When an Akilian’s claws itch for purpose, the galaxy trembles. Ronen’s claws, however, lay dull and restless, drumming idly against the cold metal bar he leaned against. The hunger for action simmered beneath his skin, like the tension before a storm. Stillness wasn’t peace—it was a predator, circling him, waiting for him to snap.
Beneath him, the crowd ebbed and flowed like a living sea, a tide of different species, colors, and worlds all bound for distant stars. The air vibrated with their mingled breaths, thick with the scent of fuel, sweat, and unspoken yearning. They shuffled forward, their longing for adventure weighed down every step like gravity itself.
Anticipation crackled in the large, oval room, winding around the crowd and infecting the air. Peace had softened them all, and even though the war was over, the galaxy was never truly safe. Pirates roamed the fringes, and unseen dangers crouched in the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.
Ronen stretched, his muscles loosened beneath the cascade of deep orange and inky black fur. Each stripe rippled along his powerful frame, like the brushstrokes of an ancient, untamed artist painting a story of strength. His joints crackled in satisfaction, the tension in his limbs releasing as his body expanded into the stretch. The fur, dense and rich, caught the light, setting fire to his fur.
Soon, the travelers would be out there, skimming the edge of stars, flirting with the wild chaos of the cosmos. Jealousy burned through Ronen’s veins.
He was tethered here, anchored to the weight of routine, his freedom clipped by duty. Motion had been his blood, his pulse—battle, flight, the dance of survival—and now stillness curled around him like iron shackles, squeezing, tightening, until every beat of his heart ached for the untamed dark of the universe.
He turned back to the task at hand, scanning the crowd, catching the subtle twitch of a hand, the flicker of a gaze that lingered too long. Shadows leaped from the edges of figures, stretching long across the cold metal floor, as whispers curled through the air like smoke.
Near the base of one of the great pillars, two figures stood locked in quiet conspiracy, tucked just far enough into the shadows to think themselves unseen. One figure leaned in close, his voice a low rasp, the movement of his hand imperceptible as it slipped from his cloak. The object, small and metallic, passed from one palm to another.
The second figure’s fingers closed around it in an instant, their eyes darting, quick as a startled animal, scanning the room as though the shadows themselves might betray them. The deal was subtle, the practiced dance of the desperate, but Ronen caught every nervous flicker, every calculated move.
A guard was there in the blink of an eye, cutting through the crowd. In one swift motion, the guard stepped between the figures, the click of metal meeting metal as cuffs were placed on wrists and the exchange was broken. There was no outcry, no chaos—just the quiet efficiency of well-honed vigilance.
The guard’s grip tightened on the dealer’s wrist, and the object, still warm from the hands that had passed it, was pulled free. The figures barely had time to react before they were led deeper into the docking station, swallowed by the same tide they had tried to hide within.
Ronen stood rooted, still as stone, tracing the movement of his guards, their motions fluid and unhurried. They swept through the crowd like silent currents, always at the ready. Each threat, each flicker of trouble, was snuffed out before it could even fully form.
He had trained them well, forged them in the same fires that had hardened him. They were efficient, deliberate—a reflection of the discipline he had brought to the Black Comet.
Before the war, the place had been a different beast altogether. The Black Comet had once been a breeding ground for every criminal ambition, a playground for thieves, smugglers, and those looking to slip unnoticed from one corner of the galaxy to another. The docking station had thrived on lawlessness, its dark corridors echoing with the deals and whispers of those who traded in shadow.
When Ronen took up the mantle of captain, the station began to bend to his will. The riff-raff who had slunk in from the fringes of the galaxy—the drifters, the dangerous, those who believed they could hide in plain sight—soon learned that the Black Comet no longer tolerated their kind. They had left one by one, slipping away like rats from a sinking ship, leaving behind only whispers of the wild days when the station had been theirs.
The Black Comet itself was a giant in the sector, a towering structure that stretched out into the stars like a massive hand, gripping the galaxy in its palm. Ships from every planet, every distant world passed through its vast halls, their pilots stopping to refuel, to trade, to wait for clearance before plunging back into the stars. The Comet acted as a checkpoint between their quadrant and the rest of the galaxy, its massive rings spinning slowly, steadily, regulating the flow of traffic that came from every direction.
It was the last thread of order in their sector before the galaxy stretched out, untamed and wild, where the stars themselves beckoned lawlessness into their endless expanse. Those who skirted the Black Comet’s reach often found themselves lost, adrift in places where mercy was scarce, and the rules dissolved like dust in the wind.
Here, in the terminal where inbound and outbound ships brushed against the edge of the galaxy, Ronen had crafted a translucent barrier keeping the chaos outside from bleeding in. The station pulsed with life, a tide of travelers flowing through the two great doors—one leading them out into the stars, the other pulling them in from distant worlds.
The ceiling stretched high above, a dome of marble that gleamed like the belly of an icy moon. Spiral pillars coiled upward, twisting in perfect symmetry, as if the room itself breathed in slow, deliberate cycles. They stood, stone vines frozen in time, forming a ring that held the sky aloft.
Between them, the newly installed statues loomed. The vorondollo, carved from some forgotten myth, watched with hollow eyes, a silent reminder of the fragile peace the galaxy had signed in blood. The weight of their presence pressed down, heavy and oppressive, as if freedom itself had taken form and turned to stone.
The statues were vast, intricate creatures carved from the purest marble; their wings spread wide as though frozen mid-flight. They weren’t birds, though at first glance they appeared owl-like, their bodies caught between grace and menace. The four sets of wings were broad, feathers chiseled with painstaking detail. An invisible breeze curved the feathers outward, yet the weight of the marble anchored them to the docking station floor.
Their eyes, hollow and unblinking, followed him. The effect was unsettling, as though they could see past the veil of reality, beyond the physical world. The beaks were sharp, pointed downward, jaws half-parted, forever suspended in a silent call.
Talons, sharp and curved, curled beneath their feet, digging into the pedestals on which they stood. Their bodies, lean and muscular beneath layers of finely detailed plumage, looked alive despite the stone—the power held within them palpable even in their stillness.
The wings had swept out far enough that their shadows draped across the floor like dark, sprawling fingers. They surrounded the oval room and made it smaller under their watch, as though the statues consumed the air itself. The gleam of the marble shimmered under the light, casting a soft glow.
The Order of the Vorondolo—silent rulers draped in the illusion of peace. Their magic hummed beneath the surface of reality, a power that stretched across the stars. It had swept across the universe like a shroud, snuffing out chaos with a promise that tasted of iron. They had taken control not with war, but with the quiet grip of omnipotence.
Everywhere, like ghosts etched into the fabric of existence, the owl-like creatures that bore their name appeared. Their likeness was stamped into every corner of life—perched on the edge of every document, every poster, every banner that fluttered in the winds of distant planets. There was no escaping the vorondolo; they were always watching, always waiting, a silent reminder that peace, once promised, came at the cost of freedom.
No matter how soft the Order’s hand extended, Ronen knew the weight of the storm they carried, a quiet threat disguised in their stillness. The day Fario the Iron Fist crumpled in battle—the moment when magic ripped through the air, unseen but undeniable, he knew who would take the dictator’s throne.
“Ronen!” Kirov’s voice sliced through the weight of the vorondolos’ gaze.
Kirov moved with sharp, jittering precision, his steps too light, too quiet, as if he expected the floor to give way beneath him. His fingers twitched at his sides, clenching and unclenching, never still. The tip of his tail flicked back and forth, betraying the tension coiled inside him. He scanned the room in quick, jerky glances, his head turning in short, sudden movements, as though the walls might leap at him and swallow him whole. Even his breathing came in shallow, controlled bursts, as if he didn’t trust the surrounding space.
Ronen resisted the pull of his gaze, but the scar drew him in—a jagged line, raw and unforgiving, etched from brow to jaw. It cut deep into Kirov’s face — it was a roadmap of the violence that had marked him, each inch telling a story of a battle he had survived, but not escaped.
Ronen had been lucky, escaping the war with only a few shallow scars, faint reminders that barely broke the surface. Small patches of missing fur dotted his frame, but they were subtle, invisible unless one looked too long. Kirov’s scar, though, told a different story—a story of battles that left their mark far deeper than skin.
“What do we have on the docket today?” Ronen leaned back over the railing and nodded.
“There’ve been reports,” Kirov said, his voice low as his ears flattened against his skull.
“The North Wind’s been spotted in the sector...” — his gaze flicked to the stone owls — “and so has the Order.”
A cold tremor dug its nails into Ronen’s spine. “I’d take pirates over the Order any day,” he said, along with a stream of muttered curses.
Kirov’s silence lingered for a moment before he added, “There’s more.”
Ronen raised an eyebrow. “Good more or bad more?”
Kirov shifted, his boots scraping against the floor. “There’s someone asking for you. He wouldn’t give his name... wouldn’t say how he knows you. But with the North Wind and the Order circling... it’s suspicious. Too suspicious.” His hands twisted together, knuckles pale against his gray fur, his nerves palpable in the air.
Ronen nodded and pushed away from the railing. His hand landed on Kirov’s shoulder, a firm grip, solid as stone, the weight of it grounding them both in the moment.
His voice came out light, careless, a practiced ease hiding the gravity underneath.
“Inform the ships about the pirates,” he said. “Make sure those who just took off know as well.” He paused. “And this man... what harm could come from a conversation?” His tone was calm, but it carried the faint echo of a man who had walked through fire too many times not to feel the heat of it coming.
“And the Order?” Kirov’s voice wavered, but Ronen waved it off with a slow shake of his head.
“One thing at a time. Where’s this mystery guest?”
“I put him in the interrogation room. He won’t leave until he talks to you.”
Ronen descended the staircase, each step a calculated movement, soft and silent. Faces of the travelers flickered past, blurred impressions in a crowd that moved like water, restless and dense. A twitch in the corner of someone’s eye, a hand gripping a coat too tight—tiny signals that told more than words ever could, like the hum of static before a storm. His muscles tensed, a predator’s instinct coursing through him, ready for the first crack in the calm.
Bodies shifted, voices murmured, but nothing gave itself away as dangerous. Still, his muscles remained coiled, the tension only loosening at the edges, never fully released. He kept his breath steady, shoulders squared as the air thickened around him.
Where the crowd thinned, the far wall loomed, cool and metallic, a slab of silence where the noise of the room died to hushed tones. Shadows stretched long and thin, dissolving into the hard lines of the structure, a place where secrets slip between the cracks.
Ronen’s hand brushed against the metal, his fingers trailing over the smooth surface until they caught on to subtle edges—small, elegant symbols, their lines delicate but firm, were carved deep into the steel. Embedded within the design, a door waited, so ordinary it would disappear to the untrained eye.
He paused, the air thick with an old, unspoken familiarity, the kind that clings to moments revisited too many times. A brief breath filled his lungs, slow and measured, before he pressed his palm to the smooth surface and pushed. The door gave way, opening to a narrow corridor that stretched ahead, dimly lit, the flickering of the lights overhead a constant, oppressive drone.
Ronen stepped inside, his boots falling into a familiar rhythm. The metallic floor beneath him echoed, the sound swallowed quickly by the close walls. He had walked this hall countless times, his steps heavy with authority, guiding prisoners and criminals through its sterile silence. The corridor was purgatory held between two doors, a liminal space where the air itself was weighed down by the inevitability of judgment.
The walls pressed close, each footstep leading deeper into the heart of the station, where questions waited, and answers rarely satisfied. Uncertainty curled beneath his ribs, a slow coil of tension that spread like Death’s fingers reaching into his gut.
A simple wooden door stood between him and the unknown. With a steady hand, he gripped the door, the cool metal grounding him, and pushed it open, the sensation settling into a low thrum beneath his skin.
The door creaked open, revealing an old man standing inches from the mirror, his breath fogging the glass, his lips moving in soundless murmurs.
Ronen stopped, blinked, his expectation unraveling. This wasn’t the hardened criminal he’d imagined—no tattoos crawling up sunburnt arms, no leather stiff with the weight of violence. Instead, the figure before him stood draped in threadbare cloth, hanging loose around a frail frame that was ready to fold in on itself. The fabric swayed with every shallow breath, frayed at the edges, ghostly against his thin shoulders.
The man didn’t turn. He stayed fixed on his reflection; eyes narrowed as though staring into the depths of his own disappointment. His face, lined and weary, looked more like parchment left too long in the sun, every wrinkle a story of time gone wrong.
Ronen leaned deeper into the room, his gaze narrowing on the figure before him. The sharp scent of iron struck his senses, heavy and metallic, settling thick in the back of his throat.
Blood.
It clung to the air, invisible yet unmistakable, a presence as palpable as the man himself. Ronen’s eyes roamed over the man’s exposed skin, crisscrossed with scars, pale ridges winding over his arms like faded maps of battles long since fought. The wounds were old, healed over, the flesh sealed tight, but the smell lingered, curling in the corners of the room like a secret waiting to be spoken.
Ronen let the door slam behind him, the noise ringing out like a challenge. His tail twitched, flicking back and forth, betraying the current of anticipation that buzzed beneath his skin. The room vibrated with the sharpness of the sound. Every fiber of Ronen’s focus locked onto him, the air thickening between them. People couldn’t hide in moments like these; surprised, stripped of their defenses, they revealed themselves in ways words never could.
A grin spread across the old man’s face, slow and crooked. He spun on his heels with a suddenness that rattled the air, his purple eyes gleaming like distant stars flickering with recognition.
“Trying to give me a heart attack, Ronen?” he asked, his voice trembling, laced with a strange, unsteady excitement.
Ronen’s brow furrowed, his jaw tightening as a flicker of confusion swept over him. Faces blurred through his mind, memories tangled and elusive, but none aligned with the one standing before him. Yet those eyes—those purple eyes—pricked at something deep in his mind, like a half-forgotten dream clawing its way to the surface.
“I’m sorry,” Ronen said, the words edged with suspicion. He stepped forward, planting himself firmly between the man and the rest of the room, his arms crossing over his chest in a deliberate display of size, a wall of muscle and caution. He needed space—distance—from the strange familiarity that hung between them like a shadow. “Do I know you?”
The old man paused mid-step, his hands floating in the air as if grasping for something invisible, bushy gray eyebrows knitting together in concentration. He stared at his open palms, weighing unseen options, raising one hand slightly higher than the other, as though the balance of the universe rested in this odd gesture. With a nod as slow as the tides, he settled, a quiet acknowledgment of some unspoken answer.
“No,” he said, nodding at his palm. “Not yet anyway. This is the first time you are meeting me, but it most certainly isn’t my first time meeting you, old friend.” He waved his hand in front of his face and scoffed. “That is not important-”
Ronen interrupted, his voice a low rumble, deep and steady like distant thunder, “You have the privilege of knowing my name. I, however, do not know yours.”
The man blinked. “My—my name?” he asked, as if the question itself had caught him off guard. He shook his head, the movement slow and uncertain, like someone shaking off a dream. “No, just call me Grandpa. My name isn’t important. You’ll know it soon enough.”
Grandpa waved the question off. He bowed, his frail frame bending like an old tree caught in the wind. His voice, when it came again, was a whisper, soft but sharp, cutting through the air with an edge of urgency. “Ronen Trig of Onora, the Ghost of Wolf’s Ridge, I bring you a message of great importance.”
The words wrapped around Ronen like icy fingers, gripping tighter with every syllable. He took a step back, his chest tightening. The name “Wolf’s Ridge” twisted a knife buried deep inside him. He was there—the taste of ash, the echo of battle, the screams swallowed by the wind.
For a moment, the memories threatened to pull him under, a tide rising too fast to outrun. Ronen shook them off, forcing the past into the shadows where it belonged, turning his focus to the old man who spilled secrets like marbles scattering on the floor. Each word dropped carelessly but heavy with meaning.
“I will hear you out,” Ronen said, his voice breaking through the thick silence that hung between them.
“Yes! I must be quick!” Grandpa’s hands fumbled inside his worn coat, and from its depths, he pulled a silver pocket watch.
It gleamed in the dim light, catching the gold and blue metal. It was ancient and intricate, the face etched with a compass cradled by swirling stars. Tiny knobs and dials clung to its sides, like constellations marking the edges of the universe.
The man’s fingers, trembling with age and urgency, brushed over the surface, twisting knobs with precision, the metallic clicks sharp in the still air. Each turn was deliberate, as if the weight of the galaxy rested in his shaky hands. He whispered numbers under his breath, counting.
The hinges of the watch creaked as it opened, a soft sound, like the sigh of old wood bending. A low hiss of shifting sand filled the air, as if the room was an hourglass, ancient and inevitable.
From within, light swirled and coiled like a living thing, casting shadows and illumination in equal measure. The glow stretched across Grandpa’s face, deepening the lines and crevices etched by time. His eyes caught the glow, reflecting the swirling light, a quiet storm of stars caught in the aging landscape of his face.
Grandpa nodded and snapped the watch shut with a decisive click, the sound like a final word in a conversation no one else could hear. “A girl will come through this station soon. She’ll arrive in the next few hours. You must help her, Ronen.”
The words cut through the room, sharp with purpose. Ronen’s ears twitched at the weight of the old man’s demand; his voice no longer frail but filled with the iron resolve of someone who knew more than he should.
A flicker of unease wound its way through Ronen, creeping up his spine. He scanned the room—nothing moved, yet the air was thick, charged with the same tension that clung to battlefields before the first strike.
Ronen’s muscles coiled, tight as wire drawn too thin, his pulse thrumming in his ears. He stepped closer, the space between them shrinking.
The tension in the room pressed against his skin, sharp and unsettling, like the weight of unseen eyes. It wrapped around him, a current pulling him toward an inevitable fate that was just out of reach.
“What do you mean?” Ronen asked.
Grandpa locked onto Ronen, a quiet triumph flickering in the mischievousness that lined his eyes, as if the pieces had fallen into place exactly as he’d intended.
Realization gripped his bones, cold and heavy, sinking deeper with each breath. He hadn’t stepped into this room of his own accord; invisible hands had led him here, drawing him like prey into a spider’s web. Every move had been part of a larger game, a game with hidden rules and an outcome that now felt inevitable, tightening around him like a closing snare.
“There’s no time to explain it all, Ronen!” He glanced down at his pocket watch, the ticking louder now, each tick thickening the air. “I’ve been away too long... The girl—she’s running from the Vorondolo. If they catch her...” His body trembled, a shudder rippling through him. “The universe will be nothing but dust. Please, Ronen, for all our sakes, help her. Fairo the Iron Fist? He was nothing. Child’s play compared to what’s coming.”
Ronen’s pulse was a war drum, each beat winding, his nerves taut. His muscles remembered the sensation, the coiled tension of battle lurking in the stillness. Now the fragile veneer of peace cracked.
For five years, his sword had only met the dull clink of practice blades, the dance of combat reduced to routine and muscle memory. The edge of his weapon had stayed clean, untouched by the blood of battle, gathering dust in its sheath.
His hands, once so quick to strike, had grown accustomed to stillness, the weight of the blade now foreign. The quiet promise of violence and war stirred in his veins, the familiar weight of conflict pressing in, threatening to wake the warrior he had buried.
“What is so important about this girl? Why is the Order after her? How do you know this? Where is your information coming from?” The questions spilled from Ronen’s mouth, one after the other. “How—"
“Ronen!” Grandpa cut him off. “There is no time!” His chest heaved as he spoke, desperation bleeding into his words. “She needs a protector! She needs you! Someone she can trust, someone who understands the weight of what she carries.”
The old man’s breath trembled as he shook his head, his frail body bending with the effort. “She can’t complete her task alone.” Sadness wove through his tone. “You must watch over her. She doesn’t have anyone else.”
A sharp knock at the door jolted them both, cutting through the thick air like a crack of thunder. Grandpa’s eyes flicked to his worn watch, his finger tracing the delicate compass etched into the lid.
“I have to go. Be careful, old friend,” he said, a quiet smile tugging at his lip.
Light exploded into the room, a white-hot burst that swallowed the space in an instant, so bright it burned the air itself. It washed over everything, erasing shadow and form, a blinding, silent fire that pressed against Ronen’s eyes.
The light surged through the room, vibrant and alive, crackling with an energy that prickled Ronen’s skin like tiny sparks dancing on the edge of a storm. It flickered, pulsed, filling every corner, then vanished—sucked into the air, swallowed by the void. The room dimmed, its brightness fading to a muted gray, the walls still hummed with a faint, electric whisper. Where Grandpa had stood, there was nothing now, just a hollow space that rippled with the last echo of his presence.
“Magicians...” Ronen muttered, the word like poison on his lips. He let the syllables hang in the air.
His mind spun like a storm, thoughts crashing into one another, wild and untamed. He clenched his fists, grounding himself in the small pressure, forcing the chaos inside him to slow. His pulse settled, the drumbeat in his chest growing quieter.
The tension in Ronen’s shoulders unraveled, the tightness easing with each breath, when the knock came again. It sliced through the air. The sound vibrated in the room, cutting through the stillness and jolting him back, his muscles tightening once more.
Ronen exhaled, centering himself, the stillness wrapping around him once more. “Come in,” he said.
Kirov slipped through the doorway, his scarred face crumpling with confusion as his eyes scanned the empty room. “Where’s the man? Did he leave?”
Ronen’s jaw tightened, his gaze flicking to the floor. “Yeah... he was an old friend from before the war.” The lie tasted bitter, heavy on his tongue. He hated it, especially with
Kirov, but he knew the subject of his past was a wall Kirov wouldn’t try to climb. Ronen waved his hand, brushing away the moment. “Come on, let’s get back to work.”
Kirov hesitated. He took a deep breath and stepped closer, his voice dropping. “There’s… an issue. The Order... there’s been a new development.” He paused, waiting for the wave of curses from Ronen. Once it passed, Kirov continued. “The ship we spotted is Xander
Killoran’s. He called it in himself. They will be landing here.”
The name hit him like cold steel, slicing through whatever fragile calm he had managed to hold onto. His hand curled into a tight fist at his side, knuckles white, as though gripping an invisible hilt. His tail, usually a subtle twitch, snapped behind him, sharp and controlled, betraying the storm brewing just beneath the surface.
He shifted his weight, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle twitched along his cheek, and his shoulders rolled back, bracing against the sudden pressure. His fingers flexed, aching for something solid, something sharp, to anchor him. He forced himself to stand there, rigid and unmoving, his breath measured and cold.
“Ronen?”
“Alright, let’s kick this into gear,” Ronen said, his voice snapping through the tension in the air. “There have been stories about what happened to those who made Killoran wait. We need to get as many people out of this station as possible. Close the inbound side of the station, push those in the oval room through if they aren’t in the database. Those who have yet to unload will have to pull out and return in a few hours.”
“Where will we send them?” Kirov asked, jogging to keep up with Ronen’s large strides.
“We can send them back to the Four Corners or Dellitsid. Those would be the closest landing stations.”
She’s running from the Order… The old man’s voice whispered through his mind, curling into the corners of his thoughts.
“They won’t be passing through…” His words faltered as he stopped mid-stride, his ears twitching like flames caught in a sudden draft.
“Ronen?”
“Make sure everyone’s on high alert,” Ronen said, his voice tight with urgency. “Weapons ready. Keep pushing people through, fast. The Order’s looking for someone and they think she’s here. We don’t want to give them any reason to get hostile.”
“She?” Kirov’s brow furrowed, but Ronen didn’t offer more.
Ronen’s fist clenched and unclenched at his side, the motion betraying the storm of thoughts swirling just below his calm surface. “I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but something stinks.”
“Are we planning on helping this mystery person?” Kirov asked, his voice quiet, knowing the weight of the question. Ronen’s disdain for the Order was no secret amongst the guards, but standing against them was a perilous thing, a razor’s edge too thin to walk without falling.
“Just be ready,” Ronen muttered, his jaw tightening. “We’ll decide when we have more information.”
