Freya
The hum of the starship beneath my boots feels strange — gentle, steady, like a purr from some great beast just waking.
I stand on the bridge beside Vokar, and I press my fingers to the cool metal rim of the console.
The moon of Storder drops away behind us, pale and silent.
Below, the forest-moon shrinks into the abyss, the scars of war fading into memory.
I taste salt on my tongue — leftover from sweat, ash, tears, and maybe hope. The recycled-air hum smells faintly of coolant and engine grease, but mixed in there is the scent of freedom: clean metal, recycled oxygen, and something new — the subtle tang of possibility.
Vokar’s shoulder brushes mine. His body still bears the marks of the last fight — a half-healed rib, a burn scar along his forearm, the ghost of pain in every measured breath.
But his eyes — those fierce red embers — shine calm, soft.
Steady. I glance over at him, heart pulsing quiet but strong, and I realize: I don’t feel fear anymore.
Not for the future. Not for the unknown.
Behind us, Yorta stands tall, shoulders squared with responsibility.
His arm is bandaged, and his stance is rigid, but there’s something proud in the way he carries himself.
He’s taken up the mantle of leadership — interim, for now — guiding the survivors who stayed, rebuilding what was lost. The memory of betrayal lingers in the lines of his face, but so does determination.
He nods to the crew around him: steady hands, hopeful eyes, armor plates scratched but still loyal.
Near the aft hatch, Parfi stands in her soft leather robe — once polished and temple-clean; now faded, dust-streaked, but still dignified.
She holds a small sub-console in her hands — something she called a “blessing conduit.” I don’t really understand what it does.
No flashing lights, no surging energy. Just a simple panel carved with ancient Alzhon sigils and forest-moon glyphs.
She presses her fingers to it now, murmurs words in a low, melodic tongue.
The language vibrates in the air softly, like old wood creaking under weight, or leaves rustling in wind.
I close my eyes and breathe it in — feel something shift inside me: a soft twist of root and seed, ancient as earth, renewing in hope.
Beside me, Jorko stands — limp in gait still, but firm in his eyes.
He’s carrying a small portable cleaning unit — lights dim, compartments clipped shut.
He offers it to me as though handing over a shield.
“Just in case we run into dirty quarters out there,” he says in his gravelly, worn voice.
“Space stations, salvage yards… you know how it goes.”
I roll my eyes. A dry, tired gesture, but honest. Then I step forward and hug him tight — full-body, arms around his shoulders, one cheek pressed to his scarred chest leather.
I taste his sweat, smell old medicine and cloth, and for a moment, I feel like the fourteen-year-old girl in foster dorms again, clinging to something stable in chaos.
Only this time — I’m not afraid. Because I have more than memory. I have family.
He grunts. “You clean well now, Miss McDonnell. Real well.” He taps his belt. “Just don’t mop any star decks with plasma scorch marks.”
I can’t help a small laugh — bitter, soft, hopeful. Then I pull back, meet his eyes. “I’ll be careful, old man.”
He wink-nods. “That’s what scares me more.”
The engines thrum louder. The hull vibrates beneath metal feet. I feel it through my bones — a familiar shiver, distant memory of war-ships, of battle runs, of fear-heavy nights. But this time, it doesn’t press down like dread. It propels me forward.
Vokar steps up beside me. His hand finds mine. Big, calloused, scarred, rough — but gentle as moss against soft stone. I look at his hand — at our joined fingers — and I swallow. I taste hope again.
“Where to?” he murmurs. Quiet, soft.
“Anywhere the stars don’t know our names yet,” I reply.
He grins — a slow, crooked tilt of lips under moon-scarred bone. “Then we go where galaxies save their best sunsets for those brave enough to leave dust behind.”
I lean into him. My cheek against his shoulder — still warm after cold rivalries, after firestorms, after death. I close my eyes. I draw in breath.
Because I know: this is it. The moment we said we’d fight for. The breach in fate we carved with claws and love. The night after the fire, the dawn after ashes.
I don’t look back. I don’t want to remember broken alarm-bells, cracked walls, blood-slick floors, traitor’s screams. I don’t want to taste the stink of betrayal or carry the weight of ghosts forever.
I turn forward. I lean into the hum of the engines. I feel the ship rock steady, join the rhythm of the universe once more.
Outside the viewport, stars stretch into bright silver lines. Distant nebulae paint violet and blue across the void. I fix my gaze on them — long fingers of light reaching across darkness.
I close my eyes.
I whisper — more to the stars than to him — a vow soft as bone crack, fragile as newborn seed:
“We’ll grow.”
He moves to press a kiss against my forehead — lips warm against ash-dust, bruises, sweat. His breath smells of smoke and soft pine-moon wood.
“You already are,” he says, voice quiet and certain.
His hand slides over mine, squeezes. The console hum hums below — engines alive, life alive, love alive.
I open my eyes.
And I see our future.
Not a throne. Not a war. Not a kingdom built on bones.
But stars.
And seeds.
And maybe, a home.
I lean forward, chin resting on folded arms across the rim of the console. The stars blur as the vessel leaps between systems. I taste freedom. I taste hope. I taste love reborn from ashes.
I reach for his hand, squeeze. He squeezes back.
We travel onward. Together.