Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
P lanet: Neri
Capital City: Jeslean
General Roan Landis stood motionless before the long stretch of windows in the Legion Headquarters. His tall frame was silhouetted against the pale light of a smoke-filled sky. The city that had once been a beacon of culture and innovation was now a rubble strewn graveyard. Outside, spirals of dark smoke clawed upward from the ruins of Jeslean, curling like ghostly fingers. The capital city lay in charred devastation, its skeletons of buildings jutting into the haze like broken teeth. Flames flickered weakly in pockets of debris, their light casting an eerie, hellish glow over the barren streets.
The world was silent from this vantage, but Roan knew better. He could feel the echoes of screams, the sobs of survivors, and the hollow rattle of despair woven into the stillness. This was the cost of Andri Andronikos’ tyranny—a scorched land, a suffocated people, and hope reduced to ash.
His jaw tightened as he stared at the haunting silhouette of the spiraling tower, its jagged form defiantly cutting through the smoke. The symbol of the Knights of the Gallant still stood, though the tower’s upper levels were battered and cracked. It rose like a ghostly sentinel over the ruins, its mere presence a silent negation of the Legion’s destruction.
Roan’s chest tightened. It shouldn’t be standing, Andri had hissed during the meeting. That tower should burn like the rest. But Roan had insisted otherwise, cloaking his defiance in cold logic. “Destroying it,” he had argued, “makes it a martyr. Leave it, and it remains nothing more than a relic.” Deep down, he had hoped Andri was right—that the tower would inspire resistance, not defeat.
The faint hum of the air circulators in the corridor did little to calm the storm within him. The meeting he had just endured with Andri and his father, General Coleridge Landais, had been suffocating. It wasn’t unusual for their interactions to bristle with tension; betrayal was their family legacy, after all. But this meeting had been different. Beneath the polished veneer of civility, Roan had caught the glint of knives—not literal ones, but sharp enough.
They tried to kill me.
The realization pulsed through him, heavy and cold. It wasn’t the first attempt, and he doubted it would be the last. That knowledge should have steeled his resolve. Instead, it had stoked the embers of bitterness smoldering in his gut.
He turned his gaze back to the horizon, to the smoke and rubble. The ruins weren’t just a symbol of Andri’s cruelty; they were a reminder of Roan’s impotence. He had been powerless to stop the destruction of Neri’s major city, the executions, the mass graves. The directives had come down from Andri, his father had enforced them, and Roan had been made a spectator to their atrocities.
His thoughts shifted, drawn to thoughts of the fragments of the alien pods that had so rattled Andri and his father. The artifacts had been unlike anything Roan had ever seen, and the symbols etched into their surfaces—three interlocking triangles encircling an unfamiliar spacecraft—spoke of a mystery that Andri feared but refused to explain.
Roan traced the memory of his brief encounter with the alien rebel who had infiltrated his battle cruiser. The man had been audacious, skilled, and fearless, his presence as sharp as the blade he carried. Even now, Roan could picture the defiant smirk and mocking salute the alien had thrown his way before disappearing into the void.
Why did he carry a Staff of the Gallant Order?
The question nagged at him like a thorn. The staff wasn’t just a weapon; it was a symbol of a forgotten legacy, one tied to myths Roan had dismissed as stories meant to pacify the oppressed. And yet, here it was—a living artifact, wielded by a man who embodied rebellion.
The faint echo of Andri’s voice crept into his mind, his tone venomous : “The Ancients have returned. We cannot allow this… hope to fester.”
Hope. That was what the alien and his companions had given the peoples. And it terrified Andri and Coleridge more than any weapon or fleet ever could.
A faint tremor rippled through Roan as he turned away from the window. He was under no illusions about the danger he faced—not just from Andri and Coleridge, but from the swirling chaos of questions and half-truths surrounding the pods and the so-called Ancients. He needed answers, and he knew where to find them.
Reaching the lift, Roan stepped inside, the doors hissing shut behind him. The descent to the flight deck was quiet, save for the faint hum of the machinery. When the doors opened, the scene before him burst into motion.
The flight deck was a hive of activity, alive with the clang of tools, the whine of engines, and the barked orders of mechanics. Ships of varying sizes lined the bay, their metal hulls gleaming under the bright lights. The smell of fuel and scorched metal filled the air, sharp and acrid.
A junior engineer approached, his boots clicking on the steel deck as he snapped to attention. “Sir, your transport is ready,” Ensign Tollant said, saluting crisply.
Roan nodded, his expression unreadable. “Excellent.”
With a measured stride, he crossed the flight deck toward his ship. The silver vessel stood apart from the others, its sleek, aerodynamic design a stark contrast to the older models around it. It was a prototype, a marvel of engineering that whispered of speed and precision.
He climbed into the cockpit, the interior dark and quiet, the air thick with anticipation. As he programmed the encrypted coordinates, the faint hum of the ship’s systems thrummed beneath his hands. He activated the jammer installed by Dorane LeGaugh’s engineers, ensuring his journey would remain untraceable.
The cockpit lights cast a soft glow over his face as he settled into the pilot’s seat. His thoughts lingered on Dorane—a man as elusive as smoke and just as dangerous. Their alliance was one of necessity, bound by mutual respect and an unspoken understanding that neither would betray the other. Yet, even in that bond, there were shadows, secrets buried too deep to unearth.
As the ship’s engines roared to life, Roan gripped the controls, his jaw tightening. He was heading toward answers—and perhaps a reckoning. The galaxy was shifting, the threads of the past tangling with the present in ways he couldn’t yet decipher.
And as the ruined city of Jeslean disappeared beneath him, one question burned in his mind: If the Ancients have returned, what role was he destined to play in their awakening?
* * *
Three days after departing Jeslean, Roan broke through the treacherous outer rings encircling Plateau, the planet at the galaxy’s edge where his mother’s people had built their sanctuary. His starfighter’s shields flared, the shimmering energy field deflecting waves of magnetic interference and particulate debris that swirled through the upper atmosphere. The ship shuddered under the strain, but Roan’s hands remained steady on the controls, his concentration fixed on the navigation panel.
Beyond the cockpit, Plateau emerged like a vision torn from myth. Massive floating boulders hung suspended in the thin, mist-laden air, their jagged surfaces veiled by ribbons of vapor. A quick glance at the scanner confirmed what Roan already knew—many of these formations were illusions, clusters of dust particles held together by the planet’s unique gravitational anomalies. Although, many others were real and solid enough to shred his ship if he miscalculated his trajectory.
He adjusted course, the sleek ship slicing through the mist as he threaded his way toward the first of Plateau’s floating islands. These were no illusions. Each was a marvel of natural engineering, rising from the ocean below on invisible currents, their porous rock buoyed by gas pockets formed deep within volcanic fissures. Towering waterfalls tumbled from their edges, the water dissipating into sparkling clouds of mist before it reached the planet’s surface.
Roan’s jaw tightened as the familiar landscape filled the viewport. He had visited this world in secret during his youth, slipping away from his father’s control to breathe in the culture and freedom of his mother’s people. Now it had been years since his last visit, and the sight of it stirred something raw and unsteady in his chest—a mixture of longing and dread.
He angled the ship toward a large island, its silhouette dominated by a towering black cathedral carved directly into the volcanic rock. Soft, fluffy clouds parted as he descended, their delicate wisps clinging to the ship’s hull before disintegrating into vapor. The mist from a nearby waterfall swept over the starfighter, briefly obscuring his view before the island reemerged, vibrant and unyielding.
The cathedral loomed ahead, its polished walls gleaming like obsidian in the waning sunlight. Roan’s lips pressed into a grim line as he made a low pass over the island. He didn’t need to announce his presence; his maternal grandmother, the matriarch who ruled Plateau, would already know he was here.
Circling once more, Roan selected an adjacent island tethered to the cathedral’s by a series of hanging bridges. The ship touched down on a gravel clearing, its engines whining softly as they powered down. Roan exhaled and unstrapped himself, the tension in his shoulders refusing to ease.
Outside, the air was heavy with humidity and faintly sweet, carrying the scent of blooming flora and the earthy tang of wet rock. A gathering of Plateauan locals had already formed, their curiosity evident in their wide eyes and hesitant whispers. Before Roan could step down the platform, a group of leather-clad security sentinels emerged, dispersing the crowd with efficient but quiet authority.
He descended the ramp with measured steps, his boots crunching against the gravel. The sentinels saluted him as he passed, their postures rigid, their eyes betraying a mix of deference and unease.
Word of the Legion’s destruction must have reached the planet, he grimly thought.
Roan’s own unease only deepened as he approached the hanging bridge that connected to the cathedral island. The familiar path, lined with carvings and floral arrangements, seemed unchanged, but its serenity was more a fragile veneer over the tension that hummed beneath the surface.
Residents called out friendly greetings as he walked, their voices warm but subdued. He bowed his head in acknowledgment, his heart twisting at their reception. These people—his people—knew nothing of the violence that tainted his life. The Plateauans lived in a culture of education and nurturing, a sharp contrast to the bloody machinations of the Legion. The weight of that contrast settled heavily on him, each step along the bridge driving it deeper.
At the foot of the cathedral’s steps, Roan paused, his gaze lifting to study the new statues that adorned the path. One, in particular, caught his attention: a depiction of Jemar de Rola, a former Knight of the Gallant, standing with a hand resting on the shoulder of his young son. The likenesses were striking, almost haunting, and Roan felt a flicker of unease. The deaths of Jemar and his son had not been accidents—they had been warnings. Warnings the Legion had issued with ruthless precision.
His fists clenched at his sides as he climbed the steps. He could not pretend innocence. The blood of countless innocents stained his hands, the result of a system he had been powerless to defy. Now he had no time to dwell on his culpability. This visit was not about absolution—it was about survival.
The cathedral’s black doors stood imposing and silent, guarded by two sentinels who pressed a lever to admit him. As the heavy doors creaked open, a flood of light spilled into the corridor, illuminating the polished floors and intricately carved walls within.
Inside, mirrors strategically positioned throughout the cathedral reflected and amplified the sunlight streaming through narrow windows, bathing the nave in an almost ethereal glow. Roan’s boots echoed on the smooth stone as he walked the length of the wide hall, his focus briefly lingering on the towering columns that framed his path.
At the far end, a spiral staircase wound upward, its carvings depicting celestial maps and ancient legends. Roan ascended quickly, his tension mounting with each step. At the top, he was greeted by a set of double doors, their surfaces etched with a depiction of stars being born from cosmic dust.
His grandmother stood waiting, her figure framed by the open balcony. The expanse of ocean stretched out beyond her, its surface glittering like shattered glass under the soft light.
“Grandmother,” Roan said, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him.
Roanna turned, her expression serene, though her eyes held a sharp curiosity. “Roan,” she greeted him, a gentle smile gracing her lips. “It has been too long since you last visited.”
Her words carried a subtle reprimand, but Roan did not step forward to receive her outstretched hands. Instead, he kept his distance, his shield of composure cracking as he exhaled heavily. Roanna studied him before she turned and walked out onto the balcony. He silently followed her.
“Yes. It has been too long. How is Grandfather?” he inquired, stepping forward to stand next to her.
“Calstar is tending his plants and talking to the wind. He would enjoy it if you would ask him yourself, but that is not why you have come,” she responded.
“I don’t have much time,” he confessed.
Guilt ate at him when she turned away with a sad smile to stare back out at the ocean. He touched her arm. She tilted her head, but didn’t look at him.
“I’m looking for something that came from a distant world,” he quietly murmured.
“Why do you seek it, Roan?” she asked.
Roan’s breath hitched at her calm yet firm reply. “The capsule is here, isn’t it? Who was inside it?”
A quiet tension settled between them, the stillness of the moment underscored by the soft rustle of wind sweeping through the open balcony.
“I don’t want to take it from you,” he said carefully, his voice low. “But the information it holds could mean the difference between survival and annihilation. You’ve seen what Andri and my father are capable of. They won’t stop searching for it—and if they find it here, they’ll bring their destruction with them.”
Roanna turned to face him, her eyes narrowing slightly. The serenity in her expression did not falter, but there was an edge to her gaze now, sharp as the jagged cliffs of Plateau’s islands.
“And what of you, Roan?” she asked, her voice as steady as a mountain. “What will you do with this knowledge? Will you wield it as a weapon, as they would? Or will you bury it, hiding it away until it becomes a forgotten relic?”
Her words struck like a blow, and Roan flinched inwardly, though his expression remained composed. He stepped closer to the balcony’s edge, his hands gripping the railing as he stared out at the endless expanse of ocean below.
“I don’t know,” he admitted after a moment, his voice barely audible. “But I can’t ignore it. The pods are more than relics—they’re proof of something greater. Something that terrifies them.”
“And it terrifies you as well,” Roanna said, stepping beside him.
He glanced at her, startled by her perceptiveness. “I fear what it means for the galaxy,” he admitted. “For all of us. If the myth of the Ancients’ return is true…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I need to understand why. And I need to understand what it means… for me.”
Roanna studied him in silence, her expression softening slightly. “You carry the weight of many lives, Roan,” she said. “But the burden of understanding this is not yours alone to bear.”
Roan turned to her fully, the vulnerability in his eyes tempered by determination. “I’m not asking for it to be mine alone. I’m asking for your help.”
Her expression shifted, a mixture of sadness and something he couldn’t quite name. “The capsule is here, Roan,” she said. “But its contents are not meant for the Legion, nor for you. It belongs to the one who came in it.”
“Who?” Roan pressed, his voice sharpening despite himself.
Roanna casually looked toward the horizon, her tone thoughtful yet distant. “She is unlike any we have seen before,” she said. “And she has not yet chosen her path.”
“She?” The single word hung in the air, heavy with implications.
Roanna turned back to him, her expression firm. “You will meet her soon enough,” she said. “But I warn you, Roan—do not underestimate the power of what you seek. It will not bend to your will, nor to the will of the Legion.”
Roan’s chest tightened, frustration bubbling beneath his calm exterior. “You’ve already made your decision,” he said quietly, a bitter edge creeping into his tone.
“I have,” Roanna confirmed. “But you have choices left to make. I pray you choose wisely.”
The silence that followed was thick with unspoken tension. Roan pushed back from the railing, his hands clenched into fists. “I won’t let them destroy this world,” he said finally, his voice resolute. “Or her.”
Without another word, he turned and strode back toward the staircase, his steps heavy with purpose. Roanna watched him go, her expression unreadable as the wind carried her final words, spoken so softly he wondered if he had imagined them.
“And what of yourself, my grandson? Will you destroy, or will you be saved?”
* * *
Roan descended the spiral staircase with quick, purposeful strides, the intricate carvings along the walls a blur in his periphery. A sense of urgency coursed through him, tightening his chest and quickening his breath. His grandmother’s words echoed in his mind, their meaning now clear. The garden. She hadn’t named it outright, but she had guided him with the subtlety of a Plateauan elder.
Breaking into a jog as he exited the cathedral, Roan crossed the hanging bridge, its wooden planks swaying slightly beneath his boots. The air was crisp and carried the faint, sweet scent of blooming pitavia vines. Overhead, a flock of erebidae moths darted through the sunlight, their translucent wings catching the light like shards of stained glass.
He reached his ship, his thoughts already ahead of him as he climbed into the cockpit. There were only three places his grandfather might be, and Roan’s instincts pointed him to the most remote: the floating islands near the ice shelf. It was an isolated location, the kind of place no one would think to search—except someone who knew Calstar.
The journey took him over a dozen islands, each one a marvel in its own right. Towering cliffs covered in vivid green moss jutted from the misty expanse below. Rivers twisted like silver threads across the surfaces, spilling into waterfalls that dissolved into vapor before reaching the ocean. Some islands were connected by delicate natural bridges, their rocky arches framed by flowering vines that swayed in the breeze. Others floated alone, serene and untouched, their jagged bases hanging like suspended roots.
At last, Roan spotted the small hut and the sizeable garden nestled on one of the higher islands. The island floated farther above the ocean than most, its porous rock glinting faintly in the pale sunlight. A spiral of smoke rose from the hut’s chimney, twisting into the sky like a silent beacon.
He circled the island once, scanning for a place to land. As he maneuvered his ship into position, his lips quirked into a faint, wry smile. His grandfather hadn’t made this easy, as usual. The small island’s uneven surface offered little room for a starfighter, but Roan managed to find a narrow patch of solid ground near the edge of the garden.
Exiting the ship, he paused at the base of the platform, taking in his surroundings. The air was colder here, carrying a faint briny tang from the distant ice shelf. The wind tugged at his cloak, ruffling the hem against his boots as he stood still, his eyes narrowing at the thin plume of smoke rising from the hut.
He knew Calstar wouldn’t be inside. His grandfather had always preferred the outdoors, finding solace in the sun’s warmth and the whisper of the wind.
Turning to the left, Roan followed the narrow path that wound toward the garden. The vegetation was lush, a blend of Plateauan herbs and vegetables thriving in neat rows. Their vivid colors—deep greens, purples, and oranges—stood out starkly against the island’s rocky terrain.
Rounding a corner, Roan’s steps slowed. He caught sight of the familiar figure of his grandfather, kneeling before a statue at the edge of the garden. The statue’s craftsmanship was exquisite, capturing the gentle strength of Roan’s mother with haunting accuracy. Her serene expression seemed to watch over the garden, her hands delicately folded as if in prayer.
But it wasn’t just Calstar and the statue that held Roan’s attention.
A woman stood beside his grandfather, her presence as unexpected as it was unsettling. She was backlit by the sunlight, the delicate lines of her figure soft yet purposeful. As she turned, her wide, curious eyes met Roan’s, and his breath caught. She bent down to help his grandfather to his feet, her movements unhurried and filled with a quiet confidence. Calstar ignored her extended hand and declined her offer of assistance with a slight shake of his head.
Roan didn’t realize he had stopped in the middle of the path until his fingers curled into tight fists. This is what they feared ? he thought, his stomach clenching as the weight of his discovery settled over him. This is what they were willing to kill for.
The woman didn’t look like anything he had expected. She wasn’t a warrior clad in armor or a figure of myth come to life. She was… ordinary, at least outwardly. And yet, there was something in the way she carried herself, something in her steady gaze, that sent a ripple of unease through him.
He forced his body to move, each step deliberate and slow. He stopped a few feet away, his eyes locked on hers. A light breeze pulled a strand of her hair loose, sending it drifting across her face. She lifted a hand, brushing it back behind her ear with a motion so simple, so familiar, that it made his chest tighten.
Her expression was cautious, her lips pressed into a line as she studied him. There was no smile of greeting, no warmth in her demeanor, only an unreadable wariness. She was assessing him, just as he was assessing her.
The tension broke when Calstar spoke, his voice trembling but steady enough to carry the weight of his words.
“Roan, you have come. I knew you would,” Calstar said, his tone both relieved and resigned.
Roan’s gaze flickered briefly to his grandfather, but it returned almost immediately to the woman. He inclined his head slightly, acknowledging his grandfather’s words, but the words he wanted to say were for her.
Who are you? he wanted to ask. But he held his tongue, knowing the answers would come soon enough—and knowing that those answers might change everything.
* * *
Julia stared at the stranger who had emerged, her breath catching in her throat. Curiosity tangled with a sharp thread of fear, tightening her chest. Her first instinct was to hide—in the hut, among the garden’s neatly tended rows, or perhaps in the cascade of vines that spilled over the island’s edge like a living curtain. But it was too late for that. The sleek spacecraft circling overhead had already heralded its arrival with a quiet precision that contrasted with the silent grace of Plateau’s erebidae riders.
She stayed rooted, her gaze fixed on the ship as it descended in controlled spirals. The sunlight gleamed off its polished surface, a metallic contrast to the natural beauty of the island. Julia’s mind raced, cataloging every detail, from the emblem emblazoned on its hull to the faint hum of its thrusters.
This was no Plateauan craft.
“Calstar?” she murmured, her voice tight with unease.
The old man remained where he knelt, carefully arranging a cluster of vibrant, bell-shaped flowers at the base of the statue. He didn’t look up, his gnarled hands moving with deliberate care as though the arrival of the spacecraft was no more disruptive than a passing breeze.
“It is my grandson,” Calstar said softly, his tone laced with a quiet inevitability.
Julia’s brow furrowed. “Roan? But… isn’t he—” Her voice faltered, unable to mask the edge of concern.
Calstar finally lifted his gaze, his weathered face calm but shadowed with an unspoken sadness. He placed a hand on the statue of his daughter, his fingers brushing the carved likeness of her folded hands. “He is not all his father nor his uncle,” he murmured.
Julia pressed her lips together, torn between questions and caution. She had been careful not to push Calstar too far during their conversations, observing more than speaking. Now, a part of her regretted that restraint.
What didn’t I ask? What did I miss?
The ship landed smoothly, its thrusters emitting a soft hiss as they powered down. Julia tensed as the hatch opened, her pulse quickening. When the man emerged, her breath hitched. Roan Landis was nothing like she had imagined.
Tall and broad-shouldered, he moved with a quiet, restrained energy, like a predator surveying unfamiliar territory. His black hair caught the light as the wind teased it into motion, but it was his eyes that held her. They were sharp and piercing, the same color as Calstar’s but devoid of the elder’s warmth.
Julia barely noticed when Calstar placed a steadying hand on her arm. She glanced down at the old man, her muscles still taut with the urge to flee, but his calm expression steadied her. “Relax,” his smile seemed to say, though his lips remained pressed in a firm line.
Roan’s focus fell on her, and she felt the weight of it as if he had physically reached out and touched her. His steps slowed as he approached, his boots crunching softly against the gravel path. Julia’s mind whirred, cataloging the similarities between him and his grandfather. He bore Calstar’s thicker build and strong features, but his height and aristocratic air belonged entirely to Roanna.
“You… came from one of the space capsules?” Roan asked.
His voice was low, weighted with something Julia couldn’t decipher—curiosity, suspicion, something more dangerous. She stiffened and her pulse quickened. She had expected accusations, hostility, maybe even a demand for surrender. Not this measured intensity.
He caught her off guard. She hadn’t anticipated the rich cadence of his voice wrapping around her like a warm blanket on a cold night, nor her own curiosity about him.
“Yes,” she replied, her chin lifting a fraction. “And I suppose you’re here to decide whether to shoot me or lock me up?”
They stood in silence for a moment, sizing each other up like opponents before a duel. Her glance flickered briefly to the weapon at his hip, its sleek design alien yet undeniably lethal. Unexpectedly, she was reminded of a bull-fighter expertly whipping his red cape as he side-stepped danger for an audience.
I hope I’m not the bull in this scenario. The thought brought a flicker of humor to her lips, and she bowed her head, breaking their intense connection.
The sound of polished boots approaching drew her attention back, and she startled slightly when warm fingers lifted her chin, forcing her to meet Roan’s gaze again.
“You find this amusing?” he asked, his tone unreadable.
Julia released a breathless chuckle. “For a moment, I pictured a matador and a bull. I was trying to decide which of us was which. Considering you’re armed and I’m not, it wasn’t looking too good for the bull.”
The honesty took him by surprise. He frowned slightly, dropping his hand to his side, but his lips quirked as if suppressing a smile.
A low, familiar chuckle interrupted them. Calstar’s amused expression broke the tension like sunlight piercing through clouds. Calstar studied his grandson for a moment, his gaze piercing in a way that made Roan shift uncomfortably.
“Be gentle with your words, Roan. Julia has been through enough.”
Roan frowned, surprised by the warning. But Calstar was already turning away, his steps slow but sure.
“I’ll put some tea on,” Calstar continued, smiling at Julia. “Julia, why don’t you show my grandson around the garden? It’s been too long since he’s seen it.”
Julia hesitated, opening her mouth to protest, but Roan spoke first. “I would enjoy that,” he said, his voice softening.
“Then it’s settled,” Calstar said, his smile widening as he turned toward the hut. His hand briefly rested on the statue’s base before he moved away, his pace slow but steady.
Julia caught the faint tightening of Roan’s jaw as he watched his grandfather walk toward the hut. The younger man’s gaze lingered on the statue, then flicked to Calstar’s retreating figure.
“He’s ill,” Roan murmured, his words more statement than question.
Julia’s chest ached at the quiet resignation in his tone. “Yes,” she said, her voice gentle.
“What has he told you?” Roan asked, his brow furrowing as he turned to her.
She shook her head, the ache in her chest growing. “Only that he will soon join your mother. There’s a quietness about him—a peace. I saw the same in my grandmother before she passed.”
Roan’s expression tightened further, and for a fleeting moment, Julia saw beneath his stoic exterior to the turmoil swirling within. But he quickly masked it, his focus sharpening as he studied her again.
“Who are you,” he asked, his voice low, “and where did you come from?”