The Ark slipped past the edge of the Council blockade under a cloak of silence. No transmissions, no beacons, no trails of energy that could be tracked. The void swallowed them whole.
Kael stood at the viewport as stars crawled across the black. Beyond the reach of the Council, there were places even Envoys feared to tread—worlds that lived by different laws, where freedom was bought with blood and survival came at the point of a blade.
One such place now lay before them.
"Approaching Korrath," Lyra announced, her tone flat. "Population: uncertain. Allegiances: none. Reputation: murderous."
Kael's lips pressed into a thin line. "Perfect place to find people willing to defy the Council."
From behind, Taren chuckled softly, the sound carrying a rough edge. "Or perfect place to get ourselves killed."
Kael didn't argue. Both were true.
Korrath filled the viewport as they drew near—a rust-red sphere scarred with impact craters, its thin atmosphere streaked with clouds of dust. Space around the planet buzzed with activity: scavenger fleets, pirate cruisers, patched freighters running black-market cargo.
Lyra guided the Ark through the chaos, weaving between ships bristling with stolen weapons and hulls barely holding together. No order, no control. Just survival.
"They'll smell outsiders the second we land," she murmured.
Kael glanced at Taren, whose eyes were already scanning the patrols with a predator's precision. "Then let's make sure they know we're not prey."
The Ark settled in a sprawling port carved into the side of a canyon. The air outside was thin, dry, and sharp with the scent of burning fuel. Towers of scrap and metal loomed over narrow streets, their lights flickering in erratic patterns.
As Kael, Lyra, and Taren stepped onto the deck, they were greeted not with words but with weapons—half a dozen figures in ragged armor, their rifles raised.
"Docking fee," one barked. "Fifty percent of your cargo."
Kael raised a brow. "That's not a fee. That's theft."
The man sneered. "Call it whatever you like. Pay up or bleed."
Taren stepped forward, eyes glinting cold. His voice was low, but it carried. "You really want to test us?"
Something in his tone made the gang hesitate. But their leader smirked, unwilling to back down. "Maybe I do."
Kael moved before the man could react. A sharp strike disarmed him, another slammed him against a wall, leaving his rifle clattering on the ground. Kael held him there, calm but unyielding.
"We're not here for games," he said evenly. "Tell your boss that Kael Ardyn seeks an audience."
The man's eyes widened at the name, fear and recognition flickering across his face.
Without another word, the gang lowered their weapons.
Hours later, Kael and his companions were led through the heart of Korrath's underworld—a maze of metal shanties, neon markets, and fighting pits echoing with roars. Every eye followed them. Some with suspicion. Some with calculation.
At last, they entered a chamber carved into stone, its walls lined with trophies of conquest: broken weapons, cracked helmets, banners stolen from defeated ships.
At the center sat a woman draped in crimson armor, her gaze sharp as a blade.
"Kael Ardyn," she said, her voice rich with amusement. "The exile. The Ghost Admiral's brother. Slayer of warlords. And now… rebel."
Kael met her gaze without flinching. "And you are?"
She leaned forward, a predatory smile spreading across her face.
"Veyra," she said. "Queen of Korrath. And perhaps… your only hope."