13. Sophie
SOPHIE
T he Western Temple doesn’t rise out of the desert.
It waits .
One moment the crawler is grinding its way through a narrow cut in the stone, the walls close enough that I can see where centuries of wind have gnawed at them. The next, the rock pulls back like a held breath being released, and the world opens into a bowl of pale stone and shadow.
The temple is carved directly into the cliff face, not stacked or assembled but extracted , as if someone once looked at the mountain and decided what didn’t belong.
Pale ribs of stone arc outward, reinforced with dark metal seams that catch the sun and throw it back in dull gold flashes.
Solar vanes rotate slowly along the upper ring, not graceful, just efficient. Nothing here exists to be admired.
“This is it?” I ask, squinting up.
Jax cuts the engine and lets the crawler settle. “Western Temple.”
I step down, boots crunching on gravel worn smooth by countless feet. The air feels thinner, cleaner, carrying dust and something faintly resinous, like old incense burned into stone long ago. Somewhere above us, bells chime—not melodic, not welcoming. Measured. Observant.
Two monks approach across the causeway.
They move without hurry, robes the same muted sand color as the stone around us, expressions carved into neutrality. One is older, face lined deeply enough that it looks sculpted. The other is younger, eyes sharp and unblinking, already cataloging me as a problem.
“We don’t open the observatory to outsiders,” the elder says, stopping a few paces away.
I open my mouth.
Jax beats me to it. “I’m Jax of the Temple.”
Recognition flickers. Not warmth. Permission.
The elder exhales slowly, gaze shifting back to me. “And she is?”
“Sophie,” I say. “I’m looking for my father.”
The younger monk’s mouth tightens. “Everyone is.”
“He came through this region,” I add quickly. “Off-world ship. Alliance flagged him as dead, but their data’s wrong.”
The elder studies my face, then my hands, then the crawler behind us. “You want us to lend our instruments to your hope.”
“I want access,” I say. “I’ll do the work.”
Silence stretches.
“Limited,” the elder says finally. “Supervised. Touch nothing without permission.”
“I won’t,” I say, already nodding.
I can’t wait to get started, but when I arrive I’m stunned into inaction. The observatory steals my breath.
The chamber opens out of the cliff like the inside of a skull—vast, hollowed, humming with restrained power.
Lenses the size of small vehicles track slowly along rails, following invisible paths across the sky.
Consoles glow with layered data, light reflecting off polished stone worn smooth by generations of hands.
Star charts.
Atmospheric models.
Wasteland topography mapped down to the grain.
My chest tightens.
I step forward before I realize I’ve moved.
“Careful,” the younger monk snaps.
I stop instantly. “Sorry.”
Jax hangs back, arms folded, eyes not on the machines but on me.
“You recognize this,” he says quietly.
“It’s like someone took my brain and built it out of rock,” I murmur.
He almost smiles.
I fall into routine at the temple all too quickly. The first day passes without ceremony.
I scan drift models, adjusting parameters based on Zhankar’s energy field interference. I scribble notes until my fingers cramp, then switch hands without thinking. The monks hover close enough to breathe down my neck, correcting nothing, watching everything.
“You’re assuming asymmetric hull breach,” the elder says at one point.
“I am,” I reply. “Because the Alliance would’ve logged a clean failure. They didn’t.”
He hums softly, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
By the third day, my eyes burn constantly. I narrow probable crash zones based on wind shear patterns and partial sensor ghosts in old temple logs. By the end of the first week, the search field is still enormous and somehow smaller than it was before.
Jax leaves at dawn most mornings.
“Caravan duty,” he says, already pulling on his gear.
“Dzu?” I ask.
“Always.”
He comes back dusty and tired, new bruises blooming where old ones haven’t faded yet.
“You don’t have to keep doing this,” I tell him one night as we eat thin stew in the shared quarters.
“Someone does.”
“That someone doesn’t always have to be you.”
He looks at me over the rim of his bowl. “You worried?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“Good,” he says mildly, and goes back to eating.
Weeks slide past.
I stop counting days and start measuring time by scans completed and zones eliminated. The monks begin leaving me alone with the instruments for longer stretches. Not trust. Efficiency.
Sometimes I catch my reflection in the dark glass of a console and barely recognize myself—hair tied back, skin darker, posture different. Still searching. Still standing.
At night, I lie awake staring at the stone ceiling.
“I could leave,” I whisper once, the words barely existing.
Jax turns toward me in the dim light. “Do you want to?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “What if I never find him? What if this just becomes… my life?”
He shifts closer, shoulder brushing mine. “Then it’s still a life.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No,” he agrees. “But it’s honest.”
The morning Ragon arrives, the air feels wrong.
Not storm-wrong. Not patrol-wrong.
Urgent.
Voices echo in the corridor outside the observatory, faster than the monks usually move. Footsteps. Raised tones.
The doors slide open hard enough to rattle.
Ragon strides in like the temple personally insulted him.
His cloak is dust-streaked. One scale ridge along his forearm is cracked and poorly mended. His smile is there—but thinner, stretched tight over something sharp.
“Sophie,” he says, and there’s relief in it he doesn’t bother hiding. “We need to talk.”
Jax is on his feet instantly. “What happened.”
Ragon glances at the monks, then back at us. “I followed a trade ghost east. Not cargo. Not weapons. Information.”
My heart starts to pound. “What kind of information.”
“The kind that only exists when someone doesn’t die where they’re supposed to.”
The room feels smaller.
“I found a site,” he continues lightly. “Old. Shielded. Masked deliberately.”
I grip the edge of the console. “Where.”
He looks at me steadily. “Southwest. Just outside your narrowed field.”
I laugh, a sharp, breathless sound. “You’re kidding.”
“I do not kid about maps,” he says. “It’s a moral failing.”
Jax exhales slowly. “Is he alive.”
Ragon’s jaw tightens, just a fraction. “I don’t know.”
The monks exchange looks.
The elder steps forward. “If what you say is true?—”
“It is,” Ragon cuts in politely. “And she was right not to stop looking.”
My knees feel weak.
Hope isn’t gentle.
It crashes into me like reentry heat.
“When,” I whisper.
Ragon smiles, real this time. “As soon as you’re ready.”