The Bone King’s Secret Baby

Chapter 1

AYLA

Iswirl the amber liquid in my glass, watching the light refract through the crystal stemware.

Every detail of this room is a love letter to indulgence—curved lounges upholstered in deep violet velvet, softly pulsing floor lights timed to some ambient tempo, and the low murmur of wealth too comfortable to care who’s listening.

Outside the glass, the Kepler Rose Nebula unfurls like a living dream.

Pink and violet tendrils ripple across the void, vivid and slow-moving, like silk underwater.

It glows so softly it almost seems to breathe.

I lean forward, hand pressed to the cool curve of the viewport.

The glass is so clean it disappears beneath my fingers.

If I close my eyes, I swear I'm floating.

Freedom.

Real, honest-to-stars freedom.

But it doesn’t taste the way I thought it would. Not yet.

I sink back into the plush recliner, tucking one bare foot beneath me and sipping from my drink again. Sweet, floral, sharp at the end. Expensive. I don’t recognize the brand, which means it’s rare. It should feel decadent. Transgressive, even.

But it doesn’t.

All I feel is… suspended. Like the part of me that was supposed to light up in rebellion missed the memo.

A soft chime sounds from the ceiling. “Grand Lady will initiate orbital drift within the hour. Observation decks will remain open for the duration. For your safety, please remain within shielded lounges when possible. We hope you enjoy the celestial ballet of the Kepler Rose.”

The voice is smooth. Too smooth. It doesn’t sound like anyone. Just another artfully synthesized illusion.

I’m good at illusions. Been surviving on them my whole life.

I leave the lounge behind. The starlight trails behind me as the sliding door seals with a gentle sigh, and I wander the corridor barefoot, glass in hand.

Not a soul around. That’s the thing about luxury—everyone retreats into their own tailored fantasies.

Whatever they paid for, they’re in it now. Or neck-deep in someone else’s.

I pass by a decorative wall panel—marble inlay, real Terran stone, probably chiseled from some mountain range I’ve never been allowed to hike—and glance at my reflection. Tousled hair, oversized silk robe knotted tight at the waist, bare collarbones like ghosts beneath the low light.

I look like someone on the run.

Because I am.

The moment the estate guards lost my biosignature, Mother probably fainted and Father definitely called in a bounty hunter. I almost hope it’s one I know. Wouldn’t mind the chance to knock Jonas Krieg’s teeth out if he dares drag me back by the ankle.

“Excuse me, miss.”

I start. Turn. A Helios officer—young, maybe thirty, crisp lines to his uniform and a charming dent in his chin. His gaze flicks to my glass, then to my bare feet, and he smiles like he thinks this is foreplay.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt your stroll,” he says. “But you shouldn’t be in this corridor without shoes. Deck Four sometimes runs warm—furnace stabilizers.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

He chuckles, leaning casually against the curved wall. “Traveling alone?”

“Does it matter?”

“Only if you’re looking for company.”

I raise my glass. “I already have some.”

He nods at the nebula, visible through the narrow porthole down the hall. “Beautiful, isn’t it? Makes you feel small in the best kind of way.”

“I don’t need space for that. My family managed it just fine.”

His smile falters. Just a beat. Then recovers.

“Alright,” he says with a slight laugh, “I get it. You're not in the market. But if you change your mind... Deck Six, Starboard Wing. Officer’s Lounge. Ask for Rane.”

“I won’t,” I reply, but not unkindly.

He leaves with a lazy wave, and I keep moving.

Not because I’m offended. Because I’m disappointed. The offer should’ve thrilled me. Or at least stirred something warm. But my body’s too clever for my games. It won’t respond unless it senses the genuine thing.

And what that is, I have no clue.

The observation deck is nearly empty. A few murmuring couples and one snoozing merchant curled up with a travel pillow near the back. I find a spot near the window and curl into it, knees hugged to my chest.

The Grand Lady begins its slow approach. We drift toward the nebula like pilgrims toward a god.

Light floods the room in gentle pulses. It paints the walls, my skin, even the inside of my glass. Everything takes on a dreamlike hue—like I’ve slipped into some other version of reality.

I breathe in deep. The air here is laced with something expensive—oxygen tinged with Nerolian mist, a luxury import from a moon garden on Talsen Prime. My mother used to keep a vial of it in her vanity drawer, a reminder of the last time she felt alive, she once said.

I wanted to ask her when that was. Before me? After? But I didn’t.

The nebula looms larger now, impossibly massive, its spiraling gas clouds thick and roiling like a storm caught mid-motion. I press my palm to the glass and whisper, “What am I supposed to do now?”

The nebula doesn’t answer. But it doesn’t laugh, either.

I sip again. The drink's gone warm, but I don't care.

Somewhere in the ship, someone’s laughing. Somewhere, music plays. Somewhere, people are alive.

I’m just... waiting.

For what, I don’t know yet.

The nebula stares back at me, and for a second, I see my mother’s face in it.

Not literally, of course. But something in the violet swirls reminds me of the silk shawl she always wore when she wanted to look composed—just so—when company came. The kind of silk that whispered when she walked. The kind that suffocated if you leaned in too close.

“Do you think this is a game, Ayla?” she said that day, standing straight as a blade in the parlor. The windows had been open, letting in the scent of blooming greenhouse roses. I remember that, oddly. The roses were white and sickeningly sweet, like artifice trying too hard to be natural.

“I think it’s my life,” I’d snapped back, arms crossed, chin up even though my stomach was twisted into knots.

She’d clicked her tongue, glancing at me like I was some ill-trained hound. “Your life belongs to your lineage. To the Verne name. You don’t get to waste it chasing ‘freedom’ through the stars like some street waif.”

“I don’t care about the name,” I’d said, voice louder than I meant. “I never asked for it.”

“You were born into legacy. That isn’t something you get to choose. Jules Verne dreamed of exploration—”

“And you think he’d want me shackled to some pompous noble with a title and an agenda?”

“He would want you safe,” she said. “He would want you respected. Frederick can give you that. He’s a man of influence. The marriage is already agreed—”

“I’m not a bargaining chip.”

“No,” she said, her voice slicing ice-thin. “You’re a daughter. And daughters have duties.”

I remember how quiet the room got after that. The roses didn't stop smelling cloying. My hands had curled into fists at my sides.

I turned and walked away. Didn't speak. Not even when she followed me to my room, not when she had the house AI deactivated my link codes, not even when she threatened to confine me to the estate until the wedding.

She hadn’t realized how long I’d been preparing for that moment.

I don’t remember climbing out the service window or slipping through the gate. I remember the heat of my breath, the feel of cold synth-grass beneath my boots, the thundering of my own pulse as the transport blinked into existence before me and I stepped aboard.

I thought freedom would feel like flight.

But now, slumped in a lounger with my face still painted in nebula light, I realize it feels more like floating. Dangerous. Unanchored.

I shake off the memory and rise, heading back to my cabin.

The suite's cool, softly lit, luxurious in that sterile, curated way that only the ultra-rich seem to enjoy. A blank canvas with no history. No soul. Just polished gold trim, whisper-silk sheets, and a refreshment tray with snacks arranged in geometric rows.

I strip off the robe and toss it onto the couch.

Time to feel like someone else.

My travel bag’s already half-emptied onto the bed.

I dig out the outfit I packed with zero subtlety: high black boots with a synthleather shine, a clinging wine-red dress slit up both thighs, sheer panels that leave just enough to the imagination but whisper I know what I’ve got.

I pull it on slowly, smoothing the fabric down my hips.

Then I zip up the boots and stare at myself in the mirror.

My reflection doesn’t look like Ayla Verne of House Verne. Doesn’t look like someone anyone would marry off like a contract clause.

Good.

My pulse skitters with anticipation. Maybe I’ll find someone tonight who can help me forget. Maybe I’ll find out if freedom really can be decadent.

The hall is quieter than expected. I stroll past plush lounges and curtain-draped privacy booths, but none of the usual music spills out. The ship hums beneath my feet, subtle, constant. But there’s a tension under it, like a held breath.

The party lounge is... closed?

A sign hovers in midair: Event Postponed. We apologize for the inconvenience.

Frustration prickles beneath my skin. I glance at my reflection in the smoked glass wall nearby. I look like I’m about to seduce a senator, not pace aimlessly through empty corridors.

Screw it. I head back toward the observation deck.

It’s emptier than before—just me and the nebula now. I settle into the same recliner, draping one leg over the other, the leather cool against my thigh.

The silence isn’t comforting anymore. It gnaws at me.

Then—just as I lean back, the lights flicker.

Once.

Twice.

Then a low sound thrums through the deck—a noise that bypasses my ears and goes straight to my bones. It’s not the usual engine thrum. It’s lower. Meaner.

My glass jumps slightly on the side table. Vibrations.

“What the hell...?”

A siren blares.

My drink spills.

I leap to my feet, dress forgotten, eyes scanning the room. The curved window darkens for a heartbeat, then flashes as emergency protocol kicks in. Soft red lights glow along the edges of the floor. A computerized voice echoes overhead, calm but firm:

“Alert: Please return to your cabins. All guests must remain in secure areas until further notice. This is not a drill.”

My pulse slams into overdrive.

Not a drill.

Outside the window, the nebula gleams. For a second, I think it’s just distortion. But then... something moves. Something big.

A shape detaches from the shadows of the void—sleek, jagged, brutal in silhouette. Not the round, gentle lines of Helios or Earth-aligned cruisers. This thing is all claws and edges, pitch black with jagged wings that look like they could slice planets in half.

It glides toward us with terrifying grace.

Then I see it. Painted in blood-red along the hull:

THE RELENTLESS

A name whispered in rumors. A ship that stalks trade routes. A ghost. A myth.

Until now.

“Shit,” I breathe. “Oh, shit.”

The Grand Lady jolts. A sharp, bucking movement that throws me off balance. My hip slams into the edge of the lounger and I stumble, catching myself on the table.

The view of the Relentless tilts as our ship begins evasive maneuvers—but we’re a luxury cruiser, not a warship.

We don’t stand a chance.

My instincts scream to run, but my legs don’t move.

Through the glass, I watch as the monstrous vessel yawns open, its belly lined with claws and drop gates. Dozens of smaller vessels shoot forward like spined wasps, heading straight for us.

The boarding has begun.