Inelius sat at the helm of The Cradle of Gravity, his hands resting against the curves of the control board. His fingers tapped the console as one leg bounced with a rhythm he couldn’t kill. The cloak’s low hum pressed through the deck, faint but insistent, like a predator’s breath down his neck. Every vibration felt magnified in the silence.

  Aurania occupied the co-pilot’s chair beside him, her massive frame leaned back with an ease he envied. Her voice cut the stillness, even but grounding.

  “Breathe, Inelius.”

  He forced air in through his snout, out through his teeth, chest tight anyway. His eyes flicked to the viewport.

  The Cradle of Gravity drifted in the cover of an asteroid field, the cloaking veil stretched over the hull. They were hidden, yes, but not out of danger. Beyond the jagged field, Conservatory ships prowled the dark.

  A pair of patrol frigates glided past, their hulls gleaming white and angular, shapes too clean and sharp. They looked less like warships and more like surgical instruments, cutting across space with searchlights slicing beams through the void. Smaller vessels swept behind them in perfect formations, and threading between the rocks, defense drones skimmed in silence.

  Inelius’s leg bounced harder and his jaw flexed as he shifted in the pilot’s chair, the leather creaking beneath his weight. This stillness gnawed at him. Their crew wasn’t made for quiet lurking—they were brawlers, chargers, a living storm of energy and metal. To sit hidden, motionless, while the enemy prowled so close—it felt wrong, like holding back a scream in his throat.

  His eyes lingered on the tactical display, watching the arcs of patrols sweep across the field. He ran through scenarios in his head the way he always did—angles of approach, blind spots in the sensor net, how many seconds they’d have to react if a frigate shifted course. Their ship could fight and escape, but either option carried a greater risk.

  Raine and Tamiyo were down there—on the station in Conservatory territory. He trusted Pulse’s word as much as he could—but trust wasn’t the problem. The problem was the Conservatory itself, a machine too vast and merciless to account for every moving piece.

  He pictured Raine’s smirk, her easy confidence, and felt the tightness in his chest flare sharper. He wanted to believe she was untouchable, that she’d always come swaggering back with some sarcastic remark ready on her tongue. But all it would take was one patrol stopping Pulse for a random inspection, one scan lingering a second too long, and they’d both vanish into the Conservatory’s system like stones into a black ocean.

  Every minute they were gone stretched longer than the last.

  Aurania finally broke the silence, seeking to fill the room with more than just his anxiety. “You and Raine have evolved nicely since we left Nox.”

  His head moved toward her, but his eyes lingered on the station a few more seconds before he actually looked at her. “Yeah,” he finally said quietly with a smile.

  “Any thoughts of marriage?” Aurania asked with a casual tilt of her head.

  Marriage.

  The thought lingered in his mind as he wondered what the three of them were doing at this exact moment on Outpost Meridian.

  “Interesting you should bring that up,” Inelius answered after a beat. “Not something lacravida usually think about.”

  “Yeah, but you’re not lacravida.”

  Inelius let out a single, small chuckle. “Yes. I have thought about it. Riza actually even helped me buy her a tiara—called it ‘back pay’ for my promotion.”

  Aurania arched a brow. “A tiara? That’s bold.”

  “She deserves something regal.” He shifted in his seat, exhaling through his teeth. Then he cocked a brow back at her. “She is a princess, after all.”

  Aurania laughed warmly. “That she is.”

  After a moment, Inelius said, “I just… I want to give it to her at the right time. Preferably not during a planet-saving suicide mission.”

  “Hey,” Aurania barked at him in a tone carrying both command and comfort. “No one’s dying.”

  He let out a rough laugh, low in his throat. “Feels like tempting fate to say that.”

  “Maybe,” she admitted with a small smile. “Good thing we have a god on our side.”

  He laughed harder this time. “You can’t mean Soren.”

  Aurania smirked. “Of course I mean Soren. Who else? You think I’d put all my faith in you? The most godlike thing about you is apparently hanging between your legs.”

  “Hey now,” Inelius rumbled, gesturing with a lower hand at the console. “I’m flying this beast, aren’t I?”

  “Barely,” she shot back with a grin, and he barked another laugh.

  After a beat, he asked, “So what’s the deal with you two, then? You and him. Doesn’t seem like the most common thing for a lacravida—just one partner.”

  Aurania’s eyes flicked toward the viewport, following the distant glow of a passing ship. Her tone was quieter when she answered. “Not unheard of. But yes, irregular.” She paused for a breath. “He makes me feel… different. In a good way.”

  Inelius tilted his head. “You still get spouts of jealousy? Or… maybe territorial’s the better word. Like back on Nox. The fight circle with Veolo.”

  Her smirk returned, faint but wry. “Not so much anymore. He doesn’t give me reason to. It was strange in the beginning, though. Definitely confusing. Feelings I’d never had about… anyone.” She exhaled a slow breath. “The way I acted about him threw people off—hell, it threw me off.”

  “At least we know now what made you feel jealous,” Inelius said simply.

  Her gaze cut toward him, sharp. “What do you mean? Jealousy about partners isn’t normal for a lacravida.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Soren tapped into the humanity within you—literally. We’re all part human.”

  Aurania blinked twice in surprise, then gave a soft huff. “Oh. Shit. You’re right.”

  Silence stretched between them again, but this time it wasn’t quite as heavy. The hum of the cloak seemed less sharp.

  “Well,” she said at last, lips quirking. “What about you? Neither you nor Raine are lacravida, but you two sure as hell took to our culture well enough. What with your…”

  His eyes narrowed. “Don’t—”

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  “Communal cock.”

  Inelius groaned, covering his face with one hand. “Gods, that’s worse than what I thought you were going to say.”

  Aurania laughed, a loud boisterous sound filling the cockpit in a way that eased the pressure on his chest.

  He shrugged, grinning despite himself. “Not something I’d thought much about before. Not until Veolo asked. But once Raine said she was cool with it… I don’t know. It’s not about feelings. I mean, I care about all of them, sure. But not like I care for Raine.”

  Aurania just smiled at him, eyes half-lidded in amusement. “How very lacravida of you.”

  Inelius chuckled, then gave a little nod.

  A breath of companionable silence stretched through the cockpit, and Inelius felt the weight in his chest ease. He leaned back in the pilot’s chair, exhaling.

  After a few minutes, he said, “Thanks.”

  Aurania tilted her head. “For?”

  “Distracting me.”

  Time stretched into an unkind weight. Inelius kept his eyes on the displays, but the asteroid field offered no comfort, only the reminder of what could go wrong. Every ping of the console, every faint vibration in the hull, made his stomach twist.

  After what felt like far too many hours, the silhouette of The Ghost Step slid into view, gliding through the asteroid field like a shadow threading between blades. Its engines dimmed, profile minimized.

  Inelius let out a long breath and his shoulders sagged against the chair. “About damn time.”

  Aurania said nothing, but he caught the way her posture shifted—looser, relieved, though her eyes never left the viewport.

  The Ghost Step eased into position, clamps extending to catch the two vessels together. For a heartbeat, the cloaking veil stuttered, then smoothed out again, enveloping both ships together. The steady hum returned to its low purr.

  “They’re locked,” Inelius said, already hopping up from his chair.

  He jogged out of the cockpit, down the stairs all the way to Deck 5—the elevator felt too slow. The air felt thinner, sharper, as if his lungs hadn’t gotten the memo they were safe.

  Soren and Brana were already waiting at the airlock to help move gear, the rest of the team circled up behind them. The seal hissed, the hatch slid open—

  And there they were.

  Raine stepped through first, cocky grin already in place, but before she could say a word Inelius swept her into his arms.

  “Miss me that much?” she teased against his shoulder, though her hand squeezed his arm.

  He set her down only to pull Tamiyo into the same crushing hug. His chest loosened another degree when he felt her antennae twitch softly against him. They both smelled like something sickeningly sterile, an eerie reminder of the risk they had taken.

  He stepped back, exhaling hard. “How’d it go?”

  Tamiyo exchanged a look with Raine, then glanced back toward The Ghost Step. “It was nerve wracking. But we got what we needed.”

  The work came quickly after the greetings. Pulse motioned to Soren and Brana to come aboard his ship and help bring their supplies aboard. Sleek, black containers emerged one by one, their surfaces gleaming under the hold lights. Each was marked with the Conservatory’s angular design language—edges too sharp, fonts too clean, precision that made Inelius’ nerves stand on end. The rhythm of hauling and stacking filled the silence, broken only by grunts and the occasional scrape of metal on deck.

  “What was it like down there?” Inelius asked as he carried a crate further into the hold.

  Tamiyo brushed a lock of hair behind her antennae. “Tense. We had to act docile, property on display. Pulse played the part well enough.” Her antennae twitched a little. “He wasn’t cruel about it, though.”

  Pulse just shrugged without a word.

  “Anyone look twice at him having two CIPHERs?” Inelius asked.

  Pulse chuckled, low and quiet.

  Tamiyo shook her head. “No. Out here, it’s more a sign of wealth than anything else.”

  Aurania stepped past, hefting a crate with casual strength. “Everything went good though?”

  “Yeah.” Tamiyo glanced toward Pulse. “He’s a good guy.”

  Raine piped up as she passed with a smaller container. “His girlfriend’s pretty cute, too.”

  Pulse growled at them in irritation, drawing a ripple of chuckles from the crew. The moment of levity cut through the tension like a knife, brief but welcome, before the mood settled heavier again.

  The crates kept coming, stacked in neat, invasive rows until the hold felt less like their ship and more like a Conservatory depot. The crew gathered around them, the silence heavier now that the work was done.

  Tamiyo spoke first. “We’ll need to run the same setup on Solaceum, with me escorting Pulse onto the planet.”

  Inelius nodded along with the rest of the team.

  “We won’t be able to dock like this after the jump,” Pulse said. “The military presence is too thick. Tamiyo will need to come with me before the jump.”

  Inelius felt a grip inside his chest. “You mean now.”

  “Yes.”

  Raine frowned, folding her arms. “Am I not going this time?”

  “No,” Tamiyo answered, tone firm but not unkind. “It’s less about manpower and more about reducing the chance of anyone getting flagged. One extra passenger could be the difference between blending in and setting off alarms.”

  Veolo growled, snarling with skepticism. “Why not just send Pulse in alone? He’s this master infiltrator, right? He can get in and out by himself and get what we need.”

  Pulse gave a dry, mirthless chuckle. “You want me to take all the risk solo? You really don’t like me, do you?”

  Veolo hesitated, then dryly muttered, “You’re growing on me. Slowly.”

  “Lucky me,” Pulse said flatly. He tapped one of the crates with a finger. “But here’s the reality: Echo’s great—”

  “Thanks!” she chirped quickly.

  “But her processing power drops when she’s outside my ship. Most of her bandwidth goes into my Heads Up Display and mask. Tamiyo’s an even more advanced model of CIPHER than Echo. With her on-site, we can break into Solaceum’s systems fast enough to get in and out clean. Without her, it would take much much longer, and there would be a significant chance of tripping alarms.”

  The weight of that sank into the room.

  “Sounds like a convenient excuse,” Violet spat. “You normally operate by yourself, right? How would you crack into their systems if we weren’t here?”

  “I’d acquire an advanced CIPHER to accompany me.”

  A tense beat stretched out, the crew exchanging glances but finding no more ground to argue. Pulse tilted his head, visor glinting. “In the interest of transparency, I do have a small ulterior motive for bringing her.”

  Aurania’s eyes narrowed. “Which is?”

  He pointed at Soren. “If I get in trouble, the demi-god isn’t going to crash through the atmosphere to come save me, myself, and I.”

  Soren raised an eyebrow, arms still crossed. “I might… the next time we do this.”

  The crew gathered at the airlock, pulled there by the same unspoken weight. Inelius felt it settle in his chest like a stone, heavier with every step Tamiyo took toward the hatch. No one said it aloud, but they all thought the same thing:

  None of them wanted her to go.

  Tamiyo’s antennae quivered, catching the silence. Her shoulders stiffened and her voice snapped through the hold like a crack of thunder.

  “Hey. I’m coming back.”

  The anger in her tone wasn’t for them, Inelius realized. It was armor. A shield she was holding up against the fear rolling off the rest of them in waves. He could see the slight tremor in her antennae, the way her breath caught before it hardened into defiance.

  No one moved intentionally. A few barely stepped forward on instinct, as if proximity might anchor her here, might change the decision already made.

  Her jaw set, eyes blazing. “Elias didn’t die just so I could wade into the Conservatory capital and get captured.” She jabbed a finger at her chest. “I’m. Coming. Back.”

  Tamiyo’s hand shot out, wrapped around Violet’s halter-top near the collarbone, and yanked her close, face to face. Inelius’s muscles tensed on instinct, but he stayed rooted, watching.

  “Say it,” Tamiyo hissed.

  For a heartbeat, Violet looked startled—they all did. Then her jaw squared, her eyes sharpening into steel. “You’re coming back.”

  The air between them hummed, sharp and raw, until Tamiyo finally released her, stepping back with a short nod.

  The hiss of hydraulics filled the silence as the airlock cycled. The doors began to slide shut, cutting Tamiyo and Pulse away from the circle of worried eyes. At the edge of his vision, Inelius saw Raine cross her arms and say, “That’s a bad bitch right there.”

  It wasn’t a joke.

  The doors sealed with a heavy thump, the sound reverberating through the deck like the punctuation on a promise. Inelius kept his gaze locked on Tamiyo’s until the very last instant, her electric blue eyes holding his steady and unflinching.

  Then the door cut her off, leaving only cold metal and the helpless weight of their silence.