“Again.”

  The word was quiet, but it echoed off the walls of the cavernous hold. Soren’s muscles bunched, sweat glistening on his shoulders as he reset his stance. He moved with a frustrating slowness, the massive greatsword in his hands tracing a measured arc through the air. It was less of a swing and more a study of forms, a lesson in basic motions that she was drilling into him until they became instinct. He was all raw power and untapped potential, a living siege engine trying to learn how to be delicate.

  He was also a surprisingly diligent student.

  His feet slid across the deck plating, finding the wider, more grounded stance she’d shown him—knees bent, hips lowered.

  “Better,” she allowed, circling him like a predator. “Breathe. Every swing, the same rhythm. The blade obeys discipline, not force.”

  He exhaled a sharp breath through his teeth, and began the motion again.

  It had been three days since they’d left Nox. Three days of the familiar hum of the Aether Core beneath them and the endless, silent drift of stars beyond the viewport. The departure from Berilinsk had been a quiet affair, heavy with unspoken farewells and the oppressive heat of a dying world. She had held Riza one last time, a fierce embrace that said everything words couldn't. Then they had watched all of Berilinisk remain behind as the ramp to their Aether Dust fueled ship sealed shut.

  Tamiyo had taken them into the storm-choked night skies of Nox, piloting through sheets of lightning and turbulent gravitational fluxes while the rest of the team tried to find a few hours of shallow, restless sleep. Their destination was a station called Radiant Horizon, a chaotic hub of commerce and crime nestled in Corporate Expanse territory. Riza had already sent out feelers through the extranet—the blockchain-style network that crawled its way across the galaxy on courier ships. Somewhere in those packeted bursts of data, someone might be listening. It was a long shot, a single thread in an impossibly tangled web, but it was the only thread they had.

  Now, adrift in the void between worlds, there was nothing to do but wait.

  And train.

  Soren finished the arc, the tip of the greatsword coming to a rest just an inch from the floor plating. His breathing was heavy. The raw power that simmered beneath his skin was quiet for now, leashed by sheer force of will. He was trying, she had to give him that. He was trying to be more than just the weapon fate had made him.

  But he was still moving wrong.

  “You’re all arms.” Her voice cut through his concentration. She stepped in closer, the air between them immediately thickening. “The power isn’t in your shoulders. It’s in your core. It’s in the turn.”

  He looked over his shoulder at her, his green and silver eyes questioning. He didn’t speak, just waited.

  She sighed. It was easier to show than to tell.

  Aurania moved behind him, her body flush against him and the large swell of her chest pressing into his back. He instantly tensed, a sharp, involuntary intake of breath. She tried to ignore it but found herself smiling. She wrapped her arms around, her hands covering his on the hilt of the greatsword. His skin was hot, his grip like iron.

  “Relax,” she murmured, her lips just inches from his ear. She felt the shiver that ran through him. “Feel the balance. Your right hand is the anchor. Your left is the guide.”

  She adjusted his grip, her fingers brushing against his knuckles. The contact sent a jolt through her, a low, simmering heat deep in her core. She pressed on, forcing her voice to remain steady.

  “Now.” Her other hand moved to rest flat against his abdomen, just below his navel. The muscle there was like ridged steel. “The swing starts here. It’s a coil. You twist from your hips, and let the momentum carry the blade. The sword is the last thing to move.”

  She guided him through the motion, her body moving in perfect sync with his. She felt the shift as he stopped trying to muscle the swing and instead let his body uncoil. The massive blade sang cleanly through the air, equal parts power and grace.

  Her hand lingered on his stomach a beat too long. She could feel his pulse hammering against her palm.

  Or maybe it was her own.

  She pulled back, stepping away and putting a careful distance between them. “Again.” Her voice came out a little rougher than she intended. “From the beginning.”

  He obeyed without question, settling back into the initial stance. For the better part of an hour, the only sounds in the cargo hold were the rhythmic scrape of his boots on the deck, the whisper of the greatsword cutting through the air, and the clipped, precise commands she gave him. She watched, corrected, and watched again, pushing him through the basic forms until the motions started to smooth out, the awkwardness giving way to a semblance of muscle memory. The raw power was still there, but it was starting to find a channel.

  “Enough,” she finally held up a hand. “Let’s take a break."

  He sank onto one of the cargo crates, forearms resting on his knees, the sheathed greatsword laid carefully at his side. Aurania took a seat across from him, uncorking a flask and drinking deeply before passing it over. He accepted, took a long pull, and wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. The heat he radiated was a tangible presence in the room.

  After a few quiet minutes, he asked, “Hey, there’s something I’ve been wondering about lacravida culture.”

  She arched a brow. “Shoot.”

  “Well,” he leaned back, bracing his hands on the crates. “You said lacravida surnames don’t work the way I’m used to. So… how do they work?”

  He took another swig of water.

  She smiled at his genuine curiosity, then shrugged. “They’re earned. Usually tied to some accomplishment or defining moment. Not just a family name you’re born with. Though…” She allowed herself a wry smirk. “I’m a bit of an exception. I became Aurania Enderchild when I stepped into my leadership role for Berilinsk. It’s tied to lineage, yes, but also to responsibility. A reminder of what I chose to carry.”

  “Hmm.” He looked off to the distance, considering what she said. It was cute how innocent and boyish his expression grew in times like this.

  "What about Emberfell? What's the story behind that?"

  Aurania’s breath caught. The name hung heavy in the air between them. She looked at Soren, at his open, honest curiosity, and knew he wasn't just asking maliciously, or to make idle conversation. He was genuinely seeking understanding.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  "Emberfell isn't a title she earned," Aurania said. "It's the place she lost."

  His expression shifted, the curiosity giving way to a more somber attention.

  "Proxinara," Aurania began, "wasn't just some backwater rock. It was a thriving world, home to dozens of lacravida settlements. Riza was born in the northern territories, in a region of volcanic plains and hot springs called Emberfall. It was… beautiful, from what she told me."

  She paused, an ache in her chest growing as she recalled what Riza had told her years ago. "Then the Conservatory came. They were expanding their borders, claiming systems, doing exactly what Venlin screamed at his people about. They didn't negotiate. They didn't offer treaties. They just dropped bombs from orbit and turned Emberfall and all the rest of the settlements to rubble."

  Horror dawned across Soren's face.

  "She was fourteen."

  "Holy shit," he breathed. "So… that’s why they call her the Ghost of Proxinara."

  "Partly," Aurania confirmed, a grim edge to her voice. "She's 'The Ghost' because she was the only one to walk out of the ashes. But the legend... that came after. When the Conservatory ground troops landed to 'secure' the ruins, she was waiting. A fourteen-year-old girl with nothing left but rage and a dead parent's rifle. She hunted them through the ruins of her own home. Killed more of them than they could count, then stole one of their ships to escape. She was just a girl, but she became a ghost to them—a phantom that slipped through their grasp.”

  Soren was silent. He stared at the floor, the weight of Riza's past settling over him. Finally, he looked up, his eyes heavy. "Thank you." His voice was thick with emotion. "For sharing that with me."

  Aurania studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “You’re welcome. I don’t think she’d mind you knowing—not now. But don’t bring it up to her. She buried that past deep, and she doesn’t like to talk about it.”

  He nodded, and a few moments later, footsteps echoed down the staircase, breaking the stillness. Brana emerged onto Deck 5, a wrench in one hand and a look of profound confusion on her face. Her usual gruff confidence was gone, replaced by a kind of bewildered uncertainty that immediately set Aurania on edge. "Hey guys. We have a… well not a problem. More of a… a situation."

  Aurania stood up. "What kind of situation?"

  "The kind you need to see," Brana replied, already heading back up the stairs.

  Aurania and Soren exchanged a quick, questioning glance before following after her. The hallway on Deck 4 held five bedroom doors on each side, and as Brana led them into the middle room on the port side, she found everyone but Brolgar and Amalia crowded together.

  “Who’s flying the ship?” Aurania asked.

  “Autopilot,” Raine shrugged, moving to let Brana past her into the bathroom.

  The room was filled with the soft hum of circulating water and the glow of inlaid lighting. The tub was a seamless work of art—with smooth, curved edges, recessed lighting along the rim, and a slope meant for reclining. It was large too—big enough for at least two full-grown lacravida to sit together comfortably. It even had what looked like integrated massage jets pulsing with gentle streams, and a finish that shimmered like polished obsidian.

  Amalia came running in and caught sight of the marvelous structure. “Woah! Brana! This is amazing! You have to make my shower like this next!"

  Brana’s face was tight, her voice a strange mix of pride and alarm. “Yeah, there’s only one problem. I didn’t build this. I built a metal box from scrounged materials. This… this is something else.”

  Inelius stepped closer, running a hand over the smooth edge of the tub. "Are you saying the ship just... upgraded it on its own? That sounds like something out of some science fantasy story.”

  “Neels,” Amalia crossed her arms with exasperated flare, “we’re all basically genetically engineered cousins and we’re standing in a starship fueled by an 8,000-year-old cosmic space hunk.” She thrust a thumb in Soren’s direction.

  Inelius gave her a long, pained look. “Please don’t call us cousins. I’ve had sex with two of you.”

  A ripple of choked laughter went through the room, but it slowly faded as Tamiyo stepped forward. Her eyes glowed with the faint light of her scanner as she held a hand over the tub's surface, not quite touching it. "There's… energy in it. It’s active. It's not just a structure. It's a system."

  "A system for what?" Brana asked. "Self-decorating?" She sounded like her entire understanding of engineering had been upended.

  Tamiyo’s gaze lifted, serious and awestruck. “For responding to intent. Brana, you didn’t just want to build a tub. You wanted to build a place for Riza to rest. To be comfortable. The ship didn’t just read the blueprint—it read the reason.”

  Aurania’s eyes narrowed, her mind racing through the tactical implications. A ship that could anticipate their needs? That was an asset beyond measure. But a ship that could read their minds? That was a terrifying vulnerability. She looked at Soren, who looked just as stunned as everyone else. "Can you control it?"

  He just shrugged, a look of helpless skepticism on his face. "I don't know, I just work here. I wasn't even thinking about it—I wasn't even on this deck."

  "Try," Aurania commanded, gesturing to an empty space in the room. "Make it do something. Something simple. On purpose."

  He hesitated, then raised a hand, focusing on the empty space. His jaw tight with effort. The air hummed. A floor plate shimmered. Then...

  Nothing.

  There was a moment of awkward silence.

  Inelius cleared his throat. “Maybe it’s not that simple.” He turned to Brana. “How quick did this tub ‘transform?’ It didn’t just materialize, right?”

  “No,” Brana said reluctantly. “I don’t think so, at least. I haven’t actually come in here since I built it, so all I can tell you is it ‘transformed’ sometime between Garrick Station and now.”

  Inelius spread his hands. “Sooo… maybe Tamiyo’s right. Maybe it responds to intent. To reason. And it shifts slowly—adapts—to what we actually need.”

  Everyone looked at him skeptically.

  “What?” he said. “It’s a theory. I’m not a scientist.”

  “Okay, let’s test that,” Raine piped up. She cupped her hands to her mouth, looking at the ceiling. “Ship? Your new name is The Cradle of Gravity! Can you paint that on the outside of the hull?”

  Everyone stared at her.

  Raine shrugged. “What? We hadn’t named it yet, and it fits even more now than the last ship. We found it in The Cradle. It runs on Soren’s gravity powers.”

  Amalia’s loud voice suddenly echoed from the hallway. "Make meee, a dildooo!"

  They all turned to see her standing just outside the room, both hands pressed flat against the corridor wall panel, yelling into it like it was a fast-food kiosk.

  Veolo muttered under her breath, “Is she asking it to make one, or asking to be made into one?”

  Violet groaned. “What are you doing?”

  Amalia smacked the wall twice like it was a vending machine. “Go-go-gadget wall cock!”

  Raine clutched her forehead. “You’re asking the ancient, semi-sentient, reality-warping starship… for a sex toy.”

  “Hey!” Amalia snapped back, her voice sharper than usual. “We’re flying into Conservatory space. A place I doubt any of us are going to find fresh dick because they all hate anyone that isn’t human. There’s exactly three cocks on this damn ship: Brolgar feels like a dad to me, so no. Soren I don’t even need to explain, and Inelius is only available if you feel like sharing! Which none of us expect! But a girl has needs! So yes, if I need to fuck a starship to make it through this mission, then that’s what I’m going to do!”

  A stunned silence fell over the group.

  Violet stepped forward and put a hand on her sister's shoulder. “You a little stressed there, Sis?”

  The defiance drained out of Amalia in an instant. She shrank back, her voice small. “This is the most dangerous mission I’ve ever been on. Maybe I’m a little scared.”

  Violet wrapped her arms around her sister, pulling her into a tight hug. "I know," she murmured into Amalia's hair. "Me too."

  Soren’s eyes met Aurania’s across the room. He didn’t speak, but she felt the question in his gaze, a quiet hum through their connection.

  You okay?

  She gave him a small nod, but the weight of Amalia’s confession had settled in her own chest. This mission was more than dangerous. It was a knife’s edge, and they were all walking it together. As their eyes stayed on each other, she felt heat rising inside her. A simple thought slipped into her head through their mental link:

  Come with me.

  And he left the room.