Vaelor stood on the mountain peak, the same one he had stood upon the morning he left for the Galactic Survivor Games. The wind was sharp here, carrying the scent of frost-lichen and distant storms. Below him, the valley stretched wide and white, dotted with the silhouettes of Crytharian hunters preparing for the coming Warm Season. Soon, the snow would melt just enough for the clan to forage, hunt, and gather what they needed to survive the next brutal Cold Season.
Life was moving forward. But Vaelor wasn’t.
He watched the sunrise paint the sky in streaks of gold and violet, but the beauty of it barely touched him. He felt hollow, as if something essential had been carved out of him and left behind on that ice planet.
Or rather… left behind with someone.
“You’ve been back home a few weeks now,” a familiar voice said behind him, “but it’s like you haven’t really returned.”
Vaelor didn’t turn immediately. He knew the voice. Anchora—elder, advisor, and one of the few Crytharians who had known him since childhood. She had always been able to read him too easily.
“I’m here,” he said finally, keeping his gaze on the horizon. “And I will do whatever is needed for the clan.”
Anchora stepped beside him, her fur-lined cloak fluttering in the wind. She studied him with sharp, knowing eyes. “But what do you need, Vaelor?”
He didn’t answer.
He didn’t know how.
He lifted his gaze to the sky, watching the twin moons fade as the sun rose higher. He thought of Mara—her laugh,her stubbornness, the way she had looked at him in the final moments of the Games. The way she had said she loved him. The way he had stepped out of the circle to give her the victory she deserved.
His beautiful, fierce, impossible human.
What was she doing now?
Was she safe?
Was she happy?
Did she think of him at all?
“I’m fine,” he said quietly.
Anchora snorted. “You miss her, don’t you? The female from the Games.”
“Mara,” he corrected softly. “Yes. I miss her.”
The admission scraped something raw inside him. He had tried not to say her name aloud since returning home. It hurt too much. It made the emptiness sharper.
Anchora tilted her head. “Then why have you not reached out to her?”
He exhaled slowly, the breath misting in the cold air. “I’m not sure she would welcome me contacting her.”
He remembered the moment he had tried—right before leaving the ice planet. He had asked to see her, to speak with her, to say goodbye properly. But the officials had blocked him, telling him Mara was too busy with interviews, contracts, and post-victory obligations.
She doesn’t have time for you, they had said.
He had believed them.
He still did.
So he had returned home and buried himself in work. The clan needed him. There was a new base to build—one that would allow ships to land, trade to flourish, and Crytharians to finally step into the wider galaxy. It would take months, maybe longer, but he threw himself into it with relentless determination.
If he kept moving, kept working, kept leading… maybe the ache in his chest would dull.
But it didn’t.
Anchora watched him for a long moment, her expression softening. “You have done everything for this clan since the moment you returned. You work from dawn until the moons rise. You hunt. You build. You lead. But your spirit is elsewhere.”
