Drosk lounged in the captain’s chair of the Dunerunner, savoring his triumph.

  The bridge, though scuffed and marked by the brief struggle, was now his. Sharp claws drummed against the armrest as he surveyed the displays, the scent of ozone and burning circuitry still clinging to the air.

  It was a good haul—better than most. The freighter crew had put up a fight, but in the end, all resistance crumbled, just as it always did. A wicked grin spread across his scarred face as he envisioned the profits he’d rake in. The cargo hold was full of trade goods—spices, textiles, rare metals—items that would fetch a fortune in the right markets.

  But that wasn’t the real prize. The ship itself, large and sturdy, had potential. Unlike the gutted, piecemeal relics that made up most of his fleet, this vessel could be spaceworthy once more. It had suffered in the fight, sure, and most if not all of the supplies in the hold would need to be sold to pay for the repairs, but with a little work, it could serve as a valuable asset. Maybe even a mobile base.

  A few modifications, some additional firepower, and he could extend his reach, hit richer targets without needing to dock so frequently. His tail flicked in anticipation. He had half a mind to make it into his flagship, to outfit it properly and use it to launch deeper raids. If he could secure more long-range hauls, he’d be able to strike beyond the usual trade lanes. This ship could be a stepping stone, a means to elevate himself beyond the rabble of gutter-born pirates he so often had to deal with. Perhaps even a way to cement his legacy in the underworld.

  As he mused, his crew was already stripping the ship of everything of value. The freighter’s once-bustling corridors now rang with the sound of booted feet and raucous laughter. He could hear them rifling through storage compartments, tearing through crates, and celebrating their success.

  He had let them indulge—morale was important after all—but he knew better than to get too comfortable. He’d seen crews fall apart because their captains let their guard down too soon. No, the real work would begin once they finished securing the loot and prepared to move out. That was when he’d make his decision—salvage the ship or scrap it.

  His fingers tapped idly at the console, pulling up the ship’s schematics. He was just beginning to map out potential refits when the thought struck him—he hadn’t heard from Commander Talis since before the raid.

  Frowning, he opened a comm channel.

  “Talis, report.”

  Silence.

  He tried again.

  Nothing.

  Drosk’s frown deepened. He switched channels and reached out to Miren Val.

  “Val, you got anything from Talis or the recon squad?”

  Miren’s brow furrowed as she worked the console. “Nothing, Captain. They checked in before heading toward that gas giant, but since then—”

  Drosk’s eyes flicked back to the ship’s sensor display. A faint, garbled signature pulsed weakly at the edge of the screen. The damage to the freighter’s systems made it difficult to get a clear reading, but something was there. He adjusted the frequencies, but static overwhelmed the feed.

  A cold weight settled in his gut. He’d been in this game long enough to know when something was off.

  “Patch me through to their last known position,” he ordered.

  Val worked quickly, opening a communication channel. The bridge filled with silence. Drosk’s tail lashed as unease prickled along his spine. Why weren’t they answering their hails?

  Before he could process further, Val’s voice cut through the silence, urgent and alarmed.

  “Captain! The Iron Fang and Exquisite Agony have failed to report in. They should have begun unloading the cargo by now.”

  Drosk’s claws curled into the armrest. His victory no longer felt quite so sweet. His voice came low and sharp.

  “Get me a scan of that gas giant. Now.”

  Val moved to comply, fingers flying across the console, but Drosk was already on his feet. A sinking feeling gnawed at his gut—this wasn’t the time to sit idle. If something was out there, he needed to be in command of his own ship.

  He turned sharply toward Miren Val. “You have the bridge. Keep scanning. If anything so much as twitches out there, I want to know.”

  Without waiting for acknowledgment, he strode off the Dunerunner’s bridge, his tail lashing behind him. Two of his lieutenants fell into step beside him, their expressions uneasy.

  “Sir—” one started.

  Drosk cut him off. “We’re done here. We move the loot and secure what we can. The Wrath of Varok is where I need to be.”

  They navigated through the looted corridors of the Dunerunner, past scattered bodies and the spoils of their raid. The docking tube to his flagship hissed as it pressurized, allowing him to step aboard.

  As soon as he entered the Wrath of Varok’s bridge, chaos erupted.

  “Captain, the fleet—” his comms officer started, but Drosk was already taking his seat.

  “Give me a report,” he growled.

  Val moved to comply when a new warning flashed across the freighter’s damaged sensor array. A sudden bloom of energy appeared on the periphery—then another. The system registered the unmistakable signature of a core breach. Then another. And another.

  One by one, he watched as his ships vanished before his very eyes. Some exploded outright, consumed by brilliant bursts of energy. Others simply winked out, their signals disappearing into the void. Some were still intact but adrift, their systems failing, their engines dead.

  Panic flickered across Miren Val’s face as she worked frantically at her console. “Captain—our ships—they’re being picked off!”

  Drosk’s breath came slow and measured, but his tail lashed violently against the chair. He leaned forward, eyes locked on the chaos unfolding on the sensors.

  Whatever was out there wasn’t just attacking—it was dismantling his fleet with eerie precision. His stomach twisted. This wasn’t a rival gang. This wasn’t the work of some desperate patrol ship.

  Something else was hunting them.

  A new voice crackled over the emergency comms, a raw, panicked scream.

  “—we can’t see it! We can’t—!”

  Then silence.

  Drosk’s jaw tightened as the bridge crew scrambled to make sense of the massacre unfolding on the sensor display. The fractured readouts gave them little—just scattered wreckage, ghost signals, and dying energy signatures where his ships had once been.

  Then, for the briefest moment, something flickered on the display—a distortion in space, not an object, but an absence.

  A pit formed in Drosk’s gut.

  “There,” he snapped. “What the hell is that?”

  Val magnified the anomaly, but the moment she did, the entire screen glitched. The freighter’s damaged systems flickered erratically, struggling to process whatever they were looking at. The display twisted, filled with static, and then—

  Nothing. Just empty space.

  Drosk’s breath came fast and shallow, his grip tightening on the chair. A ghost ship. A myth. A nightmare.

  Tales of vessels that moved unseen, striking from the void without warning, had always been the stuff of spacer legends—whispers meant to frighten greenhorns and gullible merchants. Except now, he was looking at one.

  “Orders, Captain?!” Val shouted.

  Drosk’s claws clenched the armrests, metal denting beneath his grip. His voice came out low, but it carried the razor edge of command.

  “All ships—break formation! Scatter and go evasive. We’re sitting targets like this!”

  The fleet fragmented at once. Some ships, driven by blind terror, engaged emergency jumps without calculation, vanishing into the unknown. Others fired wildly into the void, hoping to hit something—anything—that might be their invisible attacker.

  But a handful, including Drosk’s flagship, held firm.

  The bridge of Drosk’s flagship was in chaos. Reports of ship losses screamed across the comms, overlapping in a cacophony of panic. Some voices were cut off mid-sentence, replaced by static or silence. Others devolved into desperate, incoherent shouts.

  Drosk’s claws dug into the armrest of his command chair. The Vulture’s Grin—his flagship, his throne—was still intact, but the fleet was crumbling around him.

  Then, through the chaotic storm of voices, one transmission cut through clearly.

  “Captain, I’m not running.”

  Drosk’s ears flicked toward the speaker. It was Baresh, the captain of the Iron Scar, one of the few commanders he had considered reliable.

  “Repeat that, Scar,” Drosk growled, though a cold pit was forming in his gut.

  “I said I’m not running.” Baresh’s voice was steady, resigned. “If I run, this thing follows. You see it, don’t you? It’s not after us like prey. It’s… playing.”

  A heavy silence fell over the bridge, broken only by the flickering displays showing more ships vanishing.

  Baresh continued, voice grim. “I’ll buy you time, Captain.”

  Drosk’s jaw clenched. “That’s suicide.”

  “Maybe.” A humorless chuckle came through the comm. “But someone has to slow it down.”

  Drosk opened his mouth to order Baresh to stand down, but the channel cut off.

  On the display, the Iron Scar peeled away from the remaining ships, turning toward the black void that had swallowed the others. Its cannons fired in all directions, bursts of energy flaring in the dark.

  Drosk gritted his teeth. Maybe, maybe Baresh had the right idea. Maybe throwing everything they had at this thing would—

  The Iron Scar vanished.

  One moment, it was there, engines burning, weapons flaring. The next, it was gone. No explosion. No wreckage. Just… gone.

  Drosk’s stomach dropped.

  The ghost hadn’t even acknowledged the Iron Scar. It hadn’t fought it. It had simply erased it.

  That was when Drosk knew.

  This thing wasn't playing, it wasn't toying with them.

  It was exterminating them.

  There was no winning this.

  He was the last one left.

  A cold, pitiless voice crackled through the ship’s warning systems. The targeting alarms wailed.

  Weapon’s lock detected.

  The chaos of evacuation swallowed everything.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  ....

  The alarms shrieked, an unrelenting wail that merged with the deep, tortured groans of the dying freighter. The deck vibrated beneath Velia’s feet, the metal beneath her boots trembling like a wounded beast. Smoke thickened in the air, carrying the acrid stench of burning circuits and melted plating.

  The pirates were running.

  That was the first sign something was horribly wrong.

  Velia had braced for the final clash, expecting the raiders to fight to the last. But instead of digging in, they were scrambling for their own escape. Some shoved past one another in blind panic, others abandoned weapons and loot alike, sprinting for their shuttles as if their very souls were at stake.

  Something had broken them.

  Something had made them afraid.

  But Velia had no time to think about that now.

  She turned sharply, ears flattening as she counted the scattered survivors, checking each face. Liora was near the shuttle ramp, ushering crew members aboard. Zireal stood beside her, blaster raised, his eyes scanning the shifting shadows warily.

  Aelar stood between them, clutching Liora’s sleeve, his wide amber eyes darting around as though searching for something—someone.

  Velia’s gut twisted.

  Something was wrong.

  Her heart pounded as she did a second count.

  Then a third.

  Her eyes grew wide.

  Her voice came sharp, cutting through the wailing sirens. “Where’s Chika?”

  The air in the hold seemed to still for half a second.

  Aelar flinched. His ears twitched, tail curling close. “I—I thought she was with you.”

  Velia’s blood turned to ice.

  She turned frantically, scanning every terrified face in the hold. “No, no, she was in the nursery. She had to be—”

  Liora’s expression twisted in dread. “Mother,” she said slowly, carefully. “The nursery was empty when we got there.”

  Velia stared at her daughter, words catching in her throat.

  Empty?

  That wasn’t possible.

  Chika had been there. She had to have been there. Where else could she have gone?

  Her pulse hammered, a terrible, crushing weight settling in her chest.

  “She must have hidden somewhere,” Velia said, shaking her head violently, willing it to be true. “She’s scared—she’s waiting for us—”

  Zireal’s expression was grim. “Even if she were hiding, we wouldn’t be able to reach her,” he said, his voice rough, edged with barely contained grief. “The ship’s been depressurized, Mother. Half the compartments are gone. Exposed to vacuum.”

  Velia’s breath hitched.

  “No,” she whispered, taking a step back. “No, you don’t know that.”

  Zireal’s ears pressed flat. “I do.”

  Velia’s chest constricted, a cold, suffocating agony clawing its way up her throat.

  “No—no, she’s alive,” she insisted, her voice rising, cracking under the weight of it. “I just have to find her—”

  Liora grasped her arm. “We can’t—”

  Velia yanked away violently. “I have to—”

  A firm, steadying hand caught her wrist before she could bolt.

  Dr. Teklen.

  His grip was strong, his expression carved from grief and resolve. His ears were stiff, his tail still, his face unreadable beneath the weight of a father who had already lost too much.

  “She’s gone,” he said.

  Velia shook her head wildly. “No—”

  “She’s gone, Velia.”

  The words hit like a blade to the gut.

  Teklen’s voice trembled, but only for a second. “We don’t have time. If you stay, you die. If you die, the rest of us die with you.” His voice dropped, softer but no less firm. “I will not lose you, too.”

  The walls of her world cracked.

  Her breath came in ragged gasps, her body frozen between the instinct to run and the unbearable truth pressing down on her.

  She had to go.

  She had to leave.

  She had to abandon her daughter.

  A sob choked her, raw and broken.

  Teklen exhaled sharply. Then, without hesitation, he pulled a sedative injector from his med kit, pressed it against her neck, and depressed the trigger.

  A sharp hiss.

  Her body went slack before she could protest, the weight of her grief dragging her into darkness.

  The last thing she felt was strong arms catching her as the alarms screamed their final warning.

  Deep within the vessel, in a cramped and dimly lit vault, a different kind of terror took hold.

  Chika sat curled in the corner, her small hands pressed tightly over her ears as distant explosions vibrated through the ship’s hull. The emergency lights stuttered, casting long, wavering shadows that danced on the cold metal walls. She had screamed earlier—pounded on the door until her fingers ached, calling out for her mother and brothers—but only silence had answered.

  Now, alone, she clutched onto a simple counting game to steady her racing heart.

  "One breath. Two. Three. Four," she murmured, her voice a fragile lifeline in a storm of uncertainty.

  The blinking screen on the wall, a poor substitute for reassurance, showed a steady decline in oxygen levels. Each pulse of red on the display tightened the knot of dread in her chest. Desperate, she tried the emergency comm again—only to be met with static.

  A single thought pierced her isolation: Mama would never leave me here.

  But as the oxygen level slid dangerously closer to critical, Chika realized that the ship wasn’t just creaking.

  It was dying.

  Her fingers clenched around the fabric of her shirt, her breath coming in shallow, desperate gasps. She stared at the final blinking numbers on the oxygen monitor, willing them to stop, to freeze in place—to give her just a little more time.

  But the red light pulsed once more.

  Her lips trembled, but no more sound came as her body swayed, darkness creeping in at the edges of her vision.

  She never felt herself hit the floor.

  Zireal stood frozen, his mother’s unconscious form slumped in Teklen’s arms. The doctor’s face was a mask of grief and determination, his grip firm around Velia’s shoulders as he shifted her weight.

  For a long moment, neither of them moved.

  The alarms continued screaming. The ship trembled beneath their feet. But Zireal didn’t hear any of it. His mind was locked onto a single thought.

  Chika is gone.

  He had seen death before. He had lost crewmates, cousins, friends. He had been prepared to lose people in the raid.

  But not like this.

  Not her.

  He was the oldest it was his job to make sure every one was safe.

  His claws curled into fists. His body tensed, ready to bolt—to go back—even though he knew it was impossible.

  Teklen must have seen it in his eyes.

  The doctor shifted Velia’s weight slightly, freeing one hand. He reached out, grabbed Zireal’s arm, and squeezed—not hard, but enough.

  “She’s not there.” Teklen’s voice was quiet, but firm. “You know that.”

  Zireal swallowed. His throat burned.

  Teklen had to be right. The ship was compromised. The compartments beyond the hold were depressurized. Even if Chika was still alive when they lost track of her, there was no reaching her now.

  No saving her.

  The rational part of him knew this. But the rest of him—the part that had grown up protecting his little sisters, making sure they were never alone, never afraid—couldn’t accept it.

  Teklen didn’t let go of his arm.

  “Your mother needs you.”

  Zireal’s breath shuddered. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, forcing his instincts down.

  Then, with a slow exhale, he nodded.

  Teklen released him.

  Without another word, Zireal stepped forward and held his hand out as though to help carry his mother onto the shuttle. Teklen just shook his head and clutched the captain's limp form closer to his chest as he stepped through the hatch.

  The hatch sealed, and with a solid thunk, the shuttle detached from the ship. A burst from the thrusters moved them farther away from the vessel. Outside, the former crew of the Dunerunner watched in shock as the pirates were systematically eliminated. Bright flashes of core breaches illuminated the black.

  Joean hurried to the front and dropped into the helm's seat. His ears flattened against his skull, and his hands shook before he balled them into fists. He closed his eyes, taking a deep, stabilizing breath.

  Zireal leaned forward and clamped a reassuring hand on his younger brother's shoulder. "You got this, Joean. It's just like the simulations."

  Joean nodded, exhaling in a slow, controlled hiss. His hands moved over the controls, running diagnostics while navigating them away from the chaos. With each passing moment, his grip steadied, confidence growing.

  "Yeah... just a shuttle full of people. What's the worst that could happen?"

  Liora popped her head over the back of his chair. "We could all die in a fiery crash when we enter the atmosphere."

  Zireal glared at her, but before he could respond, Teklen reached over and smacked his daughter upside the head.

  "Ouch!"

  "Engines stable, course set," he reported, his voice tight but steady. "We'll clear the battlefield in two minutes."

  Most of the crew remained glued to the viewports, unable to look away from the horror unfolding outside.

  Then, without warning, one of the pirate ships attempting to flee was struck by an unseen force. A blinding explosion tore through the vessel, sending shrapnel hurtling in all directions.

  "Brace!" Joean barked.

  The shuttle lurched violently as debris slammed into the hull. Warning klaxons blared, and the lights flickered as something critical gave way. Joean’s hands flew over the controls, stabilizing their trajectory, but the damage had already been done.

  "What was that?" Liora gasped, gripping the nearest seat as the shuttle rocked again.

  Joean’s brow furrowed as he scanned the diagnostics. "Something hit us. Looks like..." He cursed under his breath. "We lost partial control of the stabilizers. Thrusters are compensating, but..."

  "Can you fix it?" Zireal asked, his voice sharp.

  "Not until we land." Joean grimaced. "We’re still flying, but if we hit atmo with this damage, it's going to get rough."

  Zireal exchanged a tense glance with Liora. Velia, still unconscious, remained strapped into one of the seats, oblivious to the unfolding crisis.

  Minutes later, as they entered the upper layers of a rocky planet's atmosphere, the full extent of the damage became clear. The shuttle rattled violently, the controls resisting Joean's every attempt to stabilize their descent.

  "We’re coming in too fast!" someone shouted.

  Joean gritted his teeth, his grip tightening on the controls. "I can keep us in one piece, but it’s going to be rough! Hang on!"

  The crew braced themselves as the shuttle plummeted through turbulent winds, streaks of fire licking at the edges of the viewport. Joean fought the controls with every ounce of skill he had, angling their descent to avoid the worst of the jagged terrain below.

  The impact was jarring, metal screeching as the shuttle skidded across the rocky surface. Sparks flew as the ship ground to a halt, half-buried in the sand and stone.

  For a long moment, there was only silence.

  Then a groan, followed by the rustling of bodies shifting.

  "Everyone okay?" Joean asked, panting.

  One by one, the crew responded—shaken, bruised, but alive.

  Zireal exhaled sharply, unbuckling his harness. "Well... that could have been worse."

  Liora shot him a look. "Could have been better, too."

  Joean let out a breath, running a hand over his face. "Yeah, well, next time I'll try to pick a planet with a landing strip."

  A low, mechanical groan sounded from the ship's underbelly.

  "That doesn’t sound good," Teklen muttered, his voice hoarse.

  Joean grimaced. "Yeah... let's hope it’s not as bad as it sounds."

  Outside, the endless expanse of a barren, rocky desert stretched out before them, the wind kicking up thin swirls of dust over the shattered remains of their ship.

  Jekar let out a low growl as he examined the shuttle’s undercarriage, his ears twitching in irritation. The desert heat baked his fur, and the cast on his leg made maneuvering around the wreckage a miserable task. He shifted his weight awkwardly, using a makeshift crutch to brace himself as he pulled open a scorched access panel.

  "Blasted piece of junk," he muttered, wrenching aside the warped plating. "Should’ve crashed it softer if you wanted me to fix it."

  He let out a long breath and peered inside. The damage was worse than he’d hoped. Some of the auxiliary power lines were completely fried, and the main antigrav stabilizers had taken a direct hit. He ran a hand over his muzzle and exhaled sharply, tail flicking in frustration.

  "Well, this is just lovely," he grumbled. "Like trying to fix a broken leg with nothing but spit and prayer."

  he turned back just intime to see Dr. Teklen looking at him with a lifted eye brow.

  His flattened as he turned away and cleared his throat before reached inside, pulling at one of the cracked conduits. Sparks sputtered, and he yanked his hand back with a hiss. "Figures."

  Gritting his teeth, Jekar adjusted himself and reached for the antigrav controls, tapping in a quick bypass sequence. A low hum started, the damaged stabilizers flickering back to life for all of five seconds before sputtering out with a defeated whine.

  Jekar scowled. He tried again. The same result.

  He sighed and slammed the panel shut, leaning heavily against the side of the shuttle as he wiped sweat from his brow. "Unless one of you can conjure up a shipyard in the middle of nowhere, we’re stuck until someone picks up that damn beacon."

  Joean, still at the helm’s console, overheard and let out a dry chuckle. "Well, I did get us down in one piece. That has to count for something."

  Jekar snorted. "Yeah, you call this one piece? Next time, try aiming for a nice, soft sand dune instead of a rock bed."

  Joean smirked. "Duly noted. Next time, I’ll crash us somewhere softer."

  Jekar rolled his eyes. "Next time, remind me to be unconscious for it."

  Jekar snorted. "Yeah, you call this one piece? Next time, try aiming for a nice, soft sand dune instead of a rock bed."

  A low groan from behind them caught their attention. Velia stirred where she was strapped into her seat, her ears flicking as she blinked up at the dim interior of the shuttle. She tried to push herself upright, but a wave of dizziness made her slump back against the seat. A firm hand steadied her shoulder.

  "Take it easy," Teklen said.

  Velia jerked away from his touch, her expression darkening as memories of their escape filtered back.

  "What... happened?" she rasped, her voice thick with exhaustion and something sharper—displeasure.

  Teklen, who had been checking her vitals, placed a steadying hand on her shoulder, but she jerked away from his touch. "We’re down. More or less intact. Joean landed us, but the shuttle’s antigrav is shot. We’re not going anywhere."

  Velia exhaled sharply, eyes narrowing. "And you thought drugging me like some unruly cargo was the best way to get me here?"

  Teklen met her glare evenly, though there was a flicker of something pained in his expression. "It was the only way to get you off that ship before you got yourself killed."

  Before Velia could fire back, a small, trembling form pressed against her side. Aelar buried his face into her shoulder, clutching her sleeve tightly. His entire body shook, the weight of his twin’s absence settling heavily in the silence.

  Velia hesitated, her anger dimming as she wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close. She pressed her muzzle against his head, taking a steadying breath.

  Aelar hadn’t said a word since they boarded the shuttle. He had sat there, stiff, his small hands clenched into fists in his lap. Even as the ship shuddered through the atmosphere, even as they crashed, he had been silent.

  But the moment Velia moved, the moment he saw her eyes open, he broke.

  He threw himself against her, gripping her sleeve as though letting go would make her disappear, too. His whole body shook.

  Velia hesitated for only a heartbeat before wrapping him in her arms. “I’m here, Aelar,” she murmured, voice thick. “I’ve got you.”

  A few meters away, Zireal and Liora stood on a rocky outcrop, scanning the horizon. The landscape stretched out before them in a desolate, unending expanse of dust and rock. Not a single sign of life. No ruins, no wreckage from other unlucky ships. Just a dead world beneath an empty sky.

  "Nothing," Liora muttered, lowering her binoculars. "Just more of the same."

  Zireal exhaled slowly, his tail flicking behind him. "We need to find shelter, at least until we know how long we’re stuck here."

  The two Fennecari flattened their ear and squinted against the wind as it picked up, dry and sharp. Dust curled along the ridges of the rocks, lifting in lazy spirals.

  Zireal frowned, scanning the horizon again. Something wasn’t right. The air shimmered slightly in the distance, an unnatural haze rolling across the landscape. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

  Liora’s scanner let out a warning beep.

  “That might be a bigger problem than we thought.”Liora frowned and adjusted her scanner, switching to a different frequency. Her ears twitched as the device let out a low warning beep. "That might be a bigger problem than we thought."

  Zireal turned toward her. "What is it?"

  She handed him the scanner, and he felt a tight knot form in his gut as he read the readings. A massive radiation storm was brewing on the horizon, its energy signature unmistakable.

  "That’s heading straight for us." he muttered.

  Liora nodded grimly. "If we don’t find cover fast, we won’t have to worry about waiting for rescue."

  Zireal turned back toward the wrecked shuttle where Jekar and Joean were arguing. He exchanged a glance with his sister.

  The sky above the stormfront had taken on a strange, shimmering quality, an eerie glow that sent a prickling sensation down his spine. The wind was shifting too, picking up fine grains of dust and swirling them around their feet.

  "We need to get everyone inside. Now."