31st Day of Fall, Year 13,499
The ship sailed through the boundless black.
Its sails spread wide like wings spun from light—shimmering in solar hues, catching rays from distant stars as if still thirsty for warmth. Each mast swayed with silent dignity, pulling the vessel forward as though it were carving a trail through the void itself.
Energy pulsed beneath the wooden deck—slow, steady, alive.
Not sound. Not quite. More like a feeling. A heartbeat deep in the bones of the ship.
At the helm, Doran lounged in the pilot's chair like a man who had fought the stars and lost.
One leg draped over the side.
The other tapped idly against a worn console.
His eyelids hovered somewhere between exhaustion and indifference.
He wasn't asleep.
But close.
Close enough that the cosmos blurred—
White and violet smears melting into strands of warp-light, a dreamscape where distance had no meaning and time held its breath.
Farther forward, near the bow, Kellon DaLai stood with both arms resting on the railing.
He didn't speak.
He rarely did now.
His broad shoulders had begun to fold inward—creased by silence, worn by memory. The kind of wear that no sleep could fix.
His gaze stayed locked on the warp trail behind them—where the stars twisted and bled into soft streaks of light, like broken filaments torn loose from the universe.
The quiet should've brought peace.
It didn't.
It only made the ghosts louder.
High above, nestled in the crow's nest like a lazy satellite, two glowing red optics blinked.
Dusty leaned over the rim, metal fingers tapping a rhythm on the railing.
"This is so pretty!" he chirped, voice tinged with static glee. "Are you seeing this?!"
No answer.
"Helllllooooo!" he sang. "It's like we're flying through a tornado made of sparkles!"
Still no response.
Dusty sagged dramatically, servos whining as his arms dangled over the edge.
"Well fine," he pouted. "Don't appreciate the pretty stars with me, then. Bunch of joyless meatbags…"
And without a shred of warning—
He dropped from the crow's nest like a rogue comet.
THUD.
Right onto Doran's stomach.
"GAAAHHH—!"
Doran folded instantly, the air violently expelled from his lungs in a sharp, wheezing grunt.
His body spasmed upright like he'd just taken a punch from a meteor.
Dusty beamed.
Still sitting squarely atop him like a triumphant toddler declaring war.
"Oh good, you're awake!" he chirped, optics spinning in delight. "Now we can talk about the sparkle tornado!"
Doran didn't speak.
He just stared at him.
Then—
With agonizing patience—
Doran reached up, grimacing, and grasped the top of Dusty's head like it was a helmet he desperately wanted to unscrew from existence.
"Dusty," he muttered through clenched teeth, "you weigh two hundred pounds."
"Two-oh-five, actually!" Dusty chirped proudly, tapping his chest with a metallic plink. "Got reinforced plating last year. Great investment!"
"Get. Off."
"Aww, come on! I was gonna tell you a story!"
"Off. Now."
With an exaggerated sigh that hissed through his speakers like a deflating balloon, Dusty rolled off Doran like a sack of poorly-disguised grenades.
His limbs clunked and scraped against the deck as he landed in a tangled heap.
He lay there for a moment, staring up at the stars through the glass-paneled ceiling above.
His legs kicked in lazy, slow-motion circles.
"Some people," he muttered with robotic indignation, "just can't appreciate the beauty right in front of them."
Doran groaned, rubbing his ribs.
"Some people," he grunted, "are trying very hard not to throw you off this ship."
From the bow, Kellon didn't turn.
But his voice carried across the deck, clear and cold.
"Do it. I'll help."
Dusty gasped loudly.
"Betrayed?! In the cold, heartless void of space, where no one can hear your friends turn on you!"
Finally, Kellon glanced over his shoulder.
His eyes were slits of burnt copper—tired, haunted, unamused.
"You are not my friend."
Dusty sat upright with a dramatic jolt, clutching his chest like he'd taken a blade to the power core.
"Ow. Right in the energy core."
Doran slid out of the pilot's chair with a grunt.
He muttered something under his breath as he stood and stretched, one hand still massaging his side.
"I should've left you to rust on the street."
The words weren't sharp. Not really.
They landed like an old bruise—familiar, dull, already faded.
Dusty tilted his head. His optics blinked twice.
"Wow. That's cold. Colder than vacuum cold."
He got to his feet with a mechanical huff, brushing imaginary dust off his plating.
His joints clicked with every movement—like a wind-up toy too proud to admit it was breaking down.
"But I forgive you," he declared, placing a hand reverently over the emblem on his chest. "Because I am emotionally evolved. Unlike some people."
He pointed at Kellon.
Then at Doran.
Then—without hesitation—at a random crate in the corner.
"And you. Especially you."
Kellon didn't answer.
He just turned back to the stars—
Letting them blur and bend beyond the railing,
Letting the silence swallow the rest.
Dusty clanked over to Doran's side, quieter now.
He squatted beside him—low to the floor, optics dimmed—watching as the pilot adjusted a cluster of switches on the side panel.
Routine maintenance.
Or maybe just something to do with his hands.
"…You miss them, don't you?"
Doran's fingers froze.
Mid-motion.
Mid-breath.
A beat passed.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Dusty's voice, when it came again, wasn't his usual glitchy static.
It was… gentle.
Almost human.
"The people in the photo," he said softly. "The one you keep in your pocket. You look at it ALOT."
Doran didn't reply.
He didn't have to.
His silence was the reply.
From the bow, Kellon turned his head slightly.
Just enough to show he was listening.
Not enough to join in.
Dusty stood slowly, servos unusually quiet.
He wandered toward the tiny galley—little more than a cabinet bolted into the corner of the hold—and opened it like he expected it to contain purpose.
He pulled out a half-burnt ration bar.
Held it like it might bite him.
Then, with a soft static-laced smile:
"Well," he said—more to himself than anyone else—
"Maybe chocolate sludge can cheer you up."
He held the bar out toward Doran.
The pilot didn't reach for it.
But he didn't push it away either.
The ship hummed gently beneath their feet.
A quiet, pulsing lullaby.
Faint vibrations in the wood and metal. The heartbeat of a vessel still moving forward.
Outside, warp-light flowed like unraveling starlight—threads of silver and violet smeared across the black.
And for a moment—
None of them spoke.
No jabs.
No orders.
No ghosts.
Just breath. Just quiet.
The moment didn't last.
CHIME—!
A sharp tone cracked through the air—like glass under pressure.
Followed by a low, guttural groan as the ship's sails began to tense, stretching against unseen drag.
Doran's head snapped toward the console.
A blinking icon pulsed green.
Incoming coordinates.
Locked.
"Great," he muttered, rising to his feet.
"We're almost to planet Donum."
Outside, the stars began to slow.
Warp-light collapsed inward—threads unraveling into fine silver strands, then back into points, then into burning suns.
Then—
Darkness.
Their ship pierced realspace like a ripple through silk.
Donum came into view.
A bleak, ash-grey sphere, wreathed in a crown of storm.
Thunderclouds coiled endlessly across its equator, each thread laced with veins of violet lightning. The clouds churned in slow, tireless circuits—like the planet breathed in storm and exhaled ruin.
Only at the poles did the veil part.
Two vast forests broke through the shroud—dark and unmoving, like ancient secrets laid bare to the stars. Above them, the skies stilled, offering brief glimpses of clarity through the chaos.
A graveyard planet.
Not in name.
In presence.
Kellon stepped back from the railing, eyes narrowing.
"Doesn't look like a place worth visiting."
Doran said nothing at first.
His jaw was set, hands clenched white against the ship's wheel.
"With all the abandoned and crashed ships," he muttered, gaze locked on the planet below,
"she's able to scrap what she needs."
Their ship descended slowly.
The sails folded inward—like wings returning to rest.
Below, Donum's surface twisted with rust-hued storms and fractured bolts of violet lightning.
The entire world felt like it was still in the process of remembering how to die.
Kellon crossed his arms, eyes on the horizon as the heat of reentry shimmered across the hull.
"Does she even know we're coming?" he asked, nodding downward.
Doran didn't look away from the console.
"She always knows."
As they dipped through the cloud line, the planet revealed its bones:
Twisted towers of scrap metal rose from the sand like broken ribs.
Old frigates, gutted cruisers, rusted sky-haulers—half-sunk, half-forgotten—littered the landscape.
One massive ship still bore the faded emblem of the Practum Kingdom.
Its hull had caved inward, crushed around some invisible trauma.
Kellon grimaced.
"This place is a landfill."
"Exactly," Doran muttered. "She calls it opportunity."
As they neared the surface, the ship's automated systems flared to life—altitude stabilizers engaging, thrusters flaring in sputtering bursts.
Landing gear deployed with a clunk, groaning like reluctant machinery.
THUD.
The ship touched down.
Soft—but not gentle.
Doran grabbed both greatswords, sliding them into their sheaths across his back.
The steel whispered against leather.
He adjusted the clasps on his chestplate, the armor settling into place like an old truth.
Then—without a word—he leapt from the deck.
His boots struck the scorched sands with a muffled thud, a small plume of rusted dust rising around him.
Metal fragments clinked beneath his feet—remnants of forgotten hulls, shattered weapons, and broken dreams.
Kellon dropped down behind him.
Lighter.
But cautious.
His eyes swept the wreckage—twisted, hollowed shapes jutting from the sand like bones from a long-dead beast.
"So," Kellon asked, voice low, "who exactly is this mechanic?"
Doran paused at the base of the ramp.
He didn't turn.
But his shoulders tightened—subtly—beneath the weight of steel and memory.
"She did my rune engravings," he said.
"Specializes in retrofitting. In… creating life from nothing."
The words landed heavy.
Not dramatic. Not grand.
But weighted, like something left deliberately unsaid.
Kellon caught the shift in tone.
And—for once—didn't press.
Behind them, a mechanical clatter announced Dusty's arrival.
He hopped down from the ship—arms flailing briefly for balance before catching himself mid-stumble and spinning in place like a child showing off.
"Oooh!" he chirped, optics flaring brighter. "Do I get upgrades? Shoulder cannons? Rocket feet? Or—wait—can I get a hat?!"
Doran didn't turn.
"You're getting inspected," he said flatly.
Dusty paused mid-fantasy. His optics blinked twice.
"…That sounds way less fun."
They moved in silence.
Through rust and ruin, between broken hulls and jagged wreckage, across sands littered with twisted steel and memories gone sharp with time.
Doran led with quiet certainty.
Like a man who'd crossed this graveyard a hundred times before.
Who knew exactly where each bone was buried.
Eventually, they crested a low ridge.
And there it was.
Nestled between the collapsed husks of two fallen freighters—
The workshop.
A bunker, if the word even fit.
It looked like it had been built by memory and held together by sheer defiance.
Walls stitched together from scorched plating and scavenged alloys.
Cargo containers melted and re-formed into rough barricades.
The entrance loomed ahead—a broad metal door fashioned from a repurposed drop-shield, still bearing the faded insignia of some long-dead military unit.
Doran nodded toward it.
"That's it," he said, voice low.
It looked less like a building and more like a scar carved into the planet.
Brutal. Functional. Unapologetic.
They descended the slope.
Boots crunching against grit and rust.
Shards of bone-dry metal snapping beneath their weight.
At the threshold, Doran didn't hesitate.
He stepped forward and pressed a gloved hand against the door.
It didn't move.
He pressed harder—muscles shifting beneath his armor, teeth clenched as the reinforced slab groaned in protest—
But it held.
Kellon stepped up beside him, frowning.
"Thought you said she didn't believe in locks."
"She doesn't," Doran muttered, jaw tight.
He stepped back.
Reached over his shoulder.
Fingers curled around the hilt of his right blade.
In a single, fluid motion, he drew the sword—
Brought it down in a flash of steel—
Then swept upward in a clean, violent arc.
SKRRRRRRK—!
Sparks exploded.
The blade sliced through the core of the door like paper soaked in oil.
Then—
THUD—CRACK!
Doran snapped his leg up.
Delivered a brutal kick.
The door split in two, metal shrieking as both halves were hurled inward—
Clanging against the walls like thrown shields.
A plume of dust spiraling out into the wasteland as Dusty peeked his head around the shattered frame, optics blinking through the haze.
"Maybe she left to get food or something," he offered. "Or had a sudden salad emergency."
Kellon gave him a long look.
Doran didn't respond.
He sheathed his blade.
And stepped into the bunker.
Then—
He stopped.
Froze.
One step past the threshold.
Silent.
Still.
The light inside was dim.
Flickering.
Tired.
The scent of burnt rune-dust clung to the air, sharp and metallic—cut with something fainter.
Old copper.
A hint of oil.
And beneath it… something floral.
Faint.
Like a memory still hanging on the walls.
The room was empty.
But not abandoned.
No dust on the workbench.
No broken glass.
No overturned shelves.
A chisel still rested on a glowing rune plate—its tip frozen mid-curve.
A ration pack sat half-unwrapped on the desk's edge, crumbs still caught in the fold.
Whoever had been here…
Had left fast.
Too fast.
Doran's eyes narrowed.
"She was just here," he muttered.
He stepped further inside.
The door creaked faintly behind him, dragging closed on uneven hinges.
The air pressed in.
Thick with scorched metal, old runes, and that strange sweetness.
He moved with purpose—slow, calculated.
Eyes scanning every inch like a tracker in an old battlefield.
No signs of a struggle.
No spilled ink. No shattered tools. No blood.
Everything was still.
Too still.
His gaze fell to the workbench.
A chest plate rested there—half-etched, its runes spiraling inward like a storm caught mid-formation.
The chisel laid beside it, its tip catching the dim light with a cold gleam.
She was in the middle of a job, and then—left?
Doran's brows knit together.
He approached the table, every step soft. Controlled.
His hand hovered above the plate, palm open, fingers splayed.
Waiting.
Nothing.
No heat.
No flicker of residual energy.
No pulse.
Not just minutes.
Longer.
He turned, looking back at the door.
Why lock it from the outside if she planned to return?
His eyes swept the room again.
The shelves were still full—half-finished plates, melted scraps, carefully labeled failures.
Tools in their places.
Notes untouched.
She hadn't packed.
She hadn't prepared.
There were no signs of haste.
Just… absence.
"How long ago did she leave?" Doran murmured.
Dusty wandered deeper into the bunker, humming a garbled tune that may have once been a lullaby—or a corrupted self-diagnostic loop.
Hard to tell.
His optics clicked and adjusted, lenses shifting as he passed a wall of hanging tools.
He let his fingers trail along them with the reverence of a museum guest, not a machine.
"Ooooh," he breathed. "She has some nice stuff. Oh-ho—is that a Mk-7 Rune Drill? Fancy…"
He paused near a cluttered shelf half-swallowed by shadows.
Crates were stacked like lazy thoughts—crooked, scattered, forgotten.
He crouched with a mechanical whirr, peering behind one of them.
"Hello, what's this?"
Dusty reached in.
His metal fingers brushed something smooth. Curved. Cool to the touch.
He pulled it free.
An umbrella.
Sleek. Slightly dented.
But beautifully made.
Stamped on the handle was a sigil he didn't recognize—
Three diamonds circling a crescent moon.
Dusty gasped.
"A weapon of elegance," he whispered reverently.
Without hesitation, he snapped it open—FWIP—and swung it wide in a graceful arc like a fencer mid-duel.
He twirled once.
Then twice.
Then launched into a full mock battle—slashing at invisible foes, ducking behind crates, parrying shadows like a performer in a private opera.
His movements were strangely fluid.
Almost… refined.
At the center of the room, Doran finally looked up.
"Quit playing around," he said, flatly. "And help us look."
Dusty froze mid-pose.
Umbrella stretched in a dramatic diagonal slash, foot forward like a duelist waiting for applause.
Then—slowly—he lowered it to his side.
Gracefully.
Like a swordsman sheathing his blade after a duel already won.
"You've already been cut," he said solemnly.
He mimed the final click of an invisible sheath locking shut.
Then burst out laughing.
Static danced through his voice.
His optics spun in delighted spirals.
"Ohhhh man! That felt cool! Didn't it feel cool?! No? Just me?"
Across the room, Kellon sighed. Loudly.
Like someone praying for divine mercy.
"I am begging the gods to smite you."
Dusty spun toward him on his heel, umbrella pointed squarely like a general issuing challenge.
"Too late," he declared. "I have ascended."
FWUMP—!
The umbrella snapped fully open—its black fabric blooming like a midnight flower.
At the center of the umbrella's canopy—etched in fine silver thread—was the same symbol as the handle:
A crescent moon encircled by three diamonds.
It shimmered faintly in the flickering light.
Not brightly.
Not loud.
Just enough to be seen.
Enough to mean something.
Doran nodded, slow and grim.
"I've seen it before. Once. A couple years back. The Allasupa Family."
The name hit the air like smoke after a fire—clinging, acrid, undeniable.
"Big syndicate in the Regnum Ignis."
Not just criminal.
Not just dangerous.
The kind of syndicate whose shadow stretched across systems.
Long.
Cold.
Patient.
Kellon's expression darkened. His stance shifted—more soldier than man now.
"They must have taken her."
But Doran didn't look at him. His gaze stayed fixed on the umbrella. On the sigil that still pulsed like breath stitched into silk.
"No," he said. Quiet. Flat.
"She didn't fight back."
A pause.
"She left with them, but not willingly."
Kellon's brow creased. "How do you know?"
Doran stepped back, scanning the room—not for people.
For intent.
For traces.
The untouched tools.
The half-etched armor.
The chisel still gleaming beside the glowing rune plate.
Patterns.
Choices.
"She locked the door from the outside," Doran said.
"Didn't pack. Didn't run."
His voice stayed low, but sharper now.
"She walked out. Knowing she wasn't coming back."
He turned again to the umbrella.
"She hid that here. Not carelessly. On purpose."
A beat.
"Hoping someone would find it."
Dusty leaned forward, optics wide. The umbrella now balanced across his shoulders like a sword strapped too high.
"So… it's a clue? Like a message in an umbrella?"
Doran didn't smile.
"No."
He stepped closer to the center of the room.
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"She left something more valuable."
Dusty tilted his head. "What's that?"
Doran's eyes were dark. Steady.
"Time."