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Chapter Three

I wake to a crashing ship. It feels like the gates of hell are breaking open.

I emerge from the confines of the healing machine. Its screen' displays my recovery, only at 70%—not perfect, but its enough.

The ship's energy is down and the doors to the infirmary do not open automatically. With a grunt, I use my raw strength to pry apart the stubborn metal. The effort costs me some of my nails, leaving me at 68%, but I enter the ship's main deck undeterred.

I know this ship's layout like the back of my hand. I know all of our enemies warships. It is a Lunarii-678 warship, an older model. As a child, I had studied its intricacies diligently, and its blueprint are etched into my memory. The exact location of the escape pods, and the captains quarters.

At the control center of the ship, made for a team of twelve, there he is. Alone in the helm sits the Kamari Warrior, surrounded by the fallen Empire soldiers.

His demeanor is far from agitated—no curses, no visible tension—despite our perilous descent toward the surface below. The sky is painted a turbulent tableau of amethyst and orange, the atmosphere of whatever planet we're crashing into angrily resisting our abrupt entry.

I don't utter a word or even shift my gaze. We're both warriors enough to know when to speak and when to not. Instead, I take the co-pilot's seat next to him and initiate adjustments to redirect the starship's full shield to cover the scant feet ahead of us.

They probably won't be enough. We're probably going to die.

The Kamari Warrior's tranquility is still steady, his certainty unwavering. He's so calm. Like he's thinking that regardless of the terrain we were headed for, no matter what mountain or ocean or planet we hit, he will live to see another day.

I hold back an adigated sigh. I've never met someone so self-assured in the face of death.

No one except myself.

The ship scream as we hurtle through the rocky atmosphere of this unfortunate planet. It is only then that I detect a flicker of anxiety from my co-pilot.

We only see rock.

Meaning there is no water to receive us—our impact is imminent.

As the ground neared, I stand, readying myself to meet death. But his hand darts out, clasping my arm. I look to the ground we're about to die on. We only have seconds left—twenty, ten. His arms envelop me, shielding my body as the world around us transforms into a blinding white.

—----

My consciousness returns in the medical bay, again.

Gods, I'm such a horrible body guard.

I've almost died twice.

My limbs display faint scars from past injuries, now fully healed. It's a miracle I survived. The notion keeps my anxiety at bay—where I am, who I'm with, I can handle. I can figure it out because I am alive. The rhythm of my heartbeat is my anchor.

I pull myself up from the medical container, swing my legs, and meet the metal floor.

The ship is in ruins. Only the medical bay and the captain's quarters have escaped relatively unscathed. There is a devastating fracture through the vessel's heart, live wires hissing dangerously in the wreckage. But, I am alive—the lamb had not been slaughtered.

I try to focus on being alive, I really do, but my mind is built to be a bodyguard, a shield, a survivor.

Where the hell am I? And who the hell am I with?

No Kaimari warrior would ever help an Astran. Their people hated ours, a long and bloody war from before I was born. From my history books I can only remember a few things. I think they blew up one of our planets, and in return, like the assholes we are, we blew up six.

So if he wasn't a Kaimari warrior, who the hell was he?

It turns out, I didn't ever have to answer that question.

Over the following days, I carefully collect provisions—food, water, an emergency kit—and fashioned a makeshift camp in a nearby cave, kindling a fire with clothing and cardboard from the wreckage. There are no trees to provide wood, but necessity bred resourcefulness.

As the fourth day dawns, it seems increasingly likely that the Kamari's fate had been sealed.

He's gone and I don't blame him.

He's abandoned ship and left without a word. It doesn't matter.

I look up to the new dawn on the alien planet. The stars are strange here, nothing I recongize from years of studying constellations. And the two suns create one of the strongest, blood red mornings I have ever seen in my life.

The time has come for me to abandon the remnants of the ship and strike out on my own. I am a survivor, resourceful and resilient. I must survive, because I have to survive for Irina. I have to protect her with my life.

As long as my heart is beating, it belongs to the Princess of Astreaus.

Doubt gnaws at me as I embark on the treacherous descent. Mountains loom on the horizon, and I assume forests concealed their bases. It's at least a two-day hike to the mountain, but I can't be exactly sure, because there's a huge layer of thick mist seperating my height and the planets floor. I just had to find some sort of society, some sort of singal. If the communication device can pick up a signal I could send out emergency distress and Astraeus or Dawnlight would find me.

They would come... wouldn't they?


For three relentless days, I free climb down mountain. My hands are cut and aching in a million places, but I hold onto the rock face with every ounce of my strength.

I will not die today. I will protect Irina.

The ascent begins relatively smoothly, the weight of my pack—filled with medical supplies, food, and an Empire water processor—are present but bearable.

The terrain transforms—meadows stretching infinitely, still veiled by that damn enigmatic mist. Another day and my theory is confirmed, and an alien forest becomes my campground. I sleep on high trees, tying myself to thick branches to rest from dusk til dawn. My rations are dwindling, but hope remains. I will not die today.

The seventh day unveils the city, its magnificent splendor causing me to collapse to my knees. I know where I am. Cordamae, a planet allied with Astraeus. I will survive.

Situated on Astraeus's outer rim, the city on the horizon brims with life, powered by electricity, and embraced beneath grand domes.

I decide to press onward through the night. Before entering the city's domain, I pull on the royal robes and a traveling cloak. Here, Irina's name would be my shield, as outer rim planets dutifully paid fealty to the crown.

I pull my cloak over my hair, take a deep breath, and enter Cordamae.

Structures of brown and beige adorn the streets, radiating Mediterranean influences. I estimate a modest population—twenty, perhaps thirty thousand. At last, I find the town’s Symposium, a scene of opulence decorated with majestic fountains and outdoor lounges. Guided by purpose, I enter the grandest edifice and head for the first floor lounge. A bar crafted from cerulean blue glass and onyx appears, surrounded by working professionals and scholars. The ambiance is exquisite, exactly what I need to get on a ship and go home.

But there he is.

My heart stutters within my chest, involuntary reacting to his presence. At the back end of the bar, underneath an etheral arch, he lounges amidst alien beings. He's in his ridium armor, a stark contrast to the elegant navy robes of the women around him.

He attemped to kill me. Kidnapped me. Abadoned me. And now he is sitting around and flirting? Who the hell does he think he is?

Anger and the smallest hint of hurt swell within me. I decide to ignore him. To pretend I have never even met him.

Besides, there are Cordamae Riders, allies to the Astreaus crown, huddled in an elegant nook of the bar staring at me. They would help.

I push through the crowd towards the Riders, my steps purposeful and my gaze locked on their group. I won't let the Kamari Warrior's presence distract me. I won't let him stop me from being back with Irina.

As I drew nearer to the Riders, I feel his gaze on me—a force that seems to strip away the layers I'd carefully constructed, exposing the raw truth beneath. Still, I refuse to yield. He wouldn't gain the satisfaction of seeing his influence over me.

"Riders," I address the Riders. There are four of them, two women and two men, all dressed in Cordamae purple. They look me up and down strangely, and I don't blame them. I must look like I just hiked for seven days, oh wait I did. "I am Irina, heir to the throne of Astraeus and I need your help.”

Murmurs erupt among them, skepticism painted across their features. I understand their language well enough to know thy are questioning my identity.

"What brings you here, princess?" The question is poised by the eldest male among them. He has jet black hair and blue eyes, two scars on his left eyebrow that he's wearing like a badge of honor. He's their leader, and he doesn't trust me.

I match his scrutiny. "Why, I wonder," I counter evenly, "do you remain here, drinking and reveling, while your High Court issues distress signals?"

The young man stands abruptly, his towering figure casting a shadow over me. He steps towards me, his striking blue eyes assessing me with a chilling intensity. "We have just returned from defending Astraeus," he says, his voice tinged with a hint of authority. "The Empire has returned home."

I arch an eyebrow, my response purposefully laced with regal arrogance. "Returned, Rider, or been forced to retreat?"

Blue-eyes widen, and for a moment I am afraid I made a grand mistake. That they will never believe that I am Irina. But then blue eyes thin lips curve into a devilish smirk. “That,” he points a finger at me, "is the future queen of Astraeus."

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