Chapter 20 - Break!

  Henryk

  “So, how are you feeling?” Axel asked, his voice cutting through the still air like a knife through thick fog. Henryk, however, only scratched his head, the awkwardness of the moment sitting heavy between them, a weight neither of them could escape.

  "Peachy," Henryk muttered, his words muffled by a mouthful of granola bar. He chewed methodically, grinding the grain with his teeth, but his eyes never left the Warcasket’s window. They were focused on the horizon, distant, as if they could pierce through the endless miles of sky and see the future—or perhaps avoid it.

  Beside him, Axel sat poised in his own Warcasket, the two of them kneeled, rifles in hand, their weapons steady but relaxed, pointed ever so slightly toward the earth. The cold air wrapped around them like a shroud, the low hum of their suits an ever-present reminder of the war they carried within. Axel’s purple eyes glimmered in the fading light, reflecting the sky as birds, white streaks against the atmosphere, flitted by, unknowing of the two soldiers crouched in their machines.

  The mountain they were perched upon loomed large behind them, its great oak trees—ancient, twisted things that seemed to grow as one with the planet—providing them with cover. From the slope of the mountain, they could see the city below.

  Through the sights of his laser rifle, Henryk’s vision narrowed. The city stretched before him, not sprawling, but large enough to be a challenge. The walls were tall, thick with age, and at each corner, there were machine gun placements, grim sentinels guarding the entrances.

  “They’re defended to hell,” Henryk remarked, a quiet bitterness in his voice. “I thought this was supposed to be a civilian city… Hell, isn’t this world supposed to be feudal?”

  Axel sighed, rolling his eyes. His voice was calm, almost bored. “Those are Neptunians who built those walls and erected those encampments.”

  The silence fell again, thick and suffocating. Henryk absentmindedly flicked through the machine’s new controls, his fingers skimming over the unfamiliar buttons. The new model was bulky, more advanced than anything they’d used before, but it felt... hollow. Another tool. Another promise of victory that felt just out of reach.

  “Another new model,” Henryk muttered, his tone flat. “Is this really what everyone thinks is going to make the difference?” He glanced at the controls again, his gaze distant. “Sure, the Martians know how to build Warcaskets... but what’s the use when you’re being hunted from every direction?”

  Axel shifted in his seat, the awkwardness creeping into his voice again. “Hey, Henryk…”

  He knew what was coming.

  “Yes?” Henryk’s response was curt, but it wasn’t unkind. Just weary.

  It came as no surprise that Axel wasn’t Henryk’s favorite person. Everyone said Axel was the most capable—his uncle being a Venusian Knight and all—but Henryk couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more to him. Dressed in his purple Venusian finery, with silvery hair cascading down to his neck, Axel was the embodiment of something Henryk both admired and resented. His mind wandered briefly to Jace and Hannah, their laughter like ghosts haunting him. The shadows of their memories weighed heavy, tainting the moment.

  The thought of Axel, so poised in his purple, so… polished, reminded Henryk of the jokes that had floated around the house. Arthur and the others didn’t hold back from calling him ‘girly,’ or worse, ‘stuck up.’

  They’d argued before, yes. More than once. But it was the silence now that spoke louder than any words ever could.

  “How’s your knight training going?” Axel asked, his voice tentative, as though he was unsure whether or not to even bring it up. “I know we haven’t touched on sparring since we got here.”

  Henryk chuckled, but it was bitter, dry. “Thank God for that,” he said, the words rough against his tongue. He shrugged his right arm, wincing slightly. “My arm still burns from last Tuesday.”

  Axel sighed in response. There was no laughter, no shared camaraderie between them—only the weight of their respective burdens. Joseph, as usual, was consumed with managing Isaac’s PTSD and Arthur, who still didn’t even know what a car was. And Axel… Axel was the trained one, the one who was supposed to know what to do. But in moments like this, it all felt irrelevant.

  “…keep on doing the readings,” Axel stated, his voice steady but distant, as if the words themselves were a part of something far larger than this fleeting moment.

  “Thirty minutes, nightly,” Henryk muttered, his voice thick with exhaustion as he yawned. “I’ll say, you guys got a pretty action-packed history. A lot of wars.”

  “Violence,” Axel corrected, his tone flat, devoid of any romanticism. “It has forever dominated the Martian lifestyle.”

  Henryk spoke as though quoting a textbook. “…From birth. If you're born into a Knight’s bloodline, the spikes are usually placed before the age of eighteen, but after eight years old, they start the training with the holy trinity…”

  Axel smirked, a rare glimmer of approval in his otherwise indifferent gaze. He wrapped his arms around himself, a protective gesture, and Henryk could almost hear the smile in his voice. It was a strange thing to hear, and Henryk felt the awkwardness of it in his bones. “Ah, you’ve actually learned this month,” Axel said. “You should bring that same energy to the other squires. They’re lucky Ed didn’t make them my responsibility.”

  “…What about Kieren?” Henryk’s voice was quieter now, his eyes drifting to the side. “He isn’t fighting with us out here.”

  Axel’s gaze shifted, his thoughts sinking into a dark well. The battlefield—Kieren’s absence, his cowardice—it pulled at him like a weight.

  “That’s…” Axel’s words faltered, and the silence between them thickened. “That’s a whole different story. He’s exhausted from the battle.”

  “Exhausted, right,” Henryk replied, his voice dripping with disbelief as he rolled his eyes. “These new models, though… They’re something else, I’ll give you that.”

  Henryk’s hand gripped the controls, and he tested the thrusters. His eyes widened in response to the machine’s immediate responsiveness. “They’re very responsive,” he murmured, the words barely escaping his lips.

  Axel watched him, his own expression distant but knowing. “They look practically the same, but I know Maelia took the data from Arthur’s salvaged suit to make these new ones. They’re reinforced, synthesized into Martian alloys from the metals of Oceana.”

  Henryk’s eyes widened in disbelief. “…Huh?”

  “Yeah,” Axel continued, his voice a little more controlled now. “These are a sniper-type, but they're an upgrade. Completely keyed in for the mission.”

  Henryk’s gaze lingered on the city below, the high walls and sparse skyscrapers dotting the landscape. The contrast between the future-tech around them and the dirt roads below was jarring. The city seemed stuck in a past that was trying too hard to be present.

  “Get some rest…” Axel sighed, breaking the stillness. “We’re only meant to be called on if…”

  “I remember the mission,” Henryk cut him off, his voice flat, almost mechanical. His hand pressed to the side of his face, massaging his tired eyes. “I can’t rest… I can’t let my head cloud and slip into sleep if something happens right now.”

  “W-what in the world?” Axel’s confusion was evident. Henryk realized then that Axel hadn’t understood the weight of his words.

  Henryk’s sigh filled the cabin, long and heavy, like the air had been sucked from the room. He slouched into his seat, eyes shutting tightly as he fought against the pull of fatigue. His breath grew heavier, his chest rising and falling with each desperate inhale. “Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll see what I can do…”

  “Exactly,” Axel replied, though his voice carried an unexpected empathy, a softness that hadn’t been there before. “Listen, I know, I and the guys gave you some shit… Honestly, maybe we should’ve interfered sooner…”

  Henryk’s eyes remained closed, his mind far away. Axel’s voice trailed off, but the silence that followed was deafening.

  Axel’s voice lingered, almost reluctant to continue. “…It was messed up what Kieren was saying, and yet he holds the leadership position over you. Back in the trenches. I remember Oceana—how you fought. You brought backup. Supported us. I guess… we misjudged you. Your skills. Hell, if tradition was still in place… you and the other squires would’ve been expelled, and Kieren would’ve…”

  Henryk’s eyes snapped wide, a sudden intensity flooding his gaze. His body stiffened, the words striking him like a blow. “W-what are you talking about?” His voice was low but sharp, a tremor of disbelief running through it.

  Axel shrugged, his movements unbothered, but there was something hard behind his words. “If you were chosen as Executor, we would’ve let everyone go. What would’ve been the point, otherwise?”

  Henryk’s eyes widened, disbelief bleeding into anger, each word slow but venomous. “You guys would’ve seen us as prospects and just discarded us like that?” His voice grew louder, rising like a tide. “You would’ve left us to rot, to be forgotten, just because we didn’t fit your ‘tradition’?”

  Axel’s expression darkened, his words cutting like a blade through the heavy air. “Tradition is…”

  “Nah, fuck that,” Henryk spat, his voice turning into something as hard as stone. “Fuck tradition. If it’s actually ruining people’s lives like that.” His gaze bore into Axel, unyielding. “You would’ve disregarded us like we were nothing. You think that’s the way of it?”

  Axel opened his mouth, but the words didn’t come right away. He paused, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface, his hand gesturing vaguely as if searching for something to say. “Henryk,” he began, his voice strained. “If you can’t keep up, look at where you are…” He swept his hand toward the war-torn horizon, the broken landscape reflecting the rawness of his words. “All I’m trying to say is… I— We relied on you more than we let on. More than we knew how to admit.”

  Before Henryk could respond, the world around them shattered. A deafening crash, a violent burst of sound and fury that seemed to rise from the ground itself. The shockwave surged through the air like a hungry animal, swallowing everything in its path. The roar of the explosion climbed and climbed, building like a monstrous tide, until it consumed everything else.

  Henryk’s eyes went wide in horror as the shockwave tore through the air, his breath catching in his throat. “Holy shit!” he shouted, his voice raw with panic. His eyes locked onto the rising wall of flame, growing ever higher, burning against the sky. “The fuck is that?”

  Axel’s hands moved with practiced urgency, his fingers pressing against the controls, as he flicked on his radio. “Ed… Arthur, Isaac—report!” he shouted, his voice tight with fear.

  But it wasn’t just the sound of his voice that filled the air. It was the deafening hum of the explosion, the crackling fire, and the distant cries of the approaching chaos. Axel’s purple eyes, wide with shock, glistened with the reflection of the flames—fury and fear mixing into something desperate. The fire consumed everything.

  Mission Briefing

  The room was half-dark, shadows curling in every corner, while orange light flickered erratically from torches that cast strange, jagged shapes across the stone walls. The Sons of Mars stood close together, arms wrapped tightly around their bodies as if trying to contain the chill of uncertainty that clung to them. Maelia stood at the head of the room, her hood pulled back, revealing a face both human and dog-like, her eyes sharp and calculating, but the smile on her lips was warm, almost predatory.

  “Stop staring,” Ed spat, his tone blunt, as he jabbed Isaac in the ribs with his elbow.

  Isaac blinked, then shrugged. “I wasn’t,” he muttered, turning his gaze away, slumping deeper into his seat as if to shrink from the tension in the air.

  Arthur, ever the instigator, raised his hand as though he were addressing a crowd. “So, Princess,” he began, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Edward, our esteemed president…” He paused, raising his hand dramatically toward Ed, who gave a lazy wave in response. “He’s been keeping his lips sealed about this mission, but we’ve heard whispers. Apparently, this is a crucial step in the reformation of our once great house.”

  Maelia’s lips curled into a smile, a dangerous, knowing smile. She nodded once, her gaze sweeping over them all with an intensity that made the air feel even heavier. “Good,” she said, her voice soft, but with an undeniable weight to it. “Then you’ve come to the right place.” She paused, letting the silence stretch, her eyes never leaving them. “Servants, cut the lights. Bring out the artifact.”

  The words hung in the air like a promise, and the two servants—young, nervous—entered, each carrying a medium-sized object wrapped in cloth.

  “That’s the artifact?” Henryk asked, his voice cracking slightly in disbelief as his eyes widened.

  Edward chuckled under his breath, watching Henryk and Kieren's confused reactions.

  “It’s a fucking projector,” Kieren muttered, his voice dripping with disdain.

  Arthur’s reaction was swift and physical. His hand cracked against Kieren’s head with a brutal slap, so fast and powerful that even with the spikes in Kieren’s neck, he nearly went airborne before slamming back down into his seat.

  “Ow!” Kieren yelped, hands instinctively clutching his skull. Laughter erupted from the others, but it was Henryk’s chuckles that stood out—louder, more genuine. Kieren shot him a venomous glare, his fists clenching in frustration.

  “Enough, gentlemen…” Maelia’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp as a whip. “Can I please have the room?”

  “My apologies, Princess,” Ed said quickly, straightening.

  “Mine too, Princess,” Henryk added, his voice flat, though there was a glint of amusement in his eyes.

  Maelia nodded once, but her gaze lingered on Henryk a moment longer than necessary. He could feel the weight of her stare, cold and calculating, before she turned back to the rest of the group. “Flick on the projector,” she commanded.

  Henryk’s heart skipped a beat. He could have sworn her eyes were fixed on him, piercing through him. The sensation was unsettling—he couldn’t shake it.

  “Shit in her bed or something?” Axel whispered low, his voice thick with mockery.

  Henryk shot him a glance, his expression unreadable. “You tell me.”

  The projector hummed to life, casting a grainy, black-and-white image onto the wall. Henryk squinted, eyes scanning the date on the lower corner—one year ago. The picture was of a young boy, maybe ten or thirteen, dressed in a feudal-style red suit. His hair was brown, his eyes the same. But it was the crown that struck Henryk—golden, with rubies, emeralds, and diamonds, a royal insignia perched precariously atop the boy’s head.

  Maelia cleared her throat delicately, lifting one gloved hand and pointing toward the image. “This is why I have assembled you, Knights of Mars,” she said, her voice steady, her words carrying a weight that sank deep. “This is my little brother, Mathias II. He is the true heir to these planets. By blood-right, upheld by Martian tradition and Imperial law, he is technically the rightful owner of them.”

  The silence in the room thickened. Eyes widened, expressions slack with disbelief, until Ed broke the stillness.

  “…Meaning, if we secure the young king, the Neptunians won’t have claim to worlds they don’t own anymore,” Ed mused aloud, a gleam of realization in his voice.

  “The marriage, everything, even the war itself…” Arthur added, his voice low, contemplative, his fingers pressed against his chin as he absorbed the gravity of it all.

  Henryk, though, couldn’t keep the skepticism from his voice. “…Why does it always come back to heirs and bloodlines?” He shook his head, the weight of it settling on him like a heavy shroud. “Isn’t this insane?”

  They all turned toward him, the room growing colder with their collective gaze. "He's thirteen," Henryk's voice broke through the silence, a hard edge to it. "A boy. And you're going to crown him? Put a crown on his head and—"

  "This one, Edward?" Maelia interrupted, her voice cutting through his words like a blade. Henryk bit down on his lip, holding her gaze. She looked him up and down, taking him in with a slow, deliberate sweep. "This is the Druid Executor?" Her eyes narrowed slightly. "I thought you'd be taller."

  Henryk's lip curled in a sneer, but before he could speak, Maelia’s voice again rang through the tension in the room. “To answer your question,” she said, her tone as cold and smooth as marble, “this has been the way Oceana has been ruled since Emperor Ural the Third gave it to my ancestors.” She pressed her thumb into the center of her chest, her eyes locking onto his. “It is not my right to rule, and our people are warring without a proper leader. They will only follow a male, a king. A queen, at most, as nice as that sounds... This... this option also saves me.”

  “Henryk, stand down,” Ed said, his voice firm, though there was a trace of something—something dark—lingering in his eyes. “This is not the time or the place. My apologies, Princess.”

  Maelia’s expression hardened, but her eyes softened ever so slightly when they met Ed’s. “Edward,” she said, her voice smooth, almost affectionate. “I keep telling you. Do not apologize for your men.”

  She turned toward Henryk, her gaze now steely, cold. “The Executors of House Mars were always known to lack... discretion.” The word was a sharp thing, and it lingered in the room like a stormcloud.

  Henryk sighed, the tension draining from him as he slouched back into his seat. “So what’s the plan, then, Princess?” he asked, his voice cool but laced with impatience. “What exactly are we supposed to be doing?”

  Arthur leaned forward, his tone heavy with the weight of curiosity. “Yeah, what’s the mission?”

  Maelia paused, drawing her arms around herself, her posture suddenly smaller. For a moment, her gaze drifted as if lost in some faraway thought. Then she looked back up, her eyes dark and tired. “The recovery of my brother is paramount,” she began. “But he’s in Central Prime City.”

  She stopped there, the words hanging in the air like a dead weight, before continuing in a quieter voice, one that caught a faint tremor. “Before, I thought he was dead. There was no hope. But with this new information...” She paused again, her hands curling into fists at her sides, so tightly that they began to bleed. “But they found our location.” Her lip curled, and her teeth—human and animal both—gleamed in the dim light. “Now, I have to move my people. We’ve many injured from the last battle. Our little sanctuary can’t stay hidden forever.”

  Axel’s voice cut through the tension. “You’re planning on leaving?”

  Maelia nodded, the motion sharp and final. “…They know where we are. Our fortress can hold against their assaults, but they can just drop bombs. Enough bombs to break through our defenses. We get the machines, the data... and then we leave.”

  Isaac’s voice was blunt, cutting through the quiet with a callous edge. “I don’t understand. Why not just send a small team? He’s just a little kid,” Isaac shrugged, a mocking tilt to his voice. “Won’t take much to snatch him.”

  Maelia inhaled deeply, the breath shaky. “That was the plan,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “You and the Knights of Mars were to aid us in recovering my brother.”

  The silence that followed was thick and heavy, broken only by Henryk’s voice. “So, this is a rescue mission,” he said, his words deliberate, as if he had to hear them spoken aloud to make them real.

  “Sounds like it, buddy,” Arthur said, clapping Henryk’s shoulder with a rough, brotherly pat.

  Maelia’s voice turned serious again, her face drawn tight. “I know it sounds simple, but my mutations… They’ll know who I am. And with Kaelin—”

  “Kaelin?” Arthur repeated, his tone questioning, but something darker hidden underneath.

  “He’s a pretty-boy prick plastered all over Neptunian media,” Isaac spat, his voice dripping with disdain. “I’ve got that bastard all over my reels and shorts. Girls go crazy for him.”

  Arthur blinked, incredulous. “So, he’s just some celebrity?”

  Ed shook his head, his expression hardening, as though the conversation had suddenly taken a sharper turn. “Isaac’s giving you a gross simplification,” he said, his voice low and grim. “Kaelin is the heir to Neptune... and all of its territories.”

  Arthur’s eyes widened as Maelia’s words hung in the air. She continued, her voice steady but heavy. “…I will have to go as well.”

  “Princess, you can’t—” Ed began, his voice strained with concern.

  “Yeah, of course,” Arthur muttered, shaking his head, disbelief cutting through his tone.

  “Obviously, hearing this,” Issac chimed in, his voice laced with an almost mocking incredulity.

  Maelia sighed, her posture sinking as she placed her head in her hands, a moment of rare vulnerability creeping through her usual composure. “He’s… very autistic,” she began bluntly, her eyes dull as she stared at the floor. “He struggles with understanding people. Trust me, I would send you all after him, to recover him. But he’s being held in a home for kids with special needs. If I don’t go, he won’t leave without kicking and screaming…”

  “We can’t have that,” Edward said, his voice tight, his own head resting in his hands as the gravity of the situation pressed down on him.

  “So, what’s the plan?” Arthur’s voice broke the silence, his tone calm, yet tinged with the strain of leadership.

  Ed exhaled, a long sigh of frustration. “I know we’ll have people on Warcasket duty. Like Maelia said, this can easily go south, and we know the Neptunians have their own Warcaskets defending their cities.”

  Arthur nodded, his sharp mind calculating. “Who do you want fighting in Warcaskets? Who’s on the ground?” He paused, cocking his head toward the princess, his voice a little more than a whisper. “…And we’re going to need people to escort the princess.”

  “Of course. Of course.” Edward nodded gravely, turning to face the others in the room, the weight of the moment settling like a thick fog.

  Maelia’s voice broke through the tension, a steady note in the otherwise fraught room. “Regarding the Warcaskets, we’ve processed the data from Arthur’s mobile suit. Tomorrow morning, we should have an updated and improved variant of your suits.”

  The room seemed to freeze for a second, before the young men around them burst into cheers. Maelia raised a hand, signaling for calm. “It’s a higher-performance machine, more expensive, but with the time and materials we’ve had, we’ve managed to make two. Sniper types.”

  “Sniper types…” Issac spat to the side, disgust clear in his voice. “A sniper is the pussy’s weapon…”

  “Issac!” Edward’s voice was a sudden crack of thunder, loud enough to shake the air around them. “Have some respect. You’re in the presence of a princess!” He shouted right into Issac’s face, his fury barely contained. But Issac stood unmoved, his face a mask of defiance.

  Maelia’s tone cut through the tension like a blade, calm but absolute. “Enough, knight,” she commanded, and Issac flinched, nearly toppling from his chair. “Don’t be distracted by the name. All the specs have been updated to the next generation. Better mobility, better armor. Even the laser rifle... we’ve unlocked the ability to use long-range laser weaponry, without the need for a power pack.”

  “…I want to try out those new machines,” Arthur said, rubbing his hands together with a smug grin, his bionics catching the light of the projector. The glint in his eyes was something dangerous, something eager.

  Ed sighed heavily, his voice low and filled with reluctant authority. “No, no, Arthur. I’m going to need you on the ground. We’re going to need a distraction.”

  “A distraction?” Arthur’s eyes widened, his mind catching up slowly.

  “Yeah.” Ed snapped his fingers, his mind already turning the gears of the plan. “It’s a small city. Make a mess. Do some trouble. I don’t want any civilians getting hurt, but I need you to pull the police’s attention. If Maelia’s brother causes us trouble, we need to be able to get out of this city, no matter what.”

  Arthur’s face lit up with the promise of chaos. “As you wish, sire,” he said, his voice thick with mock-seriousness. He turned to Maelia, dropping to one knee with an exaggerated flourish. “I shall honor my commands, my princess. I shall return with honors, and a sword slick with the blood of your enemies.”

  Maelia’s gaze softened, her lips forming the faintest of smiles, though it barely reached her eyes. “T-thank you, Sir Knight,” she said, her voice betraying the faintest hint of unease.

  Arthur beamed, proud of his performance. Ed’s gaze moved to Issac. “You’re better on the ground as well,” he said. “I want you with Arthur. Make sure you both cause enough of a distraction to keep them off our backs.”

  Issac smirked, a dark glint in his eyes. “Making a mess? I like that.” He pounded his fist into his hand, eager for what was to come.

  Ed’s eyes turned to Axel and Henryk. “You two,” he said, his voice steady but no less serious. “I want you both out there, defending us if shit goes wrong.”

  Henryk nodded, but Axel opened his mouth, his eyes narrowing slightly. “…What about Kieren?”

  Kieren was huddled in the far corner, distant and brooding. Ed’s sigh was heavy. “He’s coming with me and Maelia.”

  Arthur, Issac, and Axel all turned toward him, expressions of surprise and confusion flashing across their faces. Henryk noticed it too—he almost thought Maelia noticed it as well, but she kept talking, her voice steady as a river.

  Henryk sighed, his mind working through the quiet tension. He didn’t know what had happened between them and Kieren. But, deep down, he didn’t care.

  Fuck Kieren.

  Edward

  Ed and Maelia were cloaked in civilian garb—Ed behind the wheel, his hand gripping the wheel with a quiet intensity, while Maelia stretched her legs across the dash, her long dress trailing down to her feet. The modest fabric covered her like armor, the heavy layers barely concealing the animal beneath. Her fur was tucked away under the folds of clothing, and a boyish cap hid her features, her hair barely visible beneath. She looked almost human, yet not quite—like something that didn’t belong in this world.

  The moon hung low in the sky, casting its pale light on the winding highway, the stars scattered across the black canvas like diamonds. They maneuvered through the desolation of the road, the stillness broken only by the hum of the engine and the occasional flicker of light from passing streetlamps.

  Ed’s fingers grazed the radio dial, trying to find something to cut the silence, but the static gnawed at him, unyielding. With a sneer, he gave up and let his hand fall.

  Maelia caught the motion out of the corner of her eye. She didn’t need to look at him to know what he was trying. “...Won’t work,” she muttered, her gaze fixed ahead, cutting through the concrete jungle that surrounded them. “Old Mars wanted this place shut down to anything that wasn’t military. You’ll be lucky if you find anything that doesn’t make your skin crawl.”

  Ed sighed and shut the radio off, but his lips curled in amusement as the words from the broadcast cracked through the silence.

  "This is the Neptunian Hot X56, coming to you right now and broadcasting all across the Neptunian Sphere! Thank you to all our loyal viewers who’ve named us the hottest station in the sphere. So, we hope you’re having a good night and enjoy this roster of music!" The chipper voice was grating, and the upbeat music that followed felt like a mockery.

  Ed chuckled, tapping his fingers on the dashboard. “Look at that.”

  Maelia turned her head sharply toward the radio, sneering before she looked back out the window. “What, you don’t like music?” Ed teased, the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  Maelia rolled her eyes, her voice low but cutting like a blade. “I like hearing it from bards... not from mechanical trash that has no place on my world.” Her words were a strike, deliberate and raw.

  Ed’s shoulders sagged as he turned the radio’s volume up, a challenge hanging in the air between them. Maelia’s eyes flicked over to him, her expression one of disdain, and she turned away again, staring out the window with a hardness that seemed to bleed through her every movement. Ed raised his free hand in mock surrender. “Hey, what’s wrong with a guy trying to know what’s going on in the galaxy?”

  Maelia sneered, shaking her head slowly as the city’s drab structures flickered by—the towering apartment blocks, the coldly utilitarian shops, the delis and stores that stretched like an unbroken chain of commerce and neglect.

  The radio continued, indifferent. “Thomas, how are you feeling about The Block coming over the Oceana sphere? Let me tell you, I can’t wait for us to receive such a great honor.”

  “The Block?” Maelia asked, her voice skeptical.

  Ed’s sigh was heavy, resigned. “You never heard of it?” he asked, his eyes flicking to her.

  Maelia shook her head, a quiet admission of ignorance.

  “It’s a semi-space colony,” Ed explained, his voice taking on the tone of a man who had heard too many stories but still couldn’t shake the lingering fear. “And a semi-mechanical facility. I know it houses thousands of people—people who are born, live, and die there. And I’ve heard rumors... it’s not as bad as it sounds.”

  “Sure,” Maelia spat, rolling her eyes as if the thought were nauseating. “Living without knowing the dirt under your feet...” She turned to him, her lips curling in disdain. “That sounds like torture.”

  Ed snorted, a sharp, humorless sound. “Now you’re just being dramatic.” He shifted in his seat, playing the role of the joker, but his tone held something deeper—something darker.

  Maelia’s sigh was deep, heavy, the kind that carried years of wear and tear. Her eyes stayed locked on the road, the world around them moving with a grim inevitability.

  The announcer’s voice broke through the gloom again. “It’s a neutral station, correct?”

  “Yes, Steve,” came the reply, the voice too cheery for the darkness hanging in the air. “Many hope the fighting between the militia and the Neptunian military will cease, especially with the politicians on board. It’s a great hub for education and scientific developments.”

  Ed whistled, his finger pointing at the radio, a crooked grin playing at his lips. “Looks like Neptune... looks like the whole damn universe is going to be watching this war.”

  Maelia’s eyes widened, the news sinking into her like a stone in a well. She couldn’t look away. The absurdity of it all hung in the air, thick like the smoke from a fire you couldn’t escape.

  And then, in that strange moment of fleeting laughter, Maelia chuckled too, dark and hollow.

  Arthur

  “You ready, brother?”

  Arthur’s breath was heavy, ragged as it tore through the fabric of his chest. The fluorescent lights above were like a cruel joke—blazing, burning, stinging his eyes. His mind clung to the memories of castle lamps and flickering torches, the warmth of them, the glow that had once felt so natural. Here, the sterile, cold flicker of these modern lights felt like an insult to everything he had been. He didn’t need to be from some midworld or a feudal past to know the meaning of the word “bank.” It meant a job. And it meant blood.

  He turned to Issac, his partner in the dim light, the balaclava pulled tight over his features, hiding everything but the cold gleam of his eyes. They both stared across at the sparse bank ahead, a hollow building—its walls like the teeth of a corpse.

  “Grab the money,” Issac muttered, his voice low, guttural. “Make a lot of noise.”

  “Draw everyone and everything,” Arthur said, his voice flat, his mind already in motion, calculating every angle, every moment.

  He could hear the rhythmic click of Issac’s nailer rifle—a brutal, mechanical sound, the kind that signaled something ugly was about to unfold. The rifle was a monster: stockless, an unholy mix of steel and polymer, vented barrel for recoil, and a wicked bayonet jutting out like the teeth of an ancient beast. The magazine beneath it was a hulking ten rounds of raw violence. A weapon not for precision, but for sheer destruction.

  Arthur turned it over in his hands, his fingers brushing the cold metal. He grimaced as if the weapon itself had spit in his face. “These weapons…” He muttered, voice thick with disdain. “There was a time when a man’s weapon was a thing of honor—crafted by hands that knew the soul of it, imbued with history. Now they just pump them out like loaves of bread on an assembly line.”

  Issac didn’t even look up as he unscrewed the cap of his flask, taking a slow, deliberate sip. His other hand checked his own weapon—a light machine gun, another piece of mass-produced, soulless steel. More bullets, more firepower, but the same impersonal, deadly design. He didn’t mourn the loss of craftsmanship. He loaded.

  Arthur’s eyes flicked to him, narrowing as he saw the flash of pills between Issac’s fingers. “You’re mixing again,” he stated flatly, his tone a mix of accusation and concern.

  Issac shrugged, dry-swallowing the pills before reaching for a cigarette, his fingers moving with practiced ease. “Calms the nerves.”

  Arthur frowned, a dark line pulling his lips tight as Issac struck a lighter and inhaled deeply. The smoke curled up around his mask like a dark cloud. “You act like you’re about to face a bloody dragon. Are you nervous?” he asked, his voice laced with a mocking edge.

  Issac exhaled slowly through his nose, his gaze drifting back to the bank ahead. “I’m not a Knight, Arthur,” he replied, his voice like gravel. “I’m a soldier.”

  Arthur scoffed, a bitter chuckle escaping his throat. “And what difference does it make? You fight, you bleed, you kill. The rest is just words.”

  Issac glanced at him then, his eyes sharp, biting. He took another swig from his flask, the motion fluid and practiced. “A Knight fights for honor. A soldier fights because he’s told to.”

  Arthur’s grip tightened on his rifle, the cold metal biting into his gloved hands. His eyes were hard as stone, focused on Issac as if trying to will him to understand something he could never explain. “You remind me of your father.”

  Issac snorted, shaking his head as if the mention of the man were a bitter taste in his mouth. “You mean the man who died defending Mars? Defending civilians?” His voice dropped, laced with something darker, like a scar still raw beneath the surface. “If he were here now... would he be proud?”

  Arthur’s gaze faltered, confusion flickering across his face. “Why wouldn’t he be? He was a warrior. And so are you.”

  Issac gave a hollow chuckle, the sound empty and bitter. “Strength isn’t everything, Arthur. Took me a long time to learn that.” He raised the flask again, the liquid swirling inside, his fingers steady despite the tremor in his voice.

  Arthur’s eyes lingered, his lips tight, his mind a swirl of thoughts he couldn’t quite pin down. “Why do you do this to yourself?”

  Issac let out a long, slow breath. His eyes closed for a moment, and when they opened again, they were distant, unfocused. He tilted his head back against the car seat, his fingers tapping idly against the flask.

  “After Mars fell,” Issac began, his voice quieter now, as though the words were ancient, something that had festered in his chest for far too long. There was a bitterness to them, a kind of unsettled weight. “I was sent to a MilWorld.”

  Arthur said nothing, but his eyes never left Issac. He knew something dark was coming. Something buried beneath the surface.

  “Not a place for soldiers. A place for enforcers. For kids they could mold into something useful.” Issac rubbed his thumb absently over the rim of his flask, the motion almost mechanical.

  “They trained us young,” he continued, his voice tinged with the taste of old scars. “Thirteen years old, they shoved an assault rifle into my hands. Told me I was a warrior now.” He paused, eyes narrowing, focusing on a distant point in the darkness. “By sixteen, I was leading raids.”

  Arthur shifted in his seat, the silence pressing down, heavy and oppressive.

  “Not on battlefields. Not against soldiers.” Issac’s words sliced through the air. “Against people. Against towns that refused to kneel. Families who spoke against the planetary governor. We were taught to burn. To break. To put fear in them until it crawled under their skin and took root. To teach them they had no voice.” His lips curled, disgust in the twist. “To teach them they were nothing.”

  Arthur sat stiff, his grip tightening on his rifle as the words fell into the hollow of the car like the sound of an old wound reopening.

  Issac let out a hollow, bitter chuckle. “Torture. Terror. Execution. It wasn’t war. It was control. And we were just kids, Arthur. Young enough to think we were knights of some grand order, fighting for something greater than ourselves.” His voice thickened, and he squeezed the flask so hard his knuckles turned white. “But we weren’t. We were just the blade they pointed at whoever they wanted dead.”

  Arthur felt the sting of his words, like he was hearing something he didn’t want to understand, but knew he had to. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came.

  “You were a boy. They forced this upon you,” Arthur said finally, his words heavy with a kind of reluctant sympathy.

  Issac shook his head slowly, like the motion was too painful to do quickly. His eyes were dark, unreadable. “Doesn’t change what I did.” His voice was flat, a hard edge in every syllable, but there was something beneath it—something raw. Something festering. “I’ve spent my life being a good soldier. Following orders. Telling myself it was for the right reasons. But in the end?” He glanced at Arthur, eyes flickering like flames fighting against the wind. “I’ve been more raider than knight.”

  He let the silence stretch, a taut string ready to snap. Finally, he turned his gaze fully on Arthur. Even through the balaclava, the weight of his stare was suffocating. “And my father—he was one of the good ones. A real knight. The kind who died fighting for something more than himself.” Issac’s voice cracked, just for a moment, as if the words had torn him open. “And now? He’s looking down at his baby boy, seeing what they turned him into.”

  Arthur had no reply. No words that could hold the weight of what Issac was saying. He felt the void of it, the terrible stillness of a broken man, standing in the ruins of his own soul.

  Issac exhaled sharply, the sound like a dead man’s breath. He let the silence stretch further before breaking it, the hardness of his voice snapping back into place like the click of a safety. “But none of that matters, does it?” He rolled his shoulders, pushing the pain back down like it was something he had long learned to bury. His hand gripped his weapon tighter, his knuckles white against the cold metal. “We’ve got a job to do.”

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Arthur held his gaze for a moment longer, searching for something, anything—some flicker of the man Issac had been before. But Issac had already turned away, and there was nothing left but the echo of his words.

  Without a word, Arthur followed, reaching for his ski mask. They pulled them down in unison, the cold fabric swallowing their identities. The moment hung between them, heavy and unspoken, like the prelude to a storm neither of them could stop.

  Then, in silence, they stepped out of the car. Weapons in hand. Duffel bags slung over their shoulders.

  The night, thick and merciless, swallowed them whole.

  Edward

  Edward and Maelia pulled up to the faculty. It loomed before them—a modest building, its dull white exterior giving it the look of something forgotten, an afterthought. Three floors stood tall, though they were unremarkable, save for the faint glow of windows scattered along its surface. The lawn was overgrown, wild, as though time had forgotten to tend to it. A playground, small and unkempt, sat quietly to one side, the sandpit barely visible in the dim light. Everything was muted, drenched in the pale glow of the moon, and now a creeping fog began to settle, wrapping the building in a shroud of secrecy.

  “At least it’ll be easier for us to sneak around,” Maelia muttered, already swinging her door open with a quick click, her eyes scanning the area one last time.

  “Really?” Edward glanced over at her. “Just like that?”

  Maelia didn’t answer immediately, her hands adjusting the cap on her head, pulling it down firmly as she looked away. “We don’t have time to dilly-dally,” she said, voice low but determined. “He’s my little brother. He’ll recognize me. We get in, grab him, and we leave. Fast.”

  Edward paused for a moment, a knot of uncertainty twisting in his gut. “Link back up with my friends,” he said, almost to himself. The fog had grown thicker now, a slick mist that seemed to cling to the air itself, making it harder to breathe.

  “You think they’ve got cameras around here?” he asked, a flicker of doubt in his voice.

  Maelia shook her head as they both crouched low and began to move under the shadow of the building. Their footsteps were soft on the damp earth, the weight of the fog muffling every sound. “They don’t know who he really is...” she whispered, her words dripping with a quiet bitterness. “He’s been mute since he was a child. When I lost him… they just threw him in with all the other displaced Martian boys.”

  “That’s what this is?” Edward’s eyes narrowed, staring at the white apartment complex, its sterile appearance now taking on a far more sinister tone.

  “It’s a home for troubled youth. But look at the Martians,” she said, her voice a low growl. “Of course, they’d be troubled. The Neptunians ripped them from their feudal homes and dropped them into a world that doesn’t make sense. A world that’s nothing like their own. How could they function?” She paused, giving the building another look, as if trying to make sense of it all.

  Edward’s eyes widened as he rubbed the back of his head, his gaze flicking toward her. “You don’t,” he said bluntly. There was a weight to his voice, a lived experience behind those words that hung heavy in the air. Maelia winced, her gaze drifting from the building to the ground beneath her feet.

  She moved to the left, and Edward turned, watching as the car disappeared into the fog. “In and out,” he muttered to himself, as if the words could erase the rising tension.

  Maelia had already reached the window, her hands gently tracing the panes, her eyes narrowing as she peered inside. Edward approached from behind, glancing over her shoulder. “Maelia, is this...?” His voice trailed off.

  She held up a hand, shushing him. The window creaked, but it was a sound swallowed by the thick fog. Slowly, carefully, it lifted open, its motion silent but deliberate.

  Edward couldn’t help the disbelief that rose in him. “How do you know this is your brother’s room?” he asked, his voice edged with skepticism. “We should keep looking for a roster or—”

  “I just know,” Maelia cut him off, her voice low and firm. There was no doubt in it, no room for hesitation. The window slid smoothly, the soft breeze of the room moving the curtains ever so slightly.

  Edward watched her, his eyes flicking from her to the dark room inside. The fabric of the curtains fluttered, the only movement in the stillness of the night.

  Maelia took a breath, the air around her thick with anticipation, and stepped into the room. Edward followed swiftly behind, his senses heightened as he moved across the floor. The room was dim, but Maelia’s eyes locked onto the huddled form beneath the sheets.

  His feet creaked slightly against the floorboards, and the figure shifted in response.

  “Mathias...” Maelia’s voice broke through the stillness, soft but full of desperate hope. She reached out, her hands trembling as they brushed against her little brother’s pale right arm. “Mathias. You need to wake up.” Her voice was gentle, insistent.

  Mathias’s eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, Edward feared the worst—that the child might scream, frightened of the strangers in his room. But instead, his blue eyes filled with tears, and the soft sound of his voice broke through the silence.

  “Maelia...” His voice was fragile, barely a whisper.

  Edward stood back, his heart twisting in his chest as he watched the two of them. The moment felt like a breath held too long—full of emotion, full of fear, full of relief. The boy and his sister embraced, and for a moment, the weight of the world seemed to fall away.

  Maelia smiled through her tears, her hands shaking as she held Mathias close. Edward turned his eyes away, giving them their moment, but his voice cut through the raw silence.

  “This is heartwarming, but we need to leave,” he whispered, his gaze flicking to the window, his mind already racing ahead to the next move.

  Maelia pulled back slightly, her eyes searching Mathias’s face. “Can you move?” she asked softly.

  Mathias nodded, his small frame stiff with uncertainty, but determination in his gaze. “W-where are we going?” he asked, his voice still thick with sleep, yet there was something in it, a thread of bravery.

  Maelia looked down at him, her eyes softening. She took a deep breath, her voice steady as she spoke the one word that could anchor them all.

  “Home.”

  Marcus

  Marcus was blasting music in his dorm, headphones clamped tight around his head, his body moving with the beat as the golden fluorescent light flickered above him like a dying star. He felt the rhythm reverberate through him, the sound loud and clear, until—

  “No fucking way,” he mumbled to himself, pulling the headphones off with a snap, staring at them for a moment like they’d betrayed him. The music still echoed in his mind, the lyrics, the beat—he’d heard this before.

  His mind drifted, back to another time, just a week before Henryk had...

  “Woke up high as hell today, hit my boy, said we need another plate…” The same track. Same damn track. The music was bumping from the academy’s music studio, the dim lights casting long shadows across the room. Henryk’s voice echoed through the speakers, alive and loud, like it always did when he got going.

  The room was thick with an herbal smell, rich and pungent, and the glow from the flatscreen lit their faces like a cheap nightclub. Henryk’s smile was wide, lopsided, the kind of grin that could melt anything in its path. He was laughing, chuckling, eyes half-lidded, both of them looking like they’d smoked themselves into another dimension.

  The beat dropped hard, bass vibrating in the walls, something Kendrick might’ve been proud of.

  “Rollin’ through the city in an Uber straight to play!” Henryk’s voice boomed, clear and proud through the speakers, the music thumping in time with the pulse of their hearts.

  “Kill them, kill them!” Marcus shouted, clapping along with the beat, taking another rip from the joint. The towel pressed against the door was enough to cover the smell, and the bag over the fire alarm did its job.

  Even out here, in the silence of deep space, college kids were still getting high.

  “Got my thick white chick, and we goin’ all damn day!” Henryk rapped, and Marcus exploded into whoops, the beat dropping heavier now, the bass shaking the floor.

  “This shit sounds so fucking hard!” Marcus yelled, grinning ear to ear, his voice hoarse as the beat picked up, pumping even louder. “You know your shit! How did you learn this?”

  Henryk took a fat hit from the joint, blowing the smoke up into the ceiling, his grin never faltering. “Self-taught,” he muttered, voice flat but the energy still there. “Let’s blow this bitch the fuck up!”

  Marcus’ mind flickered back to the present with a deep sigh, slumping back against the pillows. But just as he was about to sink fully into the memory, there was a knock on the door.

  He rubbed his eyes, confusion flooding him as he peered through the peephole, half-expecting to see Margaret. Instead, when he opened the door, he blinked, surprised to see Iman standing there.

  “Iman?” he asked, eyebrow raised. “What’s good?”

  Iman glanced over her shoulder before stepping inside. She wrapped her arms around herself, hugging her body as if the cold of the corridor had crept into her bones. “Can we go out or something? Grab some food or just walk around and talk?” She seemed to hesitate for a moment, unsure, like the words were hard to say.

  Marcus frowned, looking over his shoulder at the mess of his room. “If it’s something serious, we can talk in here. No need to go anywhere—”

  Iman cut him off, shaking her head, eyes wary. “The last thing I need is to be on Margaret’s shit list,” she muttered, her tone low, heavy with meaning.

  Marcus’ eyes widened. “What are you talking about?” He paused, then his face twisted in realization. “What the hell does Margaret have to do with us talking in private?”

  Iman sighed, her gaze flicking away. “She’s been going around telling people you’re her boyfriend,” she said flatly, as though it was the simplest thing in the world.

  Marcus stared at her blankly, disbelief creeping across his face. “H-huh?” His voice cracked, almost incredulous. “She’s telling people that?” He snapped, jaw tightening.

  Iman leaned back against the doorframe, arms still crossed. “So, like I expected.”

  Marcus shook his head, the tension rising in his chest. “Expected? She’s bullshitting—”

  “She’s confused,” Iman cut him off. Her eyes narrowed, her words careful but firm. “I don’t know what the hell you and her are doing, but something’s making her think you two are together.” She shot a pointed glance at Marcus, the weight of her words sinking into him.

  Marcus scratched the back of his neck, the guilt creeping up on him. “Listen, we were just... chilling,” he muttered, voice growing quieter.

  “Chilling?” Iman repeated, an eyebrow arched as she stared him down. “Come on, Marcus, what were you really—”

  “Fucking,” Marcus spat out with a frustrated sigh, finally giving in. “We were just fucking.”

  Iman let out a long breath, cracking her back as she exhaled, clearly not surprised by the admission. “Ah, so you guys were just sleeping with each other. And now she thinks it’s more than it is.”

  “Yep,” Marcus muttered, his hands running over his face in frustration, as if wiping away the stupidity of the situation.

  Iman took another deep breath, her gaze softening slightly, though there was no pity in it. “That’s going to be your business to deal with. I heard Margaret’s not the type of person who forgets,” she warned, her voice low with experience. She glanced around, as if checking for someone lurking in the shadows. “She’s one of the main engineers, right? Like Ernest. And I already know Piper isn’t exactly my biggest fan... And they’re practically best friends, aren’t they?”

  Marcus sighed, dragging his hand down his face again. “I don’t think Margaret has any ill will,” he muttered, though there was no certainty in his voice.

  “Sure,” Iman said, rolling her eyes as if she had her doubts. “Listen, that’s not really why I came here today. I brought a friend.”

  “A friend?” Marcus repeated, blinking at her, still unsure where this was going.

  Iman’s voice softened, and Marcus froze as he recognized it. The voice, smooth and calm, familiar but now carrying a weight he didn’t like. Atticus.

  Atticus stood there, shifting slightly, his body moving to the blind spot in Marcus’s view. They stood now side by side, the silence between them thick with unspoken words. Marcus turned his head, his gaze snapping between them, and his voice was rough with suspicion.

  “What are you doing here?” Marcus asked, his eyes narrowing. “Does Zephyr know he’s here?”

  Iman rolled her eyes, her expression one of exasperation. “Zephyr can go choke on a dick,” she said with a sharpness that cut through the air like a blade.

  Marcus couldn’t help the small grin that tugged at his lips. He turned to Atticus, who seemed unfazed by Iman’s outburst, his gaze steady and cool.

  “Like I said,” Atticus began, his voice calm but edged with an underlying tension, “we didn’t get to finish our conversation before. And instead of reaching out again…” He paused, a flicker of something passing through his eyes. “Iman came back from her mission and… well, here we are.”

  Iman stretched her arms overhead, cracking her neck with a satisfied grunt. A smile played at the corner of her lips as she added, “I owed Atticus a favor after Earth House stepped in during a skirmish with some pirates. So, he wanted to see you.”

  Marcus’s eyes flicked between the two, searching for any sign of hidden motives. He turned back to Atticus, his mouth bated but his words slow to come. He sighed, the weight of the situation pulling on his shoulders.

  “Listen,” Marcus said, his tone quieter now, less defensive, “Atticus, I get it. You weren’t at fault for what happened with Lucas and the rest of our company out there.”

  A heavy silence fell over them like a thick, suffocating fog. The air in the room felt charged, tense, as the words hung there between them.

  “It was easy to blame you,” Marcus continued with a bitter chuckle, his voice bitter with the taste of old wounds. “You were the ace of another house, picked to make sure things went smoothly. Then, when trouble hit, we couldn’t find you or…” His words trailed off, but the meaning was clear enough.

  Atticus spoke then, his voice steady but tinged with regret. “Marcus, everything was moving so fast. I was out there fighting, but when I was able to make it back into the field…” He shook his head. “Everyone was gone.”

  “I know,” Marcus muttered, his voice thick with something he couldn’t quite name. “I know…” He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling under the surface.

  “But I want to know what happened after,” Iman interrupted, her tone soft but pressing. She fixed Marcus with a steady gaze. “Likewise, I want to know what happened after Jacen’s pirates took you. The Martians—” She paused, her eyes narrowing as she studied Marcus closely. “I can feel it off you. They’re involved somehow. Henryk, too.”

  Marcus’s stomach tightened at her words, his heart skipping a beat. The mention of Henryk—those final words—was like a shot of ice through his veins. His mind raced, trying to piece together what she was implying.

  “Huh,” Marcus muttered, his voice laced with confusion and suspicion. “How the hell is Henryk involved in this?”

  Iman’s eyes widened, and she glanced quickly left and right, her posture suddenly defensive. “Yeah, I ran into Knights of Mars out in deep space,” he said, his voice lower now, more guarded. “But Henryk wasn’t there. Listen…” He trailed off for a moment before speaking again, quieter now, almost apologetic. “I just wanted him to pass a message to them for me…”

  Atticus’s eyes lit up, his interest piqued. “You saw real Knights of Mars?” he asked, his voice tinged with awe, disbelief.

  Iman’s face flushed, a wave of heat spreading across her skin. She stammered, her words rushed and defensive. “What does it matter? Henryk and The Knights of Mars…They’re both the same thing, right?”

  Marcus shook his head, exhaling sharply. His gaze was fixed on her, amusement creeping into his eyes, despite the growing tension in the room. Atticus, sensing the shift, couldn’t help but chuckle at Iman’s discomfort.

  “No fucking way,” Marcus said with a sly grin, his voice dripping with amusement. “Don’t tell me… this whole time…” He stopped, letting the words hang in the air, drawing out the moment. “It was about Henryk! I should’ve fucking known. You can’t speak a word without dancing around it!” He was laughing now, his whole body shaking as he leaned back, almost losing his balance.

  Iman’s face turned the color of a ripe tomato, her fists clenched at her sides. She lunged forward, slapping Marcus lightly on the shoulder. “Shut up, Marcus,” she snapped, her voice a mix of frustration and embarrassment. “Don’t be so loud!”

  “I should’ve known you had a crush,” Marcus cackled, pointing at her as he laughed. “First time I’ve ever heard you bring up the same person over and over—must be a reason, huh? You’re too shy to admit it, so you come to me with this whole mess just to talk about Henryk!”

  Iman’s face twisted in a mixture of anger and embarrassment. A vein in her forehead throbbed, her teeth gritted together so hard it was a wonder she didn’t crack them. Her hands balled into fists at her sides, but she didn’t hit him again. She was trying to control herself, and failing.

  “What did you want to thank them for?” Atticus asked, his voice cutting through the thick tension that had settled between them.

  Marcus’s gaze fell to the floor. The weight of Iman’s earlier assault—her words and her anger—lingered in the space between them. But now, as she took a step back, arms raised, her irritation softened into something else. Her eyes, wide and searching, landed on Marcus. The anger in them was gone, replaced by something closer to concern. She saw it then—saw the raw sadness etched deep into his face, a sadness he hadn’t wanted anyone to see.

  “To thank them… for saving my life,” Marcus said, his voice hollow. “And the others as well.”

  Iman and Atticus exchanged a glance, but it was Atticus who broke the silence.

  “I…” Iman began, faltering, unsure of what to say.

  Marcus’s sigh was long, drawn out—a weight pressing down on his chest. “That’s what I mean,” he said, a slight tremor in his voice. “You don’t get it.” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head slowly. “They saved us. They died for us. For a measly group of boys. A dying warrior race, and they still gave everything... because it was the right thing to do.”

  The words fell like stones, each one heavier than the last. Marcus turned, facing them both now. Iman and Atticus stood there, their faces mirrored with shock, their brows furrowing as they processed what he had said.

  “So, out there in the void…” Atticus started, his voice unsteady, as if not sure he wanted to hear the rest.

  “Jacen’s pirates…” Marcus’s eyes flicked between them, the memory making his skin crawl. “They had us for maybe a couple of hours. Then an enemy attacked us.”

  A shiver ran down his spine as his eyes grew wide. “The Sons—no, the Knights—were the ones who saved us. They fought and slayed them all. We wouldn’t have made it.” His voice cracked on the last word, the weight of it hanging in the air.

  Iman’s eyes widened with sudden recognition. “That’s why the others left the academy,” she said softly. “You guys must’ve been…”

  “A lot,” Marcus interjected, his voice unsteady as a bead of sweat traced the side of his cheek. He swallowed hard. “A lot,” he repeated, his throat tight.

  The red lights flickered above them, cutting through the conversation like a knife.

  “What’s that?” Atticus asked, his voice sharp with sudden curiosity.

  Marcus and Iman exchanged a quick, sharp glance. Marcus’s expression darkened. “T-that’s kind of a secret with the house,” he muttered.

  Iman rolled her eyes, a flicker of exasperation passing over her face. “It’s some important meeting thing,” she said, and she could already feel the vibration of her phone through her pants pocket. She groaned inwardly, already knowing who was calling. “It’s nothing.”

  Atticus shrugged with a grin, throwing a casual mechanical hand over his shoulder. “Best I go then?” he said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  Iman and Marcus both nodded, and as Atticus turned to leave, he became just another face in a sea of moving bodies. People spilled out of their dorms, rushing to wherever they needed to be, their footsteps echoing in the hallways like ghosts.

  Marcus sighed deeply, leaning against the doorframe, rubbing his face with his hands. “I didn’t realize it was such a big deal,” he muttered, his voice thick with weariness.

  Iman shot him a sharp look. “You know a lot, don’t you, Marcus?” Her voice held something like challenge, as if daring him to admit something.

  Marcus stared at her, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Who knows?” he replied, his voice quieter now, with something more calculating. “Maybe you’re more like Henryk than you think. Maybe I’m more like him, too.”

  Iman’s eyebrows rose, her lips curling into a teasing smile. “Really?”

  “Yep,” Marcus said, a quiet laugh escaping him. “His manner.”

  Iman snorted, repeating his words under her breath. “His manner,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  The pair started walking together, following the crowd as they made their way outside. Above them, the sky was dotted with mercurian grey transports, descending rapidly toward the ground like ominous shadows.

  The pressure in the air seemed to grow heavier as they hurried, racing out of the house and into the open. Iman’s hand struck against a passing cadet’s shoulder, the impact sudden and sharp.

  “Jannie, what’s going on?” she demanded, her voice cutting through the chaos around them.

  “Commander?” Jannie’s voice faltered in surprise, her eyes widening. She shook her head, as if trying to make sense of what she was seeing. “They’re saying there’s a new model… courtesy of Lieutenant Commander Piper.”

  Iman’s lips curled into a slight, knowing smirk, but if anyone had looked closely, they would’ve seen how hard she had to force that smile. Her cheekbones tensed, the smile never quite reaching her eyes. It was all too much, too fast. Yet the smirk stayed in place, carefully constructed.

  Edward

  Ed, Maelia, and Mathias—the young king, still asleep, curled into his sister’s lap in the back of the car. Ed drove in silence, the city lights flashing in fractured shades of purple, bright yellows, and greens that rippled across the empty streets, fading as quickly as they came.

  “T—that went better than I expected,” Ed’s voice broke through the quiet, more a statement than a question.

  Maelia’s lips pressed tight, her gaze never leaving her brother. “Please, don’t jinx it,” she said softly, the edge of her words thin with exhaustion.

  Ed gave a small nod, his mouth curling into a smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. He flicked the radio on, lowering the volume so as not to disturb Mathias. The soft hum of static lingered before he found a station, a signal crackling faintly as his fingers worked the dial.

  “What does this mean…?” Ed muttered, mostly to himself, but the words hung between them, the weight of them sinking deeper into the air.

  Maelia let out a slow, tired breath. She glanced down at Mathias, her gaze settling on the boy cradled close against her, his breath soft, his little body rising and falling in sleep. "It means Mathias, aside from me, is now the true heir to Mars and its territories.” Her voice faltered, sadness creeping in. She looked at him again, her features drawn tight. “But he will be hunted. Our house is weak—too weak. I’ll be the first to admit it.”

  “Many will rally behind him,” Edward said, his voice a little more hopeful than he felt, his gaze still locked on the road. His fingers drifted over the radio dial. He needed to know what was happening outside—how their diversion was faring. Arthur and Isaac were already moving, Henryk and Axel close behind them, ready to provide support if necessary. Yet, Ed couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling that they weren’t being followed, that their enemies didn’t know how deeply Mathias’s true nature was hidden, wrapped in the guise of autism.

  His relief was short-lived as the radio kicked to life, the news flooding in with a steady voice.

  “Quite an insane night happening tonight, Jeff,” the voice on the radio boomed, filling the space of the van. “Tonight, the Oceana II Neptunian Patrol Guard is experiencing a night of terror… and heroism.”

  Ed’s eyes widened. He gripped the wheel tighter, his mind racing. The news—this couldn’t be happening now, not when they were so close. He glanced sideways at Maelia, but her attention was elsewhere. Still, her words lingered, sinking deep.

  “You’re right,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, her eyes still trained on Mathias. “My brother will have many knights rally to him. But where are they? They can’t all be dead… fractured, maybe. But if we can find them... we can build a new kingdom.”

  “A Neo-Mars…” Ed murmured, the thought a bitter, hopeful thing, hanging on his breath.

  Maelia’s eyes widened, her face flickering with something—something raw. The gold in her brown eyes shone for a fleeting moment, a glimmer of power.

  “A Neo-Mars…” she whispered. The words hung in the air, hanging between them like a promise—or a curse.

  “An empire, Maelia,” Ed pressed, his voice deeper now, more certain, the radio’s news report still echoing in the background. “A planet for all those who would follow us.”

  Maelia’s eyes met his, her mouth parting as if to speak—but then the feeling hit her, a sudden, icy sensation that split through her chest like a blade to the heart.

  She gasped, her breath catching in her throat as a sharp, violent pain sliced through her mind, a raw, searing pressure in her skull. Her hand tightened on Mathias as the world outside the van blurred into a silent, pulsing haze.

  The sound of a sniper’s bullet tore through the night like thunder, the bullet ripping through the front of the van. It passed so close to Ed that the air itself seemed to scream in its wake. He didn’t even register it at first, eyes still locked on the road, hands white-knuckled on the wheel. The glass shattered in front of them, and a hole appeared in the windshield—just like that, everything changed.

  Maelia felt the warmth of the air shift, the whizzing sensation a moment before she saw her brother’s eyes go wide. He coughed, blood spilling from his lips, black and thick, and his body went limp in her arms.

  His tiny hands reached up, fingers trembling as they touched her face. She gasped, her chest hollowing. His eyes, wide and tear-filled, looked at her—his gaze full of fear.

  And then, with a final shudder, he collapsed.

  “No… no, no, no!” Maelia screamed, her voice cracking in a way she never thought possible. She held him tighter, her cries raw, shattering, like a blade through the air. She shook him, hoping—praying—it wasn’t real. But it was.

  Ed was screaming too, but his voice was lost in the chaos of the moment. His hands jerked at the wheel as the van veered off course, tires screeching, metal grinding against the pavement.

  “Shit! Shit!” Ed roared, panic clawing at his chest. His heart pounded in his throat, his fingers clawing at the wheel in desperate attempts to keep control. But it was no use. The van swerved hard, spinning as he fought the wheel.

  Pedestrians appeared ahead—just a glimpse—shadows in the night. Ed’s eyes widened in horror, and with a final cry, he jerked the wheel to the side.

  The van flipped, tumbling end over end. Maelia was thrown violently against the side, the world spinning in a blur of motion, but through it all, she never let go of Mathias. She held him tight, her heart breaking with every second that passed, her sobs filling the van as the world outside shattered.

  Ed’s eyes were wide, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. His heartbeat pounded in his chest, the sound reverberating through his ears like a drumbeat, drowning out everything else. For a moment, everything seemed suspended, the world frozen in time. Then, like a slap across his face, the realization hit him. The shock surged through him, leaving him breathless. His eyes snapped to the rearview mirror, and that’s when he saw her.

  Maelia was rocking back and forth in the backseat, her body trembling. Her hands clutched the lifeless form of the young prince. Ed’s gaze dropped to the still, pale body of Mathias, his chest ripped open by a wound so massive it was a miracle the boy had been alive as long as he had. The next King of Mars—Mathias II, Heir to the Throne—was dead.

  “Maelia…” Ed’s voice cracked, the words barely escaping. He reached out, only to realize his hand was coated in glass shards. His heart stuttered. “M-Maelia, we have to mo—” But his words were cut off by the sharp crack of another sniper’s bullet tearing through the van.

  “Fuck!” He shouted. “Fuck!” The air was thick with Maelia’s screams, her voice breaking, raw, desperate.

  “Maelia, I know, but I need you to—” He couldn’t finish. Her grief was a force, overwhelming, and Ed knew she wasn’t listening. He fumbled with his seatbelt, his hands trembling as he struggled to free himself. The click of the release felt like an eternity before he was free.

  The moment he fell sideways toward the door, his gaze was drawn back to Maelia, still holding her brother’s body.

  Then another shot, a bullet ripping past his ear so close it left a burn on his skin. He ducked instinctively. “Maelia, we’re gonna have to run. You hear me? RUN!” he screamed, his voice thick with urgency, terror creeping into the edges of his words.

  But Maelia didn’t move. Her sobs were the only thing Ed could hear now. She was rocking her brother’s body, her voice a broken mantra.

  “I… I won’t leave him…” she whispered, her words barely audible through the storm of grief that had taken her. Her body shook, her hands clutching Mathias tighter as though, by some miracle, he would come back to life. “I… I can’t…”

  Ed’s voice dropped, quieter now, more strained. “Maelia…” he whispered. “He’s gone. There’s nothing you can do.”

  Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, her eyes never leaving Mathias’s lifeless form. The sound of another shot split the air, but this time it felt distant. Ed’s gaze hardened.

  “Maelia,” he pressed, his voice rough. “If you stay here, that sniper’s just gonna pick us off one by one. Wait for the police to show up, or... or just kill us outright. You know how this goes.”

  Maelia didn’t respond, her body stiffening, her eyes locked on the boy she could never save. But Ed didn’t let up. His words came faster now, cutting through her pain with a brutality of their own.

  “Maelia, you’ve heard of the Neptunian prison camps, haven’t you?” he asked, his voice harsh. “And with Mathias dead, whatever children you have… they’ll inherit the sectors, I know. But they won’t just be targets... they’ll be trophies. They’ll use them to control the rest of us.” His voice dropped lower, cold as ice. “And you, Maelia... they’ll come for you first.”

  Maelia’s eyes snapped to him, her face twisted in something primal, something fierce. “They’ll inherit the sectors I know…!” she snarled, her words a growl. Her lips curled back, revealing fangs—something wild, something untamed. The animal fury in her made Ed take a step back, his breath hitching. It wasn’t fear of the sniper anymore. No, it was the storm inside Maelia, the wrath that was beginning to bubble to the surface, raw and untethered.

  Ed exhaled, his eyes wide, but his voice was steady. “You want to know what we do now? We get payback. We make them regret what they did to you.”

  Maelia’s stare never wavered. Her eyes were blazing now, but there was a sadness there too, like she knew there would be no going back after this.

  “Make them regret what they did to Mathias,” Ed urged. “Kill them all.”

  Her expression didn’t change. She stood there, eyes hard, lips pressed into a thin line. The weight of what he said hung in the air. Then, slowly, as though the words were part of a pact she had already made with herself, she spoke.

  “Promise me,” she said, her voice a low, dangerous whisper, “that we will.”

  Ed nodded, slowly, firmly. “I guarantee it.”

  Her gaze tore away from him then, and for the first time, she tore her tear-streaked eyes from her brother’s body. She turned, her glare icy as it fixed on Ed.

  Another sniper shot cracked through the silence, deafening. “Jesus fucking Christ!” Ed hissed, the tension in his body now raw, stretched thin. He scrambled for his phone, falling against the side of the van as he dialed.

  “H-Henryk, Axel!” Another blast ripped through the air, the entire vehicle shaking with the force of it. “Lane 5—!” He was cut off by two more shots, rapid, precise. Maelia screamed, the sound filling the van like a death knell.

  “Lane 56, Lane 56!” Ed shouted, his voice frantic. “We need backup, NOW!”

  Arthur

  The air was thick with gunfire, the deafening roar of Issac’s nailer LMG churning through the night like the cry of some ancient beast. Each round fired felt like a warning, a promise of more violence to come. The weapon spat fire and death—steel-piercing slugs that punched through walls, tore through furniture, and carved through flesh with a grim, mechanical rhythm. Sparks flew where the nails hit reinforced teller windows, the shots hammering through bulletproof glass like it was nothing more than brittle, cheap porcelain. Every squeeze of the trigger sent another body sprawling, jerking violently as the projectiles tore through them with grim precision.

  Issac was a demon, untethered from the world of men. He was screaming, laughing—half-mad, a creature of pure, unfettered chaos. The air around him was thick with smoke, pouring from the vents of his weapon as he braced it against a toppled chair. His bloodshot eyes glowed from beneath the torn fabric of his balaclava, and for a moment, he was nothing more than a fury made flesh.

  Arthur, however, was something different—focused, precise, his movements measured, each shot fired from his rifle calculated to keep them alive. His chair was flipped over, serving as a meager shield as he returned fire. His eyes caught glimpses of Issac—his partner—a madman. Issac’s hand twisted tightly in the blonde woman’s hair, dragging her close like a doll. Her shrieks cut through the violence, desperate hands clawing at his arm, but Issac didn’t care. She was nothing but a shield, a bargaining chip in a game that Arthur wasn’t sure they could win.

  "LET HER GO, ISSAC!" Arthur roared, his voice barely cutting through the hellish chaos.

  Issac spat, a sound as bitter as the curse in his voice. His grip on the woman’s scalp tightened, twisting her head back to expose her throat. "Honor ain’t gonna save us, Arthur!" he snarled, his voice ragged, raw with the madness of the moment. "Honor’s a fucking lie!"

  Arthur’s teeth ground together, but there was no time for argument. The Neptunian police force was pushing in, blue-and-black armored officers flooding the bank, their rifles barking as they moved in. Their mistake.

  Arthur didn’t hesitate. He shifted his aim, taking the first cop in his sights. A quick squeeze of the trigger, and the nailer round punched through the officer’s helmet, a clean exit wound blossoming from the back of his skull. The body crumpled to the floor. Another squeeze, another round. This time, the nailer round tore through the officer’s gut, exploding out the man behind him.

  Issac was a force of nature, unloading the LMG with abandon. Nails tore through car doors, shredded armor, pinned men to walls like flies caught in amber. One officer dove behind an overturned desk, but he was no safer than the rest. A single nail split the wood like butter, and the man’s chest exploded in a mist of blood.

  Issac howled, his voice a war cry. "FUCK THE NEPTUNIANS!"

  The duffel bags were full—stuffed to bursting with cash, bills spilling onto the blood-slicked floor in a twisted mockery of wealth. But there was no time for counting, no time for celebration. Arthur and Issac moved like shadows, charging for the exit. Issac was still clutching the terrified woman, dragging her along like a ragdoll. Outside, the sound of sirens filled the air, a wailing chorus of impending doom.

  Arthur slammed the bank doors open, stepping out onto the pavement. His heart hammered in his chest. He didn’t pause, didn’t look back. He knew what they had to do. Issac followed, dragging the woman forward, his voice a ragged scream. “BACK UP!” he shouted at the assembled police, his LMG empty but still hanging loose in his grip, his hand clutching the pistol like a lifeline.

  Arthur didn’t slow down. He was already at the car, throwing the bags into the back, his hands shaking with urgency. He jammed the key into the ignition.

  Nothing.

  The engine sputtered, coughed, and died.

  Arthur’s stomach dropped. It was the moment they’d been waiting for, the one where everything fell apart.

  “FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!” Issac howled, tossing the woman aside like an afterthought. She scrambled away, sobbing, fear coloring her every movement. Issac turned back toward the police, his breath ragged, fury flashing in his eyes.

  Arthur didn’t have time. No fucking time. His body was a coiled spring, ready to snap. He shoved the door open, and without thinking, planted his foot against the frame. His hands shot under the back of the car, his fingers digging into the metal. The weight of the vehicle was a mountain, but he didn’t care.

  “GO, GO, GO!” Issac bellowed, the words torn from his throat as he fell back, firing into the chaos. Nails screamed through the air, tearing through parked cruisers, detonating engines, and sending officers diving for cover. From above, snipers on the rooftops opened fire, the rounds slamming into the pavement near his feet with a deafening crack.

  Then the world shifted. Issac jerked violently, a round ripping into his side, then another, each one hammering into him like the weight of fate itself. He staggered, stumbling, but fought to stay on his feet. Another round struck his shoulder, spinning him around. His body hit the pavement with a sickening thud, but he forced himself back up, gasping for breath. The LMG was spent, his rifle gone. Only the pistol remained in his hand, trembling with the weight of his will.

  Arthur didn’t see it at first. His eyes were locked on the road, his hands desperate to make the car work. Then he heard the staggered breaths. Then the gunfire. He looked back—Issac was down, a sea of red spreading beneath him. But his partner wasn’t dead. Not yet.

  Arthur's breath caught in his chest as he finally sparked the engine to life. The vehicle hummed, the promise of escape pulsing in his veins. “GET IN!” he yelled, his voice hoarse with desperation.

  But Issac didn’t move. He was swaying, blood leaking from beneath his vest, his pistol still raised in a futile show of defiance. The officers were closing in, the perimeter tightening around him like a noose.

  Arthur’s hands gripped the wheel so tight his knuckles were white. “Issac, get the fuck in the car—”

  Issac's eyes flicked toward him. He smiled. It was a broken thing, but it was a smile all the same.

  “Go, Arthur.” His voice was quiet now, steady. His own blood dripping onto the cold, unforgiving street.

  Arthur shook his head, his heart beating like a war drum in his chest. The door opened on reflex, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “No, we can still—”

  “I said GO.”

  The words hit him like a blow to the gut. They twisted inside him, a burning knot of fury, grief, and helplessness. But there was no denying it. He knew.

  There was no saving him.

  Arthur slammed the door shut with a finality that felt like a death sentence, the tires screeching as he gunned the engine. The car tore forward, leaving Issac behind—just a shadow in the rearview mirror.

  Issac let out a slow breath, the sound barely audible over the fading roar of the engine. His fingers fumbled at the fabric of his balaclava, pulling it free. The cold air bit into his skin, but he didn’t care. Let them see him. Let them see what he was.

  One of the officers faltered, his voice trembling with something like pity. “Jesus, he’s just a kid…”

  The others didn’t lower their weapons. One of them sneered. “He’s a fucking lunatic.”

  The first officer stepped forward, his voice softening, but there was no kindness in it now. “You don’t have to do this.”

  Issac looked at him, blood dripping from his lips, his hand shaking as he gripped the pistol. The gun trembled, an echo of his life slipping through his fingers.

  And then he flipped them off.

  With a final, bitter laugh, he turned the pistol on himself. The shot cracked through the night like the snapping of a bone.

  For a moment, there was nothing. No sound. Just the weight of silence pressing down on them all. The officers stood frozen, staring at the lifeless form crumpled in the street, the blood pooling beneath Issac’s head like a dark, unholy baptism.

  The first officer’s hands trembled. His lips parted, but no words came. He looked down at the body, and finally, his voice was a low murmur. “Why did he do that?”

  One of the others shrugged, his voice devoid of sympathy. “You know how those Martians are. Their Knight Orders… You live by the sword, you die by it.”

  Another officer scoffed, stepping forward. He planted a boot against Issac’s lifeless form, nudging the body with casual disdain, like it was nothing more than an inconvenience.

  “This one took down a lot of our guys.” He spat on the pavement. “He got what was coming to him.”

  Edward

  “Arthur, fucking report, now!” Edward’s voice cut through the chaos like a knife.

  “Issac... is dead,” Arthur’s voice was a hollow rasp. Ed’s chest tightened, his heart catching in his throat. He could feel it, the weight of every loss sinking in. The lump in his throat burned.

  He ran his hand over his face. Mathias... now Issac. His fingers dug into his skin, trying to ground himself, but it was useless. All these mistakes. All these young lives thrown away because of him. He was the leader, the one who made the calls. And now, the burden was his. The weight of it threatened to crush him.

  He blinked, his gaze falling on Maelia, her face pale, her eyes wide with raw, desperate fear. She was shaking, but not from cold. She was trembling with rage, with grief. “Where on Lane 56? Can you intercept and reach us? We’re sitting ducks on this highway with Henryk and Axel inbound.” His voice was taut, as if every word was a struggle, each syllable pulling at him.

  The silence that followed was suffocating, only the random, broken clicking of the battered van filling the air. Then, the voice came—smooth, almost too calm, like a snake coiling in the dark. “Maelia of House Mars.”

  It wasn’t cold, not exactly. It was practiced, controlled. The kind of voice a villain in a storybook might have, a voice that promised nothing but pain and manipulation.

  “You really think you could’ve come into my city with your Martian freaks and pulled off an escape?” The voice mocked, dripping with contempt.

  Maelia’s eyes flashed with fury. “How did you find me?” she shouted, her voice raw, a furious roar that echoed against the van’s walls.

  “M-Maelia!” Ed hissed, his voice a warning. “Don’t talk to him—don’t give him an inch or he’ll—”

  But Maelia was already past him, her fist clenched tight, her eyes bloodshot and burning. The voice laughed, low and mocking, cutting through her anger like a blade. “He’s a boy, you fool!” The laughter was cruel. “He’s a fucking retard. We knew if we left him alone and focused all our attention on you, you’d come after him. Looks like we waited long enough.”

  The voice boomed, bouncing off the surrounding buildings. It was close. Too close. Maybe the sniper was hiding somewhere high up, watching them through the crosshairs.

  Ed gritted his teeth, blood surging in his veins. When Henryk and Axel get here with the new models... That smug bastard would burn. There wouldn’t be enough of him left to scrape off the pavement.

  The voice continued, its tone sickly sweet, like honey laced with poison. “Maelia, I hope you understand… this is all your fault.” The chuckle was still there, like the last breath of a dying man. “If you had just given up, accepted your place as my wife... your brother would still be alive.”

  Maelia’s eyes widened, horror mingling with disbelief. She knew that voice. They both did. A cold, creeping dread crawled down Ed’s spine.

  Kaelin.

  "Kaelin of House Neptune, Heir to the Throne, and all Territories under the Blue Moons." Ed’s voice was strained, the words slipping out of him before he could stop them. A surge of anxiety ripped through him, coursing through his blood like ice water. Out of all the assholes we could’ve run into… The thought of Kaelin, of his ARC core, made Ed’s stomach churn. Please don’t let him have that thing with him...

  Kaelin’s voice oozed mockery, smooth and unshaken. “You really thought you could just walk into my city, take what you wanted, and leave?” He paused, savoring the moment. “Foolish.”

  Edward’s grip on the wheel tightened, his fingers aching from the pressure. His chest was tight, his breath ragged. “Where the hell are you, you smug son of a—”

  Then, the sky split open. The roar of thrusters cut through the air, drowning out everything else. Axel and Henryk’s Warcaskets ripped across the skyline, orange flames trailing behind them, cutting through the heavens like a fiery storm. They hit the cracked streets with a deafening thud, sending debris flying in every direction. The impact rattled the ground, forcing the bystanders to scatter, fleeing in panic.

  The moment their feet hit the ground, their weapons were drawn. Henryk’s long-range beam rifle swung up, the scope scanning for targets with lethal precision, while Axel’s hand hovered over the hilt of his back-mounted beam blade, his posture rigid and poised for combat.

  “Edward! We’re here!” Henryk’s voice crackled over the intercom.

  Their suits were unlike anything else in the battlefield—sleek, deadly, the next generation of the once-dominant Martian Warcasket lineage. Even amidst the wreckage of Mars’ legacy, these machines still carried an undeniable presence, a weight of superiority.

  But they weren’t alone.

  A sharp, mechanical whir cut through the air, followed by a distinct, bone-rattling clank.

  Then another.

  Then another.

  From the alleyways, from the shattered remains of buildings, the Neptunian Warcaskets emerged.

  There were five in total—each one a machine of war, leaner than their Martian counterparts, with a design favoring agility and deadly precision. Their color schemes were uniform in deep cobalt, trimmed with silver insignias of the Neptunian House. And at the center of their formation stood one unlike the others—a sniper variant, its elongated barrel already tracking its next target, the glowing reticle on its visor flashing as it locked onto Henryk’s unit.

  “You Martians really don’t know when to quit,” came the voice of one of the Neptunian pilots, his tone dripping with condescension.

  Henryk’s grip tightened on the controls. “Axel. Move.”

  Axel didn’t need to be told twice.

  The first Neptunian suit lunged forward, a beam saber igniting in its grip as it closed the gap between them. But Axel was already in motion—his own blade unsheathing in a brilliant arc, meeting the strike head-on. The impact sent a surge of energy crackling outward, lighting up the battlefield in a blinding flash.

  Henryk didn’t hesitate. His thrusters ignited, his Warcasket blurring as he shot sideways, just as the sniper’s round screamed past where he had been a second ago. He fired back mid-dash, his beam rifle releasing a scorching bolt toward the sniper unit’s perch.

  The Neptunian Warcasket twisted, narrowly avoiding the shot. The other enemy suits seized the moment—one raised its bazooka, launching a warhead straight at Henryk. He barely had time to react, throwing his shield up as the explosion engulfed him. His HUD flickered, warning alarms screaming in his ears.

  “Henryk!” Axel’s voice cut through.

  “I’m fine! Keep moving!”

  Axel growled as he parried another attack, his blade clashing against a Neptunian suit’s shield. He twisted, breaking the deadlock before delivering a brutal kick to the enemy Warcasket’s midsection, sending it skidding backward. Without pause, he followed through, his beam blade carving through the enemy’s arm, severing it at the elbow. Sparks and molten metal spat from the wound, but before Axel could finish the job, another Neptunian suit tackled him from behind, slamming him into the pavement.

  Edward and Maelia, meanwhile, had already thrown themselves from the van, scrambling for cover as gunfire from foot soldiers rattled through the air.

  Then, tires screeched.

  A battered, bullet-ridden car came skidding onto the scene, stopping just short of them.

  Arthur shoved the door open, his shoulder drenched in blood. His hands were shaking, his breathing ragged, but his eyes were locked onto them with fierce urgency.

  “GET IN!” he bellowed.

  Edward hesitated for half a second—then another shot rang out. The bullet struck the ground inches from his foot.

  His head snapped toward the source.

  Above, perched on the rooftop of an apartment complex, a lone figure stood. Next to him, the glint of a massive sniper rifle caught the city lights.

  The sniper exhaled, steadying his aim. “I’ve got them locked in my sights.”

  Kaelin, standing beside him with an almost bored expression, smiled. “Kill the boy.”

  The sniper adjusted, locking onto Edward.

  Maelia felt it.

  A cold, sickening presence, an intent so sharp it nearly made her retch. Her body moved before she could think—throwing herself toward Edward, her hands outstretched.

  At that same moment, Henryk felt it too.

  His own instincts flared—a gut-wrenching sensation of death looming just beyond reach. His Warcasket’s sensors barely had time to register the sniper’s location before his hands were already moving, reacting on pure instinct.

  His suit twisted unnaturally, his beam rifle snapping upward.

  For the first time, Kaelin’s smirk faltered.

  Henryk pulled the trigger.

  The beam shot through the night, a blazing lance of destruction that ripped into the apartment complex. The impact was catastrophic—the walls buckled, the rooftop caving in as fire and debris erupted skyward.

  The sniper barely had time to move before the floor beneath him collapsed.

  Kaelin’s chuckle was lost in the explosion as the building crumbled around him.

  Edward barely had time to react before Arthur slammed his foot on the gas, the battered car peeling away from the smoking wreck of the van. The tires screeched against the pavement, the engine groaning under the abuse as they shot forward—straight through the battlefield.

  Gunfire cracked through the air, tracer rounds whipping past them as Henryk’s Warcasket loomed over the vehicle, its submachine gun firing in short, controlled bursts. The bullets raked the ground on either side of them, tearing through debris and shattered concrete as Neptunian forces retaliated, their sniper Warcasket tracking their escape.

  Edward clenched his teeth. “Arthur! You’re driving us straight through the fucking kill zone!”

  “WHERE THE HELL ELSE AM I SUPPOSED TO GO?!” Arthur barked, one hand gripping his wounded shoulder, the other wrenching the wheel left and right as bullets whizzed past. The windshield was already cracked, the metal chassis riddled with holes. He was barely holding it together.

  Henryk surged forward, raising his shield just in time as the sniper’s round struck dead center. The impact sent a deep tremor through his suit, sparks flying from the reinforced plating. He braced, locking his stance—just as Axel vaulted over a nearby building, his bazooka drawn.

  Axel took cover, breath steadying. The sniper’s position was clear.

  His thrusters ignited, launching him onto the rooftop. He locked in, took aim, and pulled the trigger.

  The warhead struck the sniper Warcasket dead-on, the explosion swallowing its perch in an orange inferno. Shrapnel rained down, the remains of the sniper suit falling in a smoking heap to the streets below.

  But there was no time to celebrate.

  Henryk saw his opening. His Warcasket’s thrusters burned white-hot, sending him rocketing forward. His shoulder collided with a Neptunian Warcasket, the sheer force of the impact sending both of them barreling into a building. The structure gave way instantly, crumbling as the two mobile suits crashed through floors, walls, steel, and glass.

  The Neptunian pilot barely had time to react before Henryk jammed his submachine gun forward and pulled the trigger.

  Full auto.

  The gunfire roared in his cockpit, drowning out everything else. Bullets chewed through armor, ripping into the Neptunian suit’s chest, limbs, and cockpit. The enemy pilot’s screams were lost in the storm of metal and fire.

  Edward, from the car, saw the explosion bloom from the wreckage as Henryk’s Warcasket emerged from the flames, its armor charred and smoking, its shield still raised as he continued to fire. He wasn’t stopping. Even as the Neptunian machine fell, even as it had already lost, Henryk kept shooting.

  His breath came in ragged gasps. His heart thundered in his ears. He didn’t hear Axel’s voice at first.

  “Henryk!”

  More rounds flew past, the remaining Neptunian forces still trying to pick them off. Henryk kept firing.

  “Henryk, that’s enough!” Axel’s voice cracked. “STOP! WE HAVE TO LEAVE!”

  Henryk didn’t respond.

  Axel saw the burning wreck of the enemy suit, saw Henryk’s shaking grip on the trigger, and knew that if he didn’t act now, Henryk would keep going.

  Axel surged forward, grabbing Henryk’s Warcasket by the shoulder. “We have to go!”

  Henryk froze, his breath coming in short, violent bursts. Slowly, painfully, his finger lifted from the trigger. The gun clicked dry, empty. His head snapped up, taking in the devastation—the smoldering corpses of enemy Warcaskets, the burning remains of the cityscape, the distant screams of civilians.

  He exhaled, breathless.

  Axel’s voice softened, but only slightly. “The car is clear. They’re out. We need to leave.”

  Henryk looked toward the highway in the distance, where Arthur’s car was dwindling into the dark, battered but still moving.

  He swallowed hard.

  Had they won?

  Had they accomplished anything?

  Or had they just barely survived?

  He didn’t know anymore.

  Without another word, Henryk turned. He and Axel fired their thrusters, their Warcaskets soaring upward, bouncing between buildings, then higher—into the sky. The Neptunian forces tried to pursue, but they couldn’t keep up. Axel and Henryk were already too fast, clearing the city’s perimeter, their engines pushing to the limits as they vanished into the horizon.

  Below, on the aged highway, the car kept moving.

  Arthur’s hands trembled against the wheel, his blood-soaked sleeve clinging to his arm. His breaths were shallow, exhausted.

  Edward sat next to him, eyes hollow, hands limp in his lap. He wasn’t even sure what to think. The battle was over, but…

  Issac was gone.

  Issac—who had been a pain in the ass, who had been reckless, who had been troubled, but still one of them. Still someone they had tried to save.

  Arthur’s voice broke the silence. It was hoarse, barely above a whisper. “Was this even worth it?”

  Edward didn’t answer.

  In the backseat, Maelia wept, her face buried in her hands. Her shoulders trembled, her entire body wracked with grief. Her brother was dead.

  And Kaelin was still alive.

  Above the ruined city, Axel and Henryk soared through the sky, their thrusters leaving trails of orange against the darkening skyline. Below them, smoke coiled from the ruins, the echoes of battle fading into the distance. But the weight of it still sat heavy on their shoulders.

  Axel watched Henryk from the corner of his eye. The way he flew—it wasn’t the same as before. There was a new precision to his movements, a cold focus sharpened by the night’s brutality. The wild rage was gone, tempered into something deadlier.

  Axel let the silence stretch before finally clicking his comms.

  “You’re a good pilot, you know.”

  Henryk didn’t answer right away. His Warcasket cut through the wind, the hum of his thrusters filling the space between them. Then, after a beat—

  “…Thanks.”

  Axel exhaled through his nose, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I mean it. You fight like a warrior. Like me.”

  For the first time since the fight, Henryk allowed himself to breathe. His grip on the controls loosened slightly. Then, without meaning to—without thinking—he smiled. Just a little.

  Axel caught it. His smirk widened. “Didn’t realize it before. But now? Yeah. I see it.”

  Henryk let out something close to a chuckle, shaking his head.

  They didn’t need to say anything else.

  The two soared onward, their Warcaskets slicing through the sky as the sun steadily rosed and blessed them with there warmth.