We stand united, side by side, preparing for the Ninth’s final strike. If they want to remove me, they’ll have to go through her too.
As dawn flickers violet on the horizon, we step inside. The Empire is worth fighting for—and together, we’ll prove we’re unbreakable.
Because I’m no longer a lonely godfather. I’m a leader with an equal, and together, we’ll challenge extinction—and win.
The stars aren’t right.
That’s the first thing I feel as I step out onto the north observation deck of the Centauri compound—something off in the air, in the texture of the sky itself. It’s not just the low hum of the defense grids or the faint ozone tingle crawling across my skin like ghost fingers. It’s deeper. Primal.
A warning sung straight into the marrow.
I scan the horizon. Goldwin glows beneath us, a nest of lights and sin pulsing in time with its own dark heart. But overhead—where stars should be sharp and indifferent—there’s movement. Wrong movement.
“They’re falling early,” Aria mutters beside me.
I turn. She’s dressed in matte black armor, no insignia, her blonde hair braided back tight. No makeup. No pretense. Just the edge of her jawline catching the light, the holster at her hip thrumming faintly with charge. Her eyes are locked on the sky. Green. Electric. Scanning.
“The meteor shower wasn’t due for another seven minutes,” she adds, voice low. “These trajectories… they’re not orbital drift.”
I watch them now—brilliant arcs of white and gold, too fast, too clustered. Too controlled.
“No,” I say quietly. “They’re not.”
She lifts her wristpad. “Triggering internal lockdown.”
“Don’t.”
Her head snaps toward me. “What?”
“They want that. Full seal gives them shadows. Gives them silence. We need noise. Motion. Witnesses.”
Her jaw clenches. “This isn’t some nightclub ambush, Aebon.”
“No. It’s worse.” I reach up, unclip the restraint bands on my sleeves. Let my bone spurs slide free with a faint hiss, ivory catching the ambient light. “This is a ghost op.”
She goes still. “The Nine?”
I nod once. “And they’re not here for systems. They’re here for us.”
There’s a beat of silence so thick it hums between our teeth. Then the sky tears open.
It doesn’t explode—no flash, no concussive scream. Just... a ripple. A soft distortion, like water disturbed from beneath. And out of it, shapes fall.
Ten. Fifteen. Maybe more.
Black suits. No lights. No sound. Each one a silhouette of death stitched from void and vengeance. They hit the compound with impossible precision—sliding through perimeter barriers like mist, folding into crevices like shadows, flowing toward the main structure.
I move first.
“Ground level’s already compromised,” I snarl, dragging Aria back from the ledge. “Northwest wing’s fallback.”
“I’m not retreating,” she snaps.
“It’s not retreat. It’s flanking. Now move.”
We don’t run. We descend—two silent blurs moving through the inner halls of the Centauri safehouse. Civilians are already being routed through emergency protocols. I can hear it in the distant shuffle of bodies, the bark of security commands, the whirr of drones mobilizing overhead.
“They’re splitting us up,” Aria growls, voice taut as wire.
