Space howled around him.
Or maybe it didn't. Sound meant nothing here.
But the rush—the feeling—was undeniable.
Doran cut through the stars like a blade too sharp for the universe to dull. Flames curled behind him, not wild but deliberate—two wings of fire and will stretching farther than memory. Each beat shattered drifting stardust into vapor. Each moment carried him faster than light, farther than rage ever had.
He didn't know how long he had been flying. Time bled strangely in the dark.
Ahead of him, a planet loomed.
Quiet. Green. Blue. Small against the endless black.
"Finally. A place to rest." The words slipped out thin and worn, as if spoken to someone beside him. As if Avon still flew at his shoulder.
He exhaled. Heat flickered from his beak.
"Tomorrow… I'll find a ship. Figure out how far I've drifted."
His wings shifted—not to steer, but to yield. The fire obeyed. It softened, folding inward, no longer tearing through infinity but bending with intent. Guiding him down.
The planet swelled in his vision. Color deepened. Greens thickened into forests. Blues widened into oceans. Clouds curled over jagged mountain ranges. Signs of life—faint, scattered, persistent.
Then it returned.
Gravity.
It caught him—not gently, but firmly—and for once, he didn't resist. He let it take him. Let it pull him down.
He was tired.
His eyes closed. A faint, crooked smile touched his face.
"Made it…"
The atmosphere tore open around him.
Doran fell like a meteor, fire screaming at his back as the sky swallowed him whole.
City of Rhoda, Planet Tesdiny, Azule Sovereign
In a rundown building at the center of the city, a young girl stared out at the night sky.
Iron bars cut across the window in thick, rusted lines. The walls were cobblestone—cracked and crumbling in places where mortar had long since given up. The wooden beams overhead sagged, soft with rot, faintly alive with the quiet scratching of insects.
She sat perched on the windowsill, elbows pressed into her knees, chin resting in her palms.
Pale grey eyes reflected the stars. Her skin held a warm tan, dulled by dim light. Dark purple curls framed her face, falling loose around her shoulders in uneven tangles.
She glanced back over her shoulder.
Rows of beds stretched across the room. Small bodies curled beneath thin blankets. Slow breathing. Occasional shifting. No one awake.
"I don't want to grow up here," she whispered.
The words felt heavier once they were out.
She turned back to the window.
"If there is a god… or something out there…" Her voice faltered. She brought her palms together, fingers pressing tight. "Please… let me get adopted."
She held the prayer there, suspended between breath and doubt.
No follow-up. No correction.
Just silence—and the weight of wanting something no one had ever promised her.
Something shifted behind her.
Amela flinched, her shoulders tightening as she turned.
"Amela… what are you doing?"
A boy stood a few steps away, rubbing one eye with the heel of his palm. His voice was thick with sleep. His dark purple hair was cut short and uneven, and one green eye caught the faint light spilling in from the window.
She only turned her head halfway back toward him.
"Couldn't sleep," she whispered.
He yawned as he shuffled closer, bare feet dragging softly across the stone floor. He squinted past her, out into the night.
"It's cold."
"I know." She shifted slightly to make room. "Why are you awake?"
"I gotta use the bathroom."
He climbed up beside her on the sill, pulling his legs in close as he settled. The stone pressed cold through the thin fabric of his clothes.
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.
They just watched the sky.
"Hey… Sorin," Amela said quietly, her eyes still fixed on the stars. "What do you think mom and dad are doing?"
Sorin pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. He didn't answer right away.
"Well… it's been eleven years," he said finally. "So they're probably high-ranking officers by now. Or something like that."
Amela nodded, like she was following along with something already decided.
"So they've got four years left… right?" she asked. "Then they come back."
Sorin's fingers tightened slightly against his sleeves.
"Yeah," he said.
The word came out steady.
Too steady.
Amela smiled anyway. Small. Careful.
The quiet stretched between them again, thinner this time.
"I bet dad's one of their top soldiers," Sorin added, a little quicker now. "Like—like the kind that gets sent in first. Uses the strongest runes and everything."
Amela let out a soft breath of a laugh.
"And mom's on the highest stealth unit," she said, picking it up without hesitation. "She's probably better than all of them. They don't even see her coming."
Sorin snorted quietly, covering his mouth.
"Yeah. She's—like—a shadow or something."
"More sneaky than a shadow," Amela corrected, barely holding back a grin.
They both stifled their laughter, shoulders shaking as they tried not to make noise.
They turned back to the window.
For a while, neither of them spoke. The faint smiles they'd shared faded on their own, slipping away without comment.
Sorin let out a quiet breath and slid off the sill.
"Well… I really do need to go to the bathroom," he murmured. "Try to get some sleep, alright?"
His feet met the stone floor with a soft tap.
Amela nodded. "Okay. I'll head to bed soon. Just… a little longer."
Sorin gave her a small smile. "Not too long."
She watched him go, his footsteps fading into the hallway.
Then she turned back to the sky.
Still dark.
Still quiet.
A flicker caught her eye.
Amela narrowed her gaze. At first, she thought it was just another star—one burning a little brighter than the rest.
Then it moved.
"No…" she whispered. "That's not a star."
The light streaked across the sky—fast. Too fast. It grew as it moved, swelling into something brighter, hotter.
The night tore open.
Fire split the darkness, streaking overhead in a blaze of orange, then blue, then white-hot brilliance before vanishing beyond the city skyline.
Amela's breath caught. Her hands pressed against the cold bars of the window.
A beat—
Then—
BOOM.
The sound rolled through the city a second later. Low. Heavy. It shook the walls, rattled the window in its frame. Dust sifted down from the ceiling.
A few children stirred in their beds, shifting beneath thin blankets, but none of them woke.
Amela didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Her breath came shallow, tight in her chest.
"What… was that?" she whispered.
Not a comet.
Not an airship.
Not anything she'd ever seen.
She glanced toward the door, hesitation flickering across her face.
"Maybe I should just go to sleep…" she muttered.
She slid off the windowsill—
Her foot slipped.
Thud.
She hit the stone floor with a sharp gasp, the air knocked from her lungs. For a second, she couldn't breathe. She curled slightly, wincing, waiting—
For footsteps.
For a voice.
For someone to notice.
Nothing came.
No one stirred.
The room settled back into silence.
Only her breathing—thin, uneven—and the dull pounding of her heart filled her ears.
She sat up slowly, wincing as her fingers pressed against the back of her head.
"Great," she muttered under her breath. "Now I'm definitely not sleeping."
Her eyes drifted back to the window—to the empty stretch of sky where the fire had torn through. The glow was gone.
But she could still see it.
Burned into her.
Amela pushed herself to her feet, brushing dust from her nightgown. She moved quietly to her bed and crouched, reaching underneath for her shoes.
She held them for a moment.
Just sat there, staring at them.
Then she glanced toward the door.
Her heartbeat hadn't slowed.
She didn't know what she had seen.
But something in her chest pulled tight—insistent.
"It had to be a sign," she whispered.
The decision settled all at once.
She stood and moved.
Careful. Precise.
Her steps avoided the loose boards she knew would creak. She slipped past the first row of bunks, then the next, weaving through narrow gaps between sleeping bodies.
A Sister shifted in her chair near the hearth, the fire long since burned down to embers—but she didn't wake.
Amela reached the door, crouched low, and slipped her shoes on as quickly—and quietly—as she could.
Then she eased the door open and stepped into the hallway.
The cold hit immediately.
Stone bit at her ankles through the thin fabric of her gown, sharp and unforgiving. She stifled a shiver but didn't slow. One hand traced along the wall as she moved, fingertips brushing rough stone, counting doorframes in the dark.
One. Two. Three.
She reached the front entrance.
Two massive metal doors loomed in front of her, their surfaces dulled by rust and age. They were supposed to be locked every night.
Tonight, they weren't.
The bolt hung loose, eaten through weeks ago. The Sisters had said they'd fix it.
Amela huffed quietly.
"Yeah. Any day now," she muttered.
She pressed her hands against the door and pushed.
The hinges groaned.
Loud.
Too loud.
She froze, eyes darting back down the hall.
Nothing.
No footsteps. No voices.
She exhaled slowly and kept pushing—steady this time, committing to it. The slower it moved, the longer it complained.
The door finally gave with a dull, dragging scrape.
Cold air slipped in immediately, curling around her legs, her arms, her throat.
The city waited outside.
It smelled like rust.
And soot.
Amela stepped outside.
The orphanage crouched between larger, skeletal buildings—abandoned factories and hollow warehouses, their windows jagged like broken teeth. She slipped down the crumbling steps and onto the main road. The cobblestone shifted underfoot, uneven and loose, but she knew where to place each step.
She glanced back once.
Just once.
The orphanage loomed in silhouette, its steeple swallowed slowly by the fog until it vanished completely.
Then she turned away.
Toward where the fire had fallen.
Beyond the city. Past the industrial slums. Maybe farther.
She didn't know.
But her body did.
Her breath fogged in the cold as she moved through the streets, quick and quiet. Her legs carried her without hesitation, like they'd already chosen for her.
A voice in the back of her mind whispered—go back.
She ignored it.
Another voice—quieter, but sharper—pushed her forward.
The fog thickened as she went, swallowing distance and dulling sound. Lanterns hung overhead, their weak flames flickering inside cracked glass, casting uneven halos that stretched and warped in the mist.
Each turn felt less familiar.
And more certain.
The streets narrowed, then opened again—until the city thinned into its outer edge.
A bridge rose ahead.
Amela slowed as she stepped onto it.
Below, the river slid past in silence—black and heavy, barely reflecting the sky. The stone railing was chipped and cold beneath her fingers.
She leaned forward, squinting into the distance.
There.
Beyond the tree line—where the old road curved into the hills—a column of smoke rose into the night. Thick. Dark. Twisting upward like something alive. A faint glow pulsed at its base, dim but steady.
"That's where it landed," she whispered.
Her grip tightened on the railing. Not fear.
Something else.
Something holding her in place for just a second longer.
Then she let go.
She climbed down to the path beneath the bridge—a narrow service trail choked with weeds and rusted lantern posts that hadn't been lit in years.
Her shoes crunched over gravel.
Then dirt.
Then softer ground.
The city noise fell away behind her.
Only her breathing remained—sharp in the cold air—and the steady rhythm of her steps.
The smoke loomed larger now, no longer distant but waiting.
The trees thickened around her, branches crowding overhead. The path narrowed, twisting through undergrowth that brushed against her legs as she passed.
She didn't know what she was chasing.
But the sky had torn open.
And something inside her refused to let it go.
The smoke rose ahead like a wall.
When the trees began to thin, she slowed.
A faint light flickered beyond them.
Unnatural.
Unsteady.
Waiting.
She crept forward until the trees thinned—
—and the forest opened into a clearing.
The ground had been torn apart.
A crater yawned in the earth, blackened and raw, its edges cracked and splintered as if something had punched straight through the world. Heat still rose from it in wavering currents, distorting the air above.
The surrounding trees bent outward, their trunks scorched, branches dusted with embers that glowed faintly in the dark.
And at the center—
A figure.
Amela's breath caught.
"It's… a person?"
The words barely formed before her hand snapped over her mouth.
She dropped into a crouch behind a tree at the crater's edge, her heart slamming hard enough she was sure it would give her away.
The figure didn't move.
Smoke curled from their body in slow, steady ribbons.
Not like fire.
Like breath.
Like something enormous settling into stillness.
Amela leaned forward, squinting through the shifting haze.
A man.
Unmoving.
The smoke thinned just enough for her to see more.
His armor was shattered—plates cracked, edges warped, caked in ash and streaked with blood. Not like the polished sets soldiers wore during parades. This was something else. Older. Stranger.
His skin caught the moonlight faintly—not glowing, not quite—but… reflecting it wrong. Like the light didn't sit on him the way it should.
Amela swallowed.
He fell from the sky…
…and lived.
She took a step forward.
Then another.
Slow. Careful. Each foot placed with intention, avoiding loose branches, brittle leaves.
The ground was warm beneath her soles.
Too warm.
The figure's head shifted.
Amela froze.
Did he hear me?
She held her breath.
Waited.
Nothing.
She moved again.
Another step.
A soft heat pulsed up through the dirt, like she was standing on the chest of something sleeping beneath the surface.
Then—
His hand twitched.
Her breath hitched.
Fingers curled into the soil, slow and uncertain, like they were remembering how to move. His head tilted, just slightly, the motion stiff and wrong.
Amela dropped flat, pressing herself against the edge of the crater, using the broken lip of earth to hide her.
A sound slipped into the air.
Low.
Ragged.
Barely there.
"…Avon…"
The name dragged out of him, like it had been buried too long to stay silent.
Amela stayed still.
Then, inch by inch, she crawled forward again, lifting her head just enough to see over the edge.
The man hadn't moved any further.
Amela leaned forward slightly, squinting at him.
The way the light touched his skin—wrong. Too flat. Like there was nothing beneath it to catch.
Her throat tightened.
"How is he alive…" she whispered, barely audible, "…if he doesn't have a soul?"
The words weren't meant for anyone else.
But saying them made her chest pull tight.
"That's not possible," she murmured.
The man twitched.
Not a flicker this time.
More.
His chest jerked—
—and a breath tore into him.
A sharp, ragged inhale, like lungs dragging in air for the first time.
Amela scrambled back, palms slamming into the dirt. Heat burned against her skin—still searing from the impact.
The man snapped upright.
Too fast.
Too sudden.
His body moved like it didn't belong to him—shoulders heaving, head jerking once to the left, then to the right, as if breaking free from something unseen.
Then—
slowly—
he steadied.
Painfully, he forced himself up onto his knees. His arms trembled under his own weight.
Amela dragged herself backward, breath catching in her throat.
A twig cracked beneath her heel.
The sound cut through the clearing.
His head turned.
Directly toward her.
Amela froze.
His eyes were barely open, unfocused—but searching.
"Where…" he rasped. His voice scraped through the air, thin and broken. "Where… am I?"
Amela's mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
Her heartbeat drowned everything else.
"You…" she forced out, her voice small, unsteady. "You fell from the sky."
His gaze dropped to the ground. His fingers brushed the ashen soil, trembling slightly.
"…Yeah," he muttered. "Sounds about right."
He pushed himself higher, rising with visible effort, his body resisting every inch of movement.
"So," he said, breath uneven, "where exactly is this place?"
A pause.
Then, with a faint edge of confusion—
"What planet?"
Amela hesitated.
The way he stood—like a statue remembering how to breathe—wasn't natural.
The rasp in his voice carried heat with it. Not just exhaustion—something else. Something that made her legs want to move.
Run.
But the question was clear. Grounded. Human.
"Uh…" Amela blinked, forcing the words out. "T-Tesdiny. We're just outside the capital. Tafe."
The man nodded once. Slow. Heavy.
"Tesdiny…" he repeated, rolling the word around like it didn't quite belong to him. "Not ideal. But I've been farther off."
He stretched his arms overhead. The motion looked stiff, like joints grinding back into place.
He rolled his neck—
A quiet pop echoed through him.
Steam curled faintly from his skin.
Then his eyes lifted.
Locked onto hers.
"You said the capital's close?"
Amela hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. About three hours east. On foot."
"That's manageable."
He stepped forward—
—and his legs gave out.
He dropped hard, catching himself with a fist against the ground. The dirt hissed beneath his knuckles.
Amela flinched, then took a cautious step closer.
"You're hurt."
He shook his head once, breath uneven. "Not hurt. Just… running on nothing."
She stepped closer again, more certain this time. "You need help."
That earned a faint, crooked smile.
"You watch a man fall out of the sky," he said, voice low, "and your first instinct is to help him?"
Amela shrugged. "You don't seem dangerous."
A quiet breath left him—almost a laugh.
"That's a dangerous assumption."
It wasn't mocking.
Just… tired.
They held there for a moment. Distance between them—but not as much as before.
He gestured vaguely toward the city with his thumb.
"What do you call this place?"
"Rhoda," Amela said. "Most people don't know it. It's small. Port city."
He nodded, eyes drifting past her, toward the distant glow of the city.
"A port city…" he murmured. "Good."
His gaze flicked back to the crater. To the smoke still curling upward.
"Means I can leave."
Amela's expression shifted.
She hadn't thought about that.
About him leaving.
Her eyes dropped briefly to her shoes before lifting again.
"You just got here," she said. "And you can barely stand. There's a place—by the canals. Old bathhouse. Nobody uses it anymore." She hesitated. "You could rest there. Just for tonight."
He looked at her.
Really looked this time.
Then something clicked.
A faint smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.
"Oh," he said. "I get it."
Amela frowned slightly. "What?"
"You're an orphan."
Her eyes widened. "How did you—"
"The Azule Sovereign's full of them," he cut in. "Kids waiting on parents who aren't coming back when they said they would."
The words landed hard.
"They do come back," Amela said quickly. "Just—later."
"Later turns into never," he said, not unkindly. "Or it turns into something else."
Amela's mouth opened.
Closed.
Her gaze dropped.
"…Yeah," she muttered.
Silence stretched between them.
"Hey," he added, glancing at her. "Don't start crying on me."
She looked up, annoyed despite herself.
"I wasn't going to."
"Good." He exhaled slowly. "There's enough of that going around."
He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes drifting somewhere far past the trees.
"War doesn't take things clean," he said. "It leaves pieces behind."
Amela frowned. "You talk like you're old."
"I'm not," he said.
A beat.
"I've just been around things that don't end properly."
She tilted her head slightly. "That doesn't even make sense."
A faint smile touched his face.
"Yeah," he said. "I get that a lot."
Amela wrapped her arms around herself as the wind shifted—light, but cutting.
"Come on," she said. "The bathhouse is this way."
The man stepped forward carefully, testing his weight. He held this time, but just barely. The strain showed in the way his shoulders tightened.
Behind them, the crater hissed—low and constant—like something sealing itself shut.
They moved into the trees.
Branches creaked overhead, still unsettled, as if the forest hadn't decided whether it was safe again.
Amela walked ahead with quiet certainty, glancing back every few steps to make sure he was still upright.
He didn't speak.
His head hung slightly, his breathing slow and uneven.
They passed rusted fences tangled in roots, broken lanterns swaying faintly in the breeze. The air shifted as they neared the city—smoke and salt creeping back in.
After a while, Amela broke the silence.
"So… what's your name?"
He didn't answer right away.
Just kept walking.
"…Doran."
Amela glanced back at him, a small grin tugging at her face. "Doran? That's kind of a weird name."
His response came quick.
"It means strong warrior."
"Oh." She blinked. "I—sorry. I didn't mean—"
"I'm kidding."
She stopped.
Actually stopped.
Turned around.
"You're kidding?"
A faint smirk pulled at his expression.
"Got it from the people who found me. Crashed somewhere when I was a kid."
Amela stared at him for a beat—
Then threw her hands up.
"You are the worst."
A quiet breath left him—almost amused.
"It's a good lesson."
"That you're annoying?"
"That people lie," he said. "Even when they don't mean to."
Amela narrowed her eyes, falling back into step beside him.
"That's… a really sad lesson."
Doran shrugged slightly.
"It's a useful one."
"But you don't seem like you're lying."
He glanced at her.
"Everyone lies."
"That's not what I asked."
A pause.
His gaze drifted ahead again, toward the faint outline of the city.
"The truth costs more," he said. "Most people can't afford it."
Amela frowned, her steps slowing slightly.
"Do you lie to yourself?" she asked.
He didn't answer right away.
Just kept walking.
The path crunched softly beneath his boots.
"…Yeah," he said finally.
A beat.
"But it's been getting harder to believe them."
They walked the rest of the way in silence.
The bathhouse came into view slowly—squat and worn, its roof sagging slightly, walls stained from years of neglect. The canal beside it moved sluggishly, reflecting dull fragments of lantern light.
Amela stopped a few steps from the entrance.
"Well… this is it." She looked down, rubbing her thumb against her sleeve. "I'll try to come by early. Bring some food."
Doran didn't look at her.
"Don't," he said.
The word came quick. Flat.
"I'll manage."
Amela blinked, caught off guard. Her fingers tightened slightly against her sleeve.
"Oh. Right." She nodded once. "Sorry."
A small pause.
"I'll… leave you alone then. Good night."
She turned and started back the way they came, her steps quieter now.
Behind her, the bathhouse door creaked open.
"Hey—kid."
Amela turned quickly, that same half-hopeful smile already forming.
"Yeah?"
Doran stood in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame.
"Anywhere in town I can get a sword? Blacksmith. Something like that."
The smile faltered.
"Not in Rhoda," she said. "It's too small. But… Tafe would have one. For sure."
He nodded once.
"Good to know."
He stepped inside, already turning away.
"Thanks."
A brief pause.
"And… good night."
The door shut with a dull, hollow thud.
Amela stood there for a second, staring at it.
Waiting.
Nothing else came.
Her jaw tightened.
She threw her hands up, spinning on her heel as she started back down the path.
"What a jerk," she muttered under her breath.
"And he looked like he crawled out of a fire pit—"
She stopped herself, glancing back once toward the bathhouse.
Then kept walking.
A small smile crept back onto her face despite herself.
"…but he was so cool."