Joyful laughter echoed over his shoulder as someone scooped Teorin up, spinning him around. Marcus set him down, and Teorin grinned up at his brother, tugging on his sleeve for another spin. But he wasn’t the grinning sixteen-year-old anymore. This Marcus was colder, sharper, with a gaze that cut. Teorin stumbled back. Marcus walked towards the door, shoving him aside, and then Teorin was falling—

  Teorin jolted awake, heart pounding, sweat cooling on his skin. He wasn’t falling. He was in his tent. He was fine. He peeked out the tent flap. Artemis hung low over the horizon, casting silver light across the camp. Dawn was still hours away. He tried to lie back down, to force himself to rest, but every time he closed his eyes, he was suddenly looking up and seeing someone familiar, and yet not. A brother he should have recognized.

  Finally, he shoved out of the tent. Artemis still hung in the sky. Selene, Aralin’s pinker moon, had set earlier. Teorin settled into the grass, slightly damp from dew in the brisk morning air, and stared up at the stars. He hadn’t stargazed in weeks. He’d been too exhausted. He wished that was the problem now.

  It was beautiful out here, away from everything, with no city lights to hide the celestial beauty always lurking just beyond their vision. He tried to focus on that. He couldn’t. Instead, fears crept into his thoughts, invading, as if peace itself were a crime: Marcus, Jeron, Trevor, his father.

  He huffed in annoyance. He knew the Novar had secrets, of course. That was sort of the point of a special division, but Novem was still an archaeology company. Teorin had expected… he didn’t know what he’d expected. Extra secrets about recovery sites? Handling politically sensitive digs or dangerous sites in contested territory?

  This wasn’t that. It was like Trevor had expected to disappear. And if the Novar had been hiding stuff like that, what else were they hiding? Something about Dad?

  He threw himself back into the long grass in frustration, just staring at the sky. Why would Trevor expect to disappear? Sure, some people didn’t like Novem, but in the end, they all had the same goal. Didn’t they?

  Find statherium to make space travel possible again. Then they could rejoin the rest of the galaxy.

  Maybe it made him foolish, but he’d thought it was just an extension of his childhood dream. He’d get to lead teams, maybe uncover the cache of statherium that would let them fix the jump engines and get the stupid ship still stuck in orbit working again.

  Dad had told him stories growing up, about the things they’d uncovered. Discoveries that Dad hoped could point the way to far-off places. The kind that great-grandpa Todd still rambled on about. Other planets. Other people, out there somewhere.

  Who was he kidding? People had been trying to find statherium to fix the Atalanta for 200 years. And he thought he was going to waltz in and find it?

  Right.

  And now he didn’t even know what he had dragged himself into. Just finish the mission, Teorin reminded himself.

  Jeron had promised he’d be a full operative if he succeeded. Then he could get answers. Then he would know. He needed to relax. It was going to be a long flight to Jarangua.

  He shoved the worries down and let his gaze drift across the sky. It would lighten soon. He could just take in the quiet expanse until then. Just stars. He tried to ignore everything else.

  It sort of worked. Until he caught sight of the hawk, a seven-star constellation (three for the body, four for the wings). It was his lifelong favorite, but today… it reminded him of Dad. Of Novem. Because the hawk was their symbol.

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  He shoved the thought out of his mind. The hawk was just stars. It should remind him of good things. It was a flier like Mom. Couldn’t he just ignore that other stuff?

  Couldn’t he just focus on the fact that he got to fly as a job? That was great, right?

  As a kid, he’d wanted to be just like his dad: a Luminar, like almost everyone else. But pulsing ran in families, and with his mother’s affinity, his fate had been sealed. Pulser women always passed on their affinity. Now? Now he wouldn’t trade his affinity for anything.

  Not when it meant that he got paid to glide.

  But now he might be gliding into a confrontation with his brother that he wasn’t ready for. Maybe even something more dangerous.

  Ugh. Teorin threw his arm over his eyes and just sat there breathing.

  It was fine. Soon he’d be in the air. He could focus on that.

  He smiled to himself. He was being ridiculously dramatic. His brothers would tease him for days if they saw him now. Delar especially would laugh himself hoarse. Teorin peeked out, and the treetops were starting to turn pink in the morning light.

  Time to move. Finally. Whatever was waiting in Jarangua was coming fast.

  He made his way to the stream on the other side of the clearing. The water was clean enough that a purifier would do the job, no need for anything more. After filling his canteen, he turned back toward his camp, just a tent and a bedroll. He traveled light on these jobs, cutting every unnecessary pound, so there wasn’t much to pack before takeoff.

  He broke down camp with practiced efficiency. He had already mapped out the route to Jarangua the night before and programmed the accelerometer on his wrist to the coordinates. The accelerometer tracked his movement from an initial point, making it reliable even when GPS was down, a frequent problem due to bursts. It wasn’t perfect, needing recalibration every few days, but it was burstproof, making it worth the hassle.

  Teorin double-checked his gear, ensuring everything was balanced. His backpack split into two evenly weighted packs that secured around his hips and back, keeping his center of gravity stable in flight. Satisfied, he walked to his chosen runway, a flat stretch of clearing free of obstacles.

  Timing was everything. A mistimed pulse could throw him off course—or worse, drain too much energy before he gained proper altitude. Pulsers had to strike a fine balance: too much force, and they’d lose control. Too little, and they’d hit the ground hard.

  Teorin pulled his flight goggles on and yanked a handle to release his suit’s wings. They unfurled slowly from the slots along the back of his jacket. He preferred that, letting him feel the air before committing to flight. He took a steadying breath, pressure pooling in his palms. It built there, drawn from his muscles as his sac—a specialized organ directly connected to his diaphragm—released stored pressure back into his system to replace what he was about to use.

  Teorin sprinted forward. The air dragged at the wings, resisting, but he leaned into it, gaining speed. As soon as his feet began to lose traction, he pulsed. A shockwave slammed against the ground, rebounding upward, and the force caught the wings, launching him skyward.

  Another pulse ahead of him gave him lift, tilting him upward as he adjusted his stance, letting his body become part of the suit’s frame.

  The tension in his muscles melted the second his feet left the earth. This was where he belonged.

  Wind roared past his ears as he pressed a button on his wrist. A jet of air blasted from his jacket, accelerating him forward. He shifted his weight, tilting into the airflow, but a slight drag on his right wing pulled him off course.

  He exhaled and adjusted, tapping into the pressure panels woven into the suit’s structure. Instead of letting his momentum bleed away, he redirected the lingering force of his last pulse backward, smoothing the turbulence. A subtle shift in his shoulders, a flex of his legs—the suit responded, angling him back on course.

  Teorin grinned. Much better.

  The clearing vanished beneath him as he soared over the trees. He pulled a release strap, and the supports for his arms and legs snapped into place. Fins along his legs deployed, giving him finer control.

  Up ahead, the thermal he’d marked on his map shimmered in the early light. He adjusted, catching the rising air and banking into a slow spiral. The pressure panels extended his glide, funneling the absorbed force from his last pulse into sustained lift with pockets of pressure. He sent out a controlled burst beneath him, and the suit redistributed the pressure smoothly, keeping him aloft with minimal effort.

  He climbed higher, circling with ease before diving out of the thermal, letting gravity and speed work in tandem.

  This was why he wouldn’t trade being a Pulser for anything.

  For now, he flew. But Jarangua, and whatever waited in Trevor’s outpost, was coming.

  The sky gave him peace. He just wished it could last longer.