pleading. “Have you lost faith in our cause?” he asked, his tone soft but filled with disbelief.

  Stella’s gaze never wavered as she took in Logan’s words, her lips thin, her jaw tense. She swallowed, the weight of the conversation pressing heavily on her chest. “Those people you say we’re saving,” she began, her voice slow, deliberate, “why is it that all the reports I’m getting speak of terrorizing? Of them fighting against us?” She looked at him then, her icy eyes cold and sharp. “They prefer the Martians.”

  Logan’s face twisted, his usual cocky demeanor vanishing in an instant. “Don’t you fucking say that,” he spat, his voice dripping with venom.

  Silence. A deep, suffocating silence. Logan stood there, every inch of him radiating frustration, anger—a man who had been unbothered by the weight of the universe only moments ago, now visibly shaking with the strain of the conversation. His face, once a mask of confidence, was contorted in disgust.

  “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare sit in that chair and act like you’re all innocent,” Logan snapped, his voice thickening with each word. He stood, bracing himself as he pointed a trembling finger at her, the intensity of his anger crackling in the air.

  “Those reports you’re getting—I hear it from my brother in real time. He’s on that surface, waging a war against a bunch of uncivilized feudal apes!” His voice boomed, vibrating off the walls. “Once we deal with the heir, my brother takes the bitch’s hand, and we’ll force the population into compliance. No more people need to die, but this is the way things have to be.”

  Stella’s gaze narrowed, her lips curling into a bitter sneer. “…And why?” she spat, her voice as hard as stone. “They’ve cleared the way for students at the Academy—specifically Neptunian students—to do Guild missions in the Oceana Sector.”

  Logan smirked. “Nice,” he said, almost casually, as if the weight of his words meant nothing.

  “Nice?” Stella repeated, her voice sharp, disbelief rippling through her like a wave. Her mouth hung open, unable to reconcile his flippancy with the situation at hand.

  Logan simply nodded. “My father paid a pretty penny for that. A private war. We end this quickly. The Emperor’s eyes are on the rebels in the Backwaters. We can take Oceana. Hell, if we play our cards right, we can turn all four planets blue.”

  Stella’s breath caught in her chest, the implications of his words settling like lead in her stomach. Her eyes widened, the fire of ambition flickering behind his words—words that threatened to change the universe in ways she hadn’t fully considered. “…Our greatest dream,” she murmured, her lips trembling, as if the words themselves could fracture her.

  “One world for industry, another to force the rich, another for pleasure and vacation. Stella, the options are endless. You’re president—you have to understand this,” Logan continued, his tone growing slick with ambition, as though he were trying to sell her the world.

  Stella’s gaze, however, had drifted. Her eyes, once locked on his, now stared down at the desk, as though searching for a reason to anchor herself. She could feel the room closing in around her, each word from Logan cutting deeper.

  “Just hold on, Stella,” he added, his smile widening, as though the future were a tangible thing in his grasp. “Like you said, one day I’ll take this position.” His voice softened, almost fondly, the words slipping out like a well-rehearsed line. “Like my elder brother, I’ll bring honor and pride to my House and Planet. This… This will make my brother a King. A King for the history books. The kind of history they’ll teach for centuries. They’ll be talking about this for generations.”

  He said it with a smile, but Stella couldn’t help but feel the weight of it. The coldness of it. The unshakable certainty in his voice that this was the only path forward.

  “The Martians are gone,” he said, matter-of-factly, as though he had closed a chapter in a book.

  But as the words sank into the air, a sickness rose in Stella’s gut. Not pity. Not remorse. Not the faintest shred of sympathy for the Martians or their fall. No, it was something darker. Something deeper. The words Logan had spoken hadn’t hit her like they were supposed to. They hadn’t delivered the closure he thought they would.

  Her mind churned, spiraling back to the conversation she’d had with Gerald—long ago, it seemed. The Martians, even wounded, even scattered across the stars, weren’t gone. Not yet, at least. And something deep inside Stella knew that their story wasn’t over. It wasn’t finished. Not by a long shot.

  Bri

  “Himari!” Bri’s voice sliced through the air, sharp and urgent. Himari’s face scrunched in confusion before she turned, her eyes narrowing slightly at the sight of her strange roommate frantically waving from across the room.

  “Hold on...” Himari mouthed, nodding to her friends before she slipped away. They moved quickly, her boots clicking against the floor, echoing in the cavernous lecture hall of the Academy. They ducked into a nearby side room, its walls darkened by the faint shadows of old stone, and the stale air hung heavy with the scent of chalk and dust. Himari had paid for the sodas earlier, her mind elsewhere as Bri’s unsettling presence loomed closer.

  “What’s going on?” Himari asked, her voice a whisper but laced with a curiosity she couldn’t quite suppress.

  Bri shook her head, her movements erratic. “I’ve been having dreams about Henryk for the last couple of weeks,” she said, her voice raw, like she hadn’t spoken of it aloud before.

  Himari’s brow furrowed before her lips twisted into a knowing smirk. “Oh, someone may just have a crush,” she teased, the words light and teasing, as if trying to dismiss the weight Bri’s words had carried.

  Bri let out a breath, shaking her head vehemently. Her shoulders slumped as if carrying an unseen burden. “Nah, I don’t think so,” she muttered. Her hand rose to rub her face, the dark bags under her eyes betraying her sleepless nights. “Ever since I saw that Peyton… I haven’t been able to sleep. Every time I close my eyes, it’s like I’m dreaming, and it’s always about him. I know they’re not real, but they feel too real. Too personal.”

  Himari turned to her side, cracking open her soda with a soft hiss and taking a long swig. She chuckled darkly, her voice light but tinged with mischief. “Like what? Don’t tell me you’re imagining him doing things in his private moments?”

  Bri let out a hollow laugh but shook her head. “Listen,” she said, her voice lower now, the unease creeping in, “I just want to know what happened with this whole mess between House Neptune, Earth House, Venus House, Mars House…” Her voice trailed off, her eyes narrowing with a mixture of fear and frustration.

  Himari’s eyes darted to the open door, her breath catching. She moved swiftly, closing the distance between them. “Woah, woah, woah,” she whispered urgently. Her gaze flickered nervously over her shoulder as if expecting someone to overhear. “Listen, there wasn’t even anything involving Venus, not from what I recall…”

  Bri’s eyes narrowed further, and her voice dropped, becoming more conspiratorial. “Some no-name got involved with a bunch of names,” she muttered, her tone darkening. “Listen, I just need to know if…”

  Himari, sensing the tension rising, cut her off. “Listen, Bri, this is weird,” she said, her voice shaking with hesitation. “I get it—you were asked to check out Henryk’s intentions and…” She stopped herself, unsure how much to reveal, but Bri was already way past the point of subtlety.

  “That’s not it,” Bri spat, her eyes wild. “I see him. Every night.”

  Himari blinked, taken aback by the force of Bri’s words. “Like…what? Just tell me,” she pressed, though her voice trembled.

  Bri sighed, her shoulders slumping as though the weight of it all was finally sinking in. “They’re not all bad…sometimes they’re worse. But last night wasn’t…” She trailed off, a slight smile tugging at her lips. “Yesterday, he was just playing video games in his room. It was like watching him tethered to the physical world. I could see his house—his posters, his bed. He’s just a normal boy, Himari. Innocent, really. Just a kid. He’s talented, sure, but lucky to even make it this far. And I fear the Academy is going to chew him up.”

  Himari leaned back slightly, the weight of Bri’s words sinking in. She could hear the trembling in her voice, the confusion and doubt fighting against the rising tide of something darker. “And you think the witches pushed him to this? Why would they? If he’s really that innocent, why go after him?” Himari’s voice grew softer, almost reassuring, but her eyes held something darker behind them. She looked around before moving closer, speaking almost into Bri’s ear. “And Jace—he’s not right. I’ve heard what he tried to do to Sirine, and to that sister of his… There’s talk that Henryk…”

  Bri nodded, the dark glint in her eyes only deepening. “I know,” she said quietly. Her breath hitched, and her voice cracked slightly. “I see him, Himari. Maybe…maybe I see his future. Or at least fragments. Maybe memories. I don’t know. But I’m telling you, sometimes…” She paused, her hands trembling at her sides as she stood, eyes wide with the fear she could no longer hide. “I think I see why the witches are afraid.”

  Himari froze, her breath caught in her chest, the silence between them deepening like a chasm. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe for a moment. Bri took a slow, steadying breath before continuing, her voice trembling.

  “Henryk Brown is capable of becoming one of the strongest beings in this universe. The Peyton, one of the cursed mentors. And the Imp. There are many futures for Henryk, Himari. Many futures. But there’s one I fear the most…” Bri’s lips curled into a sneer, her hands clutching at the fabric of her robes. “A Warlord. A Warlord of galactic proportions. A Million Sons for Henryk Brown… but only two true.”

  Himari’s mind reeled, her heart hammering in her chest. She could barely hear her own thoughts over the pounding of her pulse. “What are you saying?” Her voice cracked, her eyes wide in disbelief. She glanced around again, paranoia clawing at the back of her mind. “Listen, I’ve heard talk of Henryk leaving. I doubt you’re going to keep having those dreams about him. Not after…”

  Bri’s hand shot out, pushing Himari away with a force that shocked her. “You don’t get it,” Bri hissed, her back turned now as she retreated, her voice trembling with a fear that dripped from every word. “The Peyton… he’s there too. Always smiling. Smiling at me in my dreams. And I fear…” Bri paused, her voice softening with terror. “I fear… he’s ensnared me.”

  Henryk

  The Hanger, or what the older students called it, wasn’t truly a hanger at all. No, it was a vast landing strip. From helicopters to the behemoths of ships that spanned the galaxy, it was the same place that had carried Henryk and thousands like him here to the academy.

  "Fuck, fuck," Henryk muttered, his eyes scanning the expanse of the landing strip, his feet dragging across the cracked pavement. The final transport ship soared into the sky, casting the airfield in a blazing orange glow. It zipped away, faster than he'd ever hoped to move. "Shit, shit, shit," he cursed again, pressing forward, the rhythm of his sneakers pounding against the tarmac.

  But it was too late. Any craft that might have been waiting to take him home had already left, or worse, had been locked down for the night. In the distance, he saw the dots of workers scattering, most of them probably off to the dorms or their homes for the evening, while only the late shift remained.

  "I am such an idiot..." The words slipped from Henryk’s lips, bitter and resigned.

  He had been goofing around with House Mars, catching up with friends when he should've been preparing to leave. Now he had already checked out, already left his house for the night. How awkward would it be to ask for another bed tonight? The thought made him cringe.

  But his mind immediately returned to the looming, silent dread of the Academy. He had no business being here alone. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so vulnerable. And worse still, if he ran into another house… he was still fair game.

  “Henryk…”

  The voice cut through his thoughts like a blade. He jerked, instinctively reaching for his duffel bag. But as he turned and saw the small, pudgy figure approaching, his body relaxed.

  “Mags?” He blinked, his shoulders sagging in relief.

  Mag’s stood there, dressed in the deep, dull yellow military uniform of Saturn House. She was half his height, her pale skin contrasting with her chubby face, yet she carried herself with an unwavering straightness, a kind of purposeful grace. Her black hair was tied back in a ponytail that fell to her chest.

  "Henryk Brown, I had a feeling you'd be here," she said, her voice flat, though not unfriendly.

  “Mags,” Henryk replied, his gaze dropping to the ground. His thoughts wandered briefly to Jose—her and Jose both came from the same colony, back before everything had changed.

  “You want to talk?” she asked, her voice flat but inquisitive. She cocked her head towards the hanger. “Looks like you don’t have anywhere else to be.”

  Henryk let out a dry laugh. It was weak, but genuine enough. He shoved his hands into his pockets as they began walking together.

  The path back to the hanger was narrow, bordered by dilapidated, half-abandoned buildings, all remnants of failed mechanical shops, the kind of places that were meant to be repurposed, gentrified—given new life—but had long since fallen to neglect.

  They walked in silence, Henryk lost in his thoughts. He hadn’t really spoken to Mags except when attached to Jose’s side, and even then, she’d been quiet. Now, there was a weight to her presence. A stillness in the air.

  "Why are you leaving?" she asked, breaking the silence. Her voice was blunt, cutting through the noise in Henryk’s mind.

  "You waiting for me?" he asked, his voice carrying a trace of uncertainty.

  Mags chuckled softly, the sound almost hollow in the quiet of the dead buildings. "Came late, same as you," she replied, her tone light but with an undercurrent of something heavier. "I…was—to deliver the news about Jose. His mother… she doesn’t know yet. Thought I’d give it to her in person."

  He didn’t know how to answer at first. The question caught him off guard, raw and real. “I didn’t realize you were such a big fan of Jose,” she said with a weak attempt at humor, but it fell flat.

  Mag’s let out a sigh, shaking her head, her steps slowing. She walked with purpose, but her words had a certain heaviness to them. “Honestly, he always talked too much,” she muttered. “I don’t know why he was even allowed to enroll here. What does a governor’s son have to prove? You’d think someone with connections like that would have better things to do.”

  Henryk’s gaze drifted back to the ground. He hadn’t expected her to speak so openly about Jose. It made him uncomfortable in a way he couldn’t explain.

  Mag’s sighed again, her pace slowing further. “He was a fool,” she said softly. “A fool with a sick mother who needed him. And me? I’ve got five other sisters. I’m not carrying my family’s name, so if I died... well, it wouldn’t have been the end of the world for them.”

  The words hung in the air, heavy and bitter, and Henryk found his chest tightening.

  “But your life still matters, Mags,” he spat, the words coming out before he could stop them.

  Mag’s stopped walking, her eyes narrowing slightly, her lips pressing together. Silence stretched between them. She didn’t reply at first, and for a moment, it felt like the entire world had gone still.

  Henryk shook his head, frustration flickering across his face. “Listen, the same reason I was able to save all those people is the same reason I’m stuck in this mess for killing Jose. I’ve got morals. My own beliefs, my system.”

  Mags sighed, her breath heavy with something unsaid. “You were accepted into one of the greatest Houses in the Solar System. I’ve heard the tales of what House Mars is capable of. Shameful, sure, but they’re still strong. They’ve got their power.”

  Henryk dragged a hand through his hair, his fingers tugging at the strands with a kind of restless energy. “You make it sound so easy,” he muttered, the words thick with irony.

  “You’re a natural at this,” Mags replied with a snap of her fingers. “I saw what you were capable of at Oceana. Imagine what you’ll be in a year or two.” She spoke with the kind of certainty that came from seeing someone’s potential before they even knew it themselves.

  “Your enthusiasm’s a little too much,” Henryk said, his voice strained. “How do I know if I’ll even make it that far?”

  Mags sneered, her lips curling with a kind of bitter amusement. “I knew from the moment Jose was accepted by House Venus that they were playing him. I don’t even want to imagine what they asked of him to get into that messed-up house. But you... you were meant to be here. I saw you on the holos. A real knight. A space knight.” She chuckled at the absurdity of it, but there was something in her voice that held a certain reverence.

  “You’re already here,” she continued. “Out of billions in the galaxy, it’s you and fifty thousand others who get to attend here. You’re the exception.” She paused, her gaze settling on him with an intensity that made him shift uncomfortably. “Why are you here, really, Henryk?”

  For a long moment, Henryk said nothing. The question hung between them like a weight, pulling at him in ways he wasn’t sure he could untangle. Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter than before. “For the longest time, I thought I was here because of my family, my colony. And yeah, that’s part of it. But honestly... I think I wanted to be like my dad.”

  Mags blinked, taken aback. “Like your father?” she asked, the question slow, curious.

  Henryk’s sigh was sharp, heavy with something he wasn’t ready to face. “I don’t know much about him. Lately, when I say that, I mean it.” He chuckled, but it was dark, tinged with something bitter. “I was born on some slave colony. My father crash-landed there. He was burned up—good chunk of his body, nearly all of it. But he survived. Barely.”

  “Christ,” Mags whispered, horror crossing her face. “That’s... that's horrible.”

  Henryk nodded, his eyes distant as they stopped in front of the empty, decaying buildings that lined the path. “He met my mom. Had me. Then he waged a revolution. He wasn’t gonna let his kid grow up in chains. He was some third or fourth son of minor imperial royalty, but... it didn’t matter. He didn’t care. He taught us all how to fight, how to resist. Died for it, too.”

  Mags’ eyes widened, and Henryk waved it off. “I’m just saying. That’s how he got the training. And it was good. Very few died in that revolution. But it was because of him—the way he led—that my mom and the rest of the people were saved. They radioed the Imperials, and soon after, a new governor came to the planet.”

  “What a wonderful and heroic story,” Mags murmured, but it wasn’t dismissive. There was awe in her voice, despite the heaviness in Henryk’s words.

  Henryk sighed deeply, leaning against a crumbling wall. “I’ve been told that story my whole life. Hell, the whole colony has. The governor a couple of years ago even funded a statue of my dad. Put his name out there for everyone to see. To everyone else, it’s a tale. A legend. But to me? He’s just a name. The hero I’ll never know. The father I’ll never meet.”

  The silence between them deepened. Mags didn’t know what to say.

  Henryk continued, his voice softer now, touched with an unspoken grief. “You know what it’s like to walk into a store, into a restaurant in my old colony? To hear people laughing, crying over my father’s name, his deeds? And I don’t even know the man. Never had the chance.”

  He paused, that smile creeping back onto his face. It wasn’t sad exactly, but it was painful. “I wanted to do this. I wanted to be a hero. I thought maybe... maybe I could be closer to him somehow. Follow in his footsteps. But also...”

  He hesitated for a moment, his gaze locking with Mags. “…because I’m good at this.”

  And in the way he said it, there was something both triumphant and tragic. Something that felt like a victory and a curse all at once.

  Because Henryk was starting to realize something—a truth buried deep within his own heart.