Vaelor stood beside Anchora at the site of the future landing base. The cold wind tugged at his hair as he surveyed the cleared land. The snow had been shoveled away in wide, deliberate paths, revealing the hard ice beneath. Stakes marked the perimeter. Supply crates were stacked neatly in rows. The first foundation beams lay waiting like bones ready to be set.
It wasn’t much yet.
But it would be a landing base to be used for future trade.
A doorway to the galaxy.
Other clans had pledged their help. The project would be completed before the next Cold Season—if the weather held, if the supplies arrived on time, if the workers didn’t collapse from exhaustion. Vaelor planned to work alongside them every day until it was done.
Work kept him busy.
Work kept him steady.
Work kept him from thinking too much.
But it didn’t stop the ache.
Today, he was meeting the new ambassador assigned by the Galactic Nations. Every new member planet required one—a liaison to help them integrate, negotiate, and avoid offending half the galaxy by accident. Vaelor hoped the ambassador wasn’t an arrogant fool. He didn’t have the patience for political games.
He glanced at Anchora. She had been by his side since returning home—steady, wise, and quietly watchful. She had taken on half his responsibilities without being asked. The other elders had done the same. They were trying to lighten his load.
They saw the weight he carried.
They saw the loneliness he tried to hide.
“Anchora,” he said, “why is this ambassador coming now instead of waiting for the base to be completed?”
Anchora shrugged, her fur-lined cloak rustling. “I believe it was a scheduling conflict that sped up this visit.”
He grunted. “Convenient.”
They both turned as a sleek silver ship descended from the sky, its engines humming softly. It landed smoothly on the flat ice, steam rising from the heated landing pads.
The ramp lowered.
A tall, thin human male with gray hair stepped out first. He looked around with polite curiosity, waved at them, then turned back toward the ramp.
Vaelor braced himself.
Another figure appeared—shorter, wrapped in a hooded jacket against the cold. The person paused at the bottom of the ramp, lifted their hands, and pushed the hood back.
Vaelor’s heart stopped.
“Mara,” he whispered.
She looked up at him—and her smile broke across her face like sunlight on ice. Bright. Warm. Devastating.
“Mara!”
“Vaelor!”
They ran.
Everything else—the ship, the ambassador, Anchora, the wind—faded into nothing. The world narrowed to the sound of her boots crunching across the ice, the sight of her hair whipping behind her, the way her eyes shone with tears and joy.
She leapt into his arms.
He caught her easily, lifting her off the ground, holding her as if afraid she might vanish again. Her arms wrapped around his neck, her face buried against his shoulder. He breathed in her warmth, her scent, her presence—and something inside him that had been frozen for months finally cracked open.
