Midweek Excerpt: The Unknown Sea, Chapter 2

There are two viewpoint characters in The Unknown Sea, each of whom is a love interest to the other. Chapter 1 is where we meet Enoch, the seventh son of a penniless noble family who embarks as a sea mage to make his fortune. Chapter 2 is where we meet Celeste, the younger half-sister of Seraph, who is determined to leave her tiny little fishing village and make her own way in the world, out from under her sister’s shadow. Enjoy!

The first rays of dawn slanted through the cottage’s single window, catching the steam that rose from the porridge pot on the side of the hearth. Celeste stirred the oats with a wooden spoon and glanced over her shoulder at her mother Elara, who was busy kneading dough for the morning bread.

“Tristan, set the table please,” Elara called. Her silver-streaked hair was pulled back in a severe bun. Celeste glanced away before their eyes met, unwilling to see the wariness there.

Celeste’s younger half-brother scrambled to open the cupboard, standing on his tip-toes to reach. At eight years old, he was all gangly limbs and boundless energy.

“The wooden ones or the good ones?” Tristan asked, though there was no way he didn’t already know the answer.

“The wooden ones,” Celeste and Elara said in unison, making both of them grin. The good bowls were four pieces of actual glazed pottery that had survived the family’s various relocations. They only emerged for feast days, or when Celeste’s stepfather, Gerard, brought in an especially profitable catch.

Celeste stirred the porridge again, absently fingering the pearl amulet that hung from her neck on a silver chain. A parting gift from her older sister Seraph, it was one of the most valuable pieces in their humble cottage. But the feel of the cool metal against her skin only served as a reminder of all the adventures that she’d missed and wasn’t likely to have. Unlike her older sister, who wandered with her mother nearly halfway around the world, the small cottage was the only home that Celeste had ever known.

“I’m going away for a while, and I don’t know when I’ll be back,” Seraph had told her. “But if you ever miss me or feel a need to talk, use this amulet to summon me. I promise, I will come.”

“How?” Celeste had asked. Her older half-sister had smiled.

“I’ve woven a powerful summoning spell into the pearl at the center of this amulet. All you need to unlock it is to use your magic to complete it. As soon as you do, the spell will open a portal to me wherever I am.”

“So then I’ll be able to come to you?”

She still remembered the way her heart had sunk as her sister had paused before answering.

“Yes, but I think it would be better if I came to you. It might not be safe where I am, after all. Besides, mother would be worried sick if you left the village without telling her.”

That, of course, was the crux of the issue. All her life, Celeste had been kept safe—precisely because her older half-sister, Seraph, had grown up in so much danger. But where Seraph seemed to have all the adventures, Celeste seemed doomed to live a life tethered to her quiet and boring home.

“What if the spell doesn’t work?” she had asked. Her half-sister must have mistaken her tone for worry, because she’d smiled and placed a reassuring hand on her arm.

“I promise, it will work. It’s a complex spell, but I’ve mastered it by now. We can test it, if you want.”

“No,” Celeste had said, groaning a little inside. “I trust you.”

Seraph’s effortless mastery of magic was enough to make her jaw clench. It was all a fulfillment of the sibyl’s prophecy, of course—that for good or for evil, Seraph would one day become the world’s most powerful sorceress. Unlike her older sister, Celeste had no such destiny to look forward to. She was just a simple village girl with a modest gift for magic—hardly remarkable at all.

I’ll show them all, she thought fiercely as she flipped the eggs. I won’t just be known as Seraph’s younger sister.

“Celeste, dear, would you bring the porridge to the table?” her mother asked.

“Yes, Mother.” Celeste used the hook from the fireplace to lift the pot, and set it on the hot pad at the center of the table while her mother cut up the last of yesterday’s loaf of bread. Tristan got a plate of cheese slices from the cupboard and set it out next to the butter.

“We’ve got a lot of work today,” Elara said as she served up the porridge with the wooden spoon. “Celeste, could you help me with the washing and mending?”

Celeste’s shoulders tensed. “But Mother, I promised the fishermen I’d help with their catch.”

Elara’s brow furrowed, making Celeste’s stomach sink. It wasn’t hard to see the argument that was brewing.

“You know I don’t like you going out on those boats. It isn’t the proper place for a young woman like yourself.”

“Proper?” Celeste scoffed. “Seraph got to leave home and study advanced magic at the Alynthian court. Why shouldn’t I learn to use my powers by helping our village?”

“Your sister’s situation is… different,” Elara said carefully. Her answer made Celeste clench her fists in frustration.

“You mean she was more talented than me. More special.”

“That’s not what I meant. Now, let’s have our breakfast. We’ll talk about it later.”

From the tone of her voice, Celeste knew that arguing with her mother was pointless, so she picked up her spoon and stared at her porridge and bread. Beneath her blouse, she felt the amulet dangling on its silver chain. Through the window, she could see the first fishing boats already leaving the village harbor, their sails catching the morning breeze.

“I bet Seraph’s eating fancy meals in the royal court by now,” Tristan piped up as he cut a large slab of butter for his porridge. “When I grow up, I’m going to be a famous mage too!”

“Not without any talent for it,” Celeste grumbled.

“Hey! Just because I haven’t felt it yet doesn’t mean I don’t have it too, just like you and Seraph!”

“If you do, it’s buried awful deep.”

“Now, now,” Elara chided, eying them both sharply. “No arguments at breakfast. That goes for both of you.”

For several long minutes, they ate in silence, Tristan glowering at Celeste for bringing up his lack of magical talent. It was a sore issue with him, much like Seraph’s power was to Celeste. Perhaps she had been too hard on him for it, but the looming threat of chores had been weighing on her mind. More than anything else, she just wanted to get out of the house.

She waited until her mother’s bowl was empty before she brought up the subject again.

“Mother, please,” she said, shortly after Elara had finished her last spoonful. “I need to practice if I’m ever going to get better. You know how important this is to me.”

“It’s dangerous out there, Celeste.”

Her cheeks flushed hot. “I’m not a child anymore! I can handle myself.”

“Celeste—”

“Why can’t you trust me like you trusted Seraph?”

The words burst out before she could stop them. She braced herself, expecting a major fight. Instead, her mother just sighed.

“You have your sister’s restless spirit and your father’s stubborn streak. I suppose it was foolish of me to think you’d be content with a fisherwoman’s life forever.”

Tristan looked up sharply. “Is Celeste going away too?”

“No, darling,” Elara said softly, ruffling his dark hair. “Your sister isn’t going anywhere. She’s just… eager to spread her wings a little.”

“So can I go?” Celeste asked, her heart beginning to race. “I’ll be careful, I promise. Please, Mother—just for the morning.”

Elara sighed again, her shoulder sagging. “Very well. But I want you back no later than noon. I really do need help with the mending. Understood?”

Celeste nodded eagerly, already pushing back from the table. “Thank you, Mother! I promise I’ll be careful.”

Excerpt: The Unknown Sea, Chapter 1

I’m working on another Sea Mage Cycle book right now, alternating between the AI revisions (where I generate multiple iterations of each chapter using the same prompts, and combine the best parts for the final AI draft) and humanizing the AI draft to produce the rough human draft. So far, it’s working out really well. I do a little bit of work each day: maybe a chapter of the AI draft, or a scene of the human draft, but it’s steady progress and the kind of thing that I can probably keep up to some degree, even with the demands of a newborn baby, which is sure to throw things off in the coming weeks.

In any case, here is an excerpt from the first scene of the first chapter of The Unknown Sea. This is the rough human draft, so the writing is all mine and not AI-generated, though there may be some AI-isms because I used the AI draft as a guide. I’m going to write a post next week detailing my current AI-assisted writing process, so if any of that is confusing, check out my post there. In the meantime, enjoy!

The sea-soaked wood of the pier groaned under Enoch’s boots as he walked out onto the dock. He squinted, eyes stinging a little in the salty breeze as he peered out across the bustling harbor. Fat merchant caravels sat low in the water as they crawled into port, dockhands rushing to secure them. Elsewhere, sailors hauled heavy sacks of trade goods down to the docks, or rolled barrels of supplies up the narrow gangplanks for the ships that were preparing to depart.

Enoch Ashenford took a deep breath. Few ports on the Azure Sea buzzed with the raw, desperate energy of the capital of the kingdom of Caravelia. Many a merchant prince had made his fortune here, and many a man with little to his name had rewritten his own story.

So why did he feel so thoroughly out of place?

He fished the letter of introduction from his waistcoat pocket. The elegant script had smudged a little at the corners from nervous handling, but the words on the parchment were still clear. Our son is of sound mind and steady hand, he read, taking encouragement from the words. He has a promising magical talent and will serve you well in the position of sea mage.

Of course, it wasn’t just the endorsement that had landed him the position. His father had had to pull some high-placed favors to get it. Not that Enoch wasn’t qualified, of course—as the only one in his family to be born with magical talent, he had worked hard to cultivate it with what meager resources the dwindling family wealth could acquire. But few young mages landed a berth quite so lucrative as a merchant caravel so early in their apprenticeship.

He tucked the letter away, hoping it would dutifully impress the captain. The morning air was thick with the stench of old fish and burning pitch, the unlovely aroma of commerce. Enoch drew another sharp breath and squared his shoulders before setting out to find the ship.

He pretended not to notice the stares and glances aimed his way. It was rare for a noble scion to set foot on these docks, let alone seek employment on a common merchant. His mother had insisted on dressing him well, in fine leather boots and a silk tunic, but these made him stand out almost as much as his pale, untanned skin and soft hands. He also had all his teeth, which was more than he could say of many of the men he passed.

It was frustrating, because if any of these gawkers looked closer, they would see the threadbare patches on his tunic and pants, the cracks and creases in the ageworn leather of his belt and boots. A noble son he might be, but the battered satchel slung over his shoulder held little of real value.

He stopped to get his bearings. It seemed like the forest of masts and sails stretched almost to the horizon. Somewhere among them was the merchant ship that would be his ticket to wealth and glory—if he could only find the blasted thing.

“Make way,” a grizzled sailor shouted, carrying a large barrel on one shoulder. Enoch tried to get out of his way, but the man still nearly knocked him off his feet, swearing as he did so.

“Ouch!”

“Watch yourself, young lordling. This is no place for soft hands and slippered feet.”

Blood rushed to Enoch’s cheeks. “I’m not a ‘lordling,’” he muttered under his breath. “Just the seventh son of a penniless house.”

It was no use, of course. These common folk probably all thought that all nobles were rich. But Enoch’s noble birth had been more of a burden than a blessing. His older brothers had already divided up the Ashenford house’s few minor titles, barely managing to secure respectable positions and marriages for themselves. Even Carl, the second youngest in the family, had received a captain’s commission in the King’s Fleet. But by the time Enoch had come of age, the Ashenford house’s coffers had run as dry as a salt pan at high noon.

The manor still stood, of course. One couldn’t exactly pawn bricks and stone. But the paintings and tapestries had been sold, then the family silver, then most of the furniture. His mother wore the same gown to every court function, cleverly disguising the fact with slight alterations made by her own hands. As for his father, he spent most of his days in the family library, poring over the same old tomes—as if the secret to restoring the family’s fortune could be found in books alone.

No. Enoch had had enough of that dusty old manor, and he had no patience for the duties and pretenses of the court. He’d be damned before he gave up and turned around, even with all the snickering glances and gawking stares. He thought again of the letter of recommendation in his pocket, resisting the urge to take it out. If he could just find that blasted ship…

“You look a bit lost, lad,” a voice called out. “You wouldn’t happen to be young Master Ashenford, would you?”

Enoch turned to see a burly clean-shaven man in a leather apron, a crooked grin splitting his wind-chapped face. Sun and sea had tanned his skin to the color of old rope, which was almost as tough and leathery as the apron he wore. He swayed a little where he stood, and his shrewd eyes shone with the keenness of a man who had spent most of his life at sea.

“I might be,” Enoch hedged. “Who’s asking?”

“Marcus Reed, ship’s cook of the Waverunner. Captain sent me to fetch our new sea mage. That’d be you, I’d reckon?”

Enoch nodded, extending his hand. “That’s right. Pleased to meet you, Marcus.”

The man took it and gave him a single shake before gesturing toward the dock. Enoch quickly fell into step with his confident gait, grateful to have a guide to his new berth.

“So,” Marcus asked, breaking the silence between them, “what brings a young nobleman to life at sea? Chasing adventure? Seeking your fortune?”

“A little of both,” Enoch admitted. “As the seventh son, it’s not like I’ve got much of an inheritance.”

“Ah,” said Marcus, chuckling dryly. “Well, the sea’s a great leveler, lad. Noble or commonfolk, it’s all the same when the storms hit.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Call me Marcus. We’re mates now, after all.”

“Right,” said Enoch, nodding. “And I guess you can call me Enoch. Like you said, the sea’s a great leveler.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow at him and smiled.

The Waverunner sat moored at one of the last piers. Enoch felt his breath catch as his eyes fell upon it. The sturdy single-masted caravel creaked a little as it swayed gently at the dock. Sixty feet of weathered oak, with a dark, waterlogged hull that had clearly seen many voyages. Despite her elegant curves, the salt and sun had clearly had their way with the wood.

“You there!” a commanding voice rang out from the upper deck. “The new mage?”

Enoch looked upward, meeting the gray eyes of a woman whose gaze held the relentless intensity of a hawk. She stood with confident poise, her graying hair pulled back into a tight braid, and her weather-beaten face held the sort of authority that needed no crown or title.

“Enoch Ashenford, Ma’am,” he answered, straightening his posture. “I’m to be your new sea mage.”

“Don’t just stand there, lad. Come let me get a look at you.”

He quickly climbed the narrow gangplank, ignoring how his stomach lurched. Once on board, he withdrew the letter of introduction and handed it to her.

“For you, Ma’am.”

Captain Maren Black plucked the letter from his hands and stuffed it into her waistcoat, barely giving it a glance. Instead, she looked him over from head to toe. Her eyes narrowed, making Enoch swallow.

“Hmm,” she muttered—a sound that could have meant anything. “Ever worked a ship before?”

“I’ve studied maritime magic extensively, ma’am. My family’s library—”

“That’s a no, then.” She turned away. “Marcus! Show the boy where to stow his gear. Thaddeus, check those lines again. They look slack.”

The pit in Enoch’s stomach fell—a pit that until now, he hadn’t realized was there. Like a dog with his tail between his legs, he quickly followed Marcus across the wooden deck and down into the hold.

“How large is the crew?” he asked the burly.

“Just five of us,” Marcus answered cheerily, ducking as they passed through the door. “Captain Black, First mate Thaddeus, Felix, yourself, and me. But what we lack in manpower, we’ll more than make up for in your magic. Right?”

“Right,” said Enoch, swallowing nervously. Just what had he gotten himself into? Seeing his discomfort, Marcus chuckled and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“You’ll do fine, friend. Think of it this way: the fewer of us to crew the ship, the greater each man’s share of the profits.”

That was a good point, though it did little to quell Enoch’s growing anxiety. He also couldn’t help but notice how rough and calloused Marcus’s hands were to his own. With only five of them, he’d have to work hard to earn his keep, and not just with book learning and magic.

“This is where you’ll bunk,” Marcus announced, pointing to a cramped berth with a nod of his head. He leaned casually against the doorframe, folding his arms atop his leather apron. “This your first time at sea?”

Enoch’s cheeks burned. “Is it that obvious?”

“Don’t worry, lad. You’ll find your sea legs soon enough. The sea’s a harsh mistress, and an even harsher teacher.”

Enoch drew a sharp breath and nodded. A harsh mistress indeed, he told himself silently, but one I intend to master. As Marcus watched, he quickly unpacked his meager belongings, making space near the head of his bunk for the two most valuable pieces.

“Those look interesting,” Marcus remarked. “Family heirlooms?”

“Gifts from my parents,” Enoch explained. He unsheathed the dagger his father had given him and tilted it in the gleam of the candlelight. “The edge is inlaid with silver. It’s supposed to let it cut through magical shields and wards.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “And the amulet?”

He pulled out his mother’s amulet, fashioned from a spiral shell and hanging from a leather cord. “This one is called the Whispering Shell. It doesn’t look like much, but it’s enchanted with a powerful spell that helps the one who wears it to translate foreign speech.”

“So it lets you understand what the people around you are saying?”

“That, and it makes the bearer’s speech intelligible to all who hear. Like I said, it’s a powerful spell.”

Marcus whistled appreciatively. “Now that’s a rare piece of work. Must have cost a pretty penny.”

More than my family could afford, Enoch thought but didn’t say. His mother had pawned her grandmother’s emerald brooch to raise the funds, one of the last valuable pieces the family possessed. Instead of saying that, though, he simply nodded.

“My family wanted me to have every advantage.”

“Aye—and they’ll serve you well, I’d wager. Though not half as well as a sturdy pair of sea legs and a strong stomach.” Marcus grinned and slapped his back. “Though we’ll be giving you those in no time.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Marcus turned and left then, his footsteps creaking along the old, wooden floor of the deck. Enoch watched him for a moment, then carefully tucked the dagger and amulet away.

He thought of his mother, pawning a priceless family heirloom to buy him this chance. His father, struggling to maintain the fiction of their wealth while the walls grew bare around him. Seven sons, and the seventh was their last hope for something more than genteel poverty.

The thought hardened Enoch’s will until the pit in his stomach no longer seemed so terrible. He would not fail them. He could not afford to. He would stay on this ship and win his own fortune, restoring the family name and making his own way in this world. All of his doubts, all of his misgivings—it was time to throw those away. He was not just the overlooked son. It was time to become something more.

The Soulbond and the Sling: Prologue

This is the prologue of my epic fantasy novel, The Soulbond and the Sling. It’s a fantasy retelling of the story of David and Goliath, in a world where magical powers can only be unlocked through marriage. I used AI to write the rough draft, but everything here has been rewritten in my own words. I will probably revise it a couple more times before the book is published, but this is close enough that I think it’s worth posting. Enjoy!

Madoc leaned against the rough-hewn timber of the palisade, his breath forming ghost-like wisps in the cold night air. Another uneventful night on the eastern borderlands—though of course, almost anything could be lurking in the darkness below. He took a deep breath, fighting sleep, and began to pace, the wooden floorboards creaking beneath his weight.

For nearly six years, he’d been stationed at this frontier outpost that guarded the high road between the kingdoms of Zyonna and Edumar. In that time, he’d seen a distinct drop in the number of merchants who frequented the roads by day. And by night, the road was so empty, they could have been stationed in the wilderness. Beyond the palisade walls, the chill wind swept down from the rugged heights of Zyonna’s northern plateau, carrying the crisp, earthy scent of highland heather with its promise of the coming spring.

He paused his pacing to peer into the darkness. Tonight, the stars seemed to blaze more brilliantly than usual, though the gently rolling contours of the land were barely visible against the moonless sky. The trees had been cleared for several hundred yards, but the lands beyond were thickly forested. At this time of year, rain and sleet were all too common, so the star-strewn sky was a welcome relief, though it only seemed to multiply the shadows below.

He slowly made his way toward a cluster of soldiers huddled around a small brazier, their cloaks wrapped tightly against the chill late-winter breeze. Their words carried easily to his ears.

“My cousin trades with the rivermen from Edumar,” said Ferris, a stocky young bowman with a thick red beard. “He says half of the villages he used to frequent are empty now. It’s like that throughout the whole kingdom.”

“The Fellspawn, no doubt,” grunted Pete, a wiry veteran with a patch over one eye. “It’s been getting worse on the other side of the border for years. Nothing for us to worry about, though. Our king isn’t a wicked soulbond mage like Gardomir.”

“Nothing to worry about?” Ferris retorted, his eyebrows knitting in disbelief. “The Fellspawn knows no borders. They may spawn out there in Edumar, but they’ll come out here right as—”

“They’ll do no such thing, so long as our mages keep the corruption at bay. It’s all just a part of the natural cycle. We might get an occasional direwolf or two, but you don’t need magic to deal with those.” He spat over the edge of the stockade for emphasis.

Ferris shook his head. “My cousin says there’s nothing natural about the Fellspawn out there in Edumar. The abominations he’s heard about don’t just pop up on their own. They’re being summoned by something—or someone.” He glanced around the circle, looking for support.

“Your cousin says a lot of things,” the one-eyed veteran grunted.

Madoc paused, curious to see how his men would react. Few of them were greenhorns like Ferris, though tensions had been gradually rising in the fort these last few months. But whether that was due to mere cabin fever or the rumors from the other side of the border was difficult to gauge. He turned to the side, facing the wall, and let the men’s voices carry.

“I don’t know, Pete,” said Tom, another old-timer who’d been stationed here longer than Madoc. “They call King Gardomire the Many-Bonded now. They say he’s taken five soulbound concubines. If anything can stir up the Fellspawn, it’s that.”

“Trader’s tales,” Pete scoffed. “Next they’ll be saying King Gardomire breathes fire and has horns.”

“No, it’s true,” Tom insisted. “He really has bonded five slave women to his will, raping them for all the magic that they can give him. It’s made him more powerful than any of our soulbound mages. But that isn’t all. They say he’s taken up with dark unnatural dark magics too—wielding the Fellspawn himself, even.”

“Like hell it has,” spat Pete. “Kings forge alliances with other kings, not with the forces of nature. You can’t trust everything that you hear.”

“But what if there’s some truth to the rumors?” Ferris chimed in, his voice tinged with concern. “They can’t all be wrong.”

“Aye,” said Tom. “The lad has a point. King Gardomir’s always been a power-mad tyrant, but lately, the stories out of Edumar have been getting downright grim.”

Madoc had heard enough. He pushed off from the rough-hewn timbers, stepping with deliberate heaviness as he walked toward his men. The quiet murmur of conversation ceased as the floorboards creaked beneath his thick leather boots.

“Enough with the ghost stories, lads. Speculating without facts is as pointless as trying to shoe a fish. Are we soldiers, or idle gossips at market day?”

Pet grunted in appreciation, though Ferris and Tom straightened uncomfortably.

“Sorry, sir,” Tom muttered. “Just trying to pass the night.”

Madoc smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Just another boring night on the border, eh? That’s how it always is. We tell ourselves stories like wide-eyed children just to pass the time, and the next you know, the stories spread and gain a life of their own.”

“But what if there really is something more out there, sir?” said Ferris, the flickering light of the brazier reflected in his eyes, “More than the usual border reivers, I mean.”

Madoc turned and looked the young man squarely in the eye, though he kept his posture relaxed. “Have any of us seen a creature of the Fellspawn that was more than a match for our spears?”

The men shook their heads. Madoc pointed to the shrouded treeline below.

“Have any of you seen King Gardomir in those shadows, sporting horns and breathing fire?”

Old Pete snorted.

“Whatever’s happening in Edumar,” Madoc continued, “it doesn’t change our duty here. We keep watch, we stay alert, and we don’t let imagined horrors distract us from the real ones. Besides,” he added, gesturing behind them, “we’ve got the orb.”

The men all glanced down to the courtyard of the fort, where a crystalline sphere sat atop a sturdy stone pedestal. Its smooth, dull surface reflected the starry sky, without any hint of the enchantment that lay upon it. If anyone—or any thing, for that matter—approached the outpost with violent intent, the orb would glow a fierce orange, warning the men as surely as a roaring fire. Enchanted orbs like this one had been placed strategically along the length of the eastern frontier, aiding the men of the guard in their watch.

Madoc clapped Ferris’s shoulder. “See, lad? Whatever may lurk in Edumar is no threat to us tonight. Now, keep your eyes open and try not to freeze your arses off.”

The older men chuckled appreciatively, bringing a hint of pink to their cheeks. Even Ferris smiled. At the sight, Madoc felt the knot in his chest ease a little. It wasn’t that he discounted the rumors entirely, but spreading them would serve no one. They all knew their duty. Twenty men on the edge of the kingdom, serving as Zyonna’s first line of defense. The last thing they needed was to start jumping at shadows.

Madoc left them and walked to his preferred spot in the northwest corner of the stockade, where he could watch both the eastern approach from Edumar and the high road back to Caer Zyonna. From here, the distant hills looked a little like sleeping giants, their silhouettes barely visible against the starry sky. He settled in for another quiet night, where the occasional wandering deer would be the only break in the boredom, beside the nightly changing of the watch. His mind began to wander, planning out patrol routes and mess hall duties for the coming week.

In truth, the lack of border activity troubled him more than any rumor about King Gardomir or the Fellspawn. When he had first been posted here, the high road had seen a steady flow of merchant traffic between the two kingdoms, stretching almost from dawn to dusk. Now, even in broad daylight, it was rare to see anyone on the road. The thought made Madoc frown. Smugglers and reivers, he could deal with, but the relative silence was unnatural for these parts. After all, the crown hadn’t posted him on the wilderness. So why did it feel increasingly like they had?

The hour passed slowly. At the end of it, a new group of sentries came up to replace the men who had clustered around the brazier. They made the rounds slowly, checking to make sure all was quiet beyond the rough-hewn palisade. Madoc grunted a little and rose to check in with them, grateful for the distraction from his thoughts.

“How’s it look, Lodan?” he asked as he approached the two men on the southern wall.

“Calm as a spring meadow,” Lodan answered with his northern accent.

“Aye,” said Adam, his companion. “If it weren’t for that persistent northerly wind, it might even be pleasant out here.”

Madoc narrowed his eyes, peering eastward where the shadow outline of Edumar’s rolling hills brooded against the sky. “Aye,” he agreed. “Make sure to stay warm, lads. We need your arms and legs as much as we need your eyes.”

“Wait,” said Lodan, frowning as he lowered his voice. “Listen—what was that?”

The sound was so low that Madoc initially took it for the wind. It was a low, rhythmic thumping, coming from the east. Like footfalls, but spaced too far apart to belong to any man or horse.

“Thunder?” Adam asked.

“Too low for thunder,” Lodan answered, though his voice was tight and uncertain.

Madoc stiffened as he strained to listen. There it was again—a low, reverberating thud that he felt in his chest as much as he heard with his ears. He quickly scanned the horizon, but no rainclouds marred the sky in any direction. The stars shone undisturbed.

He glanced down into the courtyard below and felt his stomach clench. The orb had picked up a faint orange glow, like the last embers of a dying fire. The sight sent a chill snaking down his spine. Sinister shadows danced across the grass, cast by the glowing orb.

“Sound a quiet alert,” Madoc ordered. “All men to their positions. No horns, no shouting.”

Lodan and Adam nodded and moved quickly, hurrying down the ladder with silent feet. They entered the barracks and quickly began to wake the sleeping men, who soon began to emerge. There were only twenty of them, but they woke quickly, scrambling up the wall with their armor half-fastened and their weapons in hand. Within a few minutes, the once-sleepy outpost was transformed, every man in position along the eastern wall.

All the while, Madoc peered into the darkness where the highland meadows gave way to scattered copses of pine and birch. He had an unsettling feeling that something dangerous lurked unseen in those woods, just beyond their sight. Should he send out a scouting party? No—best to keep his men concentrated and wait. The night was too dark to risk sending them out by twos and threes.

Besides, he sensed that whatever was out there was coming straight for them.

“Form up,” he called softly to the archers gathered along the wall. “Nock arrows but hold until my command.”

The men silently obeyed, holding their bows and nocking their arrows in near total silence. There were no torches or light to see by—they had been careful not to show any sign that the fort had been awakened. All of the countless drills had prepared them well for this moment, though Madoc didn’t miss the nervous glances that some of them exchanged. Down in the courtyard behind them, the warning orb began to brighten.

“Do you see anything, sir?” Tom asked, squinting into the night.

Madoc was about to answer when a massive figure suddenly detached itself from the trees. It stood nearly twice the height of a man, with a great, hulking body twisted monstrously by thick, corded muscle. Two curved horns jutted unnaturally from its skull, gleaming like obsidian blades. And its eyes—God, its eyes—glowed with a faint amber light that seemed to pierce Madoc’s very soul.

“Sweet mercy,” whispered one of the archers. “What is that thing?”

The warning orb now blazed like a captured sunset, bathing the entire courtyard in a deep orange light. Madoc’s throat felt suddenly tight.

“Draw!” he heard himself issue the order. “Loose!”

Arrows whistled through the chill night air, shattering the silence. The volley was tight and well-aimed, every arrow flying true. Madoc held his breath.

The volley struck the beast with enough power to drop a line of charging war-horses. But to Madoc’s dismay, most of the shafts bounced harmlessly off of the creature’s hide. Those few that did stick seemed to have no effect, for the beast began to advance toward the fort, its relentless strides devouring the earth beneath it with alarming speed.

“Again!” Madoc yelled. “Draw and loose!”

The archers quickly nocked new arrows and loosed them at the approaching beast. The second volley was a little most scattered than the first, but still flew true—to much the same result. Almost all of their shafts glanced off of the beast’s hide. Those few that stuck seemed merely to anger the colossal intruder.

It surged toward the fort with ferocious speed, lowering its massive horns. “Brace for impact!” Madoc barely managed to yell before the creature slammed into the wooden palisade.

As a young man decades ago, Madoc had fought in the war with Edumar. During one of the sieges in the course of the campaign, he had seen an iron-tipped battering ram reduce the wooden gates of a walled town to kindling. But even that was not enough to prepare him for what he now saw.

The beast’s impact shattered the wall almost totally. Logs as thick as a man’s waist burst inward, splintering into fragments. The adjoining watchtower crumpled in on itself like parchment crushed in a fist. Men screamed, some of them thrown clear by the impact, others caught in the collapsing structure.

Madoc struck the hard-packed earth of the courtyard, driving the air from his lungs. Pain lanced through his shoulder, but his training took over and he quickly rolled, somewhat softening the blow. As soon as he came to a stop, he staggered to his feet.

All around him was chaos. Men ran in every direction, some trying to form a defensive line, others fleeing toward the stables. The monstrous intruder stood amid the wreckage of what had once been the palisade. The bright orange light of the warning orb lit it in terrible detail, like a nightmare given flesh. As it gazed upon the chaos it had spread, its amber eyes held no animal confusion—only calculated, intelligent malice.

“Hold your ground!” Madoc yelled, just as the creature let out a thunderous roar. Men cried out and staggered, and Madoc felt his own ears ring.

The beast stepped fully into the courtyard, its massive head swiveling as it surveyed the panicked humans scattering before its approach. Then its eyes fixed on the glowing orb, which now pulsed with such intensity that it cast the whole outpost in a hellish orange light.

“Rally to me!” Madoc shouted, drawing his sword. The blade felt pitifully inadequate against such a monstrosity, but he raised it nonetheless.

A handful of his most battle-hardened veterans quickly formed a desperate line beside him. Madoc yelled, and they charged at the Fellspawn monster with their swords and spears. Two brave spearmen managed to penetrate the beast’s hide, eliciting a roar of rage. A massive clawed hand swept out, raking the first spearman across the chest and all but disemboweling him. The second man barely had time for a massive step before those gnarled fingers closed around his torso, crushing armor, flesh, and bone with sickening ease.

Madoc swung and slashed at the beast’s leg in an effort to hamstring it. His sword bit into that gray, leathery flesh, to little effect, barely penetrating more than an inch. The creature didn’t even look down.

Instead, it stepped up to the warning orb and wrapped its massive hand around the glowing crystal. The orange light intensified, bleeding through its fingers like rays of dying sunlight. Then it squeezed, and the orb shattered with a sound like glass grinding against stone.

Madoc gasped in shock and horror. The outpost was thrown into sudden darkness, the monster reduced to a looming, shadowy mass. His men fell back in confusion, stumbling over their fallen comrades. From the stables, Madoc heard the panicked whinnying of the horses in their pens.

The beast heard them too. It turned with surprising swiftness, its amber eyes fixating on the door to the stables, where the outpost’s horses stamped and kicked in terror.

“No,” Madoc breathed.

With casual ease, the creature tore off the thatch roof and reached inside. A horrible human scream filled the night as the stable hand met his hand. Then the beast reached a little farther, and pulled out a chestnut gelding in its massive hands. Still alive, the panicked horse thrashed frantically as the creature wrung it like a rag. The animal split in two, splattering the courtyard with blood and steaming entrails.

The last of the men who still held their ground now broke down and ran. Even Madoc fell back, barely keeping a grip on his sword. He felt his gorge rise but quickly forced it down.

“To me!” he bellowed in desperation. “For Zyonna!”

But no one rallied to his call. Their spirits shattered, their courage spent, men scrambled for the rear gate or sought to hide in the barracks and the blacksmith’s shop. And far too many of them now lay motionless on the blood-soaked earth.

The creature tore methodically through the dead horse, quickly consuming the remains of the once magnificent beast. A few brave souls took potshots at it with their bows, to little effect. It devoured most of the horse’s front half before dropping the remaining carcass and straightening to its full height. Blood dripped from its jaws as it turned to face Madoc with those terrible amber eyes.

Madoc’s gut fell, and for a brief, heart-stopping moment, he thought it would come for him. But then, a sound emerged from deep within its throat—a rhythmic, guttural cry of satisfaction.

“Gol-guh. Gol-guh.”

With casual indifference toward the survivors of the attack, the creature pivoted on its heel and ambled back through the collapsed eastern wall. Its steps were unhurried, making clear that it was leaving on its own terms, and no one else’s. Once outside, it veered away from the dense forest from which it had emerged, heading westward instead.

Toward the high road. Toward Zyonna.

An awful silence fell over the ruined outpost, broken only by the moans of the wounded and dying, and the crackle of flames where a brazier had spilled and caught on splintered wood. Madoc stood frozen for several heartbeats, struggling to process all that he had just witnessed. The attack had barely lasted longer than a few minutes, but it felt as if half a lifetime had passed.

Then his training quickly asserted itself. He blinked and turned to his men.

“Check for survivors!” he ordered. “Get the wounded out where we can treat them. And someone put out that fire before it spreads!”

Gradually, men staggered back into the courtyard, some emerging from the places they’d hid, others dragging themselves up from where they’d been thrown. Those who were whole moved quickly to carry out their commander’s orders. Soon, they were laying out the wounded on the hard-packed earth.

Madoc made a quick assessment of their losses. Five men dead, including the stable hand. Eight wounded, two critically. Half their horses slain or fled out into the night. The eastern wall was destroyed beyond repair, meaning they’d likely have to abandon the outpost. And the warning orb—their most valuable asset by far—reduced to little more than glittering shards.

He turned and stared in the direction the creature had vanished. Not toward Edumar, he realized with a chill. It was heading west, deeper into Zyonnan lands.

“Ferris!” he called, spotting the stocky highlander. “Can you ride?”

“Yes, sir,” the young man answered. “What would you have me do?”

“Take the fastest horse you can find and ride for Caer Zyonna. That… thing… is headed straight toward our country’s heartland. Every settlement between here and the Western Marches is in danger.”

“Sir,” said Ferris, his face paling in the dim starlight. “What was that thing?”

“I don’t know. But the kingdom must be warned. Tell them…” Madoc struggled to articulate the horror they’d just witnessed. The creature was obviously Fellspawn, though it hadn’t behaved like one. Instead of making a frenzied and indiscriminate attack like any other wild beast, it had shown purpose. Intelligence. As if it had not been merely spawned, but sent.

“Sir?”

He narrowed his eyes, suddenly remembering the beast’s final call. “Tell them the Golga has come.”

Ferris nodded grimly, mounted the nearest horse, and galloped westward down the road toward the kingdom’s distant capital.

Excerpt: Bloodfire Legacy (Chapter 3)

The Clairvoyant Thief

Lord Arion

Lord Arion passed silently through the stone walls of Castle Caravelia. He yearned to feel the floor beneath his feet, to brush his fingers across the rough stone and feel their rough texture. But he was merely a wraith, disembodied and immaterial.

He rose and emerged through the floor above, stopping at the door to his daughter’s apartment. For a moment, he considered passing inside, but then he remembered the last time he had passed into that space. Sorrow pierced his ghostly heart as he recalled how she’d pored over the ancient tome of magic, the hideous black evil of the Serpent’s Eye desecrating her desk.

“Lyra, my child,” he whispered softly. “If only I could reach you.”

Of course, the awful truth was that she wasn’t beyond his reach. At any time, he could pierce the veil and speak to her one last time. In her current state, was he sure that she would listen? Would her father’s last words be enough to bring her back from the darkness? Or would she ignore him and continue on her chosen course?

He drifted down into the great hall, where courtiers mingled. Their idle chatter and vapid laughter hardly improved his mood. How many of them were secret allies of the Dark Brotherhood? How could they all carry on so blithely while darkness festered in their midst?

His gaze fell upon Lord Blackwood, deep in conversation with one of the king’s advisors. At the very sight of him, rage and despair warred within Arion’s heart.

“You monster,” he hissed. “You slew me in cold blood, and now you seek to ensnare my daughter? By all that is good and holy in this world, I swear that I will find a way to stop you!”

He paused, his gaze falling upon a cluster of mages engaged in hushed conversation near the hearth. One of them cast a sidelong glance at him, subtle enough that no one else noticed.

A clairvoyant, Lord Arion thought to himself. One with the magical gift to see and speak with the dead. Clairvoyance was rare, but not unheard of. Many of those who possessed the gift preferred to keep it secret, developing their other talents instead.

For a fleeting moment, Lord Arion considered approaching the mage. Yet a nagging suspicion stayed his hand. From observing Lord Blackwood, he knew that the Dark Brotherhood had already infiltrated the ranks of the kingdom’s magical elite. And of course, everyone else had their own devious schemes. Could he trust any of the clairvoyants at the court? No—the risk of exposing himself to his enemies was simply too great.

Dismayed, he drifted up from the hall, passing through the rafters and rough stone walls. So deeply did he brood over his troubled thoughts that he hardly noticed where he was going until he emerged in his daughter’s chamber, illuminated in the flickering light of a single candle. Lyra sat hunched over her desk, her midnight-black hair spilling over her shoulders. With one hand, she idly stroked the Serpent’s Eye.

“I will bring you justice, father,” she murmured. “I swear it.”

Arion’s heart clenched. “No!” he screamed. “My killer is Lord Blackwood, child! The very man you’ve chosen to make your mentor!”

Lyra shivered suddenly, wrapping her arms around her chest. “Are you here, Father?” she asked softly. “Sometimes, it almost seems like I can feel you.”

Lord Arion reached out to her, his ghostly fingers passing through her cheek. “I’m here, child,” he whispered.

For a fleeting moment, he wondered if she could feel his ethereal touch. But then, she shook her head and returned to her studies.

Unable to bear his helplessness any longer, Arion soared through the castle walls and up into the night sky. The city sprawled beneath him, the light of countless torches flickering in the shadowed streets.

There had to be someone down there who could help him reach out to his wayward daughter. But where?

Corin

Corin darted across the dark alley, leaping between the crates and barrels in his way. He slowed as he rounded the corner, careful to watch for any dangerous figures lurking in the shadows. But once he knew they were clear, he wore the shadows like an old familiar cloak over his threadbare rags.

“I told you,” he hissed under his breath. “I don’t do this anymore. Find someone else to help.”

The ghost of a middle-aged man followed him, his pudgy face creased with worry. “Please, young man. My daughter is in danger—you’re the only one who can help!”

Corin quickly scanned his surroundings, and not just for the usual threats. Anyone who saw him would think him mad—his ghostly companion was invisible to everyone else.

“Look,” he whispered harshly, “I’m sorry about Mariah. Truly, I am. But from what you’ve told me, I’m liable to end up floating face-down in the river if I go after her. And I rather like breathing.”

“But if you do nothing, she’ll die!”

Corin winced, though he did his best to hide it. “Yeah, well, we all go sooner or later. I’m not a hero. Why don’t you go ask someone respectable, with one of those big, fancy swords?”

“Do you think I haven’t tried? None of them can see or hear me. Only you have the gift!”

“Some gift,” Corin snorted, leaping over a putrid rivulet of freshly-dumped sewage. “All it’s ever brought me is trouble.”

His stomach growled. The only food he’d managed to scrounge up that day were some meager scraps from a refuse pile. Even when he managed to pinch a few silvers, the hunger always gnawed at him. It was his only constant companion in his hardscrabble existence—aside, of course, from the dead.

“Please,” the ghost moaned. “You are my daughter’s only hope.”

Corin clenched his jaw. Mariah was a friend, of a sort—at least, as much of a friend as one could have on the streets. He doubted she would come after him if their roles were reversed. But she might. Shouldn’t he… but no, every instinct screamed at him not to risk his neck. He hadn’t survived this long by always saying ‘yes’ to every ghost with a haunting sob story. Hadn’t he?

“Why do I always let myself get dragged into these things?” he muttered. The ghost’s face lit up immediately.

“Thank you, lad! You’ve no idea how much this means to—”

“Save it,” Corin growled. “Just guide me to her.”

The ghost nodded and led Corin deeper into the labyrinthine heart of the city’s slums. Worn and weathered buildings loomed over them, their once-grand facades now reduced to crumbling ruins. Shattered windows glinted in the moonlight, many boarded up with pinewood planks. The stench of mildew and raw sewage hung heavy in the air, so thick that it practically clung to Corin’s skin.

The ghost suddenly veered to the left, leading Corin towards a decrepit warehouse. A salty sea breeze from the harbor made its old, weathered boards groan ever so slightly.

“This is it,” the ghost whispered. “My daughter’s in there.”

Corin narrowed his eyes. “Your daughter got herself mixed up with Grim’s gang? Brilliant, that.”

“It wasn’t her fault! Times are hard, and—”

“Times are always hard,” Corin snapped. He ran a hand through his unkempt hair. “Look, if I do this—and that’s a big if—I’m gonna need more than just encouragement. You know the layout in there?”

“Aye, I’ll guide you. Just… please, save my little girl.”

Corin sighed. “I’ll do what I can. But don’t expect any miracles.”

The ghost’s lips curled into a faint smile. “Thank you, Corin. I knew I could count on you.”

Corin crept along the warehouse’s outer wall toward a rickety ladder. Pausing only to test if it would hold his weight, he nimbly scaled the rungs, slipping through a small hatch into a dark and dusty hayloft.

The pungent smell of moldy straw assaulted him as he crawled forward on his belly, peering through gaps in the floorboards. Mariah’s father hovered nearby, his ghostly form passing effortlessly through the wooden beams.

“There she is,” the ghost whispered, pointing downward.

Corin’s breath caught in his throat. Mariah sat bound and gagged in the center of the floor, her face a patchwork of ugly bruises. Corin recognized the hulking crime boss immediately, with his shaved head and a scar splitting his lip. Half a dozen thugs flanked the ugly man. He grabbed Mariah’s hair and yanked her head back, making Corin wince.

“Last chance, little seer,” Grim growled. “Tell me what I want to know, or I start to become unpleasant.”

Mariah’s eyes blazed with defiance. “Go to hell,” she spat.

“Wrong answer, little seer.”

“Hey boss,” said one of the thugs. “Want us to have some fun with her?”

“Yeah,” said another, puffing out his chest. “What about it, boss?”

Grim chuckled—a cold, mirthless sound that sent shivers down Corin’s spine. “Not yet,” he said, his eyes roving over Mariah’s battered body. “I want to hear her beg for mercy first.”

Corin felt a surge of anger in his gut. He knew he had to act fast. His eyes darted about the warehouse, falling on an oil lamp hanging from the rafters just below him. Below it lay a pile of oily rags.

“What are you thinking, lad?” the ghost asked.

“What I need is a distraction,” Corin muttered under his breath. “But what to do after—”

The sharp crack of a hand striking flesh cut him short. Mariah’s cry of pain echoed in the cavernous space below him.

“Blast it all,” Corin hissed. Right now, all that mattered was getting Mariah away. He’d figure out the rest as he went. With that decided, his hand slipped to the worn handle of his knife as he crept closer to the edge of the hayloft, his heart hammering.

Here goes nothing.

Corin sprang from his hiding spot and rolled as he hit the floor. The thugs whirled around at the sudden movement, but he was already in motion, running. His blade flashed as it sliced through the rope holding the lamp.

“What the—”

The lamp crashed and shattered. The flames licked hungrily at the oily rags, and the thugs hesitated, unsure whether to chase Corin or to put out the fire.

“Yah!” shouted Corin, lunging in a feint. The thugs instinctively moved to fight him, wasting the precious few seconds they had before the fire grew out of control.

“What are you doing?” Grim bellowed. “Smith, Carter—after that thief! The rest of you put out the fire!” But he was too late. The flames had already taken to the dry and weathered wood, filling the air with smoke.

“Dirty little waif,” one of the thugs snarled as he drew a wicked dagger. Corin took that as his cue to dance.

The thug lunged at him, moving much faster than his hulking form seemed to allow. But Corin was faster. He darted to the side, tripping up a man with a water pail and causing him to spill it on the floor. Another thug tried to catch him, but slipped on the water and barreled into someone else.

Corin ran toward a stack of crates, leading his attackers away from Mariah, who still sat bound to her chair. The thugs crashed after him, knocking some of them over, but he had already doubled around behind them.

“Get him!” Grim roared, his face contorted with rage.

Corin had just enough time to duck before another thug came after him, swinging his meaty fists. He felt the whoosh of the air as the man’s arm passed over his head. Without thinking, he lashed out with his foot, catching his attacker in the knee. The man grunted and took a step back.

“My daughter!” the ghost yelled. “We have to save her before the place burns down!”

The warehouse was fully on fire now, the acrid smoke stinging Corin’s eyes and throat. He caught a glimpse of Mariah staring wide-eyed at the flames as men scrambled in vain to put them out. She was far too close to them for comfort.

But before Corin could run after her, the thugs came after him. Since they were both taller than him, though, the smoke stung their eyes enough for him to slip between them. He darted toward the opposite wall, coughing.

“A little help here?” he asked the ghost. The smoke was already thick enough that he could barely see anything.

“This way!” Mariah’s father called, urging him into the fire.

Corin followed, dodging started thugs and burning debris. Mariah’s muffled cries for help urged him to move faster. The acrid stench burned his lungs, but he ducked his head and pushed on.

“There she is!” the ghost cried out.

Through the haze, Corin spotted her. She’d been knocked to the floor in the commotion and was now struggling for her life against her bonds. When she saw him, her eyes widened.

“Corin? What are you doing here?”

“That’s a very good question,” he muttered, sawing at the ropes that bound her feet. As soon as they were cut, he grunted and hauled her up.

“Can you run?”

She nodded, her arms still bound behind her back. The timbers above them groaned and cracked, showering them with sparks and embers. But before they could run, a rough hand grabbed Corin’s shoulder.

“You little street rat,” Grim snarled, his face contorted with rage. “I’ll gut you myself!”

His knife was almost as long as Corin’s forearm. But before he could use it, Mariah landed a kick in the crime lord’s groin. Grim howled and doubled over.

“Run!” said Corin, grabbing Mariah by the arm. She didn’t need to be told twice. Together, they stumbled through the thickening smoke.

The burst out into the cool night air, coughing and gasping for breath. Behind them, angry shouts and roaring flames filled the air. Mariah staggered, and for a moment, it seemed that she was about to collapse.

“Don’t stop,” Corin gasped, pulling her back to her feet. “We’ve got to get away from here.”

Mariah nodded. Together, they plunged into the winding alleys of Caravelia, leaving the inferno far behind.

Corin

The old wharf groaned under Corin’s weight. He stumbled to the edge, letting his feet dangle over the water as he sat. The putrid stench of the river wafted up to greet him, a nauseating blend of sewage and rotting fish. As if that weren’t enough, the acrid smoke of the warehouse fire still clung to his rags.

“Think we lost ‘em,” he muttered as Mariah sat beside him. The distant shouts of the city guard echoed behind them through the narrow streets.

Mariah nodded. “For now, at least.” She sagged against a moldering wooden post, wincing at her bonds. “Lend a hand?”

“Right, sorry.” Corin fumbled for his knife and carefully sawed through the ropes binding her wrists. The raw, red welts stirred his anger.

“How badly did they hurt you?”

Mariah grimaced as she rubbed her chafed skin. “Ain’t nothing I can’t handle. You learn to take your licks on the streets.” She glanced at him, her eyes glinting. “Speaking of which, what were you doing there? How’d you know where to find me?”

Mariah’s father hovered at the edge of Corin’s vision. “Tell her,” he urged. But Corin couldn’t afford to let word get out about his gift.

“I heard a rumor,” he lied. “Thought I’d check it out, see if you needed my help.”

Mariah snorted. “Since when do you play the hero, Corey?”

“Maybe I just wanted to buck the trend for once.”

She stared at him for a while, then shook her head. “You’re a strange one. But… thanks. I mean it.”

“What were you doing getting mixed up with Grim’s crew anyway?” Corin asked. Mariah looked away, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“It’s… complicated,” she said evasively. “I got mixed up in something I shouldn’t have.”

Corin’s frown deepened. He knew all too well the kinds of people who ruled Caravelia’s underworld. It often felt like the city’s prosperity was built on a foundation of corruption and greed. The fact that Mariah didn’t want to talk about it obviously meant she was in over her head.

“Must’ve been some job,” he pressed. “Grim doesn’t tie people up for fun.”

Mariah’s lips tightened. “Look, I appreciate you saving me and all, but it’s better if you don’t know all the details. For both our sakes.”

Corin opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it. Why was he trying to get himself involved anyway? Everyone on the streets had their own dirty secrets.

“Fine,” he said. “Just… take care of yourself, alright? And if you need my help again—”

“Don’t worry, I’ll ask for it,” she said, turning away. But she couldn’t hide the gratitude in her eyes.

Maybe I just want to feel needed for a change, he thought, answering his own question. By someone who isn’t dead yet, he added quickly, turning away from the ghost.

“Tell her,” Mariah’s father pleaded. “Please, Corin. Tell her I’m here—that I love her.”

But Corin ignored the spectral being, fixing his gaze on the water instead. A small barge glided past them, its hull groaning as it made its way toward the harbor. Mariah noticed his sudden tension and frowned.

“What is it, Corey?” she asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“You have no idea.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Now, let’s get out of here before those goons catch up to us.”

Corin felt the ghost’s disappointment like a cold wind at his back. But he shoved the feeling aside. Survival came first—everything else was a luxury he couldn’t afford.

Lord Arion

Lord Arion silently watched the two ragged figures below. Though unremarkable to mortal eyes, the boy stood out among the thousands of other inhabitants of the capital city.

“He has the gift,” Lord Arion whispered. “The power to see beyond the veil of the Mortal Realm.”

Hope began to surge within him, a feeling he hadn’t felt very often since his demise. He swooped lower, watching as Corin parted ways with Mariah before slipping into a gaggle of drunken sailors. He blended in surprisingly well.

“He is so different from my Lyra,” Arion mused as he followed the boy through the city’s squalid streets. Where Lyra walked with the grace and poise of nobility, Corin slunk through the shadows, always watching his back. Where Lyra had a position at court, Corin trusted no one and always kept a knife on his belt.

“The streets haven’t been kind to you, have they, lad?” Arion murmured. He focused his otherworldly senses to peer into Corin’s heart. Beneath the boy’s gritty cynicism, a flicker of something pure still burned.

“There’s goodness there,” Arion decided. “Buried, perhaps, but not extinguished. You’re a good man, Corin—or at least, you want to be.”

Arion’s mind turned to the peril his daughter now courted. His rage burned at the thought of Dorian indoctrinating her in the ways of the Dark Brotherhood. She needed her father now more than ever—before she made a mistake that would fix the course of her life.

“The boy has the gift,” he repeated, steeling his resolve. It would not be easy, persuading a street urchin to turn from a life of petty thievery. But for Lyra’s sake, he had to try.

Excerpt: Bloodfire Legacy (Chapter 2)

A Daughter’s Dedication

Lyra

Lyra Arion glided gracefully across the polished marble floor of Castle Caravelia’s great hall, her heart racing. It seemed as if the entire court had turned out for her debut. The sight of their resplendent dazzling uniforms and gorgeous gowns made her skin tingle with awe. And yet, even among them, she stood out like a vibrant gem. Her emerald green dress shimmered in the light of the chandeliers, her black hair adorned with a delicate silver circlet that made her feel like a queen. All eyes were drawn to her, and she knew it.

The musicians took up a song, and the floor filled with dancers. Lyra watched with unabashed delight, though inwardly, she felt conflicted. The ball had been thrown in her honor, celebrating her debut as a young lady of the court of King Leander. And yet, for all the wonder and joy at her coming of age, she still felt the loss of her father’s murder—a crime for which no one had yet been punished.

His killer was someone in this very court, she mused inwardly, even as she smiled and exchanged meaningless pleasantries. Perhaps even someone in this very room.

A portly merchant approached her with a plump, rich woman on his arm. She didn’t know the man, but the woman was Lady Estelle, a lady-in-waiting of the late queen. She smiled as her husband spoke.

“Lady Arion—what a pleasure! We’ve been eagerly awaiting your debut for some time now.”

Lyra curtseyed politely. “Thank you, sir. I’m honored to join the court.”

“You look positively radiant this evening,” gushed Lady Estelle. “That dress brings out the lovely color in your eyes.”

“Thank you, milady.”

“Your father would have been so proud to see you here tonight. He truly must be smiling down upon you now.”

Lyra’s heart constricted at the mention of her father. She forced a tight smile, her voice betraying none of her inner turmoil.

“You are too kind, Lady Estelle. I only wish he could be here to share this moment.”

“Quite, quite,” said the portly merchant, eyeing the buffet table a little too eagerly. “Well, don’t let us keep you, Lady Arion. May you have a wonderful evening.”

“And you as well,” Lyra said, curtsying again as they parted ways. As soon as their backs were turned, she glared daggers at them. Could it be either of them? No—Lady Estelle’s head was far too empty to be able to hide the conspiracy for long, and as for her husband, she doubted he was of any consequence. Though if Lady Estelle had meant that comment as some sort of barb…

The arrogant Lord Haversmith simpered toward her, interrupting her thoughts. “Lady Arion,” he purred as he bowed, “you look absolutely radiant this evening.”

“Milord,” she answered curtly. But the young man didn’t take the hint. His gaze slid over her body, taking in every inch of her.

“Might I have the honor of a dance?”

Lyra covered her mouth, ostensibly in a coy laugh, but truthfully to hide a scowl. Even as a debutante, she knew how to play the game.

“You are too kind, my lord. Perhaps later this evening? I simply must rest my feet for a moment.”

He hesitated a moment before bowing stiffly again. “Of course,” he muttered, clearly annoyed. But Lyra didn’t care. She turned away, revealing her true emotions only in the subtle twitch of her eyebrow.

Her thoughts turned inward as she observed the whispered conversations along the edges of the great hall. There were many factions in King Leander’s court, all of them vying against each other in a hundred subtle ways. Which of them was responsible for the murder of her father? Was it Lord Aldric, with his too-bright smile and overly familiar manner? Or or perhaps the stern-faced Duke Bardolf, watching from an alcove with an inscrutable expression on his face? Now that she was one of them, Lyra finally had an opportunity to investigate the murder for herself. She could hardly wait to get started.

“Lady Lyra!” exclaimed Lady Forsythe. “How marvelous to see you.” Her voice was like a songbird’s trill, high-pitched and overly sweet. “Your debut has become quite the occasion for the court. That gown is simply divine.”

Lyra nodded. “Your dress is lovely as well,” she responded superficially. “And how fares your husband?”

At the mention of her spouse, Lady Forsythe launched into a seemingly endless monologue about his recent struggles with gout and the various remedies he had tried to cure it. As she prattled on, Lyra’s mind wondered. Could it be her? Or perhaps her foppish son?”

“…and of course, we simply must have you over for tea next week,” Lady Forsythe concluded.

Lyra inclined her head. “You’re too kind,” she replied noncommittally.

“Very well. Have a lovely evening, Lady Arion.”

As they parted, Lyra decided it couldn’t be her. Lady Forsythe was far too absorbed with her own husband. Or was that just a clever ruse?

Patience, Lyra chided herself, though inwardly she wanted to scream. She would find her father’s killer. She would see him brought to justice.

A hand touched Lyra’s elbow, startling her from her brooding thoughts. She turned to find herself face-to-face with a tall, gaunt man whose deep blue eyes seemed to pierce right through her.

“Lady Arion,” he said, his voice as smooth as silk. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure. Lord Blackwood, at your service.”

Lyra curtseyed, her eyes never leaving his face. “Lord Blackwood. A pleasure.”

“Would you honor me with a dance?”

Lyra hesitated. Something about the man seemed off to her, but she could not refuse a second invitation without drawing unwanted attention. She forced a smile and placed her hand in his.

“Of course, Lord Blackwood.”

They glided across the marble floor, joining the other dancers. Dorian moved with surprising skill, stepping smoothly as he led her with a firm and confident hand.

“I must say, Lady Lyra, you look positively radiant tonight. The court is truly enriched by your presence.”

“Thank you, Milord,” Lyra replied uneasily. She had heard of Lord Blackwood, of course. He was a minor noble with a reputation for charm and wit. His flattery seemed a little too thick, though. She searched his face for sarcasm or malice, but found only a pleasant smile.

Just what was it about this man that put her on edge?

“You seem distracted,” Dorian observed as he guided her through a turn. “Is the ball not to your liking?”

“Not at all, Lord Blackwood. I’m simply… overwhelmed by the grandeur of it all.”

“Ah, yes. Though this isn’t your first time at court, isn’t it?” His grip on her waist tightened. “I seem to remember you accompanying your father, before his… unfortunate passing.”

The words hit Lyra like a physical blow. Memories flooded her mind: the pounding on the door, her grandmother’s ashen face, the terrible news that had shattered her world forever. She swallowed hard, struggling to keep her composure.

“Yes,” she managed. “His loss has been… difficult.”

“My deepest condolences, Lady Arion. We have all keenly felt his absence from court these past five years.”

The music swelled, relieving her from having to respond.

As they continued to dance, Lyra found herself studying Dorian more closely. His charm seemed practiced and stale, his words too carefully chosen. Could he have been involved?

“Tell me, Lord Blackwood: did you know my father?”

“Not as well as I would have liked,” he replied smoothly. “But his reputation preceded him. Your father’s skill in the arcane arts was legendary. Did you inherit any of his… talents?”

The question sent a strange chill down her spine. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, Lord Blackwood.”

“Oh, come now, Lady Arion. Surely you’ve felt the call of magic in your blood?”

“I have,” she answered carefully. “But I’m not sure what you’re implying, my lord. My training in the arcane arts is a matter of public record.”

To her relief, Lord Arion dropped the question. “My apologies if I’ve overstepped. I simply find you fascinating, Lady Arion.”

Yes, Lyra thought silently as she turned her gaze from his piercing blue eyes. Just like Lord Haversmith.

The final notes of the waltz faded away, and Lord Blackwood released her from his grasp. She stifled a sigh of relief, ignoring how his eyes seemed to linger. His grip on her waist had been far too possessive.

“Thank you for the dance,” she said, offering a curtsy.

Dorian bowed. “The pleasure was all mine, Lady Arion. I look forward to seeing more of you.”

The feeling is not mutual, Lyra thought but did not say.

As she turned her back to him, she decided that Dorian Blackwood was little more than a petty womanizer. Obviously, that was the only thing that had set her on edge, for what could he have possibly gained from the murder of her father? She would have to avoid him in the future.

She suddenly noticed the eyes of the nearby courtiers drawn to an approaching figure. Lyra turned to see Lady Seraphine, the court magician, gliding toward her with mesmerizing grace. Her long silver hair cascaded down her back, accentuating the purple lace of her gown. Her smile could have belonged equally to a face as young as five or as old as five hundred.

“My dear Lady Arion,” Lady Seraphine greeted her with a melodious voice. “How lovely to see you this evening. You’ve blossomed into such a beautiful young woman.”

Lyra’s spine stiffened. Could Lady Seraphine have been involved in her father’s murder? After all, she had succeeded him as court magician. Few others had gained so much from his untimely passing.

“Thank you, Lady Seraphine,” Lyra carefully chose her words. “The pleasure is mine, though I wish my father were here to see it.”

“His passing still looms like a shadow over this court. These are trying times, Lady Lyra. The kingdom faces many challenges, both from within and without.”

What’s that supposed to mean? Lyra wondered.

“But enough about politics,” the older lady purred. “I suppose a young woman such as yourself must be bored half to death by matters of the court.”

“On the contrary, I find such matters invigorating. There’s so much to consider.”

Lyra’s gaze met Lady Seraphine’s, and for a moment both women took stock of each other. The older sorceress’s violet eyes seemed to miss nothing.

“Your father spoke of you often, you know. He had high hopes for your future.”

Lyra’s throat tightened. “Did he?”

“Yes,” Lady Seraphine said softly. “Tell me, child, have you given any thought to following in his footsteps? The gift of magic often runs in families, after all. And your father’s talents were quite exceptional.”

The way Lady Seraphine called her a “child” made Lyra bristle ever so slightly. But she did her best to hide it, keeping her voice low and controlled.

“You flatter me, my lady. But I don’t think I could ever hope to match my father.”

The sorceress’s laugh was like the tinkling of crystal. “Oh, you underestimate yourself, child. I can see the spark in your eyes—the same fire that burned in your father’s.”

“And what became of that fire, Lady Seraphine? Did someone seek to extinguish it?”

For a fleeting moment, something flickered in the ageless woman’s eyes. But it disappeared just as quickly, replaced by her mask of serene elegance.

“Careful, child. The line between justice and vengeance is often thinner than we’d like to admit.”

“I’m not a child, anymore, Lady Seraphine. This very ball is meant to celebrate that fact. But tell me, how does it feel to wear the mantle of a dead man?”

Seraphine’s eyes flashed. “Your father was a great man, young child, but your grief at his passing does not give you license to lash out blindly.”

“And allow his killer to go unpunished?”

“Such talk is unbecoming of a lady. And dangerous, in these troubled times.” Lady Seraphine’s face smoothed into a placid smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe King Leander requires my company. Do enjoy the rest of the ball, my dear.”

With a swirl of shimmering robes, the sorceress glided away. Lyra trembled with fury, her cheeks hot and her heart pounding.

“By the seven seas,” Lyra muttered, “I need some air.”

Lyra

The pale light of the moon illuminated the castle with a soft, glowing light. A salt-tinged breeze blew gently from the sea, tossing Lyra’ hair and cooling her flushed cheeks. She paused to admire the view of the royal gardens below.

“I will find the truth, Father,” she whispered. “I will not rest until I’ve found them.”

A flicker of movement caught her eye. She turned and found herself face to face with a cloaked figure, his face concealed by an ornate mask. The suddenness of his appearance made her gasp.

“Who are you?” Lyra demanded.

The figure tilted his head inquisitively “A friend, perhaps. That depends entirely on you, Lady Arion.”

A shiver ran down Lyra’s spine. Should she call for the guards? But if he wanted to harm her, he could have already done so.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I wasn’t aware that I needed one.”

The man chuckled. “And yet, here you are, alone at the grand ball in your honor. Clearly, something else is on your mind. Are you searching for something? Or perhaps for someone?”

Lyra’s cheeks flushed. Did he overhear my vow? she wondered silently.

“What do you know of my search?”

The figure leaned in closer, his voice dropping. “The man who killed your father is in this very castle.”

Her heart surged. “What do you know of him?”

“Only vagaries. The killer’s identity is a closely guarded secret, even from me.” He paused. “But your father’s murder casts a long shadow.”

Something in the way he spoke of her father made the words spill out of Lyra’s mouth. “He—he didn’t deserve to die like that,” she heard herself stammer. “He was a great man. Whoever killed him… I want them to suffer as I have suffered. As my father suffered in his final moments.”

“Is it justice you seek, or vengeance?”

“Both,” Lyra answered.

“Be careful, Lady Arion. Such desires can lead down dark paths.”

“Then so be it,” she said, lifting her chin. “I’ll walk any path if it leads me to my father’s killer.”

The masked figure nodded, as if coming to a decision. Without warning, he took Lyra’s hand. Her body tensed, but before she could pull away, she felt him press something smooth into her palm.

“Then perhaps this will aid you on your quest. It will guide you, if you have the will to use it.”

Lyra looked down at the object. It was a small obsidian artifact, like a stone worn smooth from the ocean waves. Its surface was as smooth as polished glass. At its center, a faint light pulsed. She could sense its deep magical power, dark and rich and alluring. Its weight filled her with a sense of pure, untapped possibility, as if she held a small world in her hands.

“But how do I—”

Her words trailed off. The battlements were empty. The masked figure had vanished as if he’d never been there at all.

Lyra

Lyra’s footsteps echoed through the castle as she hurried to her apartment in the east wing. She barely managed to resist the urge to reach for the magical orb, hidden within the folds of her elegant gown. Its powers seemed to course through her, urging her to call upon its dark power.

Not yet, she thought, stumbling a little as she climbed the stairs. She caught herself and reached her apartment without further incident.

Once inside, she bolted the door and hurried over to her writing desk. With trembling hands, she retrieved the enchanted obsidian sphere, placing it ever so carefully upon the polished wood. In the soft glow of the candlelight, it shimmered with an otherworldly allure. She sank into her chair, eyes fixed on the artifact.

“What are you?” she whispered, tracing a finger along its cool surface. She thought of the words of the masked figure who’d given it to her. Could this orb truly help her find her father’s killer? Lyra leaned closer, captivated by the swirling depths beneath its glassy surface. A faint, pulsing light emanated softly from its core.

“How do I use you?” she murmured.

“My lady,” a silky smooth voice purred behind her. “I believe I can assist you with that.”

Lyra whirled, her heart leaping into her throat. Dorian Blackwood stood in the corner of her chamber, appearing from the shadows almost like a ghost. His blue eyes gleamed in the candlelight.

“Lord Blackwood!” Lyra exclaimed, rising awkwardly. “How did you…”

“My apologies for the intrusion, Lady Arion. It was necessary to come in secret, for reasons that will soon be clear.” He glanced meaningfully at the orb. “You’ve made quite the acquisition. Such a fascinating artifact, wouldn’t you agree?”

Lyra’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know of it?”

“More than you might think,” Dorian answered, his eyes glinting in the candlelight. “If you wish to use it, I can give you the guidance you seek.”

Curiosity warred with suspicion in Lyra’s heart. She was half-minded to call the guards and throw him out, but his answer made her hesitate.

“Guidance? What do you mean?”

With a fluid motion, Dorian reached into the folds of his cloak. His long fingers emerged clutching a second magical orb, identical to the one on the table.

“Stars above,” Lyra gasped. “There are two of them?”

Dorian nodded. “The Serpent’s Eyes. Their true powers are only unlocked when they are held by a master and an apprentice. That is why every initiate into the dark arts receives one.”

“The—the dark arts?” Lyra asked, her eyes widening.

“Yes. You do wish to find your father’s killer, don’t you? This orb will help you unlock the gates of shadow. With proper training, you will be able to peer into the darkest corners of men’s souls and bend the very fabric of reality to your will.”

“But… aren’t the dark arts forbidden?”

“Yes,” said Dorian, his smile quickly turning to a scowl. “Those who cannot wield the power hate and fear those of us who can. That is why we must keep to the shadows… for now.”

She frowned. “Who do you mean by ‘we’? Are you speaking about—”

“The Dark Brotherhood? Yes. By taking the Eye, you have joined us, Lady Arion. Though as one of our acolytes, you need not fear our power.”

Now Lyra’s heart truly began to race. She had heard many things about the awful calamities the Brotherhood had wrought upon the world during the Time of Troubles long ago. Most people believed that they had been destroyed by their own power. But she’d also heard rumors that they’d merely been forced underground, biding their time until they could rise again.

“Most of what you’ve heard about us is false, of course,” Dorian continued. “We do not seek to enslave all men, but to liberate them. We seek power to build a better world—much as you seek justice for your father.”

Lyra took a deep breath, her mind spinning. Part of her screamed caution, but her raw, aching need for justice drowned it out.

“Could the dark arts really help me to find my father’s killer?”

“My dear girl, the dark arts could give you far more than that. With this power, you could make your own justice.”

A heady mix of emotions began to well up inside of her. “I’ve tried everything,” she confessed, her voice cracking. “But the investigation into his death has gone nowhere. Everyone at the court speaks so highly of him, but they won’t actually do anything about his death.”

“The foppish, preening peacocks are worse than useless,” Dorian agreed. “The court of King Leander is beyond saving. Your father’s untimely death is proof enough of that.”

“Do you know who killed him?”

He shook his head sadly. “Our influence in the court is far too tenuous, though hopefully that will soon change. But be assured, Lady Lyra—your father’s killer still walks these halls.”

Lyra clenched her fists, her emotions rising. Something in his words—in the quiet intensity of his voice—broke through the wall around Lyra’s heart.

“It’s been five years,” she murmured, her eyes beginning to sting. “Five awful, horrible years. I see his face in my dreams, Lord Blackwood. I hear him calling out to me. It makes me feel so—so powerless.”

Dorian placed a hand on her shoulder. “I understand your pain all too well, child. With my help, you can turn that pain into power.”

“Why would you help me?”

“Because we need you, Lady Arion. If we are to reshape the kingdom—to purge it of all corruption and injustice—we will need every mage who is willing to join our cause. If we had risen to power sooner, perhaps your father would still be alive.”

She sniffed and wiped her eyes. All her life, she’d been taught that the dark arts were evil. Had that all been a lie? I’ve tried everything else, she thought inwardly as her resolve began to harden. But no one else seems to care.

She lifted her chin to meet Dorian’s gaze. “When do we begin?”

“Soon,” Dorian promised. “But remember, secrecy is paramount. The penalty for practicing dark magic is death.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes to avenge my father’s death.”

Dorian’s eyes glittered with a look of… gratification? Or was that triumph? In the dim light of the candle, it was difficult to tell.

“You have an unquenchable spirit, Lady Lyra. But you must exercise patience. Soon, the day is coming when we will be able to practice openly. But until that day, we must exercise prudence.”

He reached into his cloak and withdrew a small leather bound volume. Its cover and spine were non-descript, bearing no lettering at all. Muttering an incantation, he handed it carefully to her.

“Open it.”

Lyra undid the clasp, feeling a shiver of energy run down her spine. She saw at once that it was a manual of the forbidden arts, its pages deeply yellowed with age.

“The spell will cause the book to burst into flames if anyone opens it other than you,” Dorian explained. “Keep it clasped, and show it to no one.”

“I understand,” she said, flipping through the pages. Her heart leaped—even at a glance, she could tell that the volume contained a wealth of knowledge.

“I must go now,” Dorian told her. “It will be at least a fortnight until I return. Until then, study the book, and learn to draw on the power of the Serpent’s Eye. Let it be your teacher for now. Show it to no one, except those who belong to our Brotherhood.”

“How will I know who they are?”

“They will make themselves known to you by this sign,” he said, holding up his hand. Pressing his fingers together in the shape of a snake’s head, he curved two of them down to make the fangs. “You must keep the Serpent’s Eye on your person at all times. But show it to no one else. Do you understand?”

Lyra nodded. “I understand.”

“Good. Now, I must go. Do not attempt to contact me. When the time is right, I will contact you.”

He stepped back into the shadows, crossing his hands over his chest. His figure shimmered before dissipating like smoke in the air. Lyra slowly walked over to where he had been standing, carefully checking for any sign of him. But he was gone.

With a heavy sigh, she collapsed onto her bed, still holding the obsidian orb. As she gazed into its depths, she shivered in anticipation of the power that would soon be hers.

“Soon,” she whispered, smiling fiercely. “Soon, Father, I’ll have the power to make things right.”

WIP Excerpt: Bloodfire Legacy (Chapter 1)

I am happy to report that I finished the final draft of Bloodfire Legacy earlier this month. It is now in the capable hands of my editor, Josh Leavitt, and if all goes well, it should be out in ebook, print, and audio sometime in July.

In the meantime, I thought I would share the first three chapters here on my blog. While I used AI to write the rough draft, everything you will read has been totally rewritten to be in my own voice. This is not the AI draft; it is the final draft I sent to my editor. If you find any typos or errors, they are entirely my own, and will (hopefully) be caught before the book is published.

A Dagger in the Dark

Lord Arion

Lord Vaughn Arion hurried down the long, dark corridors of Castle Caravelia. The dim torchlight flickered behind him, casting a long shadow as he turned the next corner. His court magician’s robes rustled and swayed, but he made no effort to muffle his steps, even as he plunged into the shadows. Speed was of the essence now.

He ran his hand along the wall as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The wall stones were rough, unlike the smooth marble floors and towering granite pillars of the throne room. He passed a narrow window, little more than an arrow slit, and heard the distant rumble of thunder rolling over the city below. Outside, the wind began to howl.

Not since the Time of Troubles nearly a century ago had the kingdom faced so great a threat to its very existence. The wise understood that the Dark Brotherhood had not been totally rooted out of the lands beyond the Azure Sea, but if Lord Arion’s divinations were correct, the true threat lay much closer to home.

The king must know, he told himself, the thought lending wings to his feet. It was not a coincidence that he’d learned this just as the threat of war loomed over the kingdom. Tensions had long been mounting on Caravelia’s eastern frontier, but if the Valmarian Empire was truly in the thrall of the Brotherhood itself…

Lightning flashed as he rounded a corner, briefly illuminating the passageway. He stopped suddenly, his skin prickling. He was not alone.

“Who goes there?” he demanded. “Show yourself!”

Thunder rolled as a tall figure emerged from the inky blackness. Lord Arion recognized the gaunt face and piercing blue eyes of Dorian Blackwood, a minor lord in King Leander’s court. His midnight-blue robes whispered across the floor.

“Lord Arion,” Dorian greeted him, his thin lips curving into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I did not expect to encounter you here at this late hour.”

“I could say the same thing of you, Lord Blackwood,” Lord Arion replied. “What brings you to this part of the castle?” Though he occasionally saw Dorian in court, he knew little of the man. He now regretted that oversight.

Dorian chuckled mirthlessly. “The business of the court never sleeps, my lord.” He took a step closer, making Lord Arion step back. Something deep within him screamed of danger.

“Indeed,” Lord Arion replied carefully. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

Blackwood’s hand suddenly shot out. The gleam of a blade caught Lord Arion’s eye, and he jerked back just in time. The dagger slashed the fabric of his sleeve.

“What treachery is this?” Arion shouted.

“The kind that ends in your death,” Dorian answered.

With lightning speed, he lunged again—but this time, Lord Arion was ready. He thrust out a hand and uttered a word of power, unleashing a torrent of swirling energy as he dodged the would-be assassin’s blow.

Dorian stumbled back, his hands moving in a series of quick, sharp gestures. Inky tendrils of darkness coalesced around him. To Lord Arion’s utter astonishment, his magic parted harmlessly around Dorian, who stood untouched.

“You always were too predictable,” Dorian sneered. “Did you truly think I wouldn’t come prepared to face you?”

Arion’s mind reeled with the implications of what he had just seen. Only an acolyte of the Dark Brotherhood would dare to practice such forbidden magic in Caravelia.

“You—you’re a practitioner of the dark arts?”

“Oh, I’m so much more than that,” Dorian laughed. “But you’ll die before you learn the full truth of what I am.”

The two opponents circled each other warily, Arion’s wards pulsing as his opponent probed them. He drew a sharp breath, his mind racing. How could he have been so blind? Dorian had seemed nothing more than just another silver-tongued courtier—a favorite of the ladies and an obnoxious fixture at the king’s banquets. But this spoke of a far deeper treachery.

“Why, Dorian?” Arion demanded as lightning flashed outside. “What has driven you to betray your king?”

A sneer of contempt twisted Dorian’s lip. “Leander is no more fit to be king than you are fit to be his court magician.”

Thunder rolled as he launched his attack, unleashing a maelstrom of dark magic. Arion deflected it and countered with a powerful riposte, the clash of their energies illuminating the corridor with a burst of blinding light.

“Your power is formidable,” Arion growled through gritted teeth, “but your soul is corrupted. I cannot permit you to live.”

Dorian laughed. “You will never know the full extent of my powers.”

Before Arion could gather his energy, Blackwood surged forward, his dagger a blur of silver that sliced through Arion’s wards like feeble threads. A searing pain erupted in his chest as the dagger plunged deep into his heart.

Lord Arion stumbled to his knees, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth. “How?” he gasped.

“Silver, my lord,” Blackwood answered coolly. He twisted the dagger and wrenched it free. “The bane of all magic—even yours.”

Lord Arion’s legs buckled, and he collapsed. Blood gushed from his wound as the edges of his vision began to haze over. He fought in vain to maintain consciousness against the looming darkness. Dorian crouched over him.

“Hush now,” he whispered, his voice a sibilant caress. “It will all be over soon.”

With the last of his strength, Arion tried desperately to rise and fight. But his limbs simply refused to obey. He watched as Dorian Blackwood carefully wiped the blood from his dagger before he melted back into the shadows.

“No!” Lord Arion groaned, thinking of the message he had failed to deliver. If only he hadn’t been so blind!

The world titled and spun all around him. The pain faded, and a numbing cold spread throughout his entire body. Then darkness claimed him, and Lord Arion knew no more.

Lord Arion

A strange, all-encompassing lightness filled Lord Arion’s being. He suddenly felt liberated from all the aches and pains that he had come to take for granted over the years. It almost felt invigorating at first. But then, he looked down at his lifeless body, eyes glazed and mouth still open in shock.

“No,” he muttered, his voice echoing strangely. “This… this can’t be real.”

He reached out, but his hand passed through the corpse without any physical sensation. Slowly, confusion gave way to awful certainty. He was dead. Murdered. His spirit had been violently sundered from his body. His life’s work, the kingdom, his family—

Lyra.

“Oh no,” he groaned, his heart sinking at the thought of his now-orphaned daughter. “Lyra—I can’t leave her. Not now—not like this!”

But the dim corridor was now tinged with an otherworldly glow, its edges blurred and its colors muted. He took a hesitant step forward, expecting to feel the stone beneath his feet, but felt no sensation at all.

He drew himself up and set his jaw, willing himself forward. Slowly, he glided down the hallway, tensing as he passed through the wall at the end of it. He came out into the corridor on the other side, near a tapestry and a suit of armor. The only sensation he felt though all of this was a slight tingle.

A pair of guards were walking toward him. Eagerly, he waved his hands.

“Hello?” he called out. “Can you hear me?”

But the sleepy guards were oblivious to his presence. As they passed him, Lord Arion reached out, his finger passing through the nearest man’s arm.

“Please,” he begged. But he was merely a shade. If the guard felt anything, he made no sign of it.

Lord Arion’s thoughts turned again to his daughter. What would become of her? Would his murderer try to take her life as well? The thought filled him with a fear that propelled him upward, into her bedchamber. Thankfully, she was safe.

“My darling girl,” he whispered as he gazed upon her sleeping form. She was only eleven years old—little more than a child. Her raven hair spread across the pillow, her features serene.

Lord Arion’s ghostly fingers hovered over her cheek. How he longed to hold her one last time! Next to this, all else seemed utterly trivial to him now. But of course, he could not—and in the morning, her heart would be shattered as she learned of her father’s awful fate.

“Oh, Lyra,” he moaned, wishing that he could brush away the tears that would surely come. “I’m sorry, my child. So sorry.”

Arion closed his eyes, reaching out with his magic to touch the very fabric of the world around him. This, at least, had not been denied him. He could still sense the ebb and flow of magic, the pulsing ley lines that crisscrossed land and sea. Yet without a corporeal body, he could not tap into that power.

One shimmering thread stood out above the others. His daughter’s own nascent abilities, the untapped potential that lay dormant with her. He opened his eyes to gaze upon her again.

“You have a gift,” he murmured, though he knew she could not hear him. “How will you use it, now that I am gone?”

In that moment, a soft, melodious voice filled the air.

“Vaughn.”

He looked up at once, searching for the source of the voice. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

“Who’s there?” he called. “Show yourself!”

“Peace, noble spirit,” the angelic voice answered. “Your time in the mortal realm has come to an end, but your journey beyond the veil is only now beginning.”

A shimmering curtain of light appeared before him. As he watched, the gossamer curtain parted, revealing a realm of unimaginable beauty. Lush fields stretched to the horizon, dotted with ancient trees. The scene was bathed in a beautiful golden light that cast no shadows.

“Stars above,” he whispered, his voice barely louder than a breath. “Is this… the Immortal Realm?”

An overwhelming sense of peace washed over him, dulling the violence of his death. As his eyes adjusted, he began to see familiar faces. His grandparents, long since passed, smiled and beckoned at him to come. Childhood friends and comrades-in-arms appeared next—many of whom he had only recently mourned. They stood before him now, whole and radiant. And then…

“Elara,” he breathed, his eyes widening at the sight of his beloved wife. She stood radiantly before him, appearing exactly as she had on the day they had both been wed. Her emerald eyes looked so much like their daughter’s.

“My love,” Elara answered. “How I’ve missed you.”

“And I you,” Arion said, longing to embrace her. “But Lyra—”

The angelic voice sounded again, gentle yet firm. “Your journey through the mortal realm is over, Vaughn. It is time to rest in eternal peace.”

Lord Arion hesitated, his heart torn as he met his wife’s gaze.

“I can’t,” he answered. “My daughter—our daughter—needs me. Without me, she’ll be alone.”

“She has to walk her own path,” the voice told him. “You cannot walk it for her.”

“I know,” he said, his eyes never leaving Elara’s. “But I can’t abandon our daughter.”

“You choose a difficult road,” the angelic voice warned. “As a ghost, you will have no effect upon the Mortal Realm. Your unseen presence may give her some small degree of comfort, but she will never know for certain that you are there.”

“I know,” he said, his voice ragged. “Forgive me, my love. Our reunion must wait a little longer.”

Elara nodded sadly. “I understand. Watch over her, my darling. Until we meet again.”

The angelic voice spoke again, its tone solemn. “Your love for your daughter is a testament to your noble spirit. For this, you shall have one gift. At a time of your choosing, you will be granted the power to part the veil and speak to her directly. Choose wisely, for you will only have one chance.”

“Thank you for this boon. I shall use it when Lyra needs me most.”

“Then go, Vaughn. Watch over your daughter, but remember that her choices must be her own.”

The curtain of light began to close, veiling the glory of the Immortal Realm. When the light had dissipated, Lord Arion found himself drifting in the air above his own lifeless body. His eyes lingered upon his mortal shell, now lying in a pool of blood.

“Oh, Lyra,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry, my darling girl. I never meant to leave you like this.”

WIP Excerpt: Captive of the Falconstar, Chapter 1

This book is a direct sequel to Queen of the Falconstar, which has been out for a few years now. I’m working on finishing the trilogy, trying out my new AI-assisted writing process to see how it does with a series that I’ve already started. So far, it’s going pretty well.

This draft is pretty rough, so you’ll see a lot of AI-isms that are going to get smoothed out before the final draft, but there’s a good chunk of human writing in there too, including the entire first scene. But that’s also kind of rough, so it will go through a couple of revisions before the novel is finally published.

If all goes well, Captive of the Falconstar should be out by the middle of next year, with the final book in the trilogy, Lord of the Falconstar, coming out soon after. One of the nice things about writing with AI is that it really helps to make the writing more efficient, so that I don’t get stuck on writer’s block nearly as much. Hopefully that will translate to much shorter wait times between books, since I really should have finished this trilogy years ago.

Enjoy!

Sonya

Sonya had never felt so happy, wandering the chaotic bazaar of Graznav Station with Petyr’s hand firmly clasped in her own. A large merchant ship had just come in from the Tajji Union, and there were so many wonderful new goods to browse. Even so, the noise and bustle of the bazaar all faded into the background as she lost herself in the company of her betrothed.

“I think I love you, Petyr,” she said, daring to give voice to the unspoken affection between them that had grown and matured for so long. For a moment, she feared that he would brush it off—say something disappointingly cavalier, like “I know”—but instead, he turned and gave her such a warm and honest smile that she knew she would love him forever.

For the next few moments, she stared back into his eyes as he stared into hers, drinking in each other like a fine wine. Time slowed until it was barely a crawl—as if this moment of pure and innocent bliss would go on forever. Petyr was not a child anymore: his rugged face was punctuated with manly stubble, his jawline square and his chest broad and muscular. And beneath the scent of engine oil and foreign spices that permeated the station’s bazaar, his manly and familiar musk comforted her and made her feel safe and loved.

Home, she thought silently, closing her eyes as she leaned into his chest. This was her home, her safe place, her refuge from the storm. And for the briefest moment, she could believe that it was real.

But all too soon, the moment passed. Her dream faded as sleep fled her all too soon, and she found herself blinking and staring up at the gaudily painted ceiling above her. Instantly, she knew that she was in the small annex of the master suite on board the Falconstar, not home on Graznav Station. And Petyr, her betrothed, was light-years away from her by now—if he was still alive at all.

No, she thought silently, her whole body tensing as she woke back up to the nightmare that was her life now. The background hum of the Falconstar’s engines seemed to roar in her ears, reminding her of her captivity. How many months had it been now since she’d been ripped away from her home? She drew a deep breath, her chest constricting as she steeled herself for another dayshift as a slave of the Hameji.

Well, not exactly. Technically, she wasn’t a slave, but a “maidservant”—her friend Zlata had seen to that. But to Sonya, it was a distinction without a difference.

She sat up on her uncomfortable cot just as the bedroom door to the master suite hissed open. The sound made her jump in surprise. She hurriedly clutched the thin blanket to her chest as Lord Khasan Valdamar stepped through.

The man who was now her captor stood tall, his muscular frame filling the open doorway as his brown eyes quickly scanned the room before falling on her. Even dressed in nothing but a robe, he exuded a commanding presence that made Sonya shrink and tremble. From the way she looked at him, she seemed to be nothing more than another asset in the ship’s inventory.

“Good upshift, Mistress Gulchen,” he greeted her with a perfunctory nod.

“L-lord Khasan,” Sonya answered, lowering her gaze as she struggled to keep her voice steady.

The Hameji clan lord took a step toward her, making her whole body tense with alarm. He narrowed his eyes with a look of disapproval.

“I see you are still dressed in your bedclothes.”

“Y-yes, Milord,” she stammered.

“That is not acceptable. Rouse yourself and prepare for the dayshift. I know you are Zenoba’s maidservant, but I am the captain of the Falconstar. My word is law.”

Sonya’s whole body shook, as if she expected him to strike her at any moment. But the authoritative tone of his voice was as strong as any blow.

“Of course, Milord. I’ll get ready at once.”

“See to it, Mistress Gulchen. I do not wish for Lady Zenoba to want for anything.”

With that, he turned and strode back into the bedroom, letting the door shut behind him with an ominous hiss. Sonya let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding, and hastily rose to her feet, shedding her bedclothes and dressing herself in the simple and ugly servant’s tunic that the Hameji had provided for her.

She had barely fastened the clasp around her waist when the bedroom door opened and Lord Khasan stepped out again, dressed now in his gray captain’s uniform. A massive curved dagger was sheathed on his hip, its gold-plated hilt somehow looking not at all out of place with the immaculately clean military garb of the Hameji. On his other side, a fearsome firearm was holstered so snugly it almost looked like an extension of his body.

Sonya bowed her head respectfully as he passed her, barely acknowledging her with a nod. He crossed the master suite’s front room and opened the door to the Falconstar’s main hall, greeting the two guards who stood watch for Lady Zenoba. Sonya heard only a small fragment of their conversation before the door hissed shut behind him, sealing her back in the apartment that she and Lady Zenoba now shared.

“Right,” she said, willing herself to relax a little now that the fearsome Hameji Lord was gone. She turned to the still-open doorway leading to the bedroom and rapped softly on the doorframe.

“Zlata? Are you awake?”

Her friend and oncetime fellow captive stretched languidly amidst the scarlet bedsheets and yawned. Her bare skin was still flushed from the early morning sex that she and Lord Khasan had doubtless just partaken in. The heady scent of it almost made Sonya gag. But Zlata herself seemed profoundly satisfied, and regarded Sonya with an almost sultry gaze, heedless of her own disheveled state of undress.

“Oh, there you are. Is it upshift already?”

Sonya bit her lip and nodded. “Do you… want me to give you some privacy?”

Zlata yawned and pulled the bedsheets off of her. “That won’t be necessary, Mistress Gulchen. Better to rise up and prepare for the dayshift. Here, help me.”

Sonya stepped forward and helped her gather the sheets, doing her best to avoid the wet spots. It had been nearly a month since Zlata had become Khasan’s wife and Queen of the Falconstar, but they still spent almost every nightshift engaged in carnal activities, and the clean up afterward had become something of a routine. As Zlata wrapped her body in the plush, soft fabric of her bedrobe, Sonya stuffed the dirty sheets into the laundry hamper and laid out clean ones to replace them.

“Is everything alright, Zlata?” Sonya asked, noting how Zlata paused before the mirror on the far side of the bedroom, her black hair cascading over the white fabric of her robe.

“My name is Zenoba,” Zlata muttered, glancing at Sonya through the reflection. “You must remember to use my Hameji name.”

Sonya frowned. “But I thought that was only for when we—”

“Call me by my Hameji name,” Zlata repeated firmly. Through the mirror, her striking eyes fixed on Sonya with an intensity that demanded obedience.

“Of course, Lady… Zenoba,” Sonya forced out. The Hameji name felt like acid on her tongue. It almost physically pained her to address her former friend with the name their captors had given her—but of course, Zlata wasn’t a captive anymore. She was one of them.

“Here,” said Zlata, opening the closet and selecting a green, high-collared dress. “Carry this for me.” She handed the clothing to Sonya, who held it mutely as Zlata perused the drawers to complete the outfit.

Am I just another accessory to you now? Sonya thought bitterly as Zlata led them out into the hall of the women’s quarters to the bathroom facilities that they shared. Hatred and anger flared in Sonya’s gut like the ever-present fire at the heart of a reactor core, carefully contained but still full of burning energy just waiting to be unleashed. She carefully held onto that energy, knowing that without it, the circumstances of her captivity would have already crushed her fragile spirit.

The bathroom was not vacant, but Zlata hardly seemed to care. She shed her bathrobe on the cold tile floor and stepped into the open shower unit, leaving Sonya to wait for her outside. Sonya carefully placed the clothes on a nearby counter and retrieved the bathrobe, exchanging it for a towel. This, too, had become part of the insufferable routine.

A toilet flushed, and an overweight red-headed girl stepped out of the stall. Even though Sonya stood almost half a head taller than her, Aruzhan still seemed to look down at her she walked past her without a word. Sonya bit her lip and bowed her head demurely, carefully cultivating the anger in her heart.

I’m not afraid of you, she thought inwardly. And before I get out of this place, I’ll see you wipe that condescending look off of your face.

At length, the shower cycle finished, and Zlata stepped out, holding up her arms as Sonya dried her. Of course, she was capable of drying herself, but she seemed to take pleasure in letting Sonya do the work—which was, after all, just another form of condescension. Sonya grit her teeth and complied without a word, carefully feeding the anger into her heart.

“Dress me,” Zlata ordered as she finished wrapping the towel around her head. Her voice was soft but no less commanding.

“Yes, Milady,” Sonya said softly, unfolding the dress and helping Zlata into it. As she did, one of the other women of the Falconstar stepped into the doorway.

“Good upshift, Lady Zenoba.”

“Good upshift to you, Lady *Kulen! Are we still on for tea with Lady Nari?”

“Of course, Milady. And I have to say, I’ve been very impressed with how…”

Sonya pointedly ignored their conversation as she finished helping her former friend get dressed. If Zlata wanted to treat her like nothing more than an accessory, then that was what she would be. After all, there were certain advantages to being functionally invisible—especially when the people who made it a point to ignore you were the ones who were going to pay.

Before I get out of this place, you’ll wish you hadn’t ignored me.

Each layer of fabric that Sonya spread onto Zlata’s skin was like another barrier between them. The differences in their bodies were stark: Zenoba’s thin frame was a study in sharp angles, while Sonya’s more feminine curves filled out her simple tunic almost to the point of bursting. Still, at least she didn’t have to wear the horrid thing that Zlata had picked out.

That’s only because she hasn’t asked me to accompany her to Lady Nari’s, Sonya told herself. She shuddered as she remembered what Zlata had made her wear the last time they’d gone to Lady Nari’s together. Not that it had helped her to feel any less vulnerable or exposed before the dowager queen of the Falconstar. She shuddered again—that woman frightened her even more than Lord Khasan himself.

At length, Zlata bade farewell to Lady *Kulen and turned to Sonya. “Shall we return to our apartment, Mistress Gulchen?”

“As you wish, Milady.”

She trailed behind Zlata as they walked back through the colorful hallway of the women’s quarters, decorated with silk wall hangings and little gold tassels dangling from the ceiling. The shaggy carpet would have felt soothing against Sonya’s bare skin, if she didn’t feel so horribly out of place.

Zlata palmed open the door, and they stepped back into the apartment that they both shared. As Zlata made herself comfortable on the divan, Sonya’s eyes lingered on her cot, remembering with some wistfulness the dream from the nightshift before. She bit her lip to keep from crying.

“Would you like to play a game of Damka while we wait for breakfast, Gulchen?”

Sonya carefully clenched her fists, keeping them out of view. “Will you stop calling me that, please?” she asked, forcing herself to meet Zlata’s gaze. “My name is Sonya.”

Zlata stared at her for several moments, her eyes unreadable. “But your Hameji name is Gulchen. You chose it yourself.”

As if I had a choice! Sonya wanted to scream. Instead, she took a deep breath and cultivated her growing rage.

“My name is Sonya,” she repeated, as if that were answer enough.

Zlata sighed. “Do you really want to make a big deal out of this? We are both Hameji now. It’s only fitting that we should use our Hameji names.”

“No, it’s not,” Sonya insisted, unable to hold herself back. “I’m not going to forget who I am. I’m never going to forget.”

“That’s not what I’m asking you to do,” Zlata retorted. “I’m only asking you to accept that this is who you are now. Our names give us power, and sometimes we must shape ourselves anew to properly wield it.”

Her words made Sonya want to scream. Instead, she took a deep breath and looked Zlata in the eye.

“My name… is Sonya.”

They stared at each other in tense silence for several moments. It took a feat of will for Sonya not to turn away. But she held her gaze firmly until Zlata finally sighed and shook her head.

“Very well,” she said at length. “If Sonya is truly the name you wish to go by, then that is what I will call you whenever I can. But I expect you to call me Zenoba, even when it’s just the two of us alone.”

“Yes, Milady,” said Sonya, with only a hint of sarcasm in her voice. Zlata still picked up on it, though, and raised an eyebrow.

“Sonya?”

“Yes, Zenoba,” she said quickly, looking away. “I hear you.”

“Good. Now, how about a little Damka?”

Sonya sighed and sat down on her cot as Zlata set up the board. Who was she to refuse? After all, whether she was a maidservant or a slave or something else entirely, the one thing she knew was that she was no longer free.

But somedayshift, I will be, she inwardly resolved. And when I finally am, Zlata will pay.

Khasan

Khasan stood ramrod straight as his gaze swept the view from the observation deck. Out here, in deep space, the stars in their myriad thousands were all distant points of light, glowing like cold jewels from the depths of a fathomless abyss. Out here, the Falconstar was his only world; any accompanying friendly starships were little more than nearby islands, and enemy ships existed only as blips of data on a screen. There were no other ships for at least a parsec, though, which suited Khasan just fine. The solitude of the stars was lonely and cold, but it issued no judgment, nor tried to force his hand.

The last few months had been surprisingly eventful. He had raided the planetborn for starships and had come back with a pair of slaves. He had lost his chief advisor—the traitor!—and won a ruthless wife. He had broken off a marriage arrangement that would have secured his family’s safety, at the expense of their family name, and had plunged them anew into peril for the promising hope of a glorious restoration.

He narrowed his eyes and clenched his fists. By all the holy stars before him, he would not rest until the Valdamar Clan had been restored.

Khasan Valdamar stood tall, his back straight and eyes fixed on the small dots of light that illuminated the darkness outside the viewport. They were distant stars, but to him, they held a lifetime of memories- of his childhood, of his ancestors, and now, of his own struggles as the ruler of the Valdamar Clan. Nergui’s betrayal still haunted him, and a part of him yearned for his old advisor, even though he now knew the man was a traitor.

The door to his private quarters whooshed open, and Zenoba entered with purposeful strides. She was newly appointed as matriarch of the Valdamar clan, her eyes reflecting both authority and curiosity.

“Zenoba,” he greeted her, barely hiding his eagerness. Nergui had always opposed his marriage to her, but now she at least partially filled the void that his betrayal had left behind.

“Khasan,” she said, as if confirming his thoughts. “We need to speak about what lies ahead for us.”

He turned from the stars, his piercing brown eyes meeting hers. In their depths, a tumultuous sea of ambition and resolve churned. “We will expand our fleet,” Khasan declared, his words slicing through the uncertainty that hung between them. “The betrayal of Nergui has left a void, but it also gives us clarity. We must expand our strength by raiding the planetborn, seizing their ships.”

“I see,” she said, her mind racing through all the possible outcomes. “Must we cause so much bloodshed, though? Is there no other way to strengthen our clan?”

“Blood is the price we pay for greatness,” Khasan replied, his voice filled with fervent determination. “Our ancestors understood this, and so must we.”

She nodded. “I stand by your side,” Zenoba affirmed, her loyalty unwavering. “But I need to fully comprehend what we plan to do.”

“Then let me show you,” he said, a hint of vulnerability creeping into his stern demeanor. He led her to the holographic display at the center of the room and activated it, revealing a star map dotted with enigmatic symbols.

Zenoba stepped closer, her gaze falling upon the projected star systems. “You intend to raid the planetborn?” she inquired, her voice tinged with a supportive curiosity. She knew the importance of expanding their fleet, but the layers of political intricacies were not lost on her.

“Indeed,” he confirmed, “Our future—and the future of the Valdamar clan—lies in the ships we capture. But first, we will journey to the secret holdings of Clan Valdamar to gather supplies and men. Besides, as Lady in Command, it is important that you should see these holdings for yourself, and be able to assess the true strength and weaknesses of our clan.”

Zenoba leaned forward, her black hair falling like a shadow across her face. Her striking eyes darted over the display, taking in the information with keen interest. “This will not be a short voyage,” she observed.

“Indeed, it will not be,” Khasan affirmed. “But the rewards will be worth it. We have hidden these ships away for a reason, and now, in our time of need, we will make use of them.”

Zenoba nodded in understanding. “And what of the planetborn?” she asked. “Where do you plan to strike?”

Khasan’s expression hardened. “The planetborn are weak and complacent,” he replied. “They do not possess the strength to defend their territories against us. Still, we are not yet strong enough to take what is rightfully ours. We must be cautious, and choose our targets carefully.”

“Of course. Will you leave me behind in the secret clan holdings while you conduct this raid?”

“No, my love. The Falconstar is more than a ship; it is our home, our fortress among the stars,” Khasan stated, pride swelling in his chest. “It will carry us safely, and there, you will witness the full extent of our potential.”

“Show me,” she said, accepting the challenge his invitation presented.

He nodded, a silent acknowledgment of her role in his life and the unfolding saga of their clan. Together, they would venture into the fringes of space, to an uninhabited system where the roots of their power spread unseen.

They spoke for a while afterward, about less pressing matters. He enjoyed her company, and found himself relaxing in her presence in a way that he never could with Nergui. And yet, the stakes of their next raid hung over him, never far from his mind. Sensing this, she excused herself.

As she left his quarters, the ship’s engines hummed with readiness, a deep vibration that resonated with the pulse of Khasan’s own heart. The stars beyond called to him, and he answered with the determination of one who would stop at nothing to restore his clan to its former glory, to carve out a legacy that would endure through the ages.

Zenoba

Zenoba’s footsteps echoed softly against the cold, metallic floors of the Falcontar’s corridors as she made her way to the bridge. The steady hum of the ship’s engines reverberated softly through the bulkheads, a constant reminder that this sleek and powerful vessel was an island in the infinite void. Was it strange that she felt so at home here? She dismissed the thought before it had any time to take hold in her thought. Of course it was not strange. For a Valdamar queen such as her, it was only natural.

The door parted before her, and she stepped onto the bridge of the Falconstar with a soft but confident stride. As she gazed upon the suite of intricate control panels and glowing consoles manned by the dozen or so bridge officers, she felt a sense of awe rise within her. This was the beating heart of their starship, the very center of their sanctuary in the depths of interstellar space.

Gavirl, the Captain of the Falconstar’s Guard, acknowledged her presence with a curt but respectful nod. The dim lighting cast soft shadows across his sharp features, defined by a strong jawline that was framed with a short, thick beard. He turned to face his captain, his face a stoic mask.

“Lord Khasan,” Gavril announced. “Lady Zenoba has joined us.”

“Excellent,” Khasan replied from the captain’s chair. He rose and turned to greet her, his muscular silhouette outlined against the glow of the display screens and the view of the starfield outside. Zenoba smiled inwardly at the sight.

“Excellent,” Khasan replied from the captain’s chair, his muscular silhouette outlined against the vast backdrop of space. His body was coiled like a spring, his eyes darting feverishly between screens.

Zenoba gave Gavril a curt nod and stood by the captain’s chair, taking her place beside her husband as Lady in Command.

“Status report,” Lord Khasan barked, his voice resounding through the bridge with sharp precision.

Jabeg’s confident voice rang out above the din. “Coordinates locked in and engines primed for jump.”

Elbek’s fingers danced over his console, a silent symphony of war and defense. “Weapons systems are in standby, Lord Khasan. We are ready for jump.”

“What about the rest of the fleet?” Zenoba asked.

“Communications channels will be limited during the jump, Lady Zenoba,” Shilugei added, his sharp features set in a mask of focus. “But I’ll ensure you remain informed.” There was a reverence in his tone, reserved for those of Zenoba’s new station.

Khasan’s hand hovered over a panel, fingers curling into a tight fist before finally pressing down to initiate their first leap into the unknown.

“Let’s go,” he commanded, his determination palpable and echoing throughout the ship as they hurtled towards their destination.

“Jump commencing in three… two… one…”

A gut-wrenching lurch, a gasping breath—the universe collapsed in on itself. In that split second, the void consumed all, its emptiness consuming the very essence of existence. But then, like a fierce phoenix rising from the ashes, the Falconstar emerged on the other side, victorious and unbreakable.

“Jump successful,” Jabeg reported, relief palpable in his tone.

“Let us offer our prayers,” Khasan intoned, and the bustle quieted to a sacred hush. “For the stars guide us, and the darkness shields us.”

Khasan stood with arms outstretched, invoking the power of the star map projected on the wall. The rest of the crew circled around him, their heads bowed in reverence to the ancient deities.

“Oh great Tenguri, Lord of the Celestial Heavens and Father of all, we invoke thy holy name and reverence thee.”

“Oh Karduna, God of *, we ask for thy blessing and favor as we embark on this great journey.”

“And thou, New Rigel, vouchsafer of ancient and forgotten wisdom, we revere thee last of all, that our voyage may be blessed. Amen”

As he recited the Hameji chants of navigation, Zenoba felt her soul stir with primal energy. She watched in awe as Khasan’s words conjured an aura of magic and purpose within the room.

“Never forget our purpose,” Khasan continued. “Our mission is crucial to the survival of our people and the blessings of the gods.”

Zenoba nodded, feeling a renewed connection to her pagan roots and a fierce determination to see their quest through to the end. They were united by their shared devotion and trust in each other, guided by the unseen forces that governed their destinies.

As the echo of the last prayer dissipated, Zenoba excused herself, her footsteps silent on the metal deck as she made her way back to the women’s quarters. She could sense that she was no longer needed or wanted on the bridge, despite Khasan’s polite dismissal.

“I’ll leave you all to your duties,” she said with a small smile, acknowledging that her duties as lady in command were done. The men could rest more easily, after she had returned to the womens’ quarters.

Khasan gave her a nod of understanding, his attention already shifting back to the star map displayed on the wall. Jabeg and Shilugei were deep in conversation, their voices hushed but urgent.

Zenoba glided down the narrow hallway towards the women’s quarters, adorned with intricate tapestries and sacred symbols of their beliefs. As she entered the familiar space, a wave of serenity washed over her, surrounded by her sisters in faith. The soft rustle of silk and exotic fragrances greeted her, a stark contrast to the clinical atmosphere of the bridge. Here, among the female nobility of Clan Valdamar, strength and elegance intertwined within the metallic walls of their warship, creating a powerful presence that commanded respect.

Amidst the soft glow of the starship’s interior, Lady Nari’s silver hair shimmered. She sat beside the aquaponics tanks in the lounge, surrounded by a circle of women as they knit and tended to their craft. Khasan’s mother was the undisputed matriarch, her brown eyes holding the weight of wisdom and unspoken authority.

“Good downshift, Lady Zenoba,” Lady Nari greeted her, rising in respect. The others followed.

“Please,” said Zenoba, raising her hands. “There is no need to rise on my account.”

“On the contrary,” said Lady Nari, a glint in her eye. “As Lady in Command, your rank on this ship is now equivalent to mine—and I would certainly take it as an affront if you did not show the same respect to me.”

They resumed their seats, Lady Nari’s *golden samovar set in the center of the room, where Aruzhan tended to it.

Lady Gerel, Khasan’s half-sister, smiled warmly at Zenoba, her dark red hair falling in loose waves around her rosy cheeks. Her gentle demeanor belied the fierce loyalty that bound her to her brother’s cause.

Towering over them all was Lady Khulan, tall and statuesque with sharp eyes that missed nothing. Her midnight-black hair was meticulously braided and her presence commanded respect.

But amidst the serious conversation, young Aruzhan stood out with her bubbly personality and carefree laughter. Her ample form promised comfort and camaraderie, a rare warmth in the cold expanse of space.

“Zenoba,” Lady Gerel called out, her voice gentle yet commanding in the cool chamber. “You’ve returned. Will you stay and have tea with us?”

“Thank you,” said Zenoba. As she settled among the women, her thoughts drifted to the vast unknown beyond the ship’s hull and her crucial role in the unfolding power play.

“Your insights are truly invaluable, Lady Khulan,” Zenoba acknowledged, mindful of the woman’s influential position.

“Only because they are actually listened to, my lady,” Khulan quipped back, her eyes sharp as a knife.

Meanwhile, Aruzhan flitted around the room, her infectious laughter bursting through the air like bubbles in champagne. She slyly winked at Zenoba, her mischievous nature barely hidden under layers of charm and chiffon.

“Want something to eat, cousin?” Aruzhan teased with a playful smirk, already knowing the answer.

“Not now,” Zenoba replied with a small smile tugging at her lips.

Retreating to her private chamber within the women’s quarters, Zenoba allowed herself a moment to breathe. As the weeks stretched into an endless tapestry of stars and silence, she felt the tendrils of uncertainty begin to coil around her heart. Yet she could not—would not—let them take hold.

Her reflection, a tall, thin woman with black hair and striking eyes, stared back at her—a queen in a game of thrones, a player in the grand chessboard of the galaxy. And as the Falconstar hurtled toward their destiny, Zenoba Valdamar braced herself against the unknown machinations of fate, her mind ever plotting, ever poised for the next move in the high-stakes dance of power.

Zenoba

The voyage to the secret clan holdings took more than a standard month. Compared to their first voyage, it was largely uneventful. Zenoba passed most of the time in the women’s quarters, staying with Sonya—now Gulchen—in the master suite. Khasan came to her almost every sleep cycle, and their intimate conversations lasted long into the nightshift. Never before in her previous life on Graznav Station had Zenoba felt so totally at home.

At last, they arrived at the remote and uninhabited star system. Zenoba joined Khasan on the bridge, assuming her position once again as Queen of the Falconstar and Lady in Command.

“Ah, Lady Zenoba,” said Khasan cheerily, rising to greet her. “So good of you to join us. Please, take a seat.”

He gestured to the seat where Gavril usually sat. Zenoba gave him a puzzled look.

“But your lieutenant—”

“Is attending to other duties, as are several of our other officers. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

It was true: compared to the start of their voyage, the bridge was mostly empty. And from Gavril’s seat just behind the command chair, Zenoba had as good a view of their approach almost as Lord Khasan.

“Copy that,” said Shilugei, transmitting the security codes. “We are cleared to approach.”

The silence of the void wrapped around the shuttle like a shroud as it glided toward the farm ships, vast structures floating amidst the starlit expanse. Zenoba watched through the view port, her gaze fixed on the behemoths that grew larger with each passing moment.

“Remarkable,” she murmured, her voice a whisper lost in the hum of the shuttle’s engines.

“Indeed, my lady,” Khasan replied. “These vessels are more than mere food sources; they are the lifeblood of our clan, symbolizing our self-sufficiency, our resilience.”

Zenoba nodded, though her attention was drawn not to the implications of power but the ingenuity of survival. She thought of the delicate balance between dependence and autonomy, where each member of Clan Valdamar found their place within the grand tapestry of space.

The shuttle docked with a gentle shudder, and the doors hissed open, beckoning them into the belly of the ship.

“Come,” said Khasan, rising to his feet. “Let us go.”

They stepped out into the hall, where Gavril was already waiting with an honor guard to escort them. Zenoba put a hand on Khasan’s arm.

“Should I bring Mistress Gulchen along?”

“Of course,” said Khasan, still in good spirits. “Your maidservant is welcome to join us. We will wait.”

Zenoba used her wrist console to summon Gulchen, who came quickly, dressed in her everyday white robes. Though she’d seen them on her many times before, Zenoba could not help but notice how they hugged her supple form.

Khasan led them through the airlock, his commanding presence filling the dimly lit corridors of the farm ship. Mistress Gulchin followed behind, her presence a shadow of reluctance that flickered at the edge of Zenoba’s awareness. As they stepped onto the ship, Gavril took point, his hand resting near the hilt of his sidearm, eyes scanning for threats in a place where danger seemed an alien concept.

“These ships are where most of the women of the clan reside,” Khasan explained. “But as Lady in Command, your place is ever with us on the Falconstar, Lady Zenoba.”

As they entered the hydroponic bay, an endless sea of green greeted them beneath artificial light. Rows upon rows of plants swayed gently in the recycled breeze, from leafy greens to robust stalks of grain-producing crops. The air was thick with humidity and the scent of earth, a welcome change from the sterile atmosphere of the Falconstar. Zenoba couldn’t resist touching a leaf, marveling at the thrum of life beneath her fingertips. It was a strange and wondrous sight to see such growth flourishing in the cold void of space.

“Each section is climate-controlled, optimized for specific crops,” Khasan explained, leading them down the narrow walkways between the plant beds. “We can feed our entire fleet without relying on planetary harvests.”

“Impressive, lord,” Zenoba admitted, her analytical mind cataloging every detail, pondering the implications of such autonomy.

Khasan’s pride was palpable as he introduced her to the crew—sturdy men and women whose hands were calloused from honest labor. Their faces lit up with reverence for their lord and lady, the loyalty in their eyes untainted. As Zenoba observed the people of the clan bustling about their daily tasks, she couldn’t help but feel a surge of respect for their essential role in the hierarchy of the clan.

“Your vision sustains us all, my Lord,” one of the crew members said, bowing deeply before Khasan, who received the compliment with a gracious nod.

Zenoba noticed Gulchen trailing behind her, her normally unreadable expression betraying hints of inner turmoil. Zenoba’s analytical mind immediately began to consider. A part of her wanted to reach out to Gulchen and bridge the growing gulf between them, but another part was hesitant, knowing that doing so would expose both of their vulnerabilities.

“Come, let me show you the aquaponics,” Khasan said, leading them further into the vessel.

They descended to a lower level, the sound of running water growing louder with each step. Here, tanks teemed with fish, their silver scales flashing in the artificial light as they swam through the clear depths. Above the tanks, more plants grew, their roots dangling into the water, creating a symbiotic cycle of life that left Zenoba momentarily awestruck.

“Everything in balance,” Khasan murmured, echoing Zenoba’s thoughts. “A closed ecosystem that sustains us as we journey through the cosmos.”

“Amazing,” Zenoba breathed out, allowing herself a rare moment of awe. To think that such complexity could thrive here, in the cold embrace of the cosmos, stirred something within her—a sense of pride in what the Hameji had accomplished, a burgeoning connection to Khasan’s vision that she hadn’t expected to feel.

“Is everything to your satisfaction, my wife?” Khasan asked, his hand finding the small of her back.

“More than satisfactory, lord,” Zenoba replied, her voice steady, her emotions carefully veiled. The farm ship impressed her, yes, but it was the machinations of her own heart that remained an enigma, distant and uncharted as the stars themselves.

“Then come, let us travel to the mines.”

The shuttle’s engines hummed with a steady thrum as it departed from the farm ship, leaving behind the vibrant greenery that clung to life amidst the void. Zenoba sat, her posture poised and regal, within the confines of the vessel’s interior, yet her mind was adrift in the vast expanse they traversed. The stars blurred together in streaks of white light, reminding her of the passage of time and how far they had come.

Khasan sat beside her, his own gaze fixed on the endless expanse outside. He was silent for a few moments before he turned to her with a small smile.

“I’m pleased that you took such an interest in our farm ship,” he said. “It’s truly a wonder of technology and innovation.”

Zenoba nodded, her thoughts still muddled with conflicting emotions. She had always been fascinated by humanity’s ability to adapt and survive in any situation, but now she saw it in a new light—a testament to Hameji determination and resilience.

Khasan reached out and took her hand, his warm touch grounding her in reality. “There is much to discuss about our next destination,” he said gravely. “We are headed towards one of our mining outposts—an important key resource for all of our clan operations.”

Zenoba listened intently as Khasan explained their mining operations and how they extracted precious minerals from nearby asteroids. He also spoke about their military strategies that allowed them to protect their resources from potential rival clans.

“Our mines are the sinew and bone of the Valdamar clan, providing us with the raw materials to forge our destiny.” He gestured to the panoramic viewport as distant points of light grew clearer, revealing the stark geometry of industrial might.

Zenoba’s curiosity was piqued and she listened intently as he continued. “We have established a network of drones, guided by the hands of our most trusted engineers. It’s more efficient this way—less waste, less cost, greater speed.”

“Remarkable,” she whispered, her fingers tracing the cold glass of the observation window. The vastness of space lay beyond.

“The Hameji do not merely survive in space,” Khasan interjected, a note of pride evident in his voice, “we thrive. We bend the desolate expanse to our will.”

Fascinated by their methods, Zenoba pressed on. “And how do you ensure loyalty among the miners? It must be grueling work.”

“Through honor, Lady Zenoba,” Khasan replied confidently. “Each miner is a warrior in their own right. Their battlefield is here, among the asteroids that provide us with the precious ore for our ships.”

As the shuttle docked with the mine’s main hangar, the party disembarked into the cavernous interior. Zenoba followed Khasan, her tall figure moving gracefully in the low gravity, her shoulder-length black hair floating slightly around her head.

“Everything here is recycled, reused,” Khasan explained, leading her past a group of workers extracting precious metals from the mine’s walls. “We mine not only for materials but also for the water locked within these rocks.”

“Remarkable,” Zenoba murmured. Her analytical mind raced through the implications of each piece of technology, each process she witnessed. She saw the interconnectedness of it all—the farms, the mines, the people—and understood how precariously it balanced on the edge of the great galactic expanse.

“Such unity,” she mused aloud. “It’s more than just survival. You’ve built a culture that embraces the stars as its home. You’re not just surviving; you’ve created something… enduring.”

“Endurance is the key to victory,” Khasan said with a nod. “Everything you see here,” Khasan said, pausing to meet her gaze, “it’s all for our future—for the ascendency of the Valdamar clan.”

She nodded, her soul trembling at the raw power of his words. In this frigid void of space, the Hameji had surpassed the restrictions of mere planet-bound civilizations. They were a race forged from steel and will, unbounded by earthly horizons.

Sonya

Sonya stepped back into the shuttle, feeling the hum of the engines vibrating through the cold metal floor. She settled into the seat next to Zlata, avoiding Lord Khasan’s piercing gaze as he took the seat across from them. Fortunately, both he and Zlata seemed content to ignore her, treating her like some sort of harmless pet, just as they had throughout the tour.

The docking clamps disengaged with a distant clang, making Sonya shudder. She gazed out the portside window, watching as the industrial complex covering the face of the asteroid grew smaller and smaller, until it had all but disappeared into the darkness of space.

Beside her, Zlata stood tall and composed, seeming to thrive in this environment. Her eyes reflected the starlight like a predator on alert. During the tour, she had asked pointed and insightful questions, showing her dedication to this new life among the stars – a life that Sonya couldn’t see herself fitting into. The sense of isolation washed over Sonya like a heavy cloak, and she knew that Zlata would never be an ally in her escape.

“Gulchen,” Zlata said later, when they were alone in the dimly lit confines of the women’s quarters. Her voice was softer now, stripped of the authority it held on public display. “I see your sadness. You miss your home.” Zlata’s hand rested on Sonya’s shoulder—a touch meant to soothe, perhaps, but to Sonya, it was a reminder of her shackles.

Sonya’s voice dripped with venom as she whirled around to confront Zlata, her hazel-green eyes ablaze with unbridled hatred. “Don’t you dare call me that,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “I am not your Gulchen.”

Zlata’s stunning eyes softened for a moment, revealing a glimpse of insecurity. “Fine, Sonya. I understand this isn’t the life you wanted.”

“Lies!” Sonya spat out the word like it was poison, her fists clenching at her sides. “You robbed me of any choice, Zlata. You’ve taken everything from me and left me with nothing but pain and resentment.”

Zlata’s voice wobbled as she corrected her servant. She sat on a cushioned throne, draped in luxurious silk robes and surrounded by glittering jewels. Sonya stood before her, arms crossed and eyes blazing with defiance.

“I know it’s not easy for you to be here, so far from your past life,” Zlata continued, her tone softening. “But we must make the best of our new home.”

Sonya scoffed at her mistress, the fire in her eyes intensifying. “In time?” she repeated mockingly. She took a step closer, meeting Zlata’s gaze with her own determined one. “You may wear the mantle of power effortlessly, but you have forgotten what it feels like to be shackled and controlled. My place is not among these stars, and I fear it never will be as long as you remain so consumed with building this…empire.”

“Sonya—Gulchen,” Zlata corrected gently, but firmly, reinforcing the identity imposed upon her. “We cannot change what is. We can only influence what may come.”

Sonya’s heart clenched as Zlata corrected her name, a reminder of the identity that had been imposed upon her. The words “cannot change” echoed in her mind, a constant reminder of her helplessness. She wanted to believe in Zlata’s reassurances, but they felt like empty promises in the face of captivity and bondage.

“Sonya—”

“Please, don’t,” Sonya interjected, stepping back. “Don’t pretend to understand.” She could feel the walls closing in, the ship itself an unyielding cage. And with Zlata’s transformation, any flicker of hope for empathy or aid had vanished.

“Very well,” Zlata said, her voice faltering for a moment before regaining its composure. “If that’s how you wish it.”

As Zlata walked away, Sonya’s fists clenched and her mind raced with conflicting thoughts. She tried to focus on the shuttle gliding towards the Falconstar, but her thoughts kept drifting back to Zlata’s betrayal and the anger simmering within her. As she stared at the cold, metallic walls of the shuttle, she couldn’t help but feel trapped and helpless. But then a spark of determination ignited within her, mirroring the unwavering strength of the spaceship’s hull. She made a silent promise to herself – if Zlata wouldn’t be her savior, then she would save herself, and make Zlata pay for failing her.

Zenoba

Zenoba woke up to a sudden wave of nausea. Clutching her stomach, she stumbled out of bed, her body drenched in sweat. Had they just made an unusually long jump? No, this was a much different kind of sickness from the jump fatigue that she’d grown used to. Whatever the cause, the sensation felt foreign and deeply unsettling.

“Sonya,” she called out weakly, struggling to steady herself against the bulkhead. “I need your help.”

Without a word, Sonya emerged, her features schooled into practiced impassivity. Together, they traversed the labyrinthine passageways to the sickbay, the quiet punctuated only by the occasional murmur of the ship’s crew going about their morning routines.

The sickbay was sterile and humming with the low throb of machinery. Dmitri, the slave doctor, looked up from his console as they entered. His kind eyes met Zenoba’s, a silent acknowledgment passing between healer and patient.

“Doctor,” Zenoba greeted him with a nod, her voice betraying none of the turmoil within.

“Sit, Lady Zenoba,” he said softly, guiding her to the examination table. His hands were gentle yet precise as he conducted the scans, the quiet beeping of the medical equipment filling the room.

As Zenoba lay back on the cold surface, Dmitir scanned her with a handheld device that swept over her body in a soft blue light. The room was silent save for the hum of the scanner and the distant murmurs of the ship.

“Your symptoms are consistent with early pregnancy,” Dmitri announced after a moment, his words cutting through the stillness like a laser through durasteel. “You are carrying Lord Khasan’s child.”

Zenoba received the news without a flicker of reaction, her face an impenetrable mask. But behind her striking eyes, a storm raged silently. The weight of the revelation settled upon her like dust upon abandoned ruins; a life growing inside her, yet her heart felt barren.

“Thank you, Doctor,” she said, her voice even, her face impassive. Yet, beneath the surface, a maelstrom whirled. Was it fear? Hope? Zenoba could not tell. She had always prided herself on her ability to mask her emotions, to remain detached and calculating. But now, as the prospect of motherhood loomed, she found herself adrift in an ocean of uncertainty.

“Would you like to know the gender of your child, Lady Zenoba?” Dmitri asked. “If you would like, a simple DNA scan of the fetus would—”

“No,” Zenoba said quickly. For now, it was enough to know that she was having a child—she didn’t know how she would react to learning whether that child would actually be Khasan’s heir.

“Is there anything else, Lady Zenoba?” the doctor inquired.

“No, thank you,” she said, rising from the bed with a grace that masked her inner turmoil. “That will be all. I will inform Lord Khasan.”

As she walked back to her quarters, Sonya trailing behind, Zenoba’s mind raced. This child, a symbol of her union with Khasan, solidified her position within the Valdamar clan. Yet, amidst the political machinations and the relentless pursuit of power, she sensed a chasm opening within her—a void where emotion should reside.

The news would please Khasan, she thought as she rubbed her belly. But with the joy also came fear, a vulnerability that could be used against her by both friends and enemies. She sat on the edge of the bed, staring out the window as the weight of the situation pressed down on her. Beside her, Sonya fidgeted with a strand of hair, her hazel-green eyes darting with unspoken questions. Zenoba felt the distance between them, knowing that she carried a secret too heavy to share, one that could shatter their fragile bond.

“Sonya,” she called without looking up, needing the familiar presence of someone who, despite everything, was bound to her.

The maidservant glided into the room, her curvaceous silhouette swathed in the modest garb of servitude. Her eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, now betrayed a deep turmoil within her. Zenoba, sitting regally on her cushioned throne, motioned for her to approach.

“Please prepare some tea for me, Sonya,” she commanded, her voice measured and detached.

“As you wish,” Sonya replied with a quick nod, but her gaze lingered on Zenoba just a moment too long, searching for any hint of the inner turmoil that she knew must be consuming her mistress.

“I have just learned that I am pregnant with Khasan’s child,” Zenoba announced.

Sonya froze, nearly dropping the teacup as she took it from the Samovar. For a moment, her face turned white. But she drew a deep breath and recovered quickly, the only sign of her shock her shaking hands.

“Congratulations, Zlata,” she said softly.

“Lady Zenoba,” Zenoba corrected. “That name is dead to me now.”

Sonya bit her lip and left quickly, leaving Zenoba alone with her thoughts. Drama, drama. Don’t dwell too long on the drama.

In her private chambers, Zenoba sat at the edge of the bed, staring at the reflection of a woman she barely recognized. A queen, a wife, soon to be a mother—and yet, she felt nothing. She was adrift in a sea of expectations and duty, her own desires submerged beneath the tide of her responsibilities.

But emotion or no emotion, her path was set by the life she carried, and she would navigate this new terrain with the same cold precision she applied to all aspects of her life. Even if she felt nothing, she would do everything required of her. It was the Hameji way.

WIP Excerpt: The Road to New Jerusalem, Chapter 1

[Author’s Note: This is an AI-assisted rough draft, so it’s still got a lot of issues that are going to be worked out before the final draft. The genre is post-apocalyptic / end-times fiction, and I plan to publish this novel under my pen name J.M. Wight.]

The late spring air was dry and pleasant, the afternoon sun not quite hot enough to justify turning on the precious air conditioning that drew so much power from the house batteries. Jacob Wilcox knelt among the tidy rows of vegetables in their front yard garden, his calloused hands stained with dirt. Nearby, his wife Emily dug through the soil, carefully plucking out the pesky weeds that had sprung up among the tomatoes they’d recently planted. Their two year-old daughter giggled nearby, chasing a butterfly through the overgrown grass on the other side of the sidewalk.

“Look, Mommy!” Lily squealed as she scampered after the delicate creature, which evaded her grasping fingers with ease.

“Careful, sweetheart,” Emily called out, smiling at their daughter’s innocent delight. Her eyes met Jacob’s, and he nodded, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.

“We’ll need to expand the potato patch soon,” he said, his blue eyes scanning the yard critically. “With food shortages getting worse, we can’t afford to waste any space.”

Emily nodded, her braid swinging as she bent to pat soil around a tomato plant. “I was thinking we could tear out those old rose bushes by the fence. They’re not practical anymore.”

A flicker of sadness passed over Jacob’s face. Those roses had been Emily’s pride and joy, before… well, before everything changed. As with most of the people still living on their street, their front yard had been converted almost completely from lawn to garden space. Jacobe had even extended the garden to the neighboring house, which had been unoccupied ever since the elderly couple that used to live there had passed away. Though technically they didn’t own it, Provo city gave them a break on their property taxes to maintain it, and the yard space was useful for feeding their growing family. Besides, it kept their street from looking as ugly as some of the others in the city, where totally abandoned houses stood in broken disrepair, their yards covered in weeds and overgrown saplings.

“It’s hard to believe this used to be such a lively neighborhood,” Emily murmured, following Jacob’s gaze. “Now it feels…empty.”

Jacob nodded, his brow furrowing. “The population crash has taken its toll, that’s for sure. But at least we have this.” He gestured to the garden, the rich soil yielding the fruits of their labor. “With the supply chains collapsing, we’re blessed to have this extra space to grow our own food.”

Emily smiled faintly, wiping a strand of hair from her face. “I’m grateful for that, Jacob. It’s one less thing we have to worry about.” Her expression darkened slightly. “Though I can’t help but wonder what else the future might hold.”

Jacob reached over, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “Have faith, my love. The Lord is watching over us, even in these uncertain times.”

Emily nodded, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. “You’re right.” She squeezed his hand back, then returned her attention to the garden, her movements calmer, more assured.

Jacob glanced from Lily to the craggy mountains that towered only a few miles from their house. The mountains were one of the few things that hadn’t changed, though the paint on the Y above Brigham Young University had almost completely worn off. The faint scent of sagebrush carried on the breeze, mingling with the earthy smell of the freshly tilled soil. It wasn’t difficult to imagine what the pioneers must have felt when they’d planted their first crops in the soil not far from here. Jacob couldn’t help but feel his kinship with them as he turned to regard their own small garden.

The jingle of an approaching bicycle bell suddenly caught their attention. They turned to see Brother Hansen, the stake executive secretary, pedaling up the cracked sidewalk.

“Brother and Sister Wilcox,” he called out, smiling wanly as he stopped his bike in front of their yard. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Not at all,” Jacob replied, setting down his shovel. “What can we do for you?”

Brother Thompson’s eyes darted between them. “President Thornton would like to meet with you both this evening at the Stake Center. Seven o’clock, if that’s convenient.”

Jacob felt Emily stiffen beside him as she drew a sharp breath. He squeezed her hand for support.

“Did he say what it’s regarding?” Jacob asked. There were only a small handful of possibilities.

Brother Hansen shook his head. “No, he didn’t provide me with any details.”

Emily glanced quickly at Jacob, as if gauging his reaction. “Jacob…”

“Can we make it?” he asked her softly.

She bit her lip and nodded. He turned to Brother Hansen again.

“Of course. We’ll be there.”

With a nod and a smile, Brother Hansen remounted his bicycle. “Thank you, Brother and Sister Wilcox. We’ll see you there.”

They watched in silence as he rode away, hardly daring to speak until he turned the corner and passed out of sight. Jacob turned to his wife, searching her face, which had suddenly gone pale, her green eyes wide with apprehension.

“What did Brother Hansen want, Daddy?” Lily asked in her innocent voice.

Jacob let go of Emily’s hand and knelt down to give his daughter a reassuring smile.

“Mommy and Daddy have a meeting with President Thornton tonight, after you go to bed. But don’t worry, I’m sure Grandma can babysit you while we’re gone.”

Emily bit her lip. “Do you think President Thornton is going to…” Her voice trailed off, leaving her thought unspoken.

Jacob took a long breath. “I don’t know,” he admitted, the words feeling heavy on his tongue. “But we have that extra house… it makes sense that they might call us to live the Principle.”

The Principle. Yet another thing that they now had in common with the early pioneers. Had it been as difficult a thing for them to live as it was for the saints now? Until President Soares had announced the resumption of the practice, nearly everyone in the church had thought of plural marriage as a historical anomaly—something that the Lord had required only of the early saints, for reasons that were unique to their time and circumstances. But now, it was clear that the true anomaly was the century and a half in which the practice of plural marriage had been suspended.

“It could be about anything,” Jacob said softly, trying to reassure her. But his own heart was racing. A summons from the Stake President was rarely a casual matter these days.

Emily shook her head. “Why else would he want to see us both? We’re not rich, but we’re better off than most. We have the extra house next door…”

“Which we’re using for more garden space,” Jacob interjected. “Emily, please. Whatever happens, we’ll face it together. Our faith will see us through.”

Emily bit her lip, clearly unconvinced. Jacob longed to pull her close, to chase away her fears. But he knew that right now, his certainty would only push her further away.

“Mommy,” Lily asked, her big blue eyes filled with worry. “Why do you look so sad?”

Emily forced a smile and scooped Lily up into her arms. “I’m fine, dear. Just some adult stuff to deal with. How about we go inside and make some lemonade together?”

Lily nodded enthusiastically, her thoughts now consumed by the promise of a sweet treat. Jacob watched them go, his heart heavy. He lingered a moment longer, surveying the fruits of their labor—the garden, the houses, the comfortable life they’d built. How fragile it all now seemed.

Jacob adjusted his tie in the mirror, carefully smoothing out the silk fabric until it lay perfectly against his threadbare white shirt. Behind him, Emily sat on the edge of their bed, quietly brushing out her long chestnut hair. The weight of their impending meeting with the stake president hung between them like a thick fog. Even so, neither of them said anything until a knock at the front door broke the silence.

“That’ll be your mother,” said Emily, rising at once to her feet. “I’ll go check on Lily one more time and be down in a few minutes.”

Jacob nodded, watching her slip out of the room before he made his way downstairs. Sure enough, his mother Eleanor was waiting on the porch, a gentle smile on her face.

“Good evening, Jacob. I hope I’m not making you late.”

“Not at all, Mom,” he said, stepping aside to let her enter. “We’ve already put Lily to bed. Thanks for watching her while we’re gone.”

Eleanor paused, studying his face with her keen blue eyes. “Is everything alright, Jake? You seem troubled.”

Jacob sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “It’s just this meeting with President Thornton. I can’t help but wonder if he’s going to ask Emily and me to… you know…”

“To enter into plural marriage?”

He nodded, his shoulders sagging. “To be honest, I don’t know how Emily would take that. She’s struggled with the Principle ever since President Soares announced it. I’m not sure her testimony is strong enough for something like that.”

“Have you talked with her about it?” Eleanor asked gently.

“Not really,” Jacob admitted, looking down at his shoes. “I don’t want to push her. She’s been through so much already, with her mother leaving the church and all. I don’t know how to bring it up without making things worse.”

Eleanor’s gentle gaze lingered on her son, her brow furrowed in concern. “Oh, Jacob. I know your love for Emily is strong and you only want to protect her. But a good husband must also be able to have difficult conversations. You cannot keep avoiding this forever.”

Jacob let out a heavy sigh, feeling the weight of his mother’s words. How could he explain to Emily that while he didn’t necessarily agree with the concept of plural marriage, he had faith in the church and its leaders? That they were being guided by a higher power, even if it was hard to comprehend at times? His mind was filled with conflicting emotions, but he knew deep down that Eleanor was right. They couldn’t keep brushing this issue aside.

Emily’s soft footsteps on the worn wooden stairs drew Jacob’s attention. He looked up to see her descending, her chestnut braid swaying gently with each step. A smile tugged at his lips, momentarily easing the tension that had built in his chest.

“Hey there,” Jacob said softly, meeting Emily at the bottom of the stairs. He leaned in and placed a gentle kiss on her cheek. “Lily go down okay?”

Emily nodded, her hazel-green eyes meeting his. “She did. She asked for an extra story tonight.”

Eleanor stood from her seat, smoothing her skirt. “Well, I’ll be here if she needs anything. You two go on now, don’t want to keep President Thornton waiting.”

“Of course.” Jacob guided Emily towards the door with a light touch on her lower back. “Thanks again for watching Lily, Ma. We shouldn’t be more than a couple hours.”

“Take all the time you need,” Eleanor said, embracing each of them in turn. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

They walked in silence for a moment, the fading sunlight casting long shadows across their path. The once-vibrant neighborhood had a haunting, abandoned feel, with overgrown yards and darkened windows hinting at the collapse that had transformed their community. Given everything that had happened in the last few years, it truly was a blessing that they lived in a town where it was safe to walk five blocks after dark. Then again, things had never gotten as bad in Utah as they had in most of the rest of the country.

“Could you have ever imagined our town looking like this?” he whispered, struggling to find the right words.

“So much has changed,” Emily said, her voice trembling as she squeezed his hand tighter. “And who knows what else could change, depending on what President Thornton has to say.”

Jacob’s chest tightened, and he squeezed his wife’s hand in a way that he hoped was reassuring. Five years had passed since the church had issued Official Declaration 3, with the unanimous support of the First Presidency and the Quorum of the Twelve. Jacob had been on his mission at the time, and like everyone else in the church, Jacob had struggled with it, but he felt he’d gained a testimony of it—or at least, as much of a testimony as one could gain without actually practicing the Principle. But with Emily, he wasn’t so sure.

“It’ll be alright, Em,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “And even if it is, we’ll… we’ll figure it out. The Lord wouldn’t ask anything of us that we can’t handle.”

Emily nodded, her gaze fixed on the familiar path leading to the stake center. “I know, Jacob. I just…” She paused, worrying her lip between her teeth. “What if President Thornton does want us to consider plural marriage? I don’t know if I can do it, Jacob. The thought of sharing you with someone else…”

Jacob squeezed her hand, wishing he knew the right words to comfort her. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he said gently. “We don’t know for sure what this meeting is about.”

Emily leaned into his touch. “I know the church teaches that plural marriage is a righteous principle,” Emily whispered, her gaze fixed on the pavement. “But I’m not sure I’m strong enough to live it. Does that make me faithless?”

Jacob stopped walking, turning to face her. “Of course not,” he said firmly, cupping her cheek. “Having questions doesn’t mean you lack faith, Emily. It just means you’re human.”

Emily managed a small smile, drawing strength from Jacob’s reassuring touch. “I’ll try to be strong. For you, and for Lily.” She sighed, her shoulders sagging. “I just wish I had your unwavering faith.”

“Your faith is strong, Emily,” Jacob insisted, his tone earnest. “You’ve never wavered in your love for the Lord, even when times have been difficult.” He brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “As long as we have each other, and the Lord on our side, we can handle anything. Right?”

“Right,” she murmured, though he could still hear the uncertainty in her voice.

“Brother and Sister Wilcox,” said Brother Hansen, setting aside the three-ring binder splayed across his lap as he rose to greet them. His smile was warm, but did little to ease the tension Jacob felt as he and Emily stepped into the foyer of the stake center.

“Is President Thornton seeing someone right now?” Jacob asked as he shook Brother Hansen’s hand.

The stake executive secretary laughed. “No, for once we aren’t running behind. I also left the next interview slot open, in case the president wants some extra time with you.”

Jacob could practically hear his wife’s nervous swallow. Uncertainty coiled in the pit of his stomach, but he forced it down. He had to be strong enough for both of them.

Brother Hansen quickly ushered them down the hall to the stake offices behind the chapel. The lights on the other side of the building were off, making the empty hallway beyond feel like a long, dark tunnel. President Thornton was waiting at the last door before the darkness, his smiling face partially shadowed.

“Jacob and Emily,” he welcomed them warmly. “It’s good to see you both. Please, come inside.”

President Thornton was an older man, with gray hair and a navy blue suit and a white shirt, both of them slightly wrinkled. His tie was red and navy blue, with a simple chevron design. His smile was warm and friendly, though his eyes were solemn. Jacob felt his wife stiffen involuntarily as he pulled back the large conference chair for her.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” President Thornton said as he took his own seat at the head of the large conference table. “I know this has been a difficult time for many of us, with all the changes our church has recently experienced.”

Jacob took the chair beside his wife and squeezed her hand, acutely aware of Emily’s tension. He cleared his throat. “We’re happy to serve in any way we can, President.”

There was a moment of silence, heavy with anticipation. President Thornton leaned forward, his hands clasped in front of him. He met each of their eyes.

“Brother and Sister Wilcox, I have prayed earnestly about your family and the role the Lord would have you play in the unfolding events of these latter days.”

This is it, Jacob thought, bracing himself. He felt an awful knot form in his stomach.

“In the last general conference,” President Thornton continued, “President Soares announced that the time has come to build up Zion in the land of Missouri.” He paused, his gaze sweeping between the two of them. “Brother and Sister Wilcox, the Lord has called you to go to Missouri and help build the New Jerusalem.”

The words hung in the air for a moment. Jacob blinked, surprise washing over him. He turned to Emily, searching her face for a reaction. Her eyes were wide, a mix of relief and uncertainty evident in her expression.

“You… aren’t calling us to practice plural marriage?” he asked.

President Thornton smiled. “No, Brother and Sister Wilcox. I have not brought you here to call you to practice the Principle at this time. Rather, it is the Lord’s will that you should take your family to the New Jerusalem.”

Jacob felt the breath leave his lungs in a rush, the knot in his stomach unraveling. They were not being called to practice plural marriage. He was not being asked to take a second wife at this time. But as he glanced at Emily, he saw a different emotion flickering across her face – one tinged with uncertainty and apprehension.

“The New Jerusalem?” Emily’s voice was soft, tinged with a hint of wonder and trepidation. “But…what about our life here? Our home, our family?” She reached for Jacob’s hand, her fingers trembling slightly.

President Thornton nodded sympathetically. “I know this is a lot to take in. The call to build Zion is not one to be taken lightly.” He clasped his hands on the table, his gaze earnest. “But the Lord has spoken, and we must heed His call. The Lord has chosen your family, along with several others from our stake, to join the first wave of settlers. You, Jacob and Emily, are called to help built up Zion there—to be part of the vanguard of saints heeding this prophetic mandate.”

Jacob’s mind was suddenly in turmoil, torn between excitement and the fear of leaving behind everything he knew. Moving to Missouri would mean starting over, leaving behind the comfortable life they had built. Yet it was also a chance to take part in fulfilling the prophecies about building the city of Zion in the last days, a duty that thrilled him to his core.

“What exactly will this calling entail, President Thornton?” he asked.

“I know it will be difficult to leave your homes behind,” President Thornton said solemnly. “But you won’t be alone in the journey. Your father, Thomas, has been called to lead the caravan, along with both of his wives.”

Jacob blinked in surprise. “He’s already accepted the call?”

“Yes,” said President Thornton, smiling. “I extended it to him just an hour ago.”

“When do we leave?” Emily asked.

President Thornton turned to regard her kindly. “Not until everything has been put in order. The prophet’s counsel on this matter is clear: we are not to go up in haste, or to run faster than we have strength. You will have all the time you need to make the necessary preparations.”

But not to sell their house, Jacob knew. No matter how much time they took, he doubted they’d ever find a buyer. The population collapse had completely destroyed the real estate market, even here in the free state of Utah.

“I know it will be a difficult sacrifice,” President Thornton said, as if reading his thoughts. “But I testify that your family will be blessed as you answer the prophet’s call.”

Jacob nodded and glanced at his wife, squeezing her hand. “We know, President Thornton. We’ll go.”

The stake president smiled. “Thank you, Brother and Sister Wilcox. Do you have any questions?”

Before Jacob could speak, Emily’s soft voice cut through the silence. “I know you haven’t called us to live the Principle at this time, but if… if we’re asked to live that law upon arriving, how are we to…” Her voice trailed off, leaving the question unspoken.

President Thornton nodded kindly. “The prophet Joseph Smith taught us that a religion that does not demand the sacrifice of all things does not have the power to produce faith unto salvation. The Lord’s timing is His own, and I cannot tell you everything that He will require of you. But I promise that He will guide and uphold you as you put your trust in Him.”

The tension in the room eased somewhat, though Jacob could sense that Emily wasn’t totally satisfied with the stake president’s answer. It would not be easy to leave everything behind.

“We will do all that the Lord requires of us,” he said firmly.

“Thank you, my dear brother,” President Thornton answered. “Now, I suggest you go home and start making preparations for your journey.”

He rose to his feet, signaling the end of their interview.

Jacob leaned against the heavy black door of the stake center, holding it for his wife as they stepped out into the crisp evening air. The last traces of twilight were just visible on the horizon, and hundreds of stars were already visible in the dark, cloudless sky, multiplying by the minute above the sparsely lit city.

Emily was the first to break the heavy silence as they walked hand in hand down the darkened neighborhood street. “At least we weren’t called to practice plural marriage,” she offered.

“Yeah,” said Jacob, glancing at her sideways. Wasn’t he the one who was supposed to say that? He squeezed her hand reassuringly, but she still felt tense and nervous. What was she worried about?

“So,” he said, “the New Jerusalem.”

“Yes,” she answered, her voice barely louder than a whisper. Her steps were slow and hesitant, and not just from the darkness or the cracked and broken sidewalk.

“Hey,” said Jacob, putting an arm around her as they walked. “Is everything okay?”

But as they walked down the street back toward their house, Emily’s steps were slow and hesitant, suggesting that she was still troubled. Jacob longed to wrap his arms around her and comfort her, to tell her that everything would be alright, but the words caught in his throat like a lump of coal. Despite the peacefulness of the night, a storm brewed within them both, uncertain and fearful of what their new calling would bring.

Emily was the first to speak, breaking the stillness. “Missouri,” she said doubtfully. “The New Jerusalem. It all sounds so extravagant. But what about our lives here? Our home, our friends?” She looked at him with a pleading expression. “How can we just up and leave everything behind?”

Jacob’s heart sank. He had no easy answers, only the unwavering belief that they must follow the prophet’s guidance, even if it felt like an impossible path to follow.

“The Lord will bless us, Emily,” Jacob said, trying to convince himself as much as her. “It won’t be easy, but the Lord will provide for us, just as He has for His people throughout history.”

Emily’s grip on Jacob’s hand tightened, her fingers trembling slightly. “I want to believe that, Jacob. I really do. But…” She trailed off, her gaze fixed on the cracked sidewalk beneath their feet.

Jacob’s stomach churned with a mixture of empathy and frustration. He knew Emily’s faith wasn’t as unwavering as his own, but he desperately wanted her to feel the same peace he did about their calling. He searched for the right words, praying silently for guidance.

“Remember when we first got married?” he asked softly. “How scared we were about starting our life together, especially with the world falling apart around us?”

Emily nodded, a faint smile ghosting across her lips. “How could I forget? We were so young, so naive.”

Jacob pressed on, encouraged by her response. “But we made it through, didn’t we? We built a life together, despite everything. The Lord blessed us then, and He’ll bless us now.”

As he spoke, Jacob’s gaze drifted upward, taking in the vast expanse of stars above them. The night sky seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy, as if the very heavens were affirming his words. A cool breeze rustled through the nearby trees, carrying with it the faint scent of pine and distant rain.

But when Jacob looked back at Emily, his heart sank. Instead of comfort, he saw a shadow pass over her face, her eyes growing distant and troubled. The smile that had briefly graced her lips had vanished, replaced by a tightness that made his chest ache.

“Emily?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head, her hair catching the dim light of a nearby streetlamp. “Never mind, Jacob. I’ll be alright.”

The rest of their journey was filled with heavy silence. As they neared their modest home, Jacob couldn’t help but catch a glimpse of his own reflection in the darkened windows. The man staring back at him looked lost and uncertain – a stark contrast to the confident, strong leader he knew he was supposed to be. He felt grateful for the opportunity to help build the New Jerusalem, to be chosen among those preparing for Christ’s return. But as he thought about the daunting task ahead, doubts and insecurities crept in, making him question if he was truly worthy of such an important role.

WIP Excerpt: The End of Elysium, Chapter 1

I am really excited about this WIP. Ever since I wrote the short story “The End of Elysium,” I thought it would make a good novel—and now, with the help of AI, I’m able to make that a reality while juggling all of my other writing projects!

What follows is the AI-assisted draft of the first chapter of this novel. To get it to this point, I generated multiple iterations of the first chapter, combined the best parts, and used some AI revision tools to smooth over some of the rough edges. The next phase is the rough human draft, where I rewrite the whole thing in my own words (no copy-pasting). After that, I’ll make a thorough revision pass, and if there aren’t any story problems I’ll make a final polishing pass where I cut the word count by at least 10%. At that point, it’s ready to publish.

It might seem like this is a whole lot of extra work compared to writing without AI-assistance. However, I’ve found that using AI to write the “crappy first draft” actually helps out a ton to work out the major story issues that tend to cause writer’s block later in the project, thus saving potentially months of work. In fact, by using AI, I’ve been able to cut down my typical novel writing time from several years to just two or three months, thus making it possible to juggle multiple projects at once—and hopefully, once the production pipeline fills out and all these projects start to come to fruition, publish a novel-length work every other month or so.

But enough about the writing process. Here is the excerpt from the AI-assisted draft of this novel!

Abbey

Abbey woke up with a start, her heart throbbing rapidly and her breath coming in short, quick gasps. In her mind’s eye, she could still see the ancient lost city, with its crystalline spires shining in light of the morning sun. Gehenna, they called it—the last remaining citadel of the old world. Legend held that its streets were paved with gold and lined with technological marvels beyond imagining.

The dream was always the same. Abbey saw herself wandering the fabled metropolis, basking in its wonders: fountains of pure water with towering monuments of bronze, sleek crystalline structures reaching upward to the heavens. Though the city was conspicuously empty, it was largely still intact, as if only a few days had passed since its inhabitants had left—not the centuries of abandonment that had worn the outside world into ruin. Deep in her bones, she knew that the secrets that lay hidden here would usher in a golden age for the survivors of humanity. In her dream, those secrets called out to her, as if yearning to be unearthed. If only she could find them!

She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, trying desperately to hold onto the last fragmentary images of her dream. If only she could reach out and grasp it—make it tangible and real. She lay completely still, afraid that even the slightest movement might cause her to lose the last wisps of her beautiful vision.

“Gehenna,” she whispered, savoring the word.

She lay still for several moments, willing the dream of the lost city to come back into focus. But already the images had faded from her mind, dissipating like morning fog before the harsh, bright light of day.

Abbey sighed and sat up in bed, the threadbare blanket falling away. Pale light filtered through the cracks in the metal walls of her small dwelling. She stretched, working out the kinks from sleeping on the hard pallet, and swung her feet to the floor.

“One day,” she murmured, her mind wandering back to the lost city that had captured her imagination since childhood. “One day I’ll find you.”

Abbey moved through her tiny space, every action honed by years of routine. She splashed water on her face from a chipped basin, tied back her unruly hair, and walked over to the window on bare feet. With a swift motion, she opened the shutters and was greeted by a flood of warm sunlight pouring into the room. The fresh morning air filled her lungs as she leaned out, taking in the sights and sounds of nature awakening around her humble dwelling. In the distance, birds chirped and leaves rustled in the wind.

Filled with renewed determination, Abbey turned from the window and began gathering her gear – a tattered backpack, her trusty climbing axes, a coil of sturdy rope, ration packs, and her canteen. She paused at her workbench, fingers trailing over the map she’d laid out and the assortment of scavenged tech she’d collected. Each time she ventured out, she pushed a little further, mapped a little more of the collapsed highways and crumbling buildings. Patience and persistence would lead her to Gehenna eventually. It had to. Finding the lost city was more than a dream – it was her destiny.

As she tied her boots, Abbey couldn’t shake off the constant criticism from her fellow Valley Folk. They all seemed to have the same message: “Why do you keep chasing this impossible dream? It’s time to settle down and focus on the things that really matter.” But Abbey refused to listen. She knew she was onto something big, something that could change everything.

As Abbey stepped outside, the vibrant colors of the Valley greeted her, a vibrant tapestry of greens and golds. The morning sun bathed the landscape in a warm, golden glow, casting long shadows across the dewy grass. Birds trilled their melodic songs from the treetops, their voices intermingling with the gentle rustling of leaves in the breeze. The familiar sights and sounds of her home never failed to stir something within her – a mix of comfort and restlessness.

Abbey inhaled deeply, letting the fresh air fill her lungs and invigorate her senses. Despite the beauty surrounding her, her mind remained fixated on the legendary city that haunted her dreams. She set off down the well-worn path, her boots crunching against the gravel as she made her way towards the heart of the Valley.

She followed the familiar path that snaked through the village, her heavy boots leaving deep imprints in the damp earth. The sounds of daily life reverberated around her – the clanging and whirring of machinery from the machinist’s workshop, the bleats and snorts of livestock being led to pasture by farmers. Some tended to their gardens, coaxing vibrant vegetables from the rich earth, while others worked on their humble cottages. They greeted her with warm smiles and friendly waves, which she returned, her vibrant energy lifting their spirits.

“Good morning, Abbey!” called out the baker, waving from the doorway of his shop. “Off on another adventure today?”

Abbey grinned, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “You know me, Arlo. I can’t resist the call of the unknown.”

The baker chuckled, shaking his head with a mixture of amusement and admiration. “Well, be careful out there. And don’t forget to stop by for a fresh loaf when you get back. I’m trying out a new recipe today.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Abbey promised, already looking forward to the taste of Arlo’s latest creation.

As Abbey continued down the winding path, her eyes caught sight of Old Mara, the village’s wise elder, tending to her beloved herb garden. The sweet aroma of thyme and rosemary filled the air as Mara’s skilled hands danced gracefully among the vibrant green plants.

“Good morning, Mara!” Abbey called out, her voice bright with enthusiasm. “How are your herbs coming along?”

Mara straightened, her kind eyes crinkling at the corners as she smiled. “Ah, young Abbey. They’re thriving, thanks to this blessed weather. Off on another of your expeditions, I see?”

Abbey nodded. “You know me, always looking for something new to discover.”

Mara’s gnarled hands shook as she spoke, her voice thick with concern. “Just be careful out there, child. The Wastes are no place for a young woman like you.”

Abbey couldn’t help but bristle at the insinuation that she was too fragile for the dangers of the outside world. Still, she bit her lip, knowing that Mara only wanted to protect her.

“I know, I’ll be careful. I promise.”

Mara reached out and patted Abbey’s arm, her gaze softening. “We only want what’s best for you, dear. This valley, our people – this is where you belong.”

Abbey forced a smile. “I know, Mara. But there is so much more out there than just our simple way of life.”

As she made her way down the winding path towards Gehenna, Abbey’s mind raced with conflicting thoughts and emotions. She loved her home and its people, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more waiting for her beyond the familiar fields and forests of their valley.

The sound of laughter drew her attention, and she spotted a group of children playing near the stream. Their carefree joy brought a smile to her face, even as it reminded her of how different she felt from most of the Valley Folk.

“Abbey! Abbey!” One of the younger girls, Lily, came running up to her. “Did you find any treasures yesterday?”

Abbey knelt down, reaching into her pocket. “As a matter of fact, I did.” She pulled out a small, shiny object – a gear from some long-forgotten machine. “What do you think this might be from?”

Lily’s eyes widened with wonder. “A magic spinning wheel? Or maybe a star-catcher?”

Chuckling, Abbey ruffled the girl’s hair. “Could be. The world before the Catastrophe was full of marvels. Who knows what we might discover next?”

She continued on her way, exchanging pleasantries with others who crossed her path. Their well-meaning warnings and gentle admonishments did little to dissuade her. If anything, they only fueled her resolve to uncover the truth behind the legends.

Finally, Abbey arrived at the hangar, a large, repurposed barn that housed the Valley’s few precious vehicles. The massive structure loomed before her, its corrugated metal walls patched with sections of colorful fabric. Solar panels glinted atop the structure, harnessing the sun’s energy to power the fleet of vehicles within. The air hummed with the sound of machinery and the sharp scent of oil and grease.

The hangar doors were already open, revealing the cavernous interior filled with an assortment of vehicles – relics from the world before, lovingly maintained and modified by the village’s skilled mechanics. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, catching motes of dust that danced in the air.

“Finian!” Abbey called out, her voice echoing in the vast space. “Are you in here?”

A clatter of tools and a muffled curse answered her. From beneath one of the larger rovers, a pair of legs clad in oil-stained coveralls emerged, followed by the rest of Finian as he pushed himself out and looked up at her.

“Well, if it isn’t our intrepid explorer! Come to borrow one of my babies again?”

Abbey laughed, her eyes sparkling. “You know me too well, Finian. I’m hoping to push further into the eastern sector today.”

Finian wiped his hands on a rag as he stood, his expression a mixture of admiration and concern. “The eastern sector? That’s mighty ambitious, even for you. You sure you’re up for it?”

Abbey nodded, her expression set. “I have to be. I had another dream about Gehenna last night. It felt so real, Fin.”

He sighed, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “Well, I can’t stop you. But at least let me give you our sturdiest rover.” He gestured to a rugged vehicle nearby, its frame reinforced with scavenged metal and its oversized tires caked with dried mud. “Old Bessie here has never let anyone down.”

As Abbey began loading her gear into the rover, Finian busied himself with last-minute checks. He topped off the fuel cells, tested the solar backup system, and calibrated the navigation array. While he worked, Abbey loaded her gear into the back and settled into the driver’s seat. The familiar scent of oil and leather filled her nostrils, mixing with the crisp morning air that drifted through the open hangar doors. She took a deep breath, savoring the moment before the journey began.

“Remember,” Finian said, leaning through the window, “if you run into any trouble out there, just hit the emergency beacon. We’ll come running.”

Abbey nodded, her throat tight with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. “I will. Thanks, Finian. For everything.”

As she started the engine, the rover rumbled to life beneath her. The deep, mechanical growl reverberated through her body, setting her nerves alight with anticipation. She eased the vehicle out of the hangar, waving goodbye to Finian.

Abbey guided the rover through the narrow mountain pass, the towering peaks casting long shadows across the rocky terrain. As she emerged on the other side, the stark contrast between the lush valley and the barren wasteland struck her once again. Abbey clenched the steering wheel, her focus fixed on navigating through the treacherous terrain.

She brought the vehicle to a halt at the edge of the desolation. Where the Valley teemed with life, the Wastes were a barren and desolate wasteland. The once verdant land now lay barren, its earth cracked and dry underfoot. The landscape was punctuated by sharp rock formations that seemed to reach for the sky, while eerie silhouettes of giant fungi loomed in the distance like alien monuments. A sickly yellow haze hung in the air, obscuring the horizon and casting an otherworldly glow upon everything in its path. She inhaled deeply, savoring the last breath of clean air before donning her protective mask to brave the toxic atmosphere ahead.

“Gehenna,” Abbey murmured, her eyes scanning the horizon.

Abbey’s heart ached as she contemplated the magnitude of the destruction. The Catastrophe had ravaged the world, leaving only ruin in its wake. Yet, even amidst the devastation, she couldn’t help but feel a flicker of hope. Could Gehenna be hidden beneath one of those distant rock formations? Or perhaps it was concealed by some ancient technology, invisible to the naked eye?

She closed her eyes, picturing the shining towers and gleaming streets of the legendary city. It was a vision that had haunted her dreams since childhood, a promise of a better life waiting just beyond the veil of the unknown. And though the Wastes seemed to mock her with their unyielding emptiness, Abbey refused to let go of that promise.

With a deep breath, she steered the rover forward, venturing once more into the desolation. “I know you’re out there somewhere,” she said aloud. “And someday, I’ll find you.”

Hopefully, someday soon.

Ranger

Ethan “Ranger” Carter paused before the entrance to Gehenna’s main simulation chamber. All around him, the underground corridors stretched like a labyrinth, their corroded metal walls and deteriorated conduit and pipes dimly illuminated by the flickering overhead lights. The air was tangy with the smell of old copper and rusted metal, with a hint of stale human sweat. The constant hum of machinery filled the space, a monotonous drone that seemed to vibrate through Ranger’s bones.

MONK: Offers total forgiveness. Able to see through deception, especially self-deception. Invites, but never forces.

He glanced down at his calloused and scarred hands, reminders of the endless hours he spent maintaining the failing systems of the vault. How much longer could they survive down here, cut off from the world above? The thought weighed heavily on his mind, especially with Old Man Mercer, Gehenna’s aging Watchman, lying on the brink of death.

“Another day in paradise,” Ranger muttered. With a tired sigh, he entered the dimly lit simulation chamber and prepared to jack into the simulation. The windowless room was illuminated only by the sickly green glow of ancient computer screens, casting an eerie pallor. He walked towards the nearest one, its surface marred with cracks and pits.

His body sank into the worn leather chair, and he reached for the neural interface cable – a cold metal snake that connected him to the virtual world. As he closed his eyes, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of confinement and unease creeping up on him, despite his years of using the technology.

The world shifted, the transition as jarring as always, and Ranger found himself standing in a lush garden. Gone were the oppressive confines of Gehenna, replaced by a shimmering cityscape that defied the laws of physics. Impossibly tall spires of crystal and light stretched towards an endless azure sky, while lush gardens floated serenely between them. The air was suffused with a gentle, golden light, and the faint sound of birdsong drifted on the breeze. Elysium stretched out before him, a paradise of verdant green and shimmering light.

Yet even in this seemingly perfect virtual Eden, signs of decay were beginning to show. The leaves on the trees flickered and shimmered, their edges blurring into pixelated static as if struggling to hold onto their form. The gentle breeze that once carried a sweet fragrance now also brought a faint undertone of discord, a reminder that this simulation was not eternal. The vibrant colors of the world seemed slightly muted, like a painting fading over time. It was a small crack in the facade, but one that could not be ignored.

Amidst the vibrant and lush garden, stood Jonas Mercer, a towering figure who had been his mentor and guide for countless years. His face, etched with lines of wisdom and experience, seemed to mirror the intricacies of the flowers and foliage surrounding him. Even in this simulated reality, his appearance remained true to that of the real world. The sun’s rays danced across his face, illuminating his piercing gaze.

“Ranger, my boy,” Jonas called, his voice carrying a weariness that seemed out of place in this paradise. “Come, sit with me one last time.”

As Ranger approached, he noticed how the old man’s form flickered intermittently, a stark reminder of his failing physical body in the real world. Even in this virtual world, death was making its presence known.

“Jonas,” he said softly, taking a seat beside his mentor. “How are you feeling?”

Jonas chuckled, the sound distorting slightly as his image wavered. “As well as can be expected, given the circumstances.” His eyes, despite their digital nature, held a profound sadness as he gazed across the simulated cityscape. “Pretty as a picture, isn’t it? Hard to believe it’s all just data and illusions.”

Ranger nodded, his gaze drawn to the shimmering imperfections in Jonas’ form. “It’s a marvel, to be sure. But sometimes I wonder…”

“If it’s all worth it?” Jonas finished, his eyes piercing. “If we’re just delaying the inevitable, hiding away in our little virtual paradise while the world above lies in ruins?”

Ranger shifted uncomfortably, the old man’s words striking a chord deep within him. “I just can’t help feeling like we’re meant for something more, like there’s a greater purpose out there waiting for us.”

Jonas sighed, his image flickering briefly as a wave of pain washed over his physical form. “I’ve been the Watchman for longer than I care to remember, Ranger. I’ve seen the records, heard the stories passed down from those who came before. Our ancestors, they were the lucky ones, if you can call it that. They survived the Catastrophe, made it to Gehenna before the world above turned to ash and dust.”

He paused, his gaze growing distant. “They built this place to be a sanctuary, a haven where humanity could ride out the storm. But they always believed that someday, we’d find our way back to the surface, that we’d discover the Promised Land and start anew.”

Ranger leaned forward, his heart quickening at the mention of that fabled place. “Do you think it’s really out there, Jonas? The Promised Land?”

The old man shrugged, a gesture of weary resignation. “I wish I knew, Ranger. I’ve spent my whole life searching for it, and now I fear my time is drawing to a close. The systems that sustain me are failing, both here and in Gehenna.”

Ranger felt a chill run through him at the words. He had always known that this day would come, but to hear Jonas speak of it so plainly was still a shock.

“What can I do?” he asked, his voice rough with emotion.

Jonas leaned forward, his eyes intent. “You must listen carefully, Ranger. Our people cannot remain here forever. Elysium was never meant to be a permanent solution.” The old man’s image flickered violently, and for a moment, Ranger feared he’d lost him. But Jonas’s voice returned, weaker now. “There’s a world beyond these walls, beyond even the Wastes. A Promised Land.”

Ranger’s chest tightened. “The Promised Land,” he murmured. “But how can we be sure it even exists?”

Jonas’s form stabilized momentarily, his gaze locking onto Ranger’s. “We must have faith, my boy. Faith in the resilience of our world, and in our own ability to reclaim it. The dream of the Promised Land, it’s what keeps us going, what gives us hope in the face of all this darkness. Promise me, Ranger, that you won’t give up on that dream. That you’ll do everything in your power to lead our people to the Promised Land.”

Ranger swallowed hard, the weight of that responsibility settling heavy on his shoulders. He knew, deep in his bones, that he could never turn his back on his people, on the duty that had been entrusted to him. But at the same time, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the path ahead would be a lonely one, that the search for the Promised Land might well be the task of a lifetime.

“I promise, Jonas,” he said, his voice thin but resolute. “I’ll keep searching, keep hoping, for as long as it takes. I will do everything I can to find the Promised Land, no matter the sacrifice.”

The old man smiled, a flicker of pride and relief crossing his face as he reached out to clasp Ranger’s hand in his own. But even as he did so, his image began to waver and distort, the simulation struggling to maintain his fading consciousness.

“Go now, Ranger,” he said, his voice growing fainter with each word. “Gehenna is in your hands now. You are… the Watchman.”

His image flickered one last time, then vanished entirely, dissolving into a cascade of shimmering pixels that glittered briefly in the golden light before fading away to nothingness.

Ranger stood there for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the spot where Jonas had been. The virtual paradise hummed with a gentle, soothing energy, the air filled with the soft chirping of birds and the distant laughter of children at play. It was a world without pain, without suffering, a haven for the last remnants of humanity.

Yet, even as the virtual paradise shimmered around him, a sudden weight settled on his shoulders. He had always been different from the others, had always felt like an outsider among his own people. While they were content to live out their days in the virtual paradise of Elysium, he had always longed for something more, something real.

He thought of the Promised Land, the mythical place that Jonas and the other elders spoke of with such reverence. A place where the earth was healed, where humanity could start anew without the need for virtual realities and underground bunkers. It was a beautiful dream, but was it even real? It seemed so distant, so unattainable. And now, with the fate of his people resting on his shoulders, he felt more alone than ever.

“System, end simulation,” he commanded, his voice echoing in the emptiness.

The vibrant colors of Elysium began to fade to gray, signaling the end of the session. Ranger closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he found himself back in the cold, sterile confines of Gehenna. He blinked rapidly, adjusting to the dim, flickering light of the simulation chamber.

Beside him, on the adjacent couch, lay Jonas’s body. Ranger’s heart clenched at the sight. In death, the old man looked small, fragile – nothing like the towering figure of wisdom and strength he’d been in life.

“I’m sorry, old friend,” Ranger murmured, his voice rough with emotion. “I hope you’ve found your own Promised Land.”

With gentle reverence, Ranger reached out, gently closing Jonas’s eyes before he disconnected the neural interface from Jonas’s temples. He slid his arms beneath the frail body, lifting it with care. The weight was surprisingly light, as if Jonas had already begun to fade away.

As he carried Jonas through the winding corridors of Gehenna, Ranger’s mind wandered to the world he had just left behind. Elysium, with its lush landscapes and endless possibilities, was a stark contrast to the grim reality of the bunker. The walls here were cold and lifeless, the air stale and recycled. It was a world of necessity, of survival, far removed from the idyllic paradise of the simulation.

He finally arrived at the incinerator room, the heat hitting him like a physical force. The small, tight space was filled with towering banks of machinery and intricate piping, creating a labyrinth of metal and wires. In the center rose the monstrous incinerator, its massive cylindrical form radiating a dull, ominous red glow that seemed to pulse with anger.

Gently, Ranger laid Jonas’s body on the conveyor belt. He paused for a moment, his hand resting on the old man’s shoulder, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. Jonas had been more than just his mentor; he had been a father figure, a guiding light, and a personal friend.

“Goodbye, old friend,” he whispered, a single tear tracing a path down his cheek. “May you find peace in whatever lies beyond.”

With a heavy heart, Ranger activated the conveyor belt and stepped back, watching as it slowly carried Jonas’s body into the heart of the incinerator. The flames engulfed the corpse, consuming it in a matter of moments. Ranger stood motionless, his eyes fixed on the fire, as if trying to burn the image into his memory. It was a sorrowful sight, a final send-off for his friend and mentor.

As he watched, Ranger couldn’t help but think of Elysium. It was a world without pain, without suffering, a world where anything was possible.

But it was also a world that wasn’t real.

In Elysium, there was no death, no loss, no grief. But here, in the harsh reality of Gehenna, those things were all too common. The concrete walls and metal surfaces seemed to mock him, reminding him of the cold, unforgiving nature of the world he lived in.

Ranger stood there for a long time, watching as the flames danced and flickered, reducing Jonas’s body to ashes. He thought of the promise he had made, of the mission that lay ahead of him.

“I don’t know if I can do this alone,” he confessed to the silent form. “But I’ll try. For you, for all of us. I’ll find the Promised Land.”

Lyra

Lyra Bellamy carefully adjusted her council robes as she entered the grand chamber of the Council, Elysium’s governing body. Ornate marble pillars stretched upward toward a ceiling that opened to a sky of endless blue, with flawless diamond statues depicting the founders in all of their glory. A large stone table sat in the center of the palatial chamber, shaped in a perfect circle. Beverages had been set at each place, according to the personal tastes of each council member (Lyra’s was a chamomile herbal tea). The virtual space shimmered with ethereal light that cast a gentle glow on the faces of those gathered.

As she took her seat, Lyra’s gaze swept over her fellow Council members. Gideon Gray’s imposing figure dominated one end of the table, his dark eyes shining intelligently amidst his salt-and-pepper beard. Though all on the Council had an equal voice, with none ranked higher than another, his voice had lately come to dominate many of their proceedings. Iris Blackwood, one of his allies and another outspoken voice, took her place on Lyra’s left, her bearing regal and composed. On Lyra’s right, Nina Evergreen had already settled in, her hazel eyes bright with curiosity.

“Good morning,” said Nina with a friendly nod. Lyra returned her greeting with a smile and took a sip of her chamomile tea. All around the table, the other Council members took their seats, their colorful robes shimmering in the soft, crystalline light.

Gideon Gray, his dark hair immaculately styled and his eyes gleaming with fervor, leaned forward in his seat. “The passing of the old Watchman is a great loss to our community,” he said, his voice dripping with reverence. “But it also presents an opportunity for us to reaffirm our commitment to Elysium.”

Iris nodded in agreement, her steel-gray eyes fixed on Lyra. “I agree,” she said. “The preservation of our way of life must be our top priority. We must ensure that the new Watchman understands the importance of maintaining the stability and harmony of our world.”

Lyra felt a flicker of unease in her chest. She knew that Gideon and Iris were staunch preservationists, believing that Elysium was the pinnacle of human achievement and should be protected at all costs. But she also knew that there were those on the council who still clung to the old ways, who believed that Elysium was meant to be a temporary haven until the Earth healed and they could find the Promised Land.

“I agree that we must support the new Watchman,” Lyra said, her voice soft but firm. “But let us first take a moment to remember Jonas and all he did for our community.”

As the council members bowed their heads in a moment of silence, Lyra’s thoughts drifted. She had always been content with her life in Elysium, with the predictability and comfort it offered. But now, faced with the challenges ahead, she knew that she would need to tread carefully, to find a way to bridge the gap between the opposing viewpoints threatening to tear the council apart.

When they raised their heads, Lyra spoke again, her tone gentle yet firm. “Now, let us discuss how we move forward, always keeping in mind the harmony and well-being of all in Elysium.”

Nina Evergreen, her golden hair cascading down her back, leaned forward with a thoughtful expression. “Perhaps we should consider the possibility that the Promised Land is not a physical place, but a state of being,” she said, her hazel eyes shining with curiosity. “Maybe the true purpose of Elysium is to help us achieve inner peace and harmony, rather than to serve as a temporary shelter.”

Lyra felt a surge of gratitude towards Nina. She had always admired the young woman’s open-mindedness and willingness to consider new ideas. But she also knew that such views were not always welcomed by the more conservative members of the council.

Gideon Gray’s piercing gaze swept across the council chamber, his virtual avatar radiating an aura of unwavering conviction. “Elysium is not just a temporary shelter,” he declared, his voice ringing with conviction. “It is a testament to the ingenuity and resilience of our ancestors, who built this paradise in the face of unimaginable adversity. To abandon it in pursuit of some mythical ‘Promised Land’ would be to dishonor their memory and sacrifice.”

Iris Blackwood nodded in agreement, her steel-gray eyes flashing with resolve. “We have a duty to preserve this world for future generations,” she said, her words measured and precise. “Elysium represents the pinnacle of human achievement, a shining beacon of hope in a world that has been ravaged by catastrophe. Why risk everything for an uncertain future beyond these walls?”

The air in the council chamber seemed to thicken with tension. Lyra’s gaze swept across the faces of those present, noting the mix of agreement and skepticism.

Councilwoman Vera, her brow furrowed, spoke up. “But wasn’t Elysium always meant to be temporary? A sanctuary until the Earth healed?”

“That was before we understood the true potential of what we’ve created here,” Gideon countered, his eyes flashing. “Why risk everything for a world that may no longer exist as we remember it?”

“Our ancestors’ vision was to reclaim our home,” another council member interjected. “To carry on the legacy of humanity in the physical world. Are we to abandon that dream simply because it is difficult or uncertain?”

Gideon’s avatar flickered momentarily, betraying his rising anger. “And what if Earth never heals? Would you have us trade paradise for a wasteland?”

Lyra listened to the debate, her heart torn between the two sides. She could understand the preservationists’ desire to protect what they had created, to maintain the stability and comfort of life in their virtual haven. Yet Jonas had always been a staunch believer in the idea that they were destined for something greater than the confines of Elysium.

She raised her hand, and the room fell silent, all eyes turning to Lyra. The virtual environment shimmered slightly, a reminder of the artificial nature of their world.

“My friends,” she began, her voice soft but steady, “I know that this is a difficult decision, one that will shape the future of our people for generations to come. But let us remember that we are all part of the same community, united in our desire to do what is best for our people.” She met the eyes of each council member in turn, her gaze warm but firm.

Gideon leaned forward, his brow furrowed. “Lyra, surely you can see that Elysium is our home, our sanctuary. To abandon it would be to turn our backs on everything our ancestors built.”

Iris nodded in agreement, her silver hair glinting in the soft light of the council chamber. “We have a responsibility to preserve what we have created, to ensure that future generations can continue to thrive in this paradise.”

“Perhaps,” Lyra ventured, “there’s a way to honor both our past and our future. To preserve Elysium while still exploring the possibility of a world beyond.”

Gideon nodded approvingly. “A wise suggestion, Councilwoman Bellamy. We should not rush into decisions that could jeopardize everything we’ve built.”

Lyra offered a small smile, even as her thoughts continued to churn. “Thank you, Gideon. I believe we all need time to reflect on what’s been said here today.”

The council members murmured among themselves, the tension in the room dissipating. Lyra exhaled slowly, relieved to have steered the discussion away from conflict. Yet as the meeting adjourned, she couldn’t shake the feeling that they were standing at a crossroads, unsure of which path to take.

Children of the Starry Sea: Chapter 1 (excerpt)

Here is an excerpt from my forthcoming novel, Children of the Starry Sea. It’s a direct sequel to Star Wanderers and the second book in what is going to be a trilogy. It’s also the longest book I’ve written since I started publishing more than ten years ago.

The rough draft is already finished, and the first revision draft is almost finished. I’m going to do another two revision passes over the next month, one to fix any remaining story issues, and another to trim the word count by about 10%. After that, it’s off to the editor!

Here is the first chapter.

Worry and Bliss

Isaiah

Isaiah snuck carefully through the empty halls of New Jezreel, avoiding the main thoroughfare even though the planetside colony was mostly asleep at this hour. The atrium was still mostly dark, though the dawn was starting to lighten the perpetually overcast sky outside. In less than an hour, the daylights would come on, illuminating the darkened hallways.

He slowed as he reached the turnoff for the colony’s main hangar, then stopped to check the terminal beside the door, glancing nervously over his shoulder. The screen glowed in the darkness, and his fingers moved with urgency as he used his pilot’s clearance to unlock one of the landspeeders. If anyone had been in the colony’s flight control tower, they surely would have cancelled his request almost immediately. But the terminal took his ID at face value and cleared him without any question.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway turned his blood to ice. Even though they were still distant, he hurriedly exited the menu and slipped into the shadows. The screen continued to glow, however, illuminating the hall so brightly it made him cringe. It was glaringly obvious that someone had been using it, and if security happened to pass by, then—

“Boo!” came a young woman’s voice, making him jump.

“Salome!” he whispered fiercely. “Is that you?”

“Of course it’s me, silly! Who else did you think it was?”

He peered down the darkened hallway, but it was empty. There was no one else there but them. He sighed in relief.

“For a second there, I thought you were security.”

She giggled. “That’s hilarious. Did you think I was going to detain you?”

“No, but I’m sure they won’t be happy when they find out what we’ve done.”

“You worry too much. Did you get the landspeeder?”

“Yeah,” he said, palming the door open. As soon as they were on the other side, he palmed it shut, not taking his chances. Thankfully, the terminal screen went dim again just before the doors closed.

Salome was already halfway to the landspeeders, and he had to run to catch up to her. The colony’s main hangar was wide and cavernous, with a domed ceiling almost twenty meters high in the center. The lights were dim and reddish, but he and Salome were certainly showing up on the surveillance cameras, and if anyone from security was watching—

“Which one?” Salome asked, stopping at the row of landspeeders parked along the back wall. These ones were small, barely large enough to fit two people, but the engines were at least as long as Isaiah was tall, and much larger. At one time, their hulls had been bright and sleek, but years of long use had dulled them and given them dozens of dents and dings.

“Uh, just a sec,” said Isaiah, double-checking his wrist console. “There—that one.”

Salome’s eyes lit up as she ran to the one Isaiah had pointed out. Even in the dim lights, she was positively gorgeous. Her short black hair bobbed loosely around her shoulders, and her curvy, athletic figure stole Isaiah’s breath just like the landspeeder had stolen hers. But it was her eager enthusiasm for life that captured his heart more than anything else. Whenever he was around her, he felt that he could die happy if she only gave him a smile. And whenever he wasn’t around her, it felt like there was an emptiness in his life that she fit perfectly.

“Nice!” said Salome, brushing her fingertips admiringly against the hull. “Both engines are in really good shape. You chose a good one.”

Her praise all but melted Isaiah into a puddle. She slipped into the pilot’s seat and gave him a funny look.

“Well, don’t just stand there, silly! Don’t you want to take this bunny for a ride?”

You, or the speeder? his adolescent mind wondered. Blood rushed to his cheeks at the thought, but she didn’t seem to notice as he scrambled to the seat behind her. The glass dome slid into place overhead, and the engines began to rumble as Salome cycled them up.

“Do we have our breathing masks?” he asked as he rummaged through the tiny cockpit compartment that held their supplies.

“Sure,” Salome said absently. Her hands flew deftly across the controls, bringing them to life.

“There,” said Isaiah, finding two masks. “Filters are good, backup oxygen tanks are both full. We’ve only got two emergency flares, though. I don’t know why the last crew didn’t replenish them.”

“It’s all right,” said Salome. “We’re only going out for a joyride, not traversing half the planet.”

“But what about the pirate colony? If they catch us, then—”

“They’re not going to catch us,” she said, laughing dismissively. “They’re on the other side of the world, and besides, your dad has got eyes on them from orbit. Stop worrying!”

Isaiah took a deep breath. She was probably right—no, she was almost certainly right—but still, that “almost” held the potential for a whole world of hurt. The pirate colony had cut off communications nearly eighteen months ago, and no one knew exactly what they were up to, though thankfully, they didn’t have ground-to-orbit capabilities. Yet.

The first settlers had defeated and exiled the pirates to the wilderness just before Isaiah had been born, but his father, the station master of the colony’s main orbital, had always believed that they could come back at any moment. He watched them vigilantly from Zarmina Station, using the spy satellites they’d obtained from the Outworld Joint Defense Fleet.

But Salome clearly wasn’t worried—and besides, it was all out of their hands anyway. Let the administrators worry about the pirates. Right now, he was sharing a cozy cockpit with the most beautiful girl in a dozen parsecs, perhaps even the whole galaxy, and she was happy to have him there. How could life possibly get any better than that?

The engines rumbled, and the hoverjets lifted the speeder off the floor. Isaiah hastily scrolled through menus until he found the command to open the hangar airlock. He authorized it with his pilot’s ID, and the giant doors slid slowly open, like the vertical maw of an enormous beast. Salome gently brought them into the airlock, stopping where a large painted square marked the temporary parking area for incoming and outgoing craft. The massive doors closed slowly behind them.

“Here goes nothing!” Salome said excitedly as the outside doors cracked open. The overcast sky was just starting to turn blue-gray with the morning light, and the jungle trees stood out starkly in silhouette. She revved the engine impatiently, and Isaiah fought back the urge to tell her to wait until the doors were fully open.

As soon as they were, she whooped and gunned the engines, and the speeder leaped forward like a wild animal escaping its cage. Isaiah’s butt clenched as they cleared the partially opened doors with barely a meter to spare on either side. Then they nosed up over the treetops, and New Jezreel was suddenly behind them, with nothing but scattered settlements and wilderness up ahead.

“Yes!” said Salome, laughing as they sent ripples over the leafy jungle canopy like waves in their wake. They were a little too low for Isaiah’s comfort, but he put that out of his mind.

“What’s the plan?” he asked. “Where are we going?”

“Where do you want to go?” she asked back.

He took a deep breath. Somewhere we can talk, he thought but did not say. Joyriding was fun and all, but he didn’t want to spend all of his short time with her doing that.

“Up the canyon,” he said, pointing to the cliffs that rose sharply from the jungle about a dozen kilometers away.

“You got it!” she said, then whooped again as she accelerated hard enough to throw him against his seat. He took a deep breath before forcing himself to let go of his apprehensions—and not just the ones about the ride.

Salome

There was nothing Salome loved quite so much as the roar of a powerful engine behind her and a wide open world beckoning up ahead. Isaiah had opted for the canyon, and it was a good choice. She’d only been up there twice, and one of those times had been in a slow-moving zeppelin, so it didn’t really count.

“Hold on tight!” she said as the jungle gave way to the cliffs and the rocky gullies. She followed the nearly vertical rock face until it flattened out just before the river. Using one hand to flare the speeder’s airbrakes, she rolled hard to the right and used the sudden wind resistance to pitch the nose in the direction she wanted to turn. Her vision darkened as the engines checked her momentum, nearly making her black out.

“Look out!” Isaiah screamed. She’d underestimated the rate of their sudden altitude drop, and the broad surface of the river was rushing up toward them like a shimmering blacktop. She leveled off just as they struck the surface, and the force of the impact on the landspeeder’s flat underbelly was enough to knock the wind out of her lungs.

The hoverjets squealed in protest as the spray of water splashed across the domed cockpit window, and for a brief, heart-stopping moment, she feared that she’d submerged them. Thankfully, though, the speeder leaped back up into the air, water streaming in rivulets across the hull as they sped down the river, riding it like a road.

A heady rush of adrenaline made Salome laugh. These were the moments she lived for—the liberating thrills that she could never quite get under the manmade ceilings and artificial lights of New Jezreel.

“Holy crap, Salome!” Isaiah yelled. “Did you just wreck the speeder?”

“She’s still flying, isn’t she?”

“Yeah, but if any of the jets got flooded, we could have a—”

“They’re fine,” Salome insisted, though she checked the screen on her left just to be sure. The front right hoverjet had a minor warning indicator, but it didn’t sound too bad. From her work in the colony’s mechanic shop, she could tell if an engine was having problems almost before the diagnostics had finished running. She hadn’t flown them much outside of the holovid simulations, but she knew them inside and out, and could build one from scratch if she had to.

When Isaiah had asked her if she wanted to take one out for a spin, it was all that she could do in that moment not to throw her arms around him and squee. Not that she had any particular feelings for him—they’d been friends ever since childhood, mostly because of how close their parents were, and while things had changed after his family had moved up to Zarmina Station, they hadn’t changed like that. No, Isaiah was just a very good friend—especially with how he’d helped her take this landspeeder out for a ride. That was really awesome of him.

The speeder kicked up a massive spray of water as they skimmed over the mostly still surface. As they turned around a bend, Salome saw whitecaps up ahead, so she raised their altitude a couple of meters and gripped the flight controls with both hands.

“Waterfall up ahead!” said Isaiah, pointing to it over her shoulder.

“I see it,” said Salome. “Hang on!”

She skirted a couple of large boulders and drove straight toward the churning wall of water. At the last moment, she nosed up hard and gripped the throttle with one hand. Once they were vertical, she killed it. The speeder didn’t have any wings, so it went into a wonderfully thrilling backflip, its forward momentum carrying them up over the edge of the falls. This time, Salome timed the maneuver perfectly—all those hundreds of hours on the holovid simulators had really paid off. When the speeder righted itself and the hoverjets re-engaged, they blasted over the water without touching the surface. She throttled up the engines and whooped.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Isaiah moaned.

“You’ll be fine,” Salome told him, though she eased up on the altitude controls to give them a bit more clearance. Hopefully that would make their ride a bit smoother. As much fun as she was having right now, it wouldn’t be worth it if she made Isaiah miserable.

Up ahead, the river narrowed into a sharp bend, and the slope on either side grew higher and steeper. In the early morning light, it was darker in the narrow defile, but the overcast sky cast enough diffuse light to fly by—barely. On the edge of her vision, a couple of floating algae pads drifted lazily above the jungle like miniature zeppelins. She’d have to keep an eye out for those in the canyon.

The jungle by the river was still as thick as down in the valley, but as the rapids increased, the number of large rocks and boulders did as well. Out of the corner of her eye, she even saw places where rock falls from the mountains had ripped out the old growth not too long ago. The slopes were mostly scree, but they soon rose to jagged, towering cliffs on either side. Salome considered leaving the river to head up one of the gullies and see how long the speeder could find purchase on those slopes, but for Isaiah’s sake she decided against it.

Then they hit the rapids. The river narrowed dramatically, the water churning over the countless boulders and smashed tree trunks as it had at the base of the waterfall. It took all of Salome’s concentration to keep from crashing, as the walls of both cliff and jungle closed in on either side. The shadows were deeper than she’d expected, there was no space to turn around.

The next several minutes passed in mere moments as every particle of her attention was focused on getting them through without killing them both in a spectacular crash. There was a rhythm to it that caught her in a trance—one that she hoped would never end.

Intuitively, she sensed that they were coming to another wall. She nosed up sharply before the waterfall came into view, and without thinking, she went into a barrel roll. Just before they stalled, almost a hundred meters above the canyon floor, she glimpsed a floating algae pad out the corner of her eye and brought the hoverjets around to push off of it. The maneuver gave her just enough forward momentum to clear the edge of the waterfall, kicking up a frightening amount of spray in the process. But the hoverjets held, the engines came to life again, and they blasted out from the waterfall’s edge over a wide mountain lake.

Salome became aware of someone screaming, and realized that it was her. She throttled down and flared the airbrakes, bringing the speeder to a gentle crawl.

“That was incredible!” she said, grinning from ear to ear as she turned around to see how Isaiah was doing.

“Yeah,” he said, his face pale and his arms shaking.

The cliffs weren’t quite so high this far up into the mountains, and the lake was wide and flat enough that it reflected the cloudy sky like a mirror. The sight all around them was incredible. A few lone trees were scattered here and there, but the beaches were mostly gravel and scree, rising sharply to the jagged ridge that surrounded them. On one side, a large cloud was spilling over onto the water, or perhaps rising off of it—it was difficult to tell. Then, through a sudden break in the clouds, the early morning sun shone in all its brilliant glory.

“Whoa,” said Salome, captivated by the natural beauty of the scene. A gaggle of enormous raptor-beasts chose that moment to take off from the farther shore, briefly eclipsing the sun before disappearing into another cloudbank.

“We’re—we’re alive,” said Isaiah, as if realizing it for the first time in his life. Salome, too, felt a strange new awareness sweep over her.

“You only live once,” she told him, laughing. “Come on. Where do you want to go next?”

He paused for a moment. Then, in a voice that was almost shy, he asked: “Can we stop and just talk for a while?”

“Sure.”

She nosed the speeder over to where an algae pad had deflated, over by the water’s edge. It provided a nice platform to park the speeder, as well as a soft place to climb out and maybe stretch their legs.

“Got your mask?” she asked as the speeder powered down.

“Uh, yeah, but—”

She cracked open the cockpit seal with one hand while holding her mask to her mouth with the other. Isaiah yelped in surprise as he scrambled to put his mask on. The air that flooded in was thick, humid, and surprisingly warm, though not quite as heavy as down in the valley. As the glass slid open, Salome finished strapping on her mask and climbed out.

The atmosphere was thick with oxygen—almost too much, really—but the carbon dioxide was even more concentrated, and needed to be scrubbed by the masks. There were other poisonous gases too, though this was more of a problem in the valleys than it was in the mountains. Thankfully, a halfway-decent filtration system was all they needed to breathe the native air.

Salome jumped down to the soft algae below and stretched, arcing her back. Isaiah soon jumped down next to her.

“It sure is beautiful up here, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” she said, walking over to the edge of the water. She found a nice place and sat down with her legs stretched out. Isaiah hesitated, so she motioned for him to join her.

Isaiah

Isaiah’s knees still shook from the crazy joyride. He was grateful that they were sitting on the soft, deflated algae pad, though the masks were an annoying obstacle. He wanted to see Salome’s face, not just her eyes, though of course those were gorgeous. More than that, though, he wanted her to see his face—to really and truly be able to listen to what he had to tell her. He sighed.

“My dad’s been bringing up the whole star wandering thing,” he began. “Keeps telling me that I’m almost as old as he was when he became a star wanderer.”

“Ah,” Salome said knowingly. “So that’s what’s been on your mind.”

Not quite, he wanted to say. But if Salome rejected him, what would he do then? His father would expect him to leave on the Ariadne, never to return. That was the time-honored tradition of the Outworlds, and his father was a staunch traditionalist. But even if they did become a couple, would his father accept that as a reason to let him stay?

“It’s not that I’m scared of leaving,” he lied—or rather, stretched the truth. “Just… leaving forever? Never coming back? Doesn’t that seem a bit… extreme?”

“Yeah,” said Salome, leaning back on her hands with her slender legs crossed. “It’s a stupid tradition. Times are changing. In another generation or two, the Outworlds won’t even need star wanderers to keep from becoming too isolated.”

“I can understand why my father holds on so tightly to the old ways. If he hadn’t left home, he would have never my mother. That’s probably why he wants me to become a star wanderer.”

“But is that really what you want?” Salome asked.

Their eyes met, and Isaiah’s heart all but stopped. Was she asking him to stay for her? Perhaps, underneath that mask, she was waiting for him to confess that he didn’t want to leave her, that she was all he ever—

But then, she shrugged and glanced back out over the lake again. His shoulders slumped.

“Not really, no,” he told her honestly. “There’s just—there’s so much here to stay for. And it’s not like inbreeding is a problem. Right?”

“Of course not,” Salome said absently. The way she sat, with her back arched and her shoulders pulled back, really brought out all of her feminine curves. He always felt a little embarrassed when his thoughts started sliding in that direction, but at the same time, he couldn’t help but feel drawn to her.

It was amazing how much she’d changed since his family had moved up to Zarmina Station. Before, she was still just a childhood playmate that he got to visit whenever their mothers got together, which was almost every day. Now, he only got to see her whenever his work as a shuttle pilot brought him planetside, but those frequent absences had made her transformation over the last couple of years all the more incredible. She was no longer the precocious little girl who used to chase him around the underground parks and gardens, but a stunning young woman who had almost reached her prime.

“Have you ever thought about leaving for the stars?” he asked, surprising them both.

She gave him a funny look. “You mean, become a female star wanderer?”

“Or some other kind of starfarer,” he added quickly. “There are lots of people who travel the stars who aren’t just following the old ways.”

“Not in the Far Outworlds—at least, not yet. Out here, you’re either a star wanderer or a member of the Outworld Joint Defense Fleet—and I sure as hell am not leaving home for that.”

“So what about being a female star wanderer, then?”

She thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. “I don’t know. It sounds like it would get kind of lonely.”

Not if we left together, Isaiah thought, his heart pounding eagerly.

“Still,” she added, “it would be an adventure. Perhaps even the adventure of the lifetime. My dad doesn’t talk about his star wandering days much, but I can tell sometimes that he misses it.”

“Yeah,” said Isaiah. “My dad too.”

“Do you ever wonder if you’ve got a brother or sister out there?”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Like, if your dad had a starchild or two before he settled down with your mom. Star wanderers do that sometimes, you know.”

“Not my dad.”

“Are you sure?”

Hot blood rushed to Isaiah’s cheeks. Why were they even talking about this? In just a few hours, he’d be back up in orbit, facing his father, with Salome down on New Jezreel where he wouldn’t be able to talk with her for a while—not in person, anyway.

“I can’t imagine him doing something like that. It’s certainly not the kind of thing that I would do.”

“Why not?”

“Are you kidding? You think I’d really, uh, knock a girl up and, um…”

“Stars, Isaiah—are you blushing?”

She laughed, making him blush even deeper. Even so, her laugh wasn’t hurtful or unkind.

“Sorry,” she said, blushing a little herself. “I guess I never thought we’d be talking about this kind of thing.”

“Do you think your dad ever had a starchild?”

“Honestly, it wouldn’t surprise me. And if I became a starfarer, I might get the chance to meet them. After all, it’s a small universe outside of the Coreward Stars.”

They sat in silence for several moments. A thick cloud rolled over the lake, obscuring the highest peaks. Isaiah had the sensation that the algae pad was floating high up in the sky, drifting away with them to wherever the wind would carry it.

“At least it’s not like you have to leave tomorrow,” said Salome. “Some star wanderers don’t leave until they’re well into their twenties.”

“Try telling that to my father,” he muttered.

She gave him a funny look again. “Well, why don’t you?”

“Are you kidding?”

“No, I’m not.”

Isaiah shook his head. “You don’t understand. All my life, this thing has been hanging over my head. When I was born, it was already decided that I would leave home and become a star wanderer, just like my father.”

“That’s stupid. In another generation, those traditions are going to be dead anyway, so why should you be forced to keep them?”

“So you want me to stay?” he asked, his breath catching in his throat.

“If that’s what you want,” she said, looking back out over the water. “It’s your life, after all. You’re the one who has to decide what’s right for you.”

And what about us? he thought but did not say. He wasn’t sure he was ready to ask about that yet.

“I don’t know,” he said uncertainly. “My father would be so disappointed in me.”

“So what?”

He frowned. “Don’t you care what your parents think of you?”

“Well, yes, but—oh, I don’t know! Why do these traditions have to be so hard? It’s always the firstborn son—why not take volunteers instead, or only send out people who actually want to go?”

“Would you go in my place if you could?”

“Yes!” she answered immediately. “I mean, probably. Sure. Why not?”

Does that mean you would you go with me, too?

Of course, he didn’t actually ask her, since the very thought was absurd. The Ariadne was built for a crew of exactly one, and besides, Salome didn’t have the neural implants necessary to plug into the dream simulators. That had been a point of controversy among the first settlers, with some, like Isaiah’s parents, opting to implant all of their children, while others, like Mariya’s parents, opting their children out of it. In the cramped quarters of a starship like the Ariadne, the simulations were absolutely necessary to maintain your mental health. But on a habitable world like Zarmina, the dream worlds were a luxury, not a necessity.

Still, Isaiah’s parents had made some very long voyages together on the Ariadne, so it wasn’t impossible to take another person along. And so long as they both had each other, how much did it really matter that Salome didn’t have the implants and couldn’t plug into the simulations? Even with the implants, his father had struggled with loneliness until he’d met his mother. If wandering the stars together had worked so well for them, then perhaps…

No, he told himself, snapping back to the present. The last thing he needed was to lose himself in a daydream about his crush when Salome was right here.

“All right,” he said aloud. “I’ll talk with my father about it.”

“Good!” said Salome, smiling at him—though unfortunately, all he could see of her smile was in her eyes. Still, it was more than enough to take his breath away.

Should I ask her? he wondered. It sounds almost like she wants me to stay. And if that’s true…

“Isaiah? Is something wrong?”

He took a deep breath. “Salome—if I did stay, would you…”

“Would I what?” she asked curiously as his voice trailed off.

“Never mind,” he said quickly, deciding not to press the issue. “Let’s get back to New Jezreel before they think we’ve stolen this thing.”

She laughed as she climbed up the ladder back into the cockpit. “You worry too much, Isaiah!”

Perhaps I do, he thought cheerfully.

Salome

As the speeder lifted off, sending ripples across the mirror-like surface of the lake, Salome couldn’t help but feel that her friendship with Isaiah had changed in some significant but unknown way. That bothered her more than she cared to admit. She’d been looking forward to the ride back down the canyon, but now there was too much on her mind to fully enjoy it.

Still, she was glad that Isaiah trusted her enough to spill his guts to her like that. He really was a great friend—not at all like some of the other boys, who only seemed to want one thing from her. As if she would put herself out so easily. No, she was much choosier than that, which probably meant that she was going to end up with a star wanderer, since none of the other boys in the colony were all that impressive.

But right now, she didn’t care about any of that. She was too young to think about settling down and starting a family of her own. Besides, there were so many other things she wanted to do with her life, like fly across the planet on a landspeeder, or parachute jump from space, or build her own balloon house and circumnavigate the globe in that. Her dreams might sound crazy to some, but her father had once had dreams even crazier than her own, and if he’d never followed them, he never would have met her mother or come to Zarmina. Besides, what did she care if other people thought she was crazy?

She brought the speeder out over the water, tracing a wide arc back toward the outlet that led to the waterfall. Instead of following the river, however, she climbed over the rocks to the ridgeline that circled the lake. The clouds had briefly dissipated, at least on this part of the ridge, giving them a spectacular view of the mountains that sourrounded New Jezreel and the nearby settlements. The sky was still overcast, but the air itself was clear enough that they could see all the way out to the vast, world-encircling ocean more than fifty kilometers away.

“Wow,” said Isaiah. “You can see everything from here!”

That’s not even close to true, Salome thought silently. As incredible as the view was from here, it was only a tiny fraction of Zarmina’s grandeur—and an even smaller fraction of the Outworlds. Even if she lived a hundred lifetimes, she would never be able to see it all.

Could she become a star wanderer? The idea was so crazy that it made even her craziest dreams seem small by comparison. And yet, when she’d told Isaiah that she would go in his place if she could, she hadn’t been lying. A part of her even envied him for the chance to be a star wanderer and to see other worlds.

She nudged the flight stick, sending the speeder down the slope at a shallow angle. The jungle canopy was thick enough for the hoverjets to find purchase, as long as they kept to the more thickly forested parts. For Isaiah’s sake, she would take them down at a much more relaxing pace, enjoying the thrill of the view rather than the thrill of the ride.

“Hey,” said Isaiah from the seat behind her. “What was that?”

“What was what?” she asked, not bothering to look.

“That small break in the trees we just passed. It looked like there was smoke coming up through it—like from a gas-powered generator or something.”

“A generator?”

“Yeah. You think someone might be camping up here? We’re about a dozen klicks out from the outlying settlements, but science and exploration parties still come out this way, right?”

Salome laughed and shook her head. “Don’t be silly, Isaiah. Those teams don’t use gas-powered generators.”

“But the pirates do. Do you think—”

“No,” she said firmly, still piloting the speeder down the slope at a decent clip. “What you saw was probably just a cloud whisp. The pirates aren’t even on this continent, let alone this jungle. Let it go.”

“But—”

“I said, let it go,” she told him, then sighed. Whatever else was true, Isaiah always worried too much.