The obsidian hull of the Ahdakaians Empire ship shimmered like a great predator poised in the vastness of space. It hung motionless, absorbing the light of the distant stars and casting long shadows over the mining vessel. Rayader stood at the viewport, his heart pounding in a slow, relentless rhythm that seemed to sync with the approaching danger. The Ahdakaians ship was an overwhelming presence, a behemoth in the distance but far too close for comfort.
“It’s like watching a storm cloud roll in,” Rayader muttered, his eyes fixed on the warship. He couldn’t tear his gaze away. The sense of dread gnawed at him, slow and unyielding. He’d seen ships like this before, but never this close. Never with the palpable weight of something far worse than just a routine inspection hanging in the air.
Dhaka’s voice crackled through the comms, the usual humor gone, replaced by an edge that tightened the air around Rayader. “Subspace jump complete. They’re hailing us. And before you ask—yeah, this is as bad as it looks.”
Rayader glanced over his shoulder at Captain Derris, who stood rigidly in front of the console. The captain’s fingers moved fluidly over the controls, but Rayader didn’t miss the tension coiled in his frame. There was something deliberate in Derris’s calm, like the way an animal goes completely still before it strikes.
The screen blinked to life, casting an eerie, artificial glow over the bridge. Rayader’s fingers twitched against the console as the image sharpened into focus, his pulse quickening with the flickering light. He wasn’t sure if it was the coldness of the screen or the figure that appeared on it, but the temperature on the bridge seemed to drop several degrees.
The face that filled the screen was all hard angles, sharp like the contours of a jagged asteroid. Eyes like shards of ice peered out from beneath the shadow of a high, military collar, gleaming with that unmistakable Ahdakaian superiority. It was the look they all wore—their commanders, their officers—a calculated mix of disdain and authority, as though every other lifeform was just another piece of debris to be swept away.
Rayader felt a knot form in his gut, twisting tighter with every second the figure remained silent. The bridge crew stood still, as if holding their collective breath, each of them watching the screen but none of them daring to speak. The tension was like static in the air, clinging to the skin, prickling beneath the surface.
He’d seen it before, that look. It was the same every time the Empire decided to extend its shadow over those it deemed lesser, the same practiced indifference. To them, Rayader and his crew were like the asteroids they mined—small, insignificant, to be cracked open and discarded if necessary. And this man, with his sharp features and glinting eyes, had already made that decision before a single word had been exchanged.
The figure’s mouth curled slightly, the barest hint of a smirk, and Rayader’s stomach lurched. They know something.
Beside him, Dhaka shifted uneasily, her fingers tightening around the edge of the console. Rayader could hear the faint, unsteady rhythm of her breathing through the comms, a sound that mirrored the jittery thrum in his own chest. The silence stretched, thick and oppressive, like the weight of an unseen hand pressing down on all of them.
Finally, the figure spoke, his voice as cold and cutting as the edge of a blade slicing through the stillness.
"Identify yourselves," he said, his tone more command than question. "You are operating in restricted space. Explain your presence."
Captain Derris cleared his throat, stepping forward with that steady composure he always carried. But Rayader could see it—the faint tremor in his hand as he brushed it over the console. It was subtle, barely noticeable, but it was there.
"Captain Derris of the Starbound Miner," he began, his voice carefully measured, the words coming out smooth but cautious, like he was walking across a thin sheet of ice. "We’re a civilian mining vessel, operating under neutral sector clearance. We were unaware this region was restricted."
The figure on the screen remained silent for a moment, his gaze piercing, unreadable. His eyes flicked briefly to the side, as though scanning some unseen data, and when he spoke again, the cold arrogance in his voice was palpable. "Unaware," he repeated, the word dripping with contempt. "And yet, here you are, well inside Ahdakaian Empire territory."
There was no way out of this. He could feel the walls closing in, the trap tightening around them. The Empire didn’t just let trespassers go with a warning. No, this was going to get much worse before it got better.
Derris didn’t flinch, though. He held his ground, his voice firm. "We weren’t aware of any boundary shifts in this sector. If there’s been a reclassification of space, we’re willing to cooperate—"
The figure cut him off with a sharp, dismissive wave of his hand. "Cooperation isn’t your choice, Captain. You’ve already violated imperial law. The only thing left is how swiftly we resolve your... mistake."
The tension on the bridge thickening by the second. He could feel his hands itching to move, to do something, anything, but there was nothing he could do. Not yet. This was a dangerous game Derris was playing, and one wrong word could send them all spiraling into disaster.
"You will prepare for immediate inspection," the figure continued, his tone like ice cracking under pressure. "Any unregistered materials or personnel will be seized, and your vessel will be impounded for further investigation."
Impounded? They’d lose everything. The ship, the haul, their freedom—it would all be stripped away in an instant, just like that.
Derris opened his mouth to respond, but Rayader could see the struggle in his eyes, the careful balancing act between diplomacy and the mounting frustration underneath. Before he could speak, the figure on the screen leaned in slightly, his lips curling into a thin, humorless smile.
"I’d advise against resistance, Captain," he said quietly, the words laced with menace. "The Ahdakaian Empire isn’t known for its leniency."
That smile, that look in the officer’s eyes—it was the look of a predator toying with its prey. They were already trapped, and the Empire wasn’t just interested in punishing them for crossing a line. There was something more here. Something unsaid.
And it made Rayader’s skin crawl.
Orin’s voice, low and barely audible, crackled through the comm in Rayader’s helmet. "What do we do, Cap?"
The strange energy readings they had uncovered in the asteroid. Whatever it was, it had triggered something—a beacon, a pulse—and now the Empire was here. It wasn’t just bad luck. It was connected.
He glanced at Orin across the bridge, their eyes locking for a brief moment. They didn’t need words to know what the other was thinking. This wasn’t about trespassing. The Empire wanted whatever was hidden in that asteroid.
Derris took a breath, steadying himself. "Understood, Commander," he said finally, the fight draining from his voice. "We’ll comply with the inspection but..."
The figure on the screen nodded, his smile widening just a fraction. "Wise choice, Captain. Prepare your crew. We’ll be docking shortly."
The screen flickered off, leaving the bridge in a heavy silence. Rayader let out a slow breath, his heart still hammering in his chest.
"We’re not getting out of this clean, are we?" Dhaka muttered, her voice tight with the same dread Rayader felt creeping up his spine.
The tension on the bridge was palpable, thick enough to slice through with a blade. Rayader stood, still as stone, while Captain Derris turned to the crew. His face was unreadable, but everyone knew the storm was approaching fast. No one had to say it—the situation had spiraled beyond their control.
"Prepare for boarding," Derris said, his voice even but with an edge of steel. "Keep your heads down. Let them do their inspection. No sudden moves."
The crew exchanged uneasy glances, their hands hovering close to their tools and consoles, though everyone knew none of that would help if things went wrong.
Moments later, the dull hum of the ship's systems was interrupted by the distinct thud of the docking clamps. Rayader swallowed hard. The Ahdakaians were here.
The thunk reverberated through the hull like the slow heartbeat of some ancient beast, signaling the Empire's arrival. A second later, the docking bay doors hissed open, and the cold, precise sound of boots echoed down the corridor.
Rayader braced himself as they entered, The Vorcalen Guard. They were infamous, both for their lethal efficiency and the utter silence with which they moved.
The Vorcalen Guard were clad in sleek, angular armor, the same obsidian black as their ship, segmented in a way that almost made it seem organic—alive. Their armor absorbed the light around them, casting them in an unnatural shadow, as if they were phantoms given form. Every step they took was in perfect unison, like the synchronized motion of a predator stalking its prey. Their helmets were featureless except for the narrow, blood-red visors that gleamed like the eyes of hunting beasts, narrowing as they scanned the crew.
These were not just soldiers; they were the Empire’s finest—enhanced with genetic modifications, their reflexes, strength, and agility far beyond that of any ordinary warrior. There was no mistaking their purpose. When the Vorcalen Guard showed up, it wasn’t just for routine inspections.
The silent menace of the Vorcalen Guard always carried a sense of inevitability—like a storm you could see building on the horizon but had no chance of outrunning.
The lead warrior stepped forward, towering over everyone in the room. His armor gleamed in the dim lighting of the ship, and the air around him seemed to grow colder. His voice, when he spoke, was a low, metallic rasp that cut through the silence.
"Commander Vaelor will be arriving shortly. You are to remain still and silent during the inspection," he said, the words more a warning than a directive.
Stolen novel; please report.
Rayader’s jaw clenched, the name Vaelor still lingering in the air like a toxin, each syllable twisting tighter around his growing anger. He could feel it coiling inside him, a simmering heat that had been building ever since the Empire ship first materialized in their path. A pureblood, like Vaelor—untouched by hardship, unchallenged in his superiority—had the kind of authority that bent others to his will with a single glance. And that grated on Rayader more than anything.
They were about to come face to face with him—the Commander who saw them as little more than specks of dust in the vastness of space, pawns in some imperial game that Rayader couldn’t even begin to understand. But he knew one thing: he was not a pawn. The thought sent an icy chill through Rayader’s veins, but it was the fire underneath that worried him. The deep, primal heat that surged through his limbs, making his bone spikes twitch beneath his skin, itching to emerge.
Vaelor was everything Rayader despised about the Empire—born into privilege, conditioned to believe in his inherent superiority. Pureblood Ahdakaians like him saw the galaxy as their birthright, with people like Rayader existing only to serve them, to obey. Vaelor probably never had to work a day in his life, never had to claw his way out of the dirt like Rayader had. And it wasn’t just that Vaelor thought himself better—it was the way he looked at Rayader and the crew, as though they were beneath even contempt, as if their very existence was an inconvenience.
The sharp, painful sensation of his bone spikes pressing against his skin reminded Rayader of who he was—what he was. Other. He was no pureblood. And if Vaelor knew what lay dormant inside him, the Commander wouldn’t hesitate to have him executed, or worse, dissected like some imperial experiment gone wrong.
His pulse quickened, the anger rising with each passing second. He imagined Vaelor’s smug face, that arrogant sneer, and his hands itched to lash out, to let the spikes tear through whatever remained of his control. He could feel the blood pounding in his ears, the heat intensifying under his skin. Rayader wasn’t just angry; he was seething, and the more he thought about Vaelor—the more he thought about the empire that had chained him and cast him aside—the harder it became to keep his body from reacting.
But it wasn’t just Vaelor. Even though Rayader had no memory of his past, no recollection of where he’d come from or who he had once been, the hatred for the Empire had always been there. It was a constant, pulsing under his skin like a second heartbeat. An old, bitter rage that had followed him through every hazy, fragmented memory. His first thoughts on that slave ship, surrounded by chains and the scent of fear, had been of rebellion. His very being seemed to reject everything the Empire stood for, as if that fury had been forged deep in his bones long before he ever opened his eyes in that cold, metal prison.
The spikes, dormant beneath his skin, were a reminder of something lost, something buried deep in the recesses of his mind. And yet, the hatred for the Empire had never dulled. It was as if the very sight of their insignia stirred a primal reaction in him, one that defied logic or memory. Even without knowing who he once was, Rayader knew this much: he had always hated them.
Orin shifted uncomfortably beside him, whispering under his breath. "I don’t like this. They’re not just here for the inspection, Ray."
"I know," Rayader muttered, his eyes tracking the Vorcalen Guard as they fanned out, their movements sharp and purposeful. "This is about the anomaly."
The Guard moved through the ship’s corridors with clinical efficiency, their armored hands sweeping over consoles, scanning data, and inspecting every corner with methodical precision. They seemed disinterested in the crew itself, treating them like background noise—irrelevant, disposable.
Then came a sound that made Rayader’s stomach twist—the sharp hiss of the airlock. The final signal. Vaelor had boarded.
The doors slid open, and Commander Vaelor stepped into view. He was flanked by two more Vorcalen Guards, though they were dwarfed by the sheer presence of the man himself. Vaelor’s armor, unlike his warriors’, gleamed with an ornate, almost regal design, sharp lines accented with crimson details that marked his rank and authority. His face, though partially obscured by a half-helm, was unmistakably Ahdakaian—high, angular cheekbones and eyes that gleamed with cold, calculating intelligence. But there was something else in his eyes, something that unnerved Rayader more than anything else: amusement. Vaelor wasn’t just here for business. He was enjoying this.
"You must be Captain Derris," Vaelor said, his voice smooth, almost casual, as if he were greeting an old acquaintance rather than standing over a crew whose fate he controlled. "I trust your crew will be cooperative?"
Derris, standing a few feet away, straightened, meeting Vaelor’s gaze. "We have nothing to hide, Commander. We’re just miners—doing what we’ve done for years."
Vaelor smiled, a small, humorless curve of his lips. "Miners. Of course." His eyes flicked to Rayader for the briefest moment, and in that instant, Rayader felt exposed, like the Commander could see straight through him—through all of them. "You see," Vaelor continued, his voice taking on a sharper edge, "the problem with mining is... sometimes you dig up things that were better left buried."
Vaelor knew. He had to. The Vorcalen Guard weren’t here for just another inspection. That strange energy pulsing for that rock they’d uncovered had caught the Empire’s attention, and now, they were in its crosshairs. Vaelor’s gaze swept the room once more before settling back on Derris. "Now," he said, his tone light but dripping with authority, "why don’t we begin? I’d hate to waste any more of your precious time."
The room fell into a tense silence as Vaelor motioned for the inspection to proceed. Rayader watched with growing dread as the Vorcalen Guard moved deeper into the ship, their silent figures disappearing into the corridors. Whatever happened next, one thing was certain—they were in far deeper than they ever could have imagined.
The inspection went on for what felt like hours, though it was likely only minutes. The Vaelor’s men, moved with eerie precision through every inch of the ship. Their movements were swift and methodical, as if rehearsed to the point of perfection, and their armour that seemed to drink in the light—only made them more menacing. Like shadows, they glided silently through the corridors, every step calculated, every gesture efficient.
Rayader stood near the console, his muscles tightening every time one of the guards brushed past him, too close for comfort. There was a strange, growing hum inside him, an energy that surged just beneath the surface. His skin prickled, and the familiar pulse of his bone spikes beneath his forearms threatened to flare, but he forced himself to stay calm. For now, he would keep it in check.
Vaelor, standing like a statue in the center of the bridge, hadn’t moved. His hands remained clasped behind his back, his posture radiating the kind of stillness that came with absolute control. The cold amusement playing at the edges of his expression was infuriating. He didn’t need to oversee the inspection; he already knew how it would end. It was just a formality to him, a game where he held all the cards.
The guard didn’t just inspect the equipment—they pried at it, pulling at delicate wires and terminals, their gauntleted hands working with deliberate carelessness. It was as if they weren’t looking for contraband so much as creating destruction for the sheer pleasure of it. The navigation console, which had seen them through countless asteroid fields and near-fatal journeys, was now in pieces. Wires were yanked out like entrails, leaving the system in a mangled, unrecognizable state.
“They’re gutting us,” Dhaka hissed under her breath, her voice low enough that only Rayader could hear. Her eyes flicked nervously to one of the guards as he knocked over a diagnostics scanner, sending it crashing to the floor with a sharp, metallic clang.
He watched as another guard reached for their mining laser, tossing it to the ground as though it were trash, cracking the casing as it hit the metal floor. The guards moved with a kind of bored indifference, almost as if they were performing a routine demolition rather than an inspection. Every piece of equipment they touched was left damaged or dismantled, the ship’s lifeline slowly being torn apart.
Tension mounting, the weight of each destructive act pressing down on his chest. His pulse pounded in his ears, and that hum—the one he'd tried to suppress—was growing stronger. The ship wasn’t just a piece of machinery to him. It was his home. It was survival. And they were desecrating it.
“They’re not going to find anything,” Orin muttered, his voice barely audible from where he stood at the far console, his knuckles white from gripping the edges of the panel. “They’re just trying to break us down.” Vaelor wasn’t interested in contraband or technology. This was about control, about asserting dominance. The Vorcalen Guard weren’t just searching for something—they were sending a message: You are nothing. We can take everything from you.
“Enough!” Derris’s voice rang out suddenly, shattering the tense silence. He took a step forward, glaring at Vaelor, his pale skin flushed with fury. “You’ve torn apart half our ship. There’s nothing here.”
Vaelor’s icy smile widened, his gaze flicking over the captain with patronizing ease. “Is that so? Then you won’t mind us continuing. After all, if there’s truly nothing to hide, what’s the harm in a little... thoroughness?”
Rayader’s wanted to strike, to let his spikes tear through the thin veneer of control he’d kept so carefully constructed. The rage building inside him was no longer something he could ignore.
“We’re not hiding anything!” Dhaka snapped, her voice cracking with frustration. “You’re just destroying everything for the hell of it!”
One of the Vorcalen guards turned toward her, his hand resting casually on the hilt of a blade—a strange, curved weapon strapped to his waist. Rayader’s pulse quickened as he realized what it was: a blade forged from Aetherium , capable of slicing through energy fields like they were air. The guard’s fingers twitched, and for a moment, it seemed like he was considering drawing it.
Vaelor’s expression didn’t waver. He stepped forward, his cold, calculating gaze sweeping across the crew. “For your crimes of obstruction,” he began, his voice smooth and venomous, “you are all hereby sentenced to servitude under the Ahdakaians Empire. You will be reassigned as I see fit. And if any of you think to resist, I assure you...”
The guards, almost in unison, unsheathed their blades, the gleaming edges humming with deadly intent. Vaelor’s smile widened, his tone mocking, “...you won’t live long enough to regret it.”
The threat hung in the air like a blade over their heads, but Captain Derris wasn’t backing down. His eyes blazed with defiance as he took a step forward, his voice cold with fury. "I told you," Derris said, his voice low but steady. "We’re just miners. There’s nothing here."
Vaelor’s expression darkened, his gaze narrowing on Derris as if he were a bug to be crushed. "You insult my intelligence, Captain." His voice was smooth, venomous. " You and your crew is clearly hiding something. And you will pay the price for that."
"You can’t just—!" Orin started, his voice sharp with fury, but he didn’t get the chance to finish.
Vaelor’s hand shot up, a warning glint in his eyes. "I suggest you hold your tongue," he said, his voice like ice. "I will not hesitate to silence dissenters."
Rayader’s pulse hammered in his ears, a roar of anger rising in his chest. His vision seemed to narrow, focusing on Vaelor, on the smug look of superiority that never left the commander’s face. His skin prickled, and the spikes beneath his flesh twitched, pushing against the surface. He couldn’t hold them back much longer.
"Rayader," Dhaka whispered urgently, noticing the change in him, but he barely heard her. The air seemed to hum with tension, and the heat coursing through his veins burned hotter with every word from Vaelor’s mouth.
The Guard stepped forward, surrounding the crew in a tight circle. In one fluid motion, they drew their weapons—long, thin blades that shimmered with a faint, otherworldly energy. The edges of the blades seemed to hum, as if vibrating with power, and Rayader knew instinctively what they were. These were no ordinary swords. These were the infamous anti-shield blades, capable of cutting through energy fields like butter. The kind of weapon only the Empire’s elite carried.
"Now," Vaelor said, his tone deadly calm. "You will all comply, or we will finish this here. Your lives mean little to me."
Rayader felt his control slipping. The spikes itched beneath his skin, and his body felt like it was on fire. His vision blurred around the edges, the anger surging through him like a tidal wave. The thought of being taken, of his crew being forced into servitude, made something inside him snap.
"I’ve had enough of this," Captain Derris growled, stepping forward, his hand resting on his sidearm. His voice was sharp, filled with barely restrained fury. "We are not your property, Vaelor. And we sure as hell aren’t your servants."
The room seemed to freeze for a moment, the tension so thick it was suffocating. Vaelor’s eyes flicked to Derris’s hand, and his lips curled into a sneer. "You think you can defy the Empire, Captain?"
Before anyone could react, Derris drew his weapon, pointing it straight at Vaelor. "I think," he said, his voice low and dangerous, "that you’re about to learn what happens when you push people too far."
The Vaelor’s men tensed, their blades raised, but they didn’t strike yet. For the first time, Vaelor looked genuinely surprised. The arrogance wavered, replaced by something else—something darker.
"You’ve just signed your death warrant," Vaelor hissed, his eyes flashing with rage. "Kill them all!"
The Vorcalen Guard surged forward, blades flashing, and in that moment, Rayader’s body exploded with energy. The bone spikes shot out from his forearms, razor-sharp and gleaming in the dim light of the bridge. His muscles coiled with a strength and for the first time in a long while, he didn’t hold back.
Rayader lunged, and the room erupted into chaos.