Chapter 18 Nova
NOVA
The hall feels colder today.
The kind of cold that isn't about temperature but presence—like the absence of something warm you didn't know you'd miss until it’s gone.
Every footstep I take echoes too loud. My boots click against polished steel as I move through corridors I’ve walked a thousand times. But today, the walls feel narrower. The ceiling lower. Like the building itself knows what’s about to happen.
Final rankings for the First Ray seat are due by 1600 hours.
Trozius’s message came in just after dawn. No pleasantries. Just a time, a location, and a directive.
“Your input on Kazimir and Yoris. No room for vagueness this time.”
I should be prepared. I’ve been compiling these files for weeks. Hours of footage. Metrics. Psychological overlays. Tactical breakdowns. Both cadets are exemplary.
But only one feels like fire in the sky.
I step into the evaluation hall and the door seals behind me with a quiet hiss. Screens bloom to life on either side of the room, casting shifting glows across the walls like constellations rearranging themselves.
Kaz. Yoris.
Side by side.
Objectively, it’s a tie. Discipline versus instinct. Control versus edge. Safety versus spark.
Yoris is everything the brass salivates over—clean flight logs, textbook formations, no disciplinary flags. He’s steady. Dependable. Predictable.
Kaz…
Kaz is wind and fire and wild starlight.
A pilot’s pilot.
But he’s also the one who nearly clipped a tower three nights ago.
And the one who left a manual on my doorstep like a confession he knew I’d never answer.
I sit. My hand hovers over the data pad, cursor blinking against the final field: Instructor Assessment: Supplemental Commentary.
Blank.
Again.
I’ve left it blank every time, letting the numbers speak for themselves. But this time, my fingers ache to type something—anything.
Because this time, I know what I want.
I want Kaz to win.
Gods help me, I want it more than I want my own heart to behave.
I close the field without typing a word.
Then I bring up his footage again.
He’s mid-dive, spinning tight, a corkscrew maneuver that should be impossible at that velocity. But he pulls it. Just enough. Right before the G-force redlines. His ship hums like it’s singing.
I pause the frame.
He’s upside down in the shot, jaw clenched, arms taut, eyes forward.
Fierce. Focused. Unreadable.
That’s the Kaz they all see.
The one who flies like he’s got something to prove.
Not the one who kissed my shoulder in the dark and whispered my name like a promise.
Not the one I left standing outside my door like some forgotten myth.
I lean back, eyes burning.
What if he doesn’t even want it anymore?
What if this whole time he was chasing something else—something that vanished the moment I stepped away?
Trozius doesn’t say hello when I walk into the conference room. Just motions toward the terminal, already lit with the candidate dossiers.
“Final vote’s in an hour,” he says. “I want to know where you stand.”
“I submitted my evaluations.”
“You submitted numbers,” he replies. “Now I want thoughts. Gut. Instinct. You’ve flown with both of them more than anyone.”
My jaw tightens.
He leans forward, steepling his fingers. “Let me be clear: we both know Yoris is the safe bet. His track record’s clean. His psychological profile's tighter than a flight suit in zero-G. He won't ruffle feathers.”
“And Kaz?” I ask, too quickly.
Trozius eyes me. “Kaz is a risk.”
I say nothing.
“He’s got the instincts. The reflexes. But he’s also unpredictable. One bad week from cracking.”
“He’s been under pressure.”
Trozius lifts a brow. “So has everyone.”
I shift my weight. “Kaz pushes harder because he wants it more.”
“Or because he doesn’t know how to slow down,” Trozius counters. “He’s reckless, Nova. The kind of reckless that makes enemies on the board.”
“But he wins.”
“Sometimes.”
We sit in silence for a breath too long.
Then he says, quieter, “Is this personal?”
My stomach drops.
“No,” I lie.
Trozius studies me. Then nods.
“Good. Because First Ray doesn’t get personal. First Ray leads.”
He doesn’t wait for a reply. Just waves me off.
“Evaluation’s final. You’re dismissed.”
I walk out with fire behind my ribs.
Not because he’s wrong.
But because I know he’s right—and I still want to fight it anyway.
There’s a box outside my quarters.
Small. Square. Unassuming.
My breath catches when I see the handwriting on the label. Tight. Slanted.
Kaz.
I scan the corridor. No one’s around.
The lights overhead buzz like they know a secret.
I take the box inside and lock the door behind me.
Inside is the flight manual he borrowed the day before our lines blurred into something neither of us could name.
I run my fingers over the cover. It’s bent at the edges now, the spine creased like it’s been read and reread and maybe even clutched in hands shaking with frustration.
Tucked between the pages is a note.
Simple. Folded.
No regrets. Just the truth.
I sit on the floor.
I cry.
Not loud. Not messy.
Just silent and steady and real.
Because this wasn’t supposed to happen.
I’m afraid I already know the ending.
And I’m still praying I’m wrong.