Etched In Flame

Chapter 1

Boots echoed against the polished obsidian floors of the Sovereign Nation's war deck. Each step was precise, deliberate, but not Pyrokyn.

Meike turned.

The Voratian heir stood before her—Emrys Szulc, son of the very man who had once been a bitter enemy to her bloodline. The contrast in his eyes caught her attention immediately: one a vibrant, unnatural green that shimmered faintly under the bay's lighting, the other a flat, deadened red, like drying blood. The duality marked his people, their twisted genetic legacy—and somehow, despite herself, Meike felt her breath pause.

He looked at her not with defiance or arrogance, but with clarity. And resolve.

"I want to help defend the Prafg outpost," he said, his voice steady despite the growing tension around them.

She lifted her chin, scanning him. "Do you have a battlesuit?" Her tone was clipped, a test of preparedness.

"No," he admitted.

Her eyes narrowed—not with disappointment, but calculation. She turned to her second without hesitation. "Raluca! Get the Voratian heir a suit. Kiire!" Her voice cracked like lightning.

Raluca didn't miss a beat. "On it, Princess." She disappeared through the equipment hold.

The deck was a whirlwind of movement—rows of Pyrokyn soldiers slipping into armor, magnetic rifles being charged, the low hum of shuttle engines warming. Time felt like it was evaporating. The air was charged with anticipation and war-slick heat.

Meike barked orders in Pyrokyn, her voice ringing out across the bay. "Miehistö! Kohdista energiansyöttö! Tarkista siipiasemat ja asejärjestelmät!" Each command was a precise note in a symphony of preparation. She moved like a conductor, her mind already twenty steps ahead, calculating variables of battle and survival.

Then, to her surprise, Emrys returned to her side—now armored in the black-and-amber alloy of a Pyrokyn battlesuit. It didn't quite fit him, not in the way it molded to her kind, but he carried it well. His posture was upright, eyes sharp.

"You're quick," she said. "That'll serve you well."

"I learn fast."

Her gaze lingered for a second longer than she meant it to. Then she turned and led the charge to the shuttle, her boots thudding against the metal gangway. The battalion assembled behind her in two clean rows, tension wound into every muscle.

They boarded the shuttle Vaeltriin—the fastest of the Sovereign Nation's intercept-class warships. It was angular, brutalist in design, with sharp fins that curved like dragon wings. The interior glowed with crimson lighting, bathing the team in warm, aggressive light.

Meike stepped into the helm, Sampo and Raluca taking their stations beside her. Emrys watched from behind, absorbing everything—how they moved, how they spoke, how their systems lit up like veins in the ship's hull.

It wasn't just war. It was art. And Meike was its center.

"Transmission incoming," Raluca called, voice taut.

"On screen," Meike ordered.

The feed flickered to life. Major Saerys Bruneau, his face smeared with soot, his armor torn and splattered with something dark, appeared. Explosions thundered in the background. Somewhere off-screen, someone screamed.

"Princess Meike," he shouted over the chaos. "We have a shuttle en route to Khaba with the women and children—please, you have to hurry! They're tearing through our lines!"

The screen cut out abruptly—static hissing like a snake in the silence.

Meike's fingers curled into fists at her sides, her gauntlet groaning under the pressure. Her jaw clenched hard enough to make her bones ache.

"Aktivoi hyperajo!" she barked. "Kohdista Gemmalle lähinnä oleva madonreikä!"
("Engage hyperdrive! Align us to the nearest wormhole near Gemma!")

The Pyrokyn soldiers jumped into motion instantly, their movements rehearsed and lethal. Emrys staggered for a moment, lost in the blur of their language. He didn't speak it—not yet—but he understood war. He could feel it in the way the ship charged around him.

"Brace yourself, Vorat," Saolas said from the turret controls. "This isn't your homeworld's gentle gliders."

Emrys barely had time to lock his boots before the ship jolted forward, launching into hyperdrive. The stars outside the shuttle curved, then smeared into kaleidoscopic ribbons—blues, silvers, even streaks of gold. His breath caught. Gravity hit him like a boulder. His stomach twisted.

By the time the ship snapped back into realspace, he was pinned to the wall, pale and trying not to throw up.

Meike didn't even blink. She was still standing.

Outside the viewport, colors unfurled like a living aurora.

"The Lystuis Mist," Meike whispered, and something in her voice softened. "It always reminds me that even in war, the universe remembers beauty."

Emrys said nothing. He watched her watch the stars, his pulse slowing. There was something in her—something balanced between flame and sorrow.

But the reverence was brief.

In the distance, the fourth planet in the Devolin System—Grenushe IV—burned. The outpost was under siege, energy cannons flashing in a rhythmic beat of destruction. Dozens of small shuttles zoomed through the sky, some billowing smoke, others disintegrating midair.

"Saolas, power the turrets," Meike said, voice hardening once more.

"Done."

"Raluca, with me. Kastah, Sampo—you too. We drop the moment we breach the atmosphere. Kiire!"

Her team fell in behind her, ready.

She passed Emrys as she headed toward the dropship bay. "You still want to help, Voratian?"

His eyes locked on hers. "I didn't come this far to sit in a seat."

Her smirk was faint—but there. "Then stay on my six. And try not to die."

The team moved through the ship like blood through veins—fast, sure, full of purpose. All around them, the hum of war grew louder. Meike's heartbeat synchronized with the sound of the ship's engines. She could already feel the moment her boots would hit Grenushe IV's soil.

She could already smell the fire.