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Chapter 12 - Stay With Me I

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It was the charred corpse that turned Henryk’s stomach. The smell—god, the smell—was unlike anything he had ever known, a sickly mix of burned flesh and scorched fabric, the reek of something that should never have been reduced to ash. His gut clenched, bile surged, and he doubled over, vomiting onto the academy floor.

He hadn’t known his own strength.

How… How could this have happened?

Jose—Jose was gone. Everything he could have been, everything he had yet to become, snuffed out in a burst of flame and fury.

Henryk knew Jose had been wrong, knew that the words he spat had been tainted with the academy’s sickness. But still—this? The Academy was diseased, rotting from within. And this was what it did to people.

He turned sharply, yanking the zipper of his pilot suit down to his waist, peeling himself free of the straps as he strode forward. The crowd split before him, whispering, watching, their eyes wide with something caught between awe and fear.

The Druid of House Mars lay behind him, smoldering.

“Henryk…,” Piper’s voice wove through the murmuring mass, her head bobbing in search of him, but he didn’t slow.

From the throng, Anderson saw her and called out, hesitant. “H-Hey, shouldn’t we… congratulate the winners?” His voice wavered, but Piper barely heard him, already pushing through, already chasing after Henryk.

High above them, unseen, a white-haired girl stood beneath the grand ceiling, her gaze sharp, her scowl deeper than shadow. The darkness curled around her, unseen but present, a silent, waiting thing.

“I agree,” Iman’s lips curled as she licked them, too delighted, too hungry for what had just unfolded. Her gaze lingered on Henryk.

The crowd shifted, some murmuring, others gawking, as Gerald, the House Captain of Pluto, barked a laugh. “Purple-ass fuck got clipped!” His voice boomed over the gathered students, his squadmates howling alongside him. “That’s what you get for messing with Henryk and his crew!”

And yet, even as House Mars seethed with its own rage, even as centuries of hostility between their people and Pluto burned hot, there was something else—something quieter, heavier. They had seen it. They had all seen it.

Henryk had reminded them what a Space Knight truly was.

But was strength supposed to be measured like this?

Stella of House Neptune watched, her lips pressed into a thin line, something uncertain flickering in her eyes.

“Unbelievable,” someone sneered. The voice was sharp, edged like a blade. Logan. “Should’ve tossed me in there. Would’ve turned it into a show against Henryk.” His words landed with a snap, his tongue cutting at the final consonant.

Stella barely looked at him. “And what? You’d bring out your daddy’s ARC Core?” Her voice was ice as she turned toward him, the weight of her stare enough to pin him where he stood.

Logan sneered right back. “What’s your deal? You’re usually not this pissed.”

She turned away, arms wrapping tight around herself, her gaze drifting toward the President of House Pluto. “…I’m realizing that Henryk J. Brown is not going to be as easily disposed of as we thought.”

Across the way, where House Venus gathered, Jace and his crew lounged atop their bikes, laughing, watching as Henryk disappeared into the crowd.

“Oh, you thought they were actually friends?” Hannah sneered from her perch, one hand gripping the handlebars.

Jace and his lieutenants hooted, hollered, reveling in the chaos, in the show of force. But not all of them.

Mags sat at the edge of it all, shoulders trembling, eyes fixed downward.

A single tear slipped down her cheek.

“J-Jose… why?”

Henryk

Henryk’s footsteps creaked along the worn stairs, the sound swallowed by the weight pressing down on him. The others were waiting. Watching.

"After all this time… for fucking Jose?"

Ed’s words repeated in his mind, gnawing at him, even as he slipped from the office.

They were all there. The true Knights. But it was Axel and Arthur whose gazes lingered the longest, sharp as knives, dissecting him.

Arthur was the first to speak. “I thought you had the capability to become like us, Henryk.” He clapped his hands together, slow, deliberate, his eyes wide and alert, the glint of something unreadable lurking in them. “This is not what it means to be a Son of Mars, Henryk Brown.” He held his voice steady, but the restraint was there, the edge of a yell he was forcing back.

Henryk met their stares. “…Who do you guys genuinely think I am?” His voice was low, measured. He let the silence stretch before casting a glance across them all.

They were arranged in a half-circle, the squires included. Even Kieren, who was grinning like a man who already knew the punchline.

Then he spoke.

“A little bitch!” Kieren’s voice cracked the moment, split it open. He laughed, and others followed, their laughter curling through the air, but not all of them joined in. Some remained standing, arms crossed, unreadable. Yet—

“Fuck you, Kieren.” Mateo’s voice cut through the noise, sharp but too high-pitched, betraying a tremor beneath the rage.

His dark hair framed narrowed eyes, blazing as they locked onto Kieren, unflinching even as Kieren sauntered back into the fold.

“Don’t any of you get the weight of a human life?” Mateo’s voice carried, filling the space, demanding something from them. “What, is it so wrong that Henryk can fight GrimGar but doesn’t want to spill human blood? People’s lives mean something. But to some of you…” His gaze swept the room. “Murder to rise in the ranks is everything.”

Henryk lowered his eyes.

A breath. A beat.

Then—

“So, Henryk, you’ve got to tell me…” Isaac’s voice was light, easy, but the words had a weight to them. “If a guy came at you with a beam blade, you’d just take it?” He squared his shoulders, flashing a smile like it was a challenge.

“Isaac…” Joseph’s voice hung in the air, uncertain, but he didn’t stop him.

Isaac pressed forward. “Because I saw your fucking ass down there, tearing through GrimGar like it was nothing.” He threw out his arms, gesturing to the gathered Knights. “I thought we had a brotherhood down here, man! You fought with us, bled with us! You’ve gained fame, wealth from this!” His voice rang through the chamber, and then, quieter, almost to himself, “I won’t lie… sometimes, I like the idea of being a Knight. The riches. It makes it more appealing than being a soldier.”

Henryk’s stomach twisted. His fingers curled, shaking before he pulled them back, like touching anything might burn him. “I-Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night, Isaac?” His voice was strained. “That what we’re doing is worth it? Bro, I could’ve fucking died today. I have real enemies here. High-status assholes I should be planets away from. And I can be.”

“…You speak of the Venusian Princess and her brother?” August’s voice was quiet, measured.

Before Henryk could answer, Axel’s voice cut in, sharp, careless.

“Or maybe…” He leaned in. “He’s dealing with that prick Logan of Neptune. Or that bastard, Jay… or—”

“Jaicob,” Ty finished, shaking his head.

The space between them thickened. Henryk scanned their faces, unreadable but watching, weighing him in ways he wasn’t sure he could stand.

Then, with barely a sound, Mateo stepped forward.

He stood by Henryk’s side.

And a second later, Ty moved too.

Henryk’s breath caught. His fingers clenched at his sides.

A pause, then a voice from the crowd. Maybe Axel. Maybe Isaac.

“Of course, the mutants would stand together.”

Arthur’s face twisted, his lip curling in something close to disgust.

“Betrayer…” He exhaled the word, carving out each syllable in a whisper.

Ty’s face twisted up, his eyes burning. “Damn it, Arthur!” His voice snapped through the air like a whip. He turned on them all, gaze sweeping the gathered Knights. “I am a Son of Mars, just like you. These spikes on my back? They’re the strength of my lineage. The same spikes you have—they’re mine as well. A dynasty a thousand years in the making. A promise of a golden prince.”

His words hit like a hammer. The room fell into stunned silence, tension thick enough to cut.

Ty exhaled sharply, then turned to Henryk. “Henryk Brown has saved my life. He’s fought beside me, beside all of us. We owe him the chance to speak. There are other paths besides becoming a Knight of House Mars, Henryk.”

“Huh… not a Knight?” August muttered, eyes narrowing.

Ed—surprisingly—nodded along. “I… suppose. There’ve been times we’ve taken great minds instead. Serfs, if you will.”

Henryk’s breath hitched. His stomach knotted. “Serfs? You mean fucking medieval slaves?”

Ed blinked, thrown off. “Whoa, where the hell did you get that from?” He turned, gesturing vaguely. “Joseph, you need to get this guy on his history lessons more.”

Joseph exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m busy dealing with Arthur and Isaac.”

Ed shook his head, annoyed. “Fine. Whatever. Axel—if Henryk stays, you’re on him for sword, mace, and rifle training. Also, history. He’s good enough in combat, but he’s clueless otherwise. Arthur, same goes for Kieren.” He gave the younger man a curt nod.

Kieren’s golden-red hair fell in front of his eyes. Even Henryk found himself stealing glances. He was all rippled, lean muscle now, and the shift was unsettling—before, Henryk had stood a little taller. Now, he had to tilt his chin up to meet Kieren’s gaze.

Kieren stepped forward, voice rising. “I say we let him go!” He jabbed a thumb into his chest, grinning. “I have the Spikes—that makes me leading Executor, doesn’t it?”

Silence.

Then every gaze turned to him.

Ed tilted his head. “Well… you did get the spikes the quickest,” he admitted. “…but we would’ve waited months. Maybe years before giving them to you.”

“He’s got a point,” Arthur said, voice clipped. “You’re still planned to be a squire. You will function as one.”

Kieren held his proud smile as he looked up at Arthur and the other Knights, but Henryk could see it—the slight tremble at the corner of his mouth, the way his breath hitched for just a second too long. He was trying to suppress something primal, something clawing at the inside of his ribs.

Like a beast that wasn’t yet welcomed among the pack.

Not yet.

And he best not show his fangs too soon.

Kieren said nothing else. His voice died in his throat.

Then Henryk shot up from his seat, hands pressing into the table. “What happens if I die?”

The room stilled. All eyes turned to him.

His chest rose and fell, breath uneven. “Arthur’s already missing parts of himself. We barely escaped Oceana.” His voice cracked at the end.

He swallowed hard, turned to Ed. “Edward,” he said, quieter now. “Listen, man. I appreciate what you did for me. I’d have been expelled—fuck, killed—if you guys didn’t step in when Logan came after me.” He exhaled shakily, shaking his head. “You’re right. I can do this. I want to do this. But this reality…”

His hands curled into fists.

“My mother already buried two of my fathers.” His voice dropped, just above a whisper. “And I am her only son.”

“Then go to your mother.”

Arthur’s voice was warm again—but curt this time, like a blade dulled just enough not to cut.

Henryk lifted his gaze. Arthur’s smile still held warmth, but something lingered beneath it, something raw. “We’ve all lost our fathers,” Arthur continued, his voice filling the room. “But after the fall of Mars, we lost our mothers too.”

Henryk’s eyes widened as his gaze swept through the gathered Knights. He hadn’t realized it—hadn’t truly understood it until now.

Arthur exhaled. “The only ones in this room with a surviving mother are August. And Axel’s mother… she passed not long ago, on one of the moons of Venus.” His voice dipped slightly, but he pushed forward. “All my brothers are dead. All my sisters too. So you’re right, Squire…” Arthur hesitated, then let the word drop. “No. Henryk.”

Arthur’s mechanical fingers curled around Henryk’s shoulder, heavy and unyielding.

“This is a Hail Mary. A full-bore suicide run. Call it a banzai charge, call it whatever you want—but we’re going to make them bleed for what they did to us.” His fingers tightened. “But you don’t have to be a part of that.”

Henryk’s breath hitched.

Edward had been watching them, but now he saw it—the grief buried deep in the Sons of Mars. He’d mistaken their fire for something else, but it wasn’t just rage. It was the last, desperate struggle of men clinging to the hope that vengeance could make them whole again.

And Henryk… Henryk was slipping away.

Not just Henryk.

Others, too.

And Edward realized, then, that this house—his house—might soon stand empty.

And if that happened…

It wouldn’t just be the death of the Knights of Mars.

It would be the death of Mars itself.

A slow, creeping extinction that would stretch its fingers into the dark corners of the universe, until all that remained was silence.

Edward refused to let that happen.

He slammed his fist down onto the desk with enough force to splinter the wood. The sound cracked like a gunshot. “A sector for every man in this room,” he roared. “Not just a kingdom—an empire.”

The room froze.

“What?” Henryk breathed.

The others shared the same stunned reaction.

“You stay with me,” Edward continued, rising to his feet. “And I will give you all the full, unrestricted right to govern your own sector—as you see fit.”

Axel folded his arms over his chest, jaw tightening. “You’re—no, you’re fucking with us. There’s a catch. There’s always a catch.”

Isaac’s eyes narrowed. “You’re just going to give us entire worlds? Just like that?”

Edward snorted. “If that’s what keeps you here, then yes. When the Knights of House Mars are reinstated, the Empress—the true heir to the throne—will award us the right to an empire.” He let the words sink in. “That means our greatest dream—one of them, at least—will be complete.”

Arthur’s eyes widened slightly. “You mean to rebuild Mars in a sector?”

Isaac laughed. A dry, humorless sound. “No, buddy.” He shook his head. “It’s bigger than that.”

He turned to the others, eyes alight with something sharp.

“Every sector will be connected,” he said, voice low. “That’s the catch. Imperial law never let us stack like that before.”

Edward let the words settle before speaking. “Imagine the industry. Certain worlds for crops. Certain worlds for forges. And all of them under your command. Each world will follow the same tariffs, the same taxes as the Knights and Lords of before. You will be nobility. And through you, your bloodline will carry the ancient rites of rule.”

He turned his gaze, locking eyes with Henryk, with Tyson, with Mateo.

“Now tell me—is there anything more I can offer you?”

Henryk stared. They all did.

Because this—this was the kind of power most men could only dream of. The right to rule. The god-given mandate to stand above the rest.

Four connected worlds. Each one bound to them, answering only to them.

It was everything.

It was too much.

Because in the end, there was only one way to rule.

Through fear.

The Knights of Mars would be the enforcers of that fear.

But Henryk—he wouldn’t.

He couldn’t.

He could be better.

Arthur might run his world like a feudal kingdom, but Henryk—his worlds could be different. He could build them up. He could advance them. He could do more than just carve a space for his family and colony in the empire—

He could move the whole damn planet underneath House Mars itself.

Mateo broke the silence. His voice was cold. “What would we need to do to make that possible?”

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Everyone turned.

“That kind of power?” Mateo shook his head. “That kind of control? No one gets that handed to them. So tell me, Ed—how are you going to obtain it? Because everything I’ve ever been told says there’s only one Emperor.” His voice dropped lower. “And right now? You sound like a turncoat. Like a fucking Martian of old.”

And Henryk—

Henryk remembered.

The secrecy. The whispers.

The long nights spent in dim-lit halls, surrounded by men who were supposed to be friends. Supposed to be brothers.

Scheming.

Conspiring.

“Want to know?” Edward murmured.

His green eyes caught the firelight, the glow flickering across his face. The room darkened, as if something unseen had leaned in closer.

As if the past had drawn breath.

The ghost of dead fathers laughed from the corners of the room, whispering in the shadows, pointing with skeletal fingers at their sons.

And Henryk—

Henryk broke.

He turned, shoving open the doors, the weight in his chest pressing down like a dying star.

Tears burned in his eyes as he fled.

And behind him, his father’s shadow clung to his back.

Heavier than ever before.

Marcus

“Are we gonna get shot just being here?” Iman asked, standing close to Marcus.

Marcus had his hands pressed against the rusted bars, his fingers idly scraping flakes of iron. He shook his head slowly. “No,” he said. “They’re more chill than you think. And hey, I thought you didn’t mind Henryk.”

“I don’t,” Iman said, her voice carrying an edge. “But I have heard what Martians are capable of.” She hesitated, arms crossing over her chest. “I just didn’t think you guys were friends with them.”

Marcus turned, his eyes widening slightly as he spotted Henryk approaching from the side entrance. The fence groaned in the wind, all rust and decay, as he and Iman turned to face him.

“Henryk,” Iman called out, her voice shifting, sadness creeping in. “Is it true? Are you really leaving?”

Marcus could hear the strain in her tone—how forced it was, how much she didn’t want to sound like she cared too much.

Henryk didn’t answer.

He just shifted his duffel bag higher along two fingers and kept walking, heading straight for the side door.

“Henryk, come on,” Marcus pressed, stepping forward. “There are other options besides just quitting.”

Iman scoffed, tilting her head back like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“…See, Henryk,” she started, her voice taking on a biting, almost cocky edge. “The only reason you weren’t allowed into House Mercury was because…” She paused, tilting a thumb toward herself. “Because I wasn’t there.”

Marcus stiffened.

“Now,” she continued, “Zephyr is gonna listen to me. Everyone knows that bitch is crazy, and—”

“Iman,” Marcus cut in, his voice sharper than he meant it to be.

But Henryk wasn’t looking at Marcus.

He was looking at her.

And for all her bravado, she didn’t see the way his expression shifted—the way something dark flickered behind his eyes.

Marcus did.

And in that moment, something unspoken passed between them.

Henryk wasn’t just leaving because of some opportunity.

This had been coming for a while.

Maybe Marcus had ignored it, maybe he just hadn’t wanted to see it—but it was there. The way Henryk moved, the way he hesitated, the way his gaze swept over them both like he was weighing something in his mind.

It wasn’t just House Mercury. It wasn’t just Zephyr.

It was everything.

It was nights he shouldn’t have spent drinking. It was choices he shouldn’t have made. It was Iman’s body pressed against his, things he never should’ve let happen, things he could never take back.

Ed’s words echoed in his mind: Don’t mix between houses.

Henryk had dismissed it at the time. But now?

Now he wasn’t so sure.

Were they allies? Or just obstacles in his way?

He had nearly killed Logan. Nearly killed Jose, too.

Henryk exhaled through his nose, gripped the handle of his duffel bag tighter.

“I’m going back home,” he said, slow and measured, his eyes dropping to the ground. “I got offered the kind of deal you don’t turn down.” His voice was quieter now, like he was speaking more to himself than them. “Even then, I’m just… thinking about my family. Thinking about what all of this even means.” He shook his head. “It was a good run. I wish I could’ve piloted alongside you and Marcus properly, but I still need to turn in my resignation.”

He reached for the door.

Silence settled between them, thick and heavy.

“…It’s okay, bro,” Marcus said, voice softer now. “After I lost Lucas, I just…” He trailed off, his throat tightening around the words.

Henryk turned, watching him.

Marcus swallowed. “You were a good friend,” he finished, voice rough. “And I wish you could’ve met him. He already thought you were quite the guy.”

Henryk’s expression shifted—just slightly.

“I would’ve liked to meet him too,” he said. Then, after a beat, he exhaled, shaking his head. “Officially, I mean. But this whole drinking and weed thing? Honestly?” He let out a short laugh, flashing a grin.

Marcus couldn’t help but laugh too.

And Iman—Iman blushed.

She crossed her arms tighter, gaze flicking away.

“So,” she said, her voice quieter now. “You’re really going back home?”

Henryk nodded as they walked beside him, their steps slow, measured. The stone road stretched ahead, rough and uneven beneath their boots. He cast one last glance over his shoulder—one final look at everything he was leaving behind—before snapping his gaze forward again.

It was fine. It had to be fine.

He’d be back to his old life soon. That was okay, right?

His mind burned with the weight of it all. What could’ve been. But it was okay. Right?

“Maybe we’ll see each other again,” Iman said, her voice light, trying for something close to casual. “Mercurian contracts never run dry.”

Henryk blinked, jolted from his thoughts. “That… would be nice,” he admitted, the words slipping out quieter than he intended.

As they walked, a flicker of movement caught Henryk’s eye from the treeline.

They all froze.

A figure moved at the edges of the forest, shadowed and indistinct, before stepping forward and lifting a hand in greeting.

As it approached, Henryk exhaled.

“Gerald,” he said.

Gerald had his hands stuffed in his pockets, his shoulders hunched—not slouched, but bent just enough to make him seem both at ease and on edge. His head tilted toward the sky, but when he looked down, black hair greasy and hanging in his face, he was smiling.

“Hey, Henryk,” Gerald said. His gaze flicked to Marcus and Iman, assessing. “Didn’t know you had friends in other houses.” A pause. His smile sharpened. “Popular guy. Hard to believe that someone who was clawing and begging to stay in is just gonna walk away.”

Henryk met his gaze, steady.

“I killed a man, Gerald,” he said.

Gerald didn’t blink.

Henryk inhaled deeply, then let it out slow. “Between the cutthroat bullshit at the academy, the people hounding me on and off campus—hell, I was attacked by my own house—” He shook his head. “It’s best to quit while I’m ahead. I did my best. And I have family back home.” He met Gerald’s eyes. “You’ve got your little brother, Gerald. You understand.”

Gerald was silent for a long moment.

Then, he chuckled.

“What?” He spread his hands, glancing at the trio. “Did you think I was gonna make you stay? Try to talk you out of it?” He scoffed. “No, Henryk. We shed blood together—that makes you a brother, same as my own flesh and blood.”

There was weight in that. A truth Henryk couldn’t deny.

Gerald of House Pluto—the ruined house, the ruined planet, all thanks to the Martians—lifted his hand toward him.

“You’re alright,” Gerald said. “You and your Martians came through when it counted. If this is the end, then I’m damn sorry we won’t get to fight together again.”

Henryk’s eyes lingered on Gerald’s outstretched hand.

His mind churned.

Iman. Marcus. The way they stood beside him, like they expected him to walk away. The way this whole damn game of houses had already taken too much from all of them.

How did he know the next mission wouldn’t be the last?

But then there was the promise of glory.

Gerald seemed to read something in his face, because his smile shifted, turning almost thoughtful.

“Oh, right. About that,” he said.

Henryk arched a brow.

“I never got a chance to properly repay you,” Gerald continued, voice even. “For saving my life. My brother’s, too.”

Henryk exhaled, shaking his head. “That?” he said. “You guys did the same.”

Gerald nodded along. And yet, he slipped a hand into his pocket.

“Yeah,” he said. “But you and the Sons of Mars did it twice over.”

He pulled something free, unclicking it from his belt.

A plasma pistol.

Gerald flipped it in his palm, then handed it over.

Henryk took it, feeling the unexpected weight settle in his grip. It was bulkier than he thought, solid and heavy. The glass chamber at its center pulsed with an orange glow, muted and sluggish—like a dying lava lamp, the energy within shifting in slow, chaotic bursts.

Gerald smirked. “If you ever run into trouble back home,” he said, “this’ll scare anything off.”

“Holy shit… a Stubmaker,” Iman murmured, peering over Henryk’s shoulder. Her green eyes flicked from the weapon to Gerald, scrutinizing him now with something more than casual curiosity. “Didn’t think House Pluto had access to this kind of firepower.”

Gerald sighed, rubbing the back of his head.

“We would’ve come back for House Mercury and House Mars as a third,” he admitted, voice measured. “But you gotta understand—we’ve got weapon deals. An alliance with Earth House.” He let that sink in, then added, “Recognized by the Earth Government, too.”

Marcus’s brow furrowed. His expression darkened.

“Even Earth’s getting involved now?”

Gerald chuckled, wrapping his arms around himself like he was bracing against something unseen. “Waves have been forming for a while now. Academy’s been quiet too long. Things are shifting.” His gaze lingered on Henryk then, watching the way he still stared at the weapon in his hands—fingers tracing its edges, mind somewhere far away.

“Take good care of it,” Gerald said. His voice turned lighter, but there was weight beneath it. A warning wrapped in camaraderie.

He turned, lifting a hand in a lazy wave as he started to walk away.

“Stubmakers aren’t a joke,” he called over his shoulder. “Overheat that thing, and you’ll be lucky if it only takes off your arm. But your enemies?” He let out a dry laugh. “They’ll be nothing but ash.”

Then his voice dropped, just enough to make the words linger.

“Strike heavy and true, Druid of House Mars. Even demons die from a bullet to the heart.”

And with that, Gerald left Henryk Brown and the others standing in silence.

Biancia’s

Henryk had stashed the pistol beneath a mound of clothes in his duffel bag. A nice farewell gift.

Stubmakers. The universe ridiculed them—called them crude, unwieldy, a relic of a bygone era. But Henryk figured the Martians knew what they were doing.

Of course they did.

He’d seen the Warcasket-patterned plasma weapons hanging from their suspension cranes in Sir William’s grand garage, now tended to by his daughters. The Martians were on the precipice of something—cracking a new code for Warcasket warfare. Henryk’s mind churned, drifting to something closer, more familiar.

Out in the backwater, nobody—except maybe a high-grade merc or some warlord with a throne of skulls—ever got their hands on Warcasket scraps like the ones he’d seen. Hell, he’d traded in his old rustbucket ages ago. What was the model again?

Martian MP-02. Simple, blunt, cold. The other systems dressed theirs up with names, but Ed told him once—Martians didn’t do mass production. They never had, not since the Xeno Wars. They didn’t build armies of Warcaskets. They built weapons. Singular, precise, devastating. That was the difference. That was the power.

Henryk exhaled, breath pale in the cold. His hair—long, messy, somewhere between black and auburn—hung unruly over his eyes. Fall had settled in thick now. September was dead and buried. October had one foot in the grave. Halloween was coming.

He wondered how the Academy would celebrate. He figured it’d be hard as hell, especially after what happened with Hannah. The accusations. The weight of it.

But his muscles were tighter now. He’d beaten Jace. He’d beaten Logan. Every day, he was growing stronger.

His magic, though…

His feet carried him forward, but his mind lingered. As he passed the street corner, his jaw tightened. The same place Simon had jumped him. Over what? Because he was a mutant? And then, not a second later, the bastard tried to play it cool, like he wasn’t the one who took a pipe to the skull.

Henryk turned. Slipped into the alleyway.

Down one turn, then another. He pulled out his keys and slipped into the back door of Bianca’s.

The scent of warm dough hit him like a wave. Rich. Heavy. Familiar.

He inhaled, letting it settle in his lungs.

His eyes skimmed the steel countertops, catching on the fresh bread laid out for the morning rush. His stomach tightened. He thought about grabbing a piece—just a bite—but something held him back.

Instead, his gaze landed on a note.

The place was too clean. Too quiet.

His fingers hesitated over the paper as something prickled at the back of his neck.

Had Bianca and her son come in early? Done everything ahead of schedule?

He wasn’t supposed to be here today. He should’ve been out—making beats, making money, training, something—but instead, he was here.

Henryk’s hand came hard against his head.

“What is this? What is this damn introspection?” He slammed his palm against his temple again, teeth clenched. “People are fucking dying. How do I know I won’t be next? I should quit while I’m ahead.”

His voice faded into the empty room, but his mind didn’t stop. His thoughts churned, dragging him down into places he didn’t want to go. The forces lurking in the dark—things he tried not to think about. The ones like Peyton. The Xeno.

He’d seen too much with the Sons of Mars. Maybe too much. Maybe he was normal. Maybe he was gifted. But how many young men in history had thought the same before they met their end?

He walked through the narrow door connecting the kitchen to the main restaurant. The lights were off, the space still and hollow. His gaze drifted to Bianca’s office. The door was shut. No sliver of light beneath it.

Bianca was the type to wring every ounce of life out of a workday. She’d rather die than let the power bill climb a cent too high.

Yet…

“You,” Henryk said, his voice low.

A shadow shifted—slumped, stumbling. The wooden floorboards groaned beneath it.

Henryk let his duffel bag drop with a heavy thud. The registration letter slipped from his fingers.

“You… in the dark.” His eyes narrowed.

Yet…

“H-Henryk.”

The voice was drawn, the syllables soaked in something slow, something dangerous.

His eyes widened, a smirk curling at his lips. “Piper?” he said, a chuckle in his breath.

And then she stepped forward, lumbering out of the shadows, a large bottle dangling from her grip.

Her skin—brilliant red—caught the dim light, freckles scattered across her face like constellations. One eye grey, the other green, twin flashes of mischief and something deeper.

He had done that to her.

And just like that, the smirk died on his lips. His expression turned to stone. He didn’t deserve to see her smile. Not today. Not when he was leaving.

“H-hey, big guy,” Piper said, shifting her weight, playing on the balls of her feet like she was balancing on the edge of something.

Henryk lifted his gaze.

“You ever get around to making that pizza?” she asked.

And despite himself—despite everything—Henryk smiled.

He led her into the kitchen.

Henryk dusted his hands with flour, pressing his fingers into the dough, stretching it outward with practiced ease. Piper watched from her seat, chin resting in her palm, her mismatched eyes flickering between his hands and his face. The scent of yeast and warm air filled the kitchen as he reached for the tomato sauce, spooning it onto the stretched canvas of dough. With a quick, precise motion, he sliced through a block of mozzarella, the blade gliding clean.

“You’re amazing,” Piper murmured, her voice thick with something that wasn’t just drunkenness.

Henryk snorted, flashing a half-smile as he slid the pizza onto the stone.

Piper went on, undeterred. “Seriously, you handled those two like it was nothing. Venus and Neptunian Warcaskets are no joke.” Her voice spiked, loud and unfiltered, half a cheer, half a confession. She swayed forward, too close now, her breath warm against his arm.

Henryk ignored the way she leaned in, flicking the oven on and grabbing the wooden pizza peel. “It’s not that big a deal,” he said, smoothing his hands over the warm surface of the dough. “I’ve been handling mechs since I was a kid. Worked in the mines back home. You get used to it. It’s like clearing snow off a driveway.”

Piper laughed, tipping her head back. “Really? ’Cause my dad just paid some guy seventy-five bucks to do it for him.” She took another long drink, her throat bobbing with the motion.

Henryk glanced over. “Your dad, what’s he like?”

Piper exhaled, her lips quirking into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Like every dad—a fucking asshole.”

Henryk stilled, his fingers tightening over the wooden handle of the pizza peel. Piper noticed too late.

“Shit,” she muttered, rubbing a hand over her face. “I didn’t mean it like that.” She tried for a smile, but Henryk wasn’t looking at her anymore. “I bet your dad’s awesome. Probably some big sports guy, right? You’ve got the look.”

Henryk hesitated. “My dad… I never knew him.”

Silence. Piper’s face fell, and her drunken haze cleared for a moment.

“Damn it,” she said, shaking her head. “I didn’t mean it like that.” She sucked in a breath, leaning back against the counter. “Here I am bitching about my dad to someone who doesn’t even have one.”

Henryk waved her off, already moving toward the oven. He slid the peel under the pizza, pulling it out in one smooth motion. The crust was golden, the cheese bubbling, the smell intoxicating.

Piper perked up, watching him like he had just performed magic. “You’re a man of many skills,” she said, pushing off the counter. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

Henryk chuckled, shaking his head. “Shit, Pipes, you’re flattering me, but you’re drunk. We should just eat.”

Piper didn’t sit. Her eyes burned into him, her lips slightly parted. A storm of emotions flickered across her face—frustration, desire, hesitation.

“I just…” Her voice dropped, turning softer, slower. “I just wanted a little courage.” She wet her lips. “Listen, if tonight is your last night here, then maybe… maybe we make it one to remember.”

Henryk took a bite of the pizza. He barely tasted it. Didn’t care if the crust was perfect or if the sauce was seasoned just right. Piper was filling the space between them, her fingers tracing the edge of the counter, her body language unmistakable.

He swallowed, his jaw tightening.

She was a good friend. A damn good friend.

But she was also drunk.

And Henryk had never been the kind of guy to take advantage of someone who trusted him.

He set the pizza down and exhaled, his hands gripping the counter like a lifeline.

“Eat, Pipes,” he said, his voice quiet, firm. “Let’s just eat.”

Piper didn’t register Henryk’s dismissal, at least not fully. She grabbed another slice, biting into it with a pleased hum. “Damn. You really know what you’re doing with your hands,” she said, her voice slipping into something slower, heavier. Her eyes flickered up at him, lazy, teasing. “Maybe all that skill of yours doesn’t just apply to the battlefield.”

Henryk exhaled through his nose, leveling her with a look. “Pipes,” he muttered, already tired.

She grinned, leaning in, pushing her luck.

“I can’t,” he stated, plain and firm. His voice carried none of the earlier hesitation, no softness. “I’m not going to take advantage of you in this state.” He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I’m a virgin, and—” His jaw tightened, and he turned his gaze away.

Piper stilled. The flush on her cheeks darkened. “…Me too,” she admitted, barely above a whisper. Then, louder, firmer: “But if tonight is your last night, then… Henryk, we’ve fought together so many times now. I should have told you this earlier, but stop blaming yourself for what happened to my eye. It was an accident.”

Henryk sneered, shaking his head. He moved away from her, putting distance between them. “You think that absolves me?” His hands curled into fists. “Piper, I hurt you. Accident or not, bionic or not—I don’t know how I can forgive myself.”

“Then learn control,” she snapped.

The drunken haze was gone. The teasing, the heat in her voice—gone. Now, she was only the Ace of House Mercury staring him down, her expression sharpened into something unshakable.

“You’re a skilled pilot, a skilled warrior, a skilled tactician,” she continued. “You think you got this far on luck? You think that’s all you are?”

“I got lucky,” Henryk bit out. “That’s what I am.”

Piper’s eyes narrowed. “No man is perfect, but you are gifted. You have the chance to help the Empire, to strengthen your House. And I know you are stronger than this.”

Henryk shook his head, but Piper pressed on.

“You learn fast. You adapt fast. Is it the magic that’s scaring you? Or what happened on Oceana? Or how you—”

Henryk’s face twisted. His glare cut into her. “Why can’t we just enjoy the pizza on my last day?”

Piper sighed, rubbing her temple. She sat back down, but the air between them was heavier now.

“That duel…” she started, her voice lower. “Everything about it was insane. Even Atticus didn’t expect Earth House to be harboring a Warcasket like that. Have you ever seen anything like it?”

Henryk shrugged. “It’s an old Martian battle policy. Mobile Fortresses. Stagnant, single-pilot Warcaskets—immobile unless repositioned in space by thrusters. People stopped using them a hundred years ago.”

Piper’s eyes flickered with something dark. “Warfare is changing. The GrimGar… they’re evolving.”

Henryk exhaled through his nose. “Yeah,” he said. “But we’ll figure it out.”

Piper glanced at him. Something about his tone was strange. Detached.

Then, for a moment, something passed between them—something other.

A flicker of his mind’s eye, a glimpse of his thoughts unspooling into concepts, designs, obsessions. A mobile suit, stripped to the bare minimum, weightless, faster, running hot with extra thrusters along its legs. Not fast enough. His voice cut through her head. Another flash—his own machine, stripped, bare, his mind whirling in equations, adjustments. Not strong. Not fast enough.

The words came again, angrier, thick with self-loathing. The thoughts churned—blueprints, mechanisms, the desperate clawing of a mind that would not stop.

Piper hesitated.

Because in that brief instant, she saw something else.

Henryk wasn’t just a pilot.

One day, he’d fly.

They ate in silence. Slice after slice.

Piper leaned against the sink, her fingers gripping the edges like she needed to hold herself together. Her breath hitched, uneven. Her eyes shimmered, a raw glassiness creeping in as her lips parted, working through words that didn’t want to come.

“I—I don’t know how I do this,” she murmured, turning her gaze toward him.

Henryk’s fists hung at his sides. He could hear it in her voice—that edge, that crack. He had heard it before in dying soldiers and pilots on open comms, in the way someone spoke when they weren’t sure they’d ever wake up again.

“I get it,” he said, voice steady. “I really do. But a lot of us are here for other reasons. Some of us… we can’t go back.”

Piper exhaled a hollow, broken sound. She pressed the heel of her palm against her eye, her breath coming out in shudders. “I’ve killed so many people I’ve lost count,” she whispered. “I am a monster, Henryk. A monster.”

“Piper…” Henryk reached for her instinctively, but she jerked away before he could touch her.

“You have a home to go back to.” Her voice darkened, thickened. She swayed, and then—crash.

The vodka bottle slipped from the counter and shattered against the floor, rupturing like a gunshot. The sound echoed too loudly in their heads. They both flinched. Their minds whirled with memories of battle, of comms screaming, of metal torn apart, of the dead.

Piper stared at the wreckage of glass and liquor. “I am a fucked-up person, Henryk Brown,” she said, quieter now. “Lucas is dead.”

“I know.” Henryk barely breathed the words.

She turned, watching him. “Marcus… I don’t know how he’s going to handle you leaving. I know he’s got family that needs him, but they won’t sacrifice their son.”

Henryk clenched his jaw, his hands curling into fists.

“We’ve already lost an entire battalion,” Piper continued. “We’re barely scraping together survivors, filling ranks with recruits who didn’t die or weren’t murdered by Jacen’s pirates. And the worst part? Eric, Jeremiah, and the other elites—gone. Now we’re stuck with bastards like Clive. And I know Zephyr had his reasons for sending the 34th away, but to aid him?”

Henryk’s head jerked up. “Clive?” His hands came to his temples. “Piper, I’m sorry, but I can’t do this anymore. I can’t—”

“Lucas wanted you with us.” Her voice cracked. “Damn Zephyr. If it had been you out there with them, I know the tide would’ve turned. But everything keeps spiraling, Henryk. And I can’t blame you for leaving, but—” She swallowed hard, staring at the broken glass. “The rest of us? This might be it. Most of us burn out like pilot lights. The perfect sacrifices. Young, noble heroes for an empire and an Eunuch Emperor.”

Piper staggered, her foot slipping. Henryk was on her in an instant, catching her around the waist before she hit the floor.

“Piper,” he said, his voice firmer now.

She lifted her head, and in the golden light of the overhead lamps, her green eyes glistened—wild, desperate. Her hands moved under his shirt, fingertips brushing his stomach, and before he could stop her, she had pulled down the straps of her top and bra in one motion.

Henryk’s breath stopped.

He froze, utterly, completely, as if struck.

Her skin was pale, speckled with freckles, her breasts full and bare in the dim kitchen light. It stunned him, the sight of them, the way they caught the glow of the room, the way her chest rose and fell, the flush across her collarbone. His entire body tensed, heat roaring up his spine like a system failure—his hands twitched, jaw clenched, his heart hammering into his ribs.

And then he ripped his eyes away.

His grip on her waist tightened—not out of desire, but control, forcing himself to not look, not think.

“Me and you,” Piper whispered, her voice raw. “If tonight is my last night with you, then we’re going to—”

“No.”

Henryk’s voice cut through the room like a gunshot.

Piper flinched.

With a sharp exhale, Henryk hauled her up and set her down on the cold metal of the sink countertop. Her bare skin pressed against it, and the shock of the chill made her shudder.

“This is done,” Henryk stated, his tone final. His patience had snapped, his restraint thinned to its breaking point. “I work here. Or at least, I did. How the hell did you even get here?”

Piper blinked at him, the drunken haze in her eyes flickering. “W-what?”

Henryk scrubbed a hand down his face. “Yeah, Piper, this is out of hand and inappropriate. I have to mop up the goddamn floor and clean up all this glass.” He turned back to her, voice lowering but no less firm. “And you are drunk. Really fucking drunk. I am not doing this—not in good faith, not like this.” His eyes burned into hers. “Now. Give me your phone. Who do you want me to call?”

Piper’s gaze dropped to the floor. Her lips parted, hesitated. Then—

“…Margaret.”

Slowly, she reached up, pulling her top and bra back over herself. The moment was gone. Whatever had been burning in her, whatever desperate ache had driven her this far—it dulled, curling inward. Her expression hardened as she turned away.

Henryk sighed, stepping back, raking his fingers through his hair as he grabbed his own phone.

He didn’t know what this was between them. He didn’t know what Piper wanted—really wanted. But the way she had looked at him, the way her voice had cracked, the way she had begged him in everything but words…

Henryk had always known she was a fighter. A soldier. A pilot.

But it was only now, only now, that he realized—

Piper was in love with him.

And he hadn’t seen it until it was too late.