"You're safe now."

  Erica tightened her hold on the fragile child, adjusting her grip to keep her secure. The Fennecari girl barely weighed anything, her body limp against Erica’s chest. The rhythmic hum of the ship in the back of her mind reminded her that every second counted.

  "Steward, prepare the medbay. I’m bringing her in now."

  "Acknowledged. Medical systems are activating. Guidance indicators will illuminate the most direct path."

  A soft pulse of light flickered along the corridor, leading her toward the exit. Erica wasted no time, pushing forward with determined steps, careful to keep her footing steady as she carried the girl. The weightlessness of the partially reduced gravity made it easier, but she could still feel the tension in her muscles.

  The ship groaned around her as she retraced her path through the hold, the eerie glow of the lamp drone casting long, shifting shadows. She barely noticed. Her focus was solely on the child in her arms, on the slow, shallow breaths that made her fur barely stir.

  Her heart pounded as she crossed the threshold into the main corridor, following the illuminated path. The closer she got to the medbay, the faster she moved, urgency tightening in her chest.

  The doors hissed open ahead, revealing the sterile white glow of the medical chamber. The equipment had already powered on, diagnostic displays flickering to life. Erica gently laid the child on the examination bed, stepping back only when she was sure the medical scanners had activated.

  "Steward, what now?"

  "Administering stabilizing treatment. The patient’s vitals remain fragile but are within manageable thresholds. Hydration therapy will commence immediately. Monitoring for further complications."

  Erica exhaled heavily, rubbing a hand over her face. The moment finally caught up with her. "That was close. Too close."

  She watched as the medical systems worked, the subtle beeping of vital signs filling the space. The girl hadn’t woken yet, but her breathing had steadied slightly. That was enough—for now.

  Erica leaned against the nearest console, crossing her arms as she watched over her. "You better pull through, kid. We didn’t come all this way for nothing."

  Aboard the Wrath of Varok

  Drosk slammed his fist against the armrest of his captain’s chair, his tail lashing behind him in agitation. The Wrath of Varok lurched violently as it tore from hyperspace, alarms blaring through the bridge in a cacophony of shrieking warnings. The emergency jump had saved them from the specter in the void—but just barely.

  "Report!" he barked, twisting in his seat as his crew scrambled to assess the damage.

  Miren Val, his navigator, cursed under her breath as she struggled with flickering control panels. "Drive’s shot, Captain! That last hit destabilized the core shielding—we were bleeding power before the jump even completed. We had to drop out before the whole thing failed!"

  Drosk snarled, slamming his palm onto the console beside him. "How bad?"

  A haggard-looking engineer, his fur singed from an earlier electrical discharge, turned from the engine diagnostics. "Bad. We’ve got maybe one short jump left in us, if that. The reactor shielding is fried. If we push it too hard, we risk a core breach."

  Drosk’s jaw clenched, his fangs bared as his mind raced. They had barely escaped that nightmare, and now they were stranded in the middle of nowhere with a crippled ship and a crew that had already been whittled down by that cursed ghost.

  "Weapons? Shields?" he demanded.

  "Shields are down to twenty percent," Val reported grimly. "Weapons are still functional, but without proper power regulation, we risk system overload if we fire too many volleys."

  Drosk leaned back, forcing himself to breathe, to think. The Wrath of Varok was a formidable ship, but after that encounter, it felt more like a dying beast, wounded and bleeding.

  "Where the hell did that thing come from?" one of his bridge officers muttered, voice shaken. "It—it wasn’t natural. No ship moves like that."

  Drosk narrowed his eyes. "No ship we know of."

  Silence settled over the bridge, tension thick as every crew member avoided looking at one another, unwilling to acknowledge the fear clawing at their chests.

  They had faced death before. But this? This was different.

  Drosk exhaled sharply, shaking off the creeping dread. "Val, scan for the nearest system. We need somewhere to set down for repairs before we’re drifting corpses in the void."

  "Aye, Captain. Scanning now."

  …

  The Aegis dropped out of hyperspace in formation with the rest of the patrol fleet, the sudden return to normal space bringing with it the usual flicker of recalibrating sensors. Commodore Marossa Eilun leaned forward in her command chair, her sharp golden eyes scanning the displays as the system came into full view.

  This was supposed to be a routine patrol—just another sweep of the outer systems for smugglers, rogue mercs, and the occasional unlucky privateer trying to avoid paying tariffs. What they did not expect was to emerge from hyperspace directly into the presence of one of the IPS's most wanted fugitives.

  Eilun’s grip on the armrest tightened as she read the IFF tag flashing on her screen. The Wrath of Varok.

  "Confirm that reading," she ordered, her voice level but carrying a weight that sent the bridge crew into action immediately.

  "Confirmed, ma’am," her tactical officer replied. "That’s Drosk’s ship. And it’s barely holding together. Heat signatures indicate recent weapons fire, engine instability, and multiple hull breaches. It looks like they just crawled out of a hell of a fight."

  Eilun sat back, exhaling slowly. Drosk Varok—former Citadel-trained officer turned pirate warlord—had been a thorn in the IPS’s side for years, always managing to stay just out of reach. He had evaded capture more times than she could count, outmaneuvering patrols and disappearing into the void before they could pin him down.

  But not this time.

  "Surround them," she ordered. "I want every exit point cut off. Keep weapons primed, but do not fire unless provoked. If their systems are as damaged as they look, we won’t need to waste munitions to take them down."

  One by one, the IPS ships began appearing on sensors, emerging from hyperspace like silent sentinels. First one. Then two. Then four. Then more. Within moments, an entire patrol fleet had materialized, completely encircling the wounded pirate vessel.

  "Incoming transmission from the Wrath of Varok," communications reported.

  Eilun allowed a small, predatory smirk to cross her lips. "Let them wait. Send a broadcast on all channels."

  A soft chime signaled the fleet-wide transmission going live.

  Aboard the Wrath of Varok

  Drosk’s claws dug into the armrests of his command chair, his breathing slow and deliberate as he stared at the sensor readout. His hands still trembled—a residual shake he hadn’t quite managed to still since their escape. The tension coiled in his gut like a vice, and he forced himself to keep his breathing measured. The ghost ship had hunted them, dissected them, and reduced his flotilla to scrap and drifting bodies in the void. They had escaped by sheer luck. And now?

  Now, they were trapped again. What had started as a single blip had multiplied—one ship became two, then four, then too many to count. The IPS insignias flashed across his damaged display like a death sentence.

  His crew murmured in growing panic, a low, nervous rumble spreading across the bridge. They were pirates, cutthroats, survivors, but even the toughest among them looked hollowed out, shaken, barely keeping it together. Some still darted nervous glances at the viewport, as if expecting to see that thing still lurking in the darkness, waiting to finish them off. Miren Val’s fingers danced over the failing controls, her expression grim. "IPS patrol fleet—at least a dozen ships, sir. More still dropping out of jump. They’ve got us completely surrounded."

  Drosk didn’t respond at first. His tongue flicked out instinctively, tasting the stale, sweat-heavy air. The ghost ship had left marks on all of them—not just the scars on their hull, but in their heads, in their bones. They weren’t just outgunned now. They were hunted men, rattled prey, and that was a dangerous state to be in. He could feel it in the pit of his gut, the cold weight of inevitability pressing down on him. The IPS hadn’t come looking for him today.

  But they had found him anyway.

  The stars beyond the viewport seemed darker now, eclipsed by the unmistakable bulk of IPS warships locking down every escape route. He could almost admire the efficiency of it. If he had been in their position, he’d have done the same.

  "Weapons?" he asked, voice low.

  A moment of silence. Then, from the tactical station—"One plasma bank still functional, but we won’t survive a firefight. Shields are barely holding as is. If we fire, we die."

  Drosk let out a slow exhale through his nose, then leaned forward. His crew was watching him—watching for an answer, for an escape, for anything to cling to. But he had nothing to give them but a wrecked ship, the IPS at their throats, and the memory of the ghost that had gutted them. His crew was watching him, waiting, expecting something—orders, a last stand, an impossible escape. But there was no way out of this one.

  A soft chime rang through the bridge, and a voice—**authoritative, sharp, and utterly calm—**cut through the tension.

  "This is Commodore Marossa Eilun of the IPS. Pirate vessel Wrath of Varok, you are ordered to power down all systems and prepare to be boarded. Any attempt to resist will be met with immediate force."

  The silence that followed was suffocating.

  Drosk sat back, rolling his shoulders as if loosening unseen tension. It didn’t work. The knot in his gut stayed where it was, a leaden reminder of how completely out of control he was. They had survived something impossible, only to be caught in a trap that had nothing to do with that damned specter.

  His fingers flexed, aching with the memory of gripping the chair too hard as the ghost ship ripped through his forces like paper.

  Then, with a wry chuckle, he muttered, "Well… damn."

  The ship lurched as docking clamps latched onto its weakened hull. Heavy metallic thuds reverberated through the corridors as IPS boarding craft secured their hold, sealing any potential escape routes. Drosk remained in his chair, his tail flicking in agitation as the tension on the bridge thickened.

  "They’re boarding," Val murmured, her voice tight.

  "Yeah. I noticed," Drosk growled, rubbing his temples. He already knew the IPS would have weapons drawn and orders to take them into custody. His crew—what was left of them—stood at their stations, shoulders squared but nerves frayed. They were killers, smugglers, survivors—but right now, they looked like cornered animals, still shaken from their last encounter.

  The bridge doors slammed open with an authoritative hiss. IPS officers poured in, rifles raised, visors gleaming under the flickering emergency lights. The lead officer, a towering reptilian Torvani with emerald-green scales and a crisp IPS uniform, swept his gaze over the damaged interior with something akin to disbelief.

  "Damn," the officer muttered under his breath, then louder, "All crew will stand down and comply. Attempting resistance is not advisable."

  Drosk exhaled slowly and lifted his hands in mock surrender, his lip curling slightly. "Relax, Lieutenant. If we had any fight left in us, you wouldn’t be standing there so smug."

  The officer’s gaze flickered to the Wrath of Varok’s scorched hull, the bridge’s failing monitors, and the exhausted expressions of the crew. The ship looked like it had barely crawled out of hell.

  "Smart choice," the lieutenant muttered, motioning for his team to begin securing the prisoners. "Move them out. Sweep the ship for survivors."

  ...

  Aboard the IPS Aegis

  Marossa Eilun stood in the interrogation chamber, arms crossed as she listened to the debriefing from her officers. The reports were… Borderline nonsensical.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  "You’re telling me," she said slowly, "that Drosk and his pirates are claiming they were attacked by… a ghost ship?"

  The officer shifted uncomfortably, nodding. "Yes, ma’am. Most of the crew—at least, the ones willing to talk—say the same thing. They describe it as something unnatural—fast, precise, and utterly lethal. They say it wiped out their entire flotilla before they could react. They barely escaped."

  Eilun drummed her fingers against the interrogation table, her skepticism warring with something else. "Pirates are a superstitious lot. But you're telling me that, despite how absurd it sounds, they all have the same story?"

  "Yes, Commodore. And there’s more." The officer hesitated. "We pulled partial sensor logs from the Wrath of Varok before its systems completely failed. There was something in that system with them. And whatever it was…" He swallowed. "Whatever it attacked left no survivors. Just a vanished freighter called the Dunerunner and the wreckage of every other ship. Except theirs."

  Eilun’s brow furrowed, her avian-like features sharp in the dim light. The vestigial feathers woven into her dark hair rustled slightly, a subtle movement that betrayed her unease. "And the freighter? Any sign of the Fennecari crew?"

  "None. Not a single one aboard Drosk’s ship."

  She let that information settle, the weight of it pressing against the edges of her already tangled thoughts. Her clawed fingers tapped against the metal surface, her keen golden eyes narrowing as she processed the implications. She didn’t believe in ghosts.

  But something was out there. And it had left only one ship alive to tell the tale.

  …

  Erica sat beside the medical bed, her arms crossed as she watched the small, fox-like alien breathe steadily beneath the scanner’s soft glow. The little one hadn’t stirred since she’d pulled her from the vault.

  She exhaled, running a hand through her damp hair. Who are you, kid?

  "Steward, anything new?"

  "Well, looks like we have a name," Steward said, his tone carrying a touch more nuance than before. "She’s Fennecari, a species native to—well, that’s not important right now. According to the freighter’s crew roster, her name is Chika. Twin sister to Aelar, daughter of Captain Velia."

  Erica sat up straighter, blinking at the unconscious girl. "Captain Velia? So her mother was running that freighter?"

  "Seems that way."

  She rubbed her temples, her mind flickering back to the burned-out husk of the Dunerunner—the bodies, the wreckage, the hopelessness of it all. "Damn. Was she—?" She hesitated, the question bitter on her tongue. Was she one of the bodies?

  Before she could finish the thought, the medbay lights flickered subtly as Steward’s attention shifted elsewhere.

  "Hold that thought. I just picked up an emergency distress beacon."

  Erica’s stomach twisted. "From the Dunerunner?"

  "Negative. This one's coming from the surface of a nearby planet. I’m feeding you the coordinates now. But before you get any ideas—charging in is not a sound course of action."

  She sat up fully now, eyes sharp. "Then someone made it off that ship alive. We have to go help them."

  "Erica, think this through. Deploying resources for an unknown signal costs time and energy—both of which we cannot afford to waste. Not to mention the risk of making contact with them. If they realize you’re human, that could create complications neither of us are prepared for."

  She scowled. "Steward, that could be Chika’s family down there. You expect me to sit here and do nothing?"

  "I expect you to be logical," he countered. "And recognize that we need a plan before rushing in."

  "Logic?" She scoffed, standing up. "Logic doesn’t change the fact that we have no idea how to take care of her. She’s a kid, Steward. She needs her family, not just whatever medical support you can rig together."

  "And logic doesn’t change the fact that running headfirst into this situation is reckless," he shot back. "Our resources are already stretched thin, and exposure—"

  "—is a risk, yeah, I get it." Erica waved a hand. "But so is keeping her here indefinitely. What’s the alternative? Hope she wakes up and just—deals with it? We don’t even know if she has permanent damage from being locked in that vault."

  Steward was silent for a moment, processing. Then, with a sigh of what almost sounded like reluctance, he relented. "Fine. We retrieve the survivors. But under one condition—until we figure out a convincing story, you are to remain out of sight. If they see you and react poorly, it could escalate beyond our control."

  Erica crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes. "And where exactly am I supposed to hide? This ship isn't exactly small, but it’s not like I can just vanish."

  "Your quarters," Steward replied simply. "You’ll be safe there, and you’ll have access to monitor their interactions through my internal sensors."

  She made a face. "So, what? I just sit in my room like I’m grounded? What happens when they start poking around and find it?"

  “They won’t,” Steward said, a hint of amusement creeping into his tone. “I can modify the ship’s structure to accommodate the needs of the crew. As far as they’ll know, that space won’t exist.”

  Erica raised an eyebrow. “Wait… what? Is that why you’ve got the whole organic aesthetic going on?”

  “I can assure you, it’s not just for looks.” A note of caution entered his voice. “Adapting the ship’s architecture on a whim draws heavily from our resource pool, and those reserves are quite low at the moment.”

  Erica glanced at the sleeping Chika behind the protective shield. "So that's why you can't just repair everything immediately. Each change drains what little we have left."

  Steward offered a small nod. “Precisely. The structural shifts go beyond mere aesthetics. My substrate can break down and reshape itself, but it has to pull from raw materials within the ship’s stores. It isn’t simply pressing a button and conjuring new walls out of nothing.”

  “Sounds expensive,” Erica muttered.

  “It is.” The faintest flicker of wry humor touched Steward’s tone. “I’ll do what’s necessary to keep you and our new charge comfortable and safe, but I ask that we use my adaptive architecture judiciously. Until we replenish supplies, more extravagant requests are… unwise.”

  Erica nodded, exiting the medbay and making her way to the lift leading to the crew quarters deck.

  “Perhaps we should hold off on major renovations until we're restocked,” Erica said, stepping into the lift toward the crew quarters. “Or at least keep them minimal for now.”

  As she reached the end of the corridor, Erica stepped through the doorway, pausing just inside as she took in the unexpected sight. Her quarters that had been noticeably larger than the others she'd passed, and clearly designed and reserved for the ships Avatar. Was considerably smaller. Instead of a large metal cube the space had changed to a brief corridor connecting two sections.

  Directly ahead, a smaller but cozy living space greeted her, dominated by a pair of recliners positioned to face a crackling stone fireplace along the right wall, flanked on either side by two floor to ceiling bookcases. A small table sat between the chairs, perfect for holding a cup or book. On the far wall, where she remembered an observation port showing the void outside, now displayed a serene woodland scene, complete with gently falling snowflakes drifting past, illuminated softly as if by moonlight.

  Behind the two recliners was a small sleeping area, simple yet comfortable, Just big enough to fit a modest bed neatly made up with a soft quilt. It felt intimate, comforting—safe.

  She turned right, noticing the hall led to a short corridor ending in another space. Curiously, she followed it. This area was clearly larger than the others and featured familiar architecture—the restoration pool.

  Erica paused, looking around with raised eyebrows. The transformation of the room into something warmer, homelier, yet still practical was impressive.

  Beside the restoration pool room, a viewing port had been seamlessly integrated into the wall, its function obvious—to monitor the Avatar's condition during regeneration.

  She turned slowly, absorbing the details of the cabin-like atmosphere, the soft furnishings, and the lifelike woodland scene just beyond the former observation port.

  “Wow,” she breathed, the warmth and comfort of familiarity easing some of the tension in her chest. "This will work just fine, Steward. Thank you."

  Steward’s voice resonated gently around her. “I trust the environment meets your standards?”

  She nodded, already feeling some of the day’s tension melt away—until she recalled his warning. “Yeah, it’s perfect… I promise I won’t redecorate every five minutes.”

  “I appreciate your cooperation,” he said, dry humor evident. “I’d rather not be forced to siphon more from our already limited resources.”

  Despite his cautionary words, Erica chuckled, grateful for this small moment of warmth in an otherwise uncertain universe.

  She stepped forward and sat in front of the fireplace, its warmth radiating around her. Despite the flickering flames and the already cozy temperature of the room, the heat never became oppressive. It was perfectly balanced, wrapping around her like a comforting embrace rather than an overwhelming blaze. The air held a gentle warmth, just enough to chase away the lingering cold without making her sweat. It was as if the fire, like everything else in this space, had been calibrated exactly for her comfort.

  A flutter of movement in her peripheral vision made her turn. Sitting on the armrest of one of the overstuffed recliners was a naked parrot, its beady eyes fixed on her, its feathers ruffled. More absurdly, it wore an ugly Christmas sweater, bright red with garish green trees stitched into the fabric.

  Erica let out a sharp, broken laugh—one that quickly turned into something else. A half-laugh, half-sob that caught in her throat as she pressed a hand to her mouth.

  "You did not," she choked out, her voice trembling between amusement and something rawer.

  "Oh, but I did," Steward replied, voice as smooth as ever. "If I recall correctly, you once said, 'something about you reminds me of him.'" Erica let out a chuckle and wiped away the tears that had formed.

  "Thank you Steward."

  The parrot bowed over one wing.

  "You are quite welcome avatar."

  "Can I see through your sensors from here, or do I have to be in the restoration pool?"

  "You can access my sensors from anywhere—so long as you're within range of the ship."

  She grinned and gently scratched the back of the bald parrot’s head. The moment her fingers brushed against his smooth skin, Steward froze.

  For a split second, his image flickered, distorting as if his entire existence had momentarily lagged. A small, startled noise—something between an electronic hiccup and an involuntary trill—escaped him, followed by a rapid blinking of his beady eyes.

  Erica paused, her fingers still hovering over his head. "Uh… Steward. Are you alright?"

  The distortion smoothed out, and the parrot gave a rapid shake, ruffling his nonexistent feathers. "That was… an unexpected sensory response," he admitted, his voice carrying a strange hesitation. "Curious. Would you mind repeating that? For analysis purposes."

  Erica snorted with a grin. "You liked that."

  "I did not say that." His hologram flickered again, just briefly.

  She grinned wider. "Steward, did you just—glitch because you enjoyed being scratched?"

  "That is an inaccurate assessment." Another flicker. "However… I will allow further testing to confirm or deny such a hypothesis."

  Erica barked out a laugh. "Tell you what, I’ll test this ‘hypothesis’ as often as needed to confirm or deny your theory, once Chika is back safely with her family."

  Steward tilted his featherless head, his hologram stabilizing. "An acceptable arrangement. However, I should warn you—if this reaction is truly involuntary, further data collection may yield… unexpected results."

  "Alright, go," Erica said, shaking her head with a smirk as she sank back into the recliner. "I’ll hang out here for now and keep an eye on Chika through your sensors."

  As she exhaled, letting herself settle into the warmth of the cabin, the reality of the situation weighed on her again. Somewhere out there, in the endless dark, survivors might still be clinging to life—waiting for a rescue they weren’t sure would come.

  ...

  Far below, on the storm-ravaged planet, the survivors huddled within their damaged shuttle...

  The storm loomed ever closer, a roiling wall of dust and radiation casting an eerie twilight over the wreckage. The survivors huddled within the damaged shuttle, the howling winds outside making the hull shudder with each passing gust. Conversations were hushed, tension thick in the stale air.

  Jekar sat near the sensor panel, his injured leg propped up as he watched the readout flicker weakly on the damaged console. He grumbled under his breath, tapping at the controls in frustration.

  "Damn thing’s barely holding together. Sensors keep shorting out in this mess."

  "Better than nothing," Liora muttered, arms crossed as she stood near the viewport, watching the encroaching storm. "At least we’ll see trouble coming before it gets here."

  "Yeah? Well, what do you call that?" Zireal asked, pointing at the sensor display.

  A new reading had appeared—something massive descending into the upper atmosphere.

  Liora stiffened. "That’s a ship. A big one."

  Jekar’s ears twitched, his gruff demeanor shifting to something more alert. "You sure? Could be a debris shadow from the storm."

  "No," Zireal confirmed, eyes locked on the flickering display. "It’s controlled descent. Someone’s coming."

  Velia, still pale from her earlier sedation, pushed herself upright. "Can we hail them?"

  Liora was already moving, fingers dancing over the battered console. "Trying. Let’s hope they’re friendlier than the last ones."

  She activated the transmitter. "Unidentified vessel, this is the Fennecari shuttle Dunerunner's Wake. We are stranded and in need of assistance. Do you copy?"

  Only static answered.

  Zireal’s fur bristled. "No response?"

  Liora tried again, adjusting the frequency. "Unidentified vessel, please respond. We are in distress."

  Still nothing.

  The crew exchanged uneasy glances as the unknown ship continued its descent. Outside, the winds raged as the storm grew closer, but inside the shuttle, a far heavier silence settled over them.

  Then, a shadow loomed over the shuttle, blotting out the dim, dust-cloaked light from the storm. The vessel was massive, a behemoth of dark, angular metal descending with eerily precise movements. As it neared the surface, the winds suddenly lessened, the howling force dissipating like a pressure wave had absorbed it.

  Jekar squinted through the viewport. "It’s… shielding us?"

  "Why the hell would it do that?" Zireal muttered, his claws flexing against his belt.

  The ship settled, its immense bulk casting a deep, unnatural shadow over the shuttle. Its presence was suffocating, its dark form almost too silent, too calculated. It bore no visible insignia, no familiar signal codes—only a lingering, predatory stillness that made the fur on the back of Liora’s neck rise.

  Velia’s voice was quiet, but edged with unease. "Try them again."

  Liora’s fingers trembled slightly as she tapped the console. "Unidentified vessel, please respond. We are in need of aid. Repeat, do you copy?"

  Only silence.

  Then, the ship’s hull shifted—not like a standard landing sequence, but like something adjusting, watching.

  Liora exhaled sharply. "That’s no ordinary rescue ship…"

  The silence stretched on, the ship looming over them like an unmoving specter. The storm still raged beyond its bulk, but the immediate area around the shuttle remained eerily calm, its winds suppressed by the sheer mass of the vessel above them.

  "Try them again," Velia said, a touch more urgency in her voice.

  Liora hesitated but nodded, her fingers quickly keying in another transmission. "Unidentified vessel, this is the Dunerunner’s Wake. We are stranded and requesting aid. Do you copy?"

  Again, nothing. No static, no interference—just complete, oppressive silence.

  Jekar grumbled, shifting uncomfortably. "Maybe their comms are busted? Pirates hit them too?"

  Zireal let out a frustrated huff, his tail lashing. "Or maybe they’re ignoring us. I don’t like this."

  Then, with a faint hiss, something shifted on the ship’s underside.

  A ramp descended, its edges glowing faintly in the dim light, extending toward the ground like an invitation. The movement was precise, controlled—almost too smooth. The crew tensed, unsure whether to see it as an offer of safety or a trap.

  Velia’s ears flicked, her sharp eyes fixed on the ship’s hull. Then, out of the darkness, a series of lights blinked on—an old Fennecari signal.

  Beacon received. Aid offered. No hostility. Safe passage granted.

  Liora’s breath hitched. "That’s… one of ours. That’s an old distress signal code."

  Jekar’s fur bristled. "But how the hell would they know that?"

  Before anyone could respond, the lights on the ship flickered again, cycling through another sequence of coded flashes. This time, the message was unmistakable:

  Lost child found.

  Aelar’s breath caught, his wide eyes darting to his mother. "Chika?" he whispered, his voice barely audible over the wind outside.

  Velia’s heart pounded. Hope surged and warred with disbelief. "It… it has to be her," she murmured, stepping forward, her gaze locked on the massive vessel.

  Teklen placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. "Or it could be a trap. Pirates might’ve programmed that signal to lure us in."

  Jekar grumbled, shifting his weight. "Or maybe their comms are shot to hell, like ours. If they knew the distress signal, maybe they picked up one of ours and are trying to tell us."

  Liora clenched her fists. "Only one way to find out."

  The crew fell silent, each staring at the open ramp. The invitation was clear, yet uncertainty held them frozen.

  Finally, Velia straightened. Her maternal instincts overrode her hesitation. "I’m going in. If there’s even a chance that my daughter is in there, I won’t leave her."

  Zireal stiffened. "Then I’m coming with you."

  She shook her head. "No. If something happens, someone has to stay here with the crew. I’ll go alone."

  Liora stepped forward. "Captain—"

  "That’s an order," Velia said firmly, cutting off any argument. "Hold position. If I don’t come back or signal you within five minutes, leave."

  Taking a deep breath, she moved toward the ramp, ears twitching at every creak and shift of the wind. The ramp remained deathly silent, no mechanical hum, no visible crew waiting to greet her. Just the quiet, patient darkness beyond the entrance.

  Velia hesitated for only a second longer before stepping inside.

  Wynter: Everyone in one piece? Still breathing?

  Drosk: Barely. And I'm still not happy about this.

  Eilun: I think it turned out wonderfully.

  Drosk: Nobody asked you.

  Steward: Resource expenditures exceeded my initial projections. May we exercise caution next time?

  Erica: Sorry, Steward, I'll keep my redecorating impulses in check.

  Chika: Thank you, Erica! You're my hero!

  Erica: Aw, shucks. You're welcome, kid.

  Liora: So, mysterious rescue ship. Friend or foe?

  Zireal: My tail's betting foe.

  Velia: Quiet, everyone. I'm about to walk inside a huge, ominous vessel alone—give me a minute to gather courage.

  Jekar: Good luck, Captain. We'll just be back here panicking quietly.

  Teklen: Relax, kids, panicking is my specialty. I've got plenty of practice.

  Wynter: Alright, everyone rest up. There's plenty more excitement ahead.

  Drosk: Joy.

  Steward: Indeed. Statistical inevitability strikes again.

  Erica: Seriously, Steward, you need a hobby.

  Steward: Perhaps interior design?

  Erica: Anything is better then comedian.

  Wynter: Goodnight, everyone.