Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
R oan leaned back against the raised bed in the medical unit aboard the Tracer , the sterile scent of antiseptic sharp in his nose. The dull throb in his shoulder pulsed in rhythm with his heart, but it wasn’t the physical pain that weighed on him—it was everything else.
Julia sat beside him, her fingers resting lightly on his forearm, grounding him with her presence. Despite the chaos, her touch was steady, a quiet reassurance in the middle of the storm.
The door slid open with a soft hiss. Roan glanced up, his lips quirking into a crooked smile when Hutu stepped inside. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Roan said, his voice rough with fatigue but still tinged with dry humor.
Hutu’s lips twitched, but the usual warmth in his eyes was missing. His attention shifted between Roan and Julia before settling on Roan, his expression grim. “What the two of you did today… it turned the tide. Tesla Terra is free.” He paused, his words hanging heavy in the air. “The Legion Battle Cruisers have retreated. General Coleridge is dead. The Space Lab is gone.”
Roan inhaled sharply, his pulse picking up.
“Director Andronikos has withdrawn to Legion-controlled territory,” Hutu continued. “There are reports he watched the battle from a distance. When he realized the Gallant forces were regrouping, he pulled back, afraid we’d set our sights on him next.”
The room fell silent, the weight of Hutu’s words pressing down on them. Relief coursed through Roan, but it was fleeting, drowned out by the darker shadows that crowded his thoughts. He had won this battle—but he knew better than anyone that Andri wasn’t done.
“He’ll come back,” Roan murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. He leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling, his eyes dark with memory. “My uncle’s not one to lick his wounds for long. He’ll come back harder, with everything he has.”
His mind flashed to Jeslean, to the floating islands of Plateau slipping beneath the waves. His throat tightened as he thought of his grandfather’s steady hands, the quiet wisdom in his voice. The ache of that loss felt raw again, reopened by the chaos of the last few days.
He exhaled slowly, turning his head to meet Hutu’s gaze. “He’s dangerous now. More dangerous than ever. He’ll see this as a personal betrayal and a humiliation he can’t allow to stand.” His jaw clenched. “We have to find him before he strikes again. We won’t get this kind of chance twice.”
Hutu crossed his arms, his expression hard but resolute. “The Gallant rebels won’t stop. We’ll hunt him down and end this.” His tone was steel. “We’ve all lost too much to let him slip away.”
Roan nodded faintly, though his heart still felt heavy. Too much was an understatement. They had survived, but survival had cost them everything.
Hutu’s expression softened as his attention shifted to Julia. “The Ancient Knights have returned,” he said, his voice quieter now. “And with them, the hope we thought was gone forever.”
Julia swallowed hard, her eyes flickering with emotion. The weight of those words pressed against her chest. Her mind drifted to Roanna and Calstar, to their stories of prophecy and destiny. She had never believed in such things, had clung to reason and science for as long as she could remember.
But now… now she wasn’t sure anymore. She had seen too much, survived too much, to dismiss it entirely.
Her focus settled on Roan, steady and unwavering. His dark eyes searched hers, filled with questions and something more—something deeper.
“I still don’t believe in prophecies,” she said softly. “Though I do believe in this. In what we’ve fought for. What we’ve survived for. And I’ll fight to protect it.” Her voice grew stronger as she added, “I have every reason to.”
Roan studied her for a long moment. The healer finished with his wound, but Roan barely noticed. His eyes never left Julia’s face.
She’s my reason now, too.
His lips quirked, his voice soft but firm. “We’ll stop him.”
Julia nodded, her hand tightening on his. “Together.”
The word hung between them, a vow filled with quiet strength and unspoken promises. For the first time in a long while, Roan felt something stir inside himself—something dangerously close to hope.
Hutu gave a respectful nod, his sharp eyes lingering on Roan and Julia for a moment before turning toward the door. “Until next time,” he said quietly, his deep voice steady. “Stay safe. We’ll be ready.”
With that, he was gone. The healer murmured something indistinct before retreating to his office, leaving them alone in the dimly lit medical unit. The familiar vibrations of the ship surrounded them, wrapping them in a rare moment of stillness.
Roan exhaled slowly, leaning back against the pillows. His eyes closed for a second before he opened them again, locking onto Julia’s steady eyes. His voice was soft, almost distant, when he finally spoke.
“He said I was too late.” His brow furrowed as he relived that last moment with his father. “Even as he lay there dying, my father had that twisted smile, as if he’d won somehow. There was nothing left in him but cruelty and vengeance. And for years…” Roan hesitated, his fingers tightening around the edge of the blanket. “I was worried I might end up like him. That something in me was the same. That no matter how hard I tried, it would eventually surface.”
Julia leaned closer, her hand brushing gently over his. “You’re nothing like him,” she said softly but with unwavering certainty. “You never were. You’re strong because of the choices you’ve made—not because of where you came from. Your mother, Calstar, Roanna… You follow after them. Not him.”
Roan’s throat tightened, and he was silent, unable to find the words to tell her how much he hoped she was right. He just nodded, grateful for her quiet strength and conviction when his own felt so precarious.
“I used to think the same thing about myself,” Julia said, her voice tinged with vulnerability. “That I couldn’t… form lasting relationships. My mother left when I was six. She always said it wasn’t her fault—that she just wasn’t made for family. For love.” Julia swallowed, her eyes glistening with old pain. “For a long time, I thought maybe I wasn’t made for it either. That something was missing in me.”
Roan’s heart ached at the raw honesty in her voice. He reached up, gently brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “She was wrong,” he said, his voice firm. “Whatever she was missing, you’re not. You love fiercely, Julia. You never gave up on the people you cared about—not Josh, not Sergi, not Mei. And… not me.”
Julia blinked, a tear slipping down her cheek, and she gave him a soft, bittersweet smile. “You showed me that I could trust again. That I could have something real—something I thought was out of reach.”
For a few heartbeats, the room was silent except for the steady heartbeat of the ship. Roan reached for her hand again, their fingers intertwining.
“It took everything I had to walk out of that lab,” Roan confessed, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I knew Sergi and Josh would protect you, but I couldn’t breathe until I saw you again. I had to know you were safe.”
Julia gave him a teasing smile, her eyes glinting with warmth. “You do remember that I was the one who broke you out—twice—right?”
A low chuckle rumbled from Roan’s chest. “Fair point.” He grinned, his lips twitching with amusement. “I guess that makes me officially in your debt. How will I ever repay you?”
“Oh, I’ll think of something,” she said, her voice laced with mischief.
Roan leaned back with a sigh, opening his arms. “In that case… come here.”
Julia climbed up onto the bed, settling into his embrace. She rested her head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “How long do you think it’ll be before they release you from this medical unit?”
Roan tightened his arms around her, his lips curving into a lazy smile. “A couple of hours, maybe.” His voice softened with a touch of relief. “And this time, I’ll be in your arms—not a cell in the brig.”
Julia tilted her head up, her eyes warm as they met his. “The universe finally got something right.”
Roan chuckled, resting his chin on the top of her head. “It did that when you arrived.”
The world didn’t feel quite so heavy. They lay there in comfortable silence, their hearts finally aligned with the quiet peace that had eluded them. And for the first time, Roan thought that maybe—just maybe—they had a chance.
* * *
Deep within the Legion Territory
The air in Andri Andronikos’s quarters was stifling. Shadows clung to the corners of the room as if they were waiting to swallow him whole. He paced in front of the viewport, his eyes were fixed on the swirling expanse of hyperspace beyond. His mind raced, fueled by the humiliation of his failure, Coleridge’s failure and the gnawing rage in his gut.
The space lab—gone. Coleridge—dead. His fleet—crippled.
The weight of everything pressed down on him, coiling around his chest like a constrictor. His hands clenched and unclenched as if strangling an invisible enemy.
“You were supposed to secure victory, Coleridge… not die like a fool,” he whispered. “How dare you leave me with this mess.”
A sharp ping pierced through the room, dragging him from his spiraling thoughts. His focus snapped to the communicator. His heart jolted at the name flashing on the screen.
Coleridge.
His pulse quickened. For a fleeting second, hope flared in his chest. Had his brother survived? His hand hovered over the console before pressing the accept command. The screen flickered, and there was Coleridge—his face pale, his lips twisted into a cruel sneer.
“No, Andri. I’m not alive,” Coleridge said, his voice a low rasp tinged with mocking glee. “But, if you’re seeing this, it means you’ve failed. Again.”
Andri stiffened, his breath caught in his throat. His mind spun, and his hand gripped the edge of the console.
“I’m sure you are surprised at this message,” Coleridge continued, his eyes gleaming with malice. “You’ve always underestimated me, Andri. Just as you underestimated Roan.”
The mention of Roan sent a sharp spike of rage through Andri. His nostrils flared, his knuckles turning white against the console.
“Your arrogance blinds you,” Coleridge drawled. “Without me, dear brother—you have no one who you can trust. I wonder… how many of your officers are whispering behind your back right now, waiting for the right moment to strike?”
Andri’s head jerked toward the door, his skin crawling with the sudden weight of unseen eyes. His apprehensive gaze swept the room, searching for shadows that moved too much, for corners too dark.
Coleridge leaned closer, his smile widening into something almost feral. “I made sure I wouldn’t be the only one haunting you. I offered Zoak an irresistible deal—a fortune beyond imagining. All he has to do is kill you.”
Andri’s breath quickened, his heartbeat roaring in his ears. His mind raced, calculating and recalculating every conversation, every alliance. The walls felt as though they were closing in.
“And then there’s Roan,” Coleridge said, his voice softening to a deadly whisper. “You think you know him. You don’t. He’s not a boy anymore. He’s a dangerous man, a warrior . And if Zoak doesn’t finish the job… Roan will. And trust me, you won’t see him coming.”
Coleridge’s image leaned back, his expression smug, his eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction. “Keep both eyes open, Andri. You’ll need them.” The screen flickered and went black.
For a long moment, Andri stood frozen. His breath came in short bursts, his chest tightening with a mix of fury and fear. Then, with a roar, he drove his fist into the communicator. Sparks flew, the device cracking under the force of the blow.
“Damn you, Coleridge!” he snarled, his voice hoarse. “Even dead, you try to take everything from me!”
His hands trembled; his pulse thundered in his ears. His mind replayed the message, every word, every smirk, every calculated jab. His eyes darted to his computer console. Seconds later, his fingers flew across the controls.
The connection buzzed, and then Zoak’s face filled the screen—calm, collected, and utterly unfazed.
“Director Andronikos,” Zoak said smoothly, a faint smirk tugging at his thin lips. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“Coleridge is dead. Whatever deal he made with you dies with him,” Andri barked. “I’ll double his offer. Walk away.”
Zoak chuckled, the sound low and dangerous. “Tempting, but no. You see, killing you? That’s not just a job—it’s a legacy. And legacy matters.”
Andri’s eyes narrowed, his fury bubbling to the surface. “You’ll regret this, Turbinta.”
Zoak’s grin widened. “Perhaps. But if we’re going to renegotiate, we’ll do it in person. Until then….” His expression sharpened.
The screen went dark.
Andri stared at the blank console, his breath ragged. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face—cold, sharp, and filled with the twisted promise of retribution.
“Fine,” he whispered. “Let them come. Let them all come.”
He began to pace again, each step slower, more deliberate. “But, Roan… you’ll be last. You’ll watch everything burn first. I’ll take everything from you—everything you care about. The woman, Julia Marksdale, will be the last to fall. I want you to feel it, Roan. To know what it’s like to lose.”
He stopped, his eyes gleaming with madness. “You’ll beg for death before I’m finished.”
And then, softly, he laughed—cold and hollow, a sound that echoed long after he left the room.
* * *
Cyron II Moon Base:
Cryon II’s artificial atmosphere buzzed faintly around him, a static hum that had become a constant companion in Zoak’s days of observation. Perched high above the commerce district, Zoak blended seamlessly into the shadows cast by the complex latticework of towers and walkways that crisscrossed the moon’s city. The dark windows of forgotten offices reflected the soft glow of distant lights, and the muffled sound of transport pods passing overhead was the only noise that broke the silence.
Zoak shifted his weight, his body moving with the practiced ease of a predator who had spent most of his life blending into the shadows. His fingers drummed softly against the sleek casing of his rifle, a steady rhythm as his eyes remained locked on the scene unfolding in Dorane’s office.
A lesser assassin would have pulled the trigger already. A clean shot, an easy kill. Efficient, but ultimately forgettable. Zoak had never been interested in forgettable. He wanted his kills to be poetry—precision wrapped in chaos, death with a message. Every target was a canvas, every strike a signature that left an indelible mark on history. He didn’t just kill people. He killed the idea of them.
The Ancient Knights of the Gallant, Roan, Dorane… all of them. They weren’t just men; they were symbols.
Taking them down wasn’t about the money—though the bounty Andri had offered was enough to make the most hardened assassin’s mouth water. No, this was about something far greater: legacy, his legacy.
Zoak had grown up with nothing. No name, no family, no home. Just a thin blanket of survival instincts and an innate talent for death. The Turbinta had given him purpose, training him in the art of assassination, molding him into a weapon. But they had also given him rules, constraints. For years, he’d followed those rules. Until one day, he’d realized that rules were just a collar and leash—and he wasn’t a Torrian wolfhound.
He’d killed his own master to prove it. But, it had not garnered Zoak the prestige he deserved. His Master had not had any standing among the ranks of Turbinta masters—not like Tallei.
His eyes flicked back to Dorane, watching the man pace the length of his office like a restless animal. Zoak smiled thinly. He’d been observing Dorane for days, and what had started as a routine hunt had quickly turned into something far more interesting. Dorane was unraveling. Something—or someone—was driving him mad. The great and powerful Dorane LeGaugh, the man who held half the galaxy in his pocket, was slipping.
Fascinating.
Zoak loved watching powerful men break. There was a beauty in it—a rawness, an honesty that only came at the end of everything they’d built. He could see it in Dorane’s eyes, the panic just beneath the surface. It made him curious. Who—or what—was doing this to Dorane? His first instinct had been that it was another Turbinta, but the whispers he’d picked up told a different story.
A shadowy figure. A savior. A ghost.
Zoak didn’t believe in ghosts, but he believed in opportunity. And the opportunity here was too delicious to ignore.
A stab of impatience ran through him when his communicator buzzed and he saw Coleridge’s face appear. He reached down and accepted the message.
“Andri is your new target, Zoak. Kill him, and you’ll have a fortune greater than your wildest dreams. The credits are being transferred as I speak. You now have the funds to be the assassin you’ve always wanted to be. In addition to the Director, I have included funds and resources for the termination of General Roan Landais and The Ancient Knights of the Gallant. My brother has already funded Dorane LeGaugh. They’re yours. Every last one of them. Make it count, Turbinta, and your name will never be forgotten.”
Zoak leaned back against the cold metal wall, his pulse quickening when he saw the credits along with a list of equipment with their locations for his use. He could feel the glee bubbling beneath his calm exterior, a dark, almost childlike joy that sent a shiver up his spine. Andri. Roan. Dorane. Kella. The Knights.
What would the Turbinta say when they heard that Zoak had taken them all down?
He let the thought roll through him, savoring it. He could already hear the whispers. His name, spoken with awe and fear. Zoak the Master Turbinta. Zoak the Unstoppable. Zoak the Legendary Assassin.
His focus returned to the office. The dark-skinned man was speaking with Kella now. His stance was calm, confident. The Ancient Knight had the kind of bearing that spoke of someone who had faced death and survived it—more than once.
Zoak’s fingers twitched on the rifle. He could take him out now. One shot, clean and quick. Kella would be next, then Dorane. Three bounties in one night.
But no. That was too simple, too easy. Zoak wasn’t just any assassin. He didn’t kill for convenience. He killed for the legend.
He would let them live—for now.
Besides, hunting prey was more enjoyable when they knew they were being hunted.
He smiled, his teeth flashing in the dim light. Yes. Let them breathe easy a little longer. Let them think they’ve won.
Then he would strike. Hard. Fast. Lethal.
Dorane first. Then Kella. Then the Ancient Knights. One by one, they would fall. And when they were gone, he would turn his sights on Andri. He could already taste the victory, feel the weight of the galaxy’s approbation upon him.
With one last glance at the scene below, Zoak stepped back into the shadows. His heart thrummed with anticipation, his breath steady and even. He could feel it coming—the perfect storm of chaos and blood that would elevate him to the heights he had always dreamed of.
And when it was over, the galaxy would never forget his name.