In the Age of Distant Stars, the galaxy no longer counted years.
Time was measured in routes traveled, in systems charted and settled, in the slow migration of civilizations rising beneath unfamiliar skies and fading into archival footnotes when their light finally dimmed. History was no longer linear. It curved, looped, overlapped itself like a living thing.
The ancient wars that once scarred the cosmos had become whispers.
Faded tales recited by archivists with reverent voices and dulled warnings. Stories of extinction events and collapsing empires, of weapons that could unmake suns and decisions that echoed across millennia. Generations born into peace listened politely… then forgot.
Because peace had lasted too long.
Star lanes glowed like rivers of fire across the void, brilliant and orderly. Worlds flourished beneath carefully regulated atmospheres. Trade flowed uninterrupted. Countless species lived side by side under shared constellations, their lives woven into fragile networks of commerce, curiosity, and quiet alliances older than memory itself.
Markets hummed with languages layered atop one another like music. Diplomats smiled beneath alien skies. Children of a hundred species pointed upward and dreamed of exploration instead of survival.
The galaxy believed it was safe.
It was wrong.
Very much so.
Far from the gleaming capitals and fortified cores, beyond the luminous spires of governance and the heavily monitored trade hubs, there existed a quiet world few remembered.
A world that had slipped gently from priority into obscurity.
One of its names was Aethyr Vale.
A planet of silver plains stretching beyond sight, where metal-tinged grass bent and whispered beneath constant wind, reflecting the twin suns like rippling mirrors. Every step across the fields produced a faint chime, as though the land itself resonated with memory.
Floating cities hovered above the plains, tethered by radiant spires that pulsed with soft energy. They swayed gently, almost imperceptibly, as if breathing. Their foundations were ancient, arcane, etched with symbols no longer fully understood. Traces of a civilization older than the galaxy's oldest archives lingered in every beam and field.
The air carried a hum.
Not mechanical.
Not natural.
Something in between.
A pulse. Subtle. Steady. Felt more than heard. It vibrated against skin and bone, resonating in the chest like a distant chord that never fully resolved.
Something alive.
Something that listened.
Humans lived here. So did others.
Long-limbed traders from the outer rings moved with ceremonial care, their robes whispering softly as they crossed levitating bridges. Crystalline-skinned artisans shaped towers of glass and light, their tools singing as they carved refractive surfaces that bent the twin suns into cascading rainbows. Silent watchers drifted between platforms, their starlit eyes observing without words, gathering knowledge older than wandering archives and never sharing it freely.
Aethyr Vale was peaceful.
So peaceful that complacency settled like dust.
So peaceful that no one noticed when the silence began to… hesitate.
Lucas learned early how to disappear.
Not with his body.
With his presence.
He lowered his gaze when older children passed. Shifted his weight before collisions could happen. Chose shadows instinctively. Endured insults without response, hunger without complaint, loneliness without protest.
The orphan districts were not cruel by design.
But neglect had its own sharp edges.
Lucas was tall for his age, lean but wiry, his movements economical and precise. Light brown hair fell constantly into his eyes, never quite tamed. His gaze was calm, observant, always measuring the world with quiet attention. Beneath it burned an awareness most never noticed.
One earned through survival.
Yet there was warmth in him too. Something steady. A presence like a candle in a vast, dark hall. It didn't flare. It didn't demand attention.
It simply refused to go out.
Lucas felt things others did not.
Not emotions exactly. Something deeper. A pressure behind his ribs when danger approached. A hum beneath the hum of the world. A sense that the air itself leaned toward him when he grew quiet.
When the world became too loud, too sharp, too much…
It drew him inward.
Toward stillness.
Toward calm.
He had no words for it.
Only knowing.
Only difference.
Rin was different too.
Quiet on the surface.
But fire roared beneath.
Where Lucas withdrew, Rin advanced. Where Lucas observed, Rin reacted. His anger was never wild. Never sloppy. It was precise. Honed. Tempered by years of watching injustice pass unchallenged.
His hair was dark, cut short. His posture always tense, like a blade never fully sheathed. His eyes carried a permanent challenge, daring the world to push him just far enough.
Rin hated weakness.
Not in others.
In himself.
Every shove. Every dismissive glance. Every insult that went unanswered burned into him. Fuel. Pressure.
And deep inside him, something stirred.
Not softly.
Not gently.
Like fire buried beneath cold ash.
Waiting.
They met when they were eight cycles old.
Three older youths cornered Lucas near the lower market platforms, where broken light-panels flickered unevenly and security patrols rarely lingered. Their laughter cut sharp and cruel through the air.
"Hey," one sneered. "Doesn't even look up."
Lucas stayed silent.
Then Rin stepped between them.
"Leave him alone."
His voice was sharp, unyielding.
The first blow knocked him sideways.
He didn't fall.
The second split his lip.
He smiled.
By the time a crowd gathered, all four were bruised and bleeding.
But only two were still standing.
Rin stood there, chest heaving, his dark eyes steady. His hand rested firmly on Lucas's shoulder, grounding him.
From that day on, they were inseparable.
They stole together. Worked together. Slept beneath broken light-panels and watched the twin suns fade into artificial night. Shared scraps of food and fragments of dreams.
Sometimes, they lay on their backs and watched the stars drift.
"Do you think they remember us?" Rin asked once, trying to sound casual.
Lucas didn't answer immediately.
"I think," he said finally, voice quiet, "they're listening."
Rin laughed. Short. Bitter.
But something flickered in his eyes.
Belief.
Or hunger.
The first sign came without warning.
A distortion in the upper atmosphere.
A shimmer where none should exist.
Then silence.
Not peace.
Absence.
Sound collapsed inward. Wind stilled. Machines hummed… then faltered. The hum beneath the world deepened, tightening like a held breath.
The air grew heavy, charged with ozone and something older. Even the twin suns dimmed, their light swallowed by a creeping shadow that crawled across the silver plains.
Birds froze mid-flight.
Floating spires leaned, barely perceptible, as if bracing.
Lucas felt it immediately.
The pressure behind his ribs surged.
Rin clenched his fists.
"What's happening?" Rin whispered.
The sky broke.
A vibration rolled through the plains, not heard but felt, shaking marrow and memory alike. A heartbeat vast enough to belong to something ancient.
Clouds tore apart.
Shapes descended.
Enormous.
Impossible.
Massive vessels tore through the atmosphere, bending light around them. Black-gold armor rippled across their hulls like living skin, etched with sigils that drank illumination.
No warning.
No announcement.
Just arrival.
Rin stared upward, awe and fury warring in his chest.
Lucas felt the hum answer them.
The Khar'Vael had arrived.