Chapter 25
GYON
The dawn light comes soft and pearly through the translucent dome wall.
I wake before the two suns rise, but I can already feel the warmth creeping in.
My body aches again—muscles unused to this kind of work, ribs still stiff from when the Maze collapsed—but I push myself upright.
The ground beneath me in the communal sleeping chamber is warm and ribbed with woven reeds.
I sit and pull on boots that still carry rust stains, then step outside into the morning air.
A child’s voice calls: “Sir Gyon!” I turn. A small girl, vine-green tunic and dirt smudged on her knees, holds a bucket the size of her waist. She grins. “I help today.”
“Fine,” I say bluntly. She hitches the bucket over her shoulder and runs off. The sound of her boots on dust echoes. I follow at a slower pace.
The air smells like early rain and growing things.
The sun is still low and casts long shadows across the whispergrass fields.
The vines behind the domes droop with dew.
I set the bucket in a trough and fill it from a tap that drips faintly.
The water is cold. My fingers close around the metal rim and the chill sends a shock through my arm.
“Watch your footing,” a voice says behind me. I glance over—Tayani, leaning on her staff. “You’re still stumbling.”
“Fine,” I grunt.
“It’s not war,” she replies. “It’s life.”
I swallow an annoyance. “I’ll live when I’m back in the field.”
She watches me. “Maybe you’ll come back to war. Or maybe you’ll come back to this. You decide.” Then she turns and walks away.
The words sit like gravel in my gut. I don’t answer.
Later I’m hauling sacks of sunrise-grain across the yard. The sacks are heavy—mesh and clay dust coating the handles. My back burns. Each step sinks into soft ground. I curse the softness.
One of the Solari sings a morning song—clear voice, no accompaniment, rising over the field. I stop mid-step, listen. The lyrics drift, speaking of renewal and roots and quiet strength. I want to hate it. I do. But something about the rhythm keeps me still. I cough.
“She sings well,” the boy Aren says beside me, carrying smaller sacks.
“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” I mutter.
Aren chuckles. “You’ll sing too one day.”
“Don’t count on it,” I growl.
He shrugs and moves ahead.
The field stretches wide and golden now.
The sun high. I sweat. The smell of grain is heady, dusty, memory-heavy.
I wipe sweat from my brow with a forearm.
My armor—bronze plate and scorched edges—still sits unused in a storage shed.
I think of it sometimes. The weight of gear.
The roar of engines. The fists of enemies. Here the worst blow is a blister.
I finish the load and drop it near the granary. My muscles scream, but I breathe deep. The wind comes across the towers in steady gusts, carrying the hiss of turning blades. Sometimes I pause just to feel it across my face, to remind myself the world is still moving even if I’m standing.
“Finally,” someone says behind me.
I turn. It’s a Solari elder I don’t know well—thin white hair, veins faint under pale skin. “You did well.”
I nod. I don’t smile. They expect nothing more.
Dinner time arrives—communal table under eaves outdoors. The smell of stewed root-meal and fresh bread drifts across the benches. I sit on the edge, keep my elbows wide, back straight. People talk quietly around me. I listen but don’t join.
A woman near me says, “Gyon, the field’s looking strong this season.”
I glance at her. “Good.”
She nods and smiles, then turns back to her bread.
Peppered sunlight flickers through vine leaves above. The mood is calm. I feel again that fierceness inside—like I’m meant for something else. Home. But home isn’t here.
At the end of the meal, Tayani sits next to me—rare. She offers a small piece of bread. I take it. She watches me chew.
“You miss them,” she says simply.
“You think I don’t?” I snap.
She laughs, quiet. “No. I know you do.”
I retreat my guard. “Why? So you can pity me?”
“Because you’re human.” She tilts her head. The wind blows and her hair flies. “And you remember.”
I don’t answer.
Night falls fast. The two suns go down. I walk the fence line—edge of the commune where fields end and wild grass begins. The darkness pulls tight around me. The sky glitters cold. Stars I don’t name. Planets I can’t touch.
I strain to hear anything. Hum of a ship? No. Engines? No. Just wind. The soft susurrus of reeds. My boots crunching.
“Gyon?” The voice comes from the walkway behind the vine row. I turn. It’s Aren, the boy. “Want to see something?”
He holds out a piece of scrap metal—shiny, scorched. “I pulled this from the junk pile. Daddies used to fly them.”
I hold it. The metal bit is too light. The burn marks too precise. I stare at it. “What are you saying?”
He shrugs. “It was hurting the vines so I stopped it. I thought maybe you’d like it.”
I push it into my pocket. “Thanks.”
He grins. “Okay.”
He runs off.
I stay where I am, the scrap in my hand, the wind licking my ear. I look up. My chest tightens again.
“I lost something,” I say aloud.
Silence answers.
But I still stay.
Back in the sleeping chamber I lie on the cot. My body aches. I cannot find stillness. I touch the scar on my side where the Maze beam hit. The mark’s faded, but the pain hasn’t. I dream—not right away—of her.
Her voice: “Gyon…”
Her scent: burned ozone, hot metal, promise.
And then a child—tiny, silver-eyed—calls me “Papa.” I wake with my claws digging into the mattress, a howl in my throat.
Tayani comes in quietly. She waits at the door. I don’t sit up. She shakes her head gently. “Good night,” she says and leaves.
I lie in the dark, the wind towers humming. The field outside is still. I stare at the ceiling.
Tomorrow…I’ll haul sacks again. I’ll fetch water. I’ll try to bend my body to the rhythm of peace. But my mind will keep scanning the sky. The stars will keep hiding. And I’ll keep waiting.
The next day begins with a familiar ache in my chest and golden light in my eyes.
The sun is a ruthless overseer today. I’m bending over a row of cracked soil, sweat streaming down my temple and into the crease of my shoulder.
The sickle in my hand slips once, and the stalk I meant to cut stands mocking me.
I curse under my breath—metal taste in my mouth—and palm the damp hilt again.
The field smells like raw dust and sweat and the faint tang of grape-wine from the vineyard above.
A young Solari boy—maybe ten—scrambles beside me, carrying a bucket half-full of water. His tunic’s too big, sleeves rolled up. “Sir Gyon,” he says in that soft voice of theirs, “you work like someone trying to outrun something.”
I stop mid-cut. Dirt covers my face. My ribs ache. I lift my head until the sun glares off my visorless eyes. “What do you mean?” I ask.
He glances at me, then at the sickle. Then shrugs. “You plant fast. Break too many stalks. Always looking up at the sky.”
I snarl. “Go pull the bucket.”
He nods and hurries off. His boots stir the dry grass like distant thunder.
That statement—“trying to outrun something”—stabs me.
I tilt the sickle back and stare at the blade.
I work for peace, the Solari say. I tend the crops, haul water, avoid battles.
But inside, I’m roaring. I’m still hunting.
Not running from something—running toward something.
Her. But I don’t know where she is. Don’t know if she’s dead. Don’t know if she remembers me.
Later that afternoon, after I’ve dumped a sack of harvested grain at the silo, I retreat to a quiet workshop tucked under the vines.
The Solari gave it to me—tools, wood planks, chisels.
The smell of shaved pine curls in the air.
My arms still ache when I sit at the bench.
I pick up a piece of pale wood and draw the outline of a woman’s face.
Sharp cheekbones. A curl of hair. Her name: Liora.
I carve quickly. My knuckles whiten. The rasp of the chisel sounds loud in the stillness.
Chip after chip falls onto the floor. Each one like a memory I’m forcing free.
A small figure emerges on the plank: her silhouette.
I run my fingers over the carved contours.
I taste the grain dust in the air. I lift the piece and place it on the shelf beside another—less finished, small.
I stare at the second plank. It’s a child.
Small, twin braids carved deep into the wood.
A fierce smile. Eyes too sharp for a child’s.
“What is that?” I mutter. I lift it and look. “Who are you?”
My hands tremble. I set the child figure on the firepit stones outside.
The night wind turns. I snap the plank in half mid-thought.
The crack echoes across the field like a gunshot.
The two pieces tumble into the coals. I drop to my knees, stare at the fire, the smell of sap and burning wood licking my nostrils.
I feel rage. I feel grief. I feel everything I’ve tried to bury.
“Don’t belong,” I whisper to the figure’s ashes. “You don’t belong here.”
The next day, I wake before the suns. The sky is pale grey.
The field is quiet. My muscles protest climbing out of bed, but I pull on boots and head for the workshop.
I find the wood I used last night still there: sawdust, charred edges.
I pick up the remaining piece of the child figure and stare.
The twin braids. The fierce smile. The same shape.
“Sorry,” I say, though it’s useless. I set the piece on the bench. I take a new plank. I carve again. This time I trace the braids slow, deliberate. The chisels bite in. The scent of shavings fills the air. I hum under my breath—a low sound of focus, of hunger.
“You think you’re running toward something,” the boy Aren says, stepping into the workshop. “But maybe you’re just standing still.”