Chapter 19 Kaz
KAZ
They always time it that way—early enough that everyone’s too stunned to argue, too caffeine-deprived to stage a mutiny.
The assembly hall buzzes with low conversation, a current of nerves and half-suppressed bravado.
The kind of tension that tastes metallic in the air, like the static before a lightning strike.
I stand near the back, hands jammed in my jacket pockets, trying not to look like I care.
Which, of course, means I care way too damn much.
Trozius strides in with that stiff-backed authority that could silence a riot. His uniform’s pristine, voice clipped. “Final results for the First Ray short list,” he says. No preamble. No ceremony. Just execution by information.
The holoscreen flickers to life behind him.
FINALISTS: YORIS — SWAN — KAZIMIR.
The room goes still for half a second before erupting.
Yoris grins. That smug, razor-sharp, I-knew-it grin that makes me want to deck him. Swan blinks, caught completely off guard, and then laughs—quiet, disbelieving. He claps me on the shoulder hard enough to jolt me forward.
“Well, hell,” he says, voice low but bright. “Guess we made the cut.”
“Guess we did,” I mutter.
But my brain’s already spinning. Swan? That’s new. He wasn’t even in the top five last rotation. He’s good—steady, clean—but he’s not usually spotlight material. Someone pulled strings. Adjusted scores. Moved chess pieces behind the curtain.
Yoris doesn’t even look surprised. Just steps forward like he’s already wearing the First Ray insignia. He catches my eye, smirks, and mouths: try to keep up.
I roll my shoulders back and grin, all teeth. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Laughter ripples around us, but it’s hollow. The kind that hides something sharp underneath. I play along anyway. That’s what I do. Hide the sting with swagger.
When the crowd disperses, I spot Nova standing at the far end of the hall near the observation glass. Neutral expression. Arms behind her back. She’s all protocol and poise again. Untouchable.
And I hate that I miss the version of her who wasn’t.
The mess deck is chaotic at lunchtime.
Trays clatter, cadets shout over each other, someone’s started a betting pool near the water dispensers. The top three’s the only thing anyone’s talking about.
I’m sitting across from Swan, who’s eating like he’s still in disbelief.
“I swear, man,” he says between bites. “They must’ve finally noticed how consistent I am.”
“Or they just needed someone who doesn’t scare the brass,” I tease, jabbing at my protein bar.
He grins. “That too.”
Yoris slides onto the bench beside us without asking. “Consistency’s cute,” he says, reaching for the salt packet. “But First Ray’s not about playing it safe.”
“Guess that’s why they didn’t cut you,” I shoot back.
He smirks. “No, they didn’t.”
There’s a beat—sharp, electric. The kind of moment that smells like ozone before the thunderclap.
Swan clears his throat, sensing the tension. “Let’s not make this a thing, yeah?”
But Yoris leans in, voice dropping just enough for only me to hear. “Word is you’ve been… distracted lately. Thought maybe the instructors would see through it. Guess not.”
I freeze.
He smiles wider. “Congrats, though. Really. Must’ve been quite the comeback.”
I grip my fork so tight the metal creaks.
Swan’s hand lands on my wrist before I can stand. “Kaz,” he warns. “Don’t.”
“Distractions,” Yoris says louder now, feigning innocence. “Can’t imagine what those could be.”
The table goes quiet. Too quiet.
I shove back from my seat so hard it screeches against the floor. Every eye turns toward me.
“Watch your mouth, Yoris.”
He raises a brow. “Just making conversation.”
“Make less of it.”
Swan stands too, stepping between us. “Let’s cool it. Both of you.”
I glare at Yoris one last time, then storm out before I say something I can’t take back.
The flight deck’s quiet by comparison.
Evening drills haven’t started yet, and the air smells like ion dust and cold metal. The light’s thin, fading gold through the hangar slats. The kind of light that makes everything look like a memory.
She’s there—checking maintenance reports, pretending she doesn’t see me walking straight toward her.
“Captain,” I say, sharper than I mean to.
“Lieutenant,” she replies without looking up.
Her tone’s clinical. Distant. Might as well be talking to a stranger.
I stand in front of her, hands tight at my sides. “Did you have anything to do with the list?”
She sets her data pad down, slow. “That’s confidential.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
Something in me snaps.
“Don’t play games with me, Nova.”
She blinks once, calm as ever. “Games?”
“You knew. You always know. You pull the strings, you make the calls, and now you want to pretend this just happened?”
Her eyes narrow, but her voice stays level. “You’re out of line.”
“I’m asking you a question.”
“And I’m giving you an answer.”
“Bullshit.”
That cracks her composure, just a fraction. Her jaw tightens, her chin lifts. “You think I’m manipulating command boards for you?”
“I think you’re the only one who could.”
She steps forward, closing the distance between us by an inch that feels like a mile.
“You’re making it very hard for me to remember why I rooted for you,” she says quietly.
The words hit harder than a punch.
I flinch before I can stop myself. It’s instinct. She sees it. She doesn’t apologize.
I swallow the lump in my throat and look away.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Guess that makes two of us.”
She exhales—soft, shaky, almost human—and then turns, walking toward the far end of the deck.
“Get your head on straight, Kaz,” she says over her shoulder. “Because talent doesn’t mean anything if you keep flying like you’re already crashing.”
I watch her go.
I don’t follow.
Back in my quarters, the quiet’s unbearable.
I’ve never noticed how loud silence can be. The hum of the ventilation. The occasional creak of metal. My own heartbeat, like a malfunction I can’t fix.
On the desk, her note sits where I keep pretending it doesn’t exist.
I unfold it again, even though I know every word by heart.
Don’t break anything you can’t rebuild.
I stare at it for a long time.
Then I crumple it in my fist until it’s just paper and regret.
It lands in the corner with a soft, defeated sound.
I sink onto the edge of my bunk, elbows on my knees, staring at nothing.
Somewhere outside, the engines rumble as another squadron lifts off.
It’s Swan’s unit tonight. I can tell by the timing. The rhythm.
I should be proud of him. I am, in some quiet way. He’s steady, loyal, decent. The kind of pilot who’ll probably outlive the rest of us.
But right now, I just feel hollow.
Because I can’t shake the feeling that everything I’ve been flying toward—Nova, the Ray, all of it—was never meant to land.