The rehearsal in the outer ring orbit began at six in the morning.
Orion Ember stood in the docking corridor between the Celestial Dome and the Meteor-II, watching the ship's running lights drift through the darkness beyond the reinforced glass. The warm amber of the Xie family's private port had been filtered into cold white, as if someone had cut the night of the Seventh Sector from memory and pasted it before his eyes. He counted the berthing sequence of the vanguard formation once more—identical to the fleet deployment thirty-seven seconds before the opening of the "Fallen Campaign" in the game, down to the half-meter port offset of that aging supply ship.
He shouldn't feel pleased. Repetition meant fate was still following the script.
Yet his palms burned. The residual heat of excitement and terror, churned together.
"Lieutenant Ember."
Someone called from behind, voice compressed with sleep-deprived irritation. Orion turned and saluted: "Present."
The speaker was a lieutenant from the Fleet Operations Staff Section, surnamed Zhou, pureblood, chin raised high enough to catch dust. Orion had seen him on yesterday's roster—father served in the Central Sector Ministry of Finance, never left the "silver-white uniform" circle since enrollment.
"Young Peregrine wants you at the main passage to coordinate the neural link between Meteor-II and the flagship," Zhou said, thrusting over a data tablet, fingertips tapping against the screen. "Don't be late. And—"
He paused half a second, gaze sweeping from Orion's gray-blue pupils to his lieutenant's insignia, as if examining mislabeled cargo.
"Coordination isn't showing off. You rose from companion status—plenty of people in this fleet understand protocol better than you. Follow orders. Don't get clever."
Orion lowered his eyes. "Understood."
Zhou departed. Orion watched his retreating back, an internal subtitle flashing: [You understand protocol, but you don't know where the texture seams are.]
He swallowed the retort and ran for the main passage.
Neural link coordination, at its core, meant compressing command latency between human and ship, ship and ship, below threshold. In his previous life writing combat systems, Orion had named this mechanism: Synch Rate. Too low, skills wouldn't fire; high enough, combos could chain.
Reality held no UI. Only sweat, caffeine, and the silent exclusion of aristocratic officers.
The main passage already held a line of personnel. Peregrine Cinder stood at the far end, silver hair bound without a stray strand, golden pupils reflecting the holographic star chart, as if the entire outer ring orbit lay crushed beneath his feet. Orion approached, about to speak, when Peregrine lifted his chin first.
"Stand on my right."
Not a request. Orion moved over, catching the faint bitter aroma of black coffee, mixed with metal and antiseptic—the Crown Prince probably hadn't slept much past midnight, yet had arranged himself into the "Imperial Facade."
"Link test, three rounds," Peregrine's voice pressed through the command channel to the entire assembly. "First round standard mode, second interference mode, third extreme load. Lieutenant Ember handles the bridge between Meteor-II and the flagship. Problems arise, I find you."
The space went silent.
This wasn't the "you take the fall if something fails" deflection—it was hanging the weight directly around Orion's neck. Envious gazes like needles, jealous ones like blades. Orion heard someone snort softly from the left formation—there stood the technical observation group sponsored by the Shen family.
Orion didn't turn his head. He wouldn't let anyone catch him "looking for someone."
"Received," he said.
The test began.
The first round flowed smoothly as a formality. Orion's fingers slid across the portable terminal, aligning Meteor-II's power curve with the flagship's fire control prediction. Data streamed across the screen, and he read the meaning behind every peak—parameters he had personally tuned, even if this world treated them as "military secrets."
Second round: interference mode.
The command channel suddenly flooded with static, as if someone poured gravel into eardrums. The captains of two frigates reported latency simultaneously, voices tight. Zhou's voice cut cold through the public channel: "Switch to backup frequency."
"Backup frequency will be occupied by the Shen observation group's test signal," Orion blurted. "Switch now, you'll only create peak overlap."
Zhou's face darkened. "You're teaching the Staff Section their business?"
Before Orion could answer, Peregrine's voice inserted itself, flat as a blade slicing metal:
"Let him finish."
Orion's throat bobbed. He stared at the jumping noise points on screen, steadying his pace: "Interference source is at C-band harmonic, not full-spectrum suppression. Cut the flagship-to-Meteor-II link to narrowband, preserve command priority, sacrifice non-critical sensor feedback—thirty seconds completes secondary handshake."
He recited a string of frequencies and handshake sequences.
The technician looked up at Peregrine. Peregrine didn't look at him, only at Orion: "Execute."
Thirty seconds later, the static parted like scissors through cloth. Meteor-II's bridge transmitted confirmation: "Link stable, latency—below threshold."
Only then did the sweat on Orion's back begin to fall.
He turned his face slightly. In peripheral vision, Peregrine's lip line remained level, but his golden pupils rested on Orion's face for less than half a second. That half-second held no praise, only a near-default acceptance, as if saying: You belong here.
Third round: extreme load.
The virtual battlefield unfolded across the outer ring orbit, asteroid belts and gravity traps tuned to "harassment" level. Orion seated himself in Meteor-II's temporary command station—without formal ship registry, he could only occupy a side seat as "bridge coordinator." When the neural interface tendrils pressed against his nape, he gritted his teeth.
Hot. Gentler than mecha extreme mode, but sustained longer, as if someone had submerged his consciousness in slowly boiling water.
"Vanguard formation, wedge deployment," Peregrine's command remained calm. "Orion, you watch gravitational disturbance B-9 to B-11. I don't want to see yesterday's 'secret passage surprise' repeated."
Orion's mouth twitched. That "secret passage" from yesterday's training ground was a modeling seam he'd forced out using extreme mode; today Peregrine had written it into tactical vocabulary, publicly hanging a sign on him that read: He sees what others cannot.
"Received," Orion said.
He marked three safe corridors through the disturbance zone, synchronizing coordinates to all ships. The fleet spread like a slowly opening silver blade, cutting into asteroid shadow. For one absurd instant, Orion even felt a sense of familiar déjà vu—he wasn't participating in war, he was running a raid map he'd cleared a thousand times.
Then, the accident came.
An assault ship's thruster readings suddenly dived. Not malfunction—artificially locked at ceiling. Orion spotted that familiar "permission nesting" in the data, the elegant and cold encapsulation the Shen Engineering Department favored.
His back went cold.
In the game setting, Shen Cetus never dirtied his own hands. He only made the "system" appear reasonable.
"Celestial Dome, requesting temporary takeover of assault ship thrust allocation," Orion's voice remained steady. "Otherwise it impacts B-10 ridge in thirty seconds."
The command channel held silence for an instant.
Zhou spoke through gritted teeth: "On what basis do you conclude—"
"Because its curve lies," Orion said. "Thrust drops, but fuel consumption doesn't follow. Someone's acting."
Peregrine's voice cut through the dispute: "Authorize him."
The moment permissions dropped, Orion pulled the assault ship from its death trajectory. The ridge scraped across the screen in a blinding spark warning, like a slap across "pureblood experience's" face.
Rehearsal concluded.
At the debriefing, antiseptic and lingering ozone hung in the air. Peregrine stood before the star chart, golden pupils sweeping the assembly: "Today's errors go to Staff Section review. Lieutenant Ember's handling goes to tactical case studies."
Zhou's face looked ill, yet he had to stand at attention: "Understood."
Orion stared at his boot tips, assuming compliant posture. He knew this statement cut deeper than any praise—Peregrine was using his own authority to push Orion from "companion-raised anomaly" toward "usable blade."
Those pushed up would also have more eyes on their throats.
As the meeting dispersed, Peregrine passed beside him, footsteps never slowing, dropping words light as snowfall:
"Lunch. Command cabin."
Orion's fingertips went numb.
Command cabin. Platform. Narrow space requiring them to press close. And that name only permitted in darkness—Peregrine.
He looked up, only seeing silver-white hair flash at the corridor's end, like a blade returning to sheath.
Lunch was not lunch.
The command cabin held only nutrient paste and black coffee. When Orion entered, Peregrine already sat before the star chart, sleeves rolled to his forearms, pale skin showing faint blue veins. Hearing footsteps, he didn't turn: "Close the door."
Orion closed the door.
"Eat." Peregrine pushed over a nutrient paste.
Orion silently tore the wrapper. The sweetness tasted false, some perfunctory placebo. As he swallowed, Peregrine finally rotated his chair, golden pupils settling on his face, lingering longer than that morning's half-second.
"You were nervous," Peregrine said. "Before the link stabilized, your pheromones spiked."
Orion's fingers tightened around the nutrient paste.
He thought he'd controlled himself well on the battlefield. Before Peregrine, he remained transparent.
"Shen's people were watching," Orion chose half-truth. "I didn't want to embarrass you."
Peregrine looked at him, as if distinguishing which segment of this sentence was lie.
"You won't embarrass me," Peregrine finally said, tone flat as stating tactical parameters. "You'll only embarrass others."
Orion nearly choked on nutrient paste.
Was this... praise?
Peregrine had already withdrawn his gaze, as if regretting speaking so clearly: "No external duties for you this afternoon. Go to archives, organize the direct fleet's communication latency records for the past three months. Tonight—"
He paused.
Orion's heartbeat stopped with it.
"Tonight I'll be busy," Peregrine said. "Stay in the adjacent standby cabin. Don't wander."
Orion froze.
The standby cabin, one wall from command cabin, with independent wash facilities and fold-down bed, used by adjutants on rotation—he'd heard Lumen Sage mention it. Peregrine had gone through seventeen adjutants, none staying overnight. Now this statement wasn't "summon," wasn't "come," but tying a closer line around his ankle.
Like habit.
Like default.
"Understood, Young Peregrine," Orion said.
Peregrine lifted his eyes.
Orion's throat moved, swallowing the latter half, and in the command cabin holding only two people, quietly added a name: "...Peregrine."
Peregrine's lashes trembled almost imperceptibly, like snow stirred by breath.
He didn't answer, only raised his black coffee for a sip. Bitter, as if punishing something, or confirming something.
Afternoon archive lights shone cold and white.
Orion faced massive records for categorization, fingers tapping steady rhythm on the keyboard. Lumen Sage entered carrying a stack of paper approvals, setting them at his desk corner, voice lowered: "You're the fleet's rising star now. In logistics systems, your supply priority was quietly raised half a tier—not my doing."
Orion looked up: "Then who?"
Lumen Sage shrugged: "The Crown Prince's secretariat. Get used to it. Rising stars don't last long, unless..."
She looked at him meaningfully.
"Unless what?"
"Unless he gets used to you lasting long," Lumen Sage said.
Orion fell silent. He recalled that "stay in the adjacent standby cabin" from lunch, like a thin line pulling him from the storage closet to somewhere closer to Peregrine.
"Shen Cetus came this afternoon," Lumen Sage dropped another bombshell. "Didn't enter archives, went to the technical observation group's lounge. Ten minutes later, Lieutenant Zhou went in too."
Orion's fingertips stopped on the keyboard.
Shen Cetus. Gentle. Smiling probes. Like a file wrapped in silk.
"Thanks," Orion said.
"Don't thank me," Lumen Sage smiled. "I'm investing. You smell like snow, and before snow falls, someone always has to look up at the sky first."
Orion didn't respond to this literary remark. He only wrote "Shen Cetus—Lieutenant Zhou" into his mental risk list, alongside the eighty-three day countdown.
Eighty-three.
He'd counted it that morning in the docking corridor—if the campaign script remained unchanged, eighty-three days remained until the "Fallen Campaign" detonation point.
Numbers brought clarity. Numbers also brought madness.
Evening came. Orion carried the organized data tablet to the command cabin to report. The door was unlocked, but more than Peregrine waited inside.
Shen Cetus stood beside the star chart, silver hair and purple pupils, uniform impeccable, like he'd walked from a propaganda poster. He was saying something with a smile; Peregrine listened, expression cold, yet didn't dismiss him.
Orion paused at the doorway for one second.
Shen Cetus turned first, gaze settling on him, gentle as spring water: "Lieutenant Ember. Beautiful bridging today."
"Excessive praise, Young Shen."
"Not excessive," Shen Cetus approached half a step, voice still soft. "I was thinking—your intuition for latency... resembles someone who's drilled thousands of times. Yet your record states no prior bridge experience."
Sweat rose on Orion's back again.
Shen Cetus's smile didn't change: "Don't be nervous. Genius is miracle itself. I only wonder—do you dream of star charts too?"
This sentence pierced like a needle, precisely into last night's lie gap in the command cabin.
Orion raised his eyes, gray-blue pupils showing complete compliance: "I dream of many things. Dream of eating, dream of failing exams, dream of mecha."
Shen Cetus lightly "oh'd," as if amused: "And when you dream of me?"
The air suddenly tightened.
Peregrine's voice came from before the star chart, cold and steady: "Cetus."
Only two words. Shen Cetus raised his hands in surrender, smile deepening: "Jest only. Peregrine, don't be so possessive."
Possessive.
Orion's ears burned, then forcibly cooled. He knew Shen Cetus was probing boundaries—probing Peregrine, probing him.
Peregrine didn't look at Orion, only at Shen Cetus: "Business."
"The business is, I'd like to borrow your Lieutenant Ember for half an hour," Shen Cetus said. "The Meteor prototype's neural synchronization curve has several data sets that don't align. I'd like him to examine them—after all, he's more familiar with it than I am."
The final half-sentence, light as feather, heavy as hammer.
Orion heard his own heartbeat.
Peregrine held silence two seconds, golden pupils narrowing slightly: "Half an hour."
Shen Cetus looked at Orion, gentle and polite: "May I?"
Could Orion say no?
Within the boundaries the Crown Prince permitted, refusing the Shen family's second son meant writing "I have problems" across his face.
"Certainly," Orion said. "Young Shen, please lead the way."
Shen Cetus's technical lounge drifted with cold fragrance, like some expensive cleaning agent. When Orion entered, Lieutenant Zhou wasn't present—only two holographic projectors humming low.
Shen Cetus closed the door, smile still present, but his eyes went quiet.
"Orion," he said, "I dislike beating around the bush. Your handling today didn't resemble someone's first time on the bridge."
Orion: "Talent."
Shen Cetus laughed aloud, as if hearing something adorable: "So perfunctory. Then I'll ask another question—Peregrine's pheromone disorder, you truly don't know the cause?"
Orion met his gaze, three seconds, then lowered his eyes: "I don't know."
Shen Cetus nodded, noncommittal. He raised his hand to call up Meteor's data curve, red line rising and falling across the screen like heartbeat, like warning.
"Look here," he pointed at a spike, "extreme mode, pilot mental load produces secondary oscillation here. Normal people break. You didn't."
Orion: "I'm used to pain."
Shen Cetus raised his eyes, purple pupils showing genuine scrutiny for the first time, rather than the gentle shell.
"Pain can be habituated," he said softly, "but 'alignment' cannot. Your prediction of flagship fire control was too accurate. Accurate as if... you'd seen the answer."
Orion's fingertips went ice-cold.
He thought of STARDUST, thought of the pentagram gesture, thought of Shen Cetus asking in the training ground: "How did you know that seam?"
Shen Cetus suddenly smiled again, as if sheathing sharpness: "Don't fear. I won't expose you now. Those who expose miracles are often hated by miracles first."
He passed over a small data chip, stamped with the Shen family crest.
"Inside is a compatibility patch for Meteor-II and flagship bridging," Shen Cetus said. "Legal, compliant, military registered. You'll find it useful."
Orion didn't immediately accept.
"Conditions?" he asked.
Shen Cetus tilted his head, as if examining some interesting small creature: "Next simulated battle, if I ask you to 'guess' Shen family tactics once... guess politely. Don't let my Star Chaser lose too embarrassingly."
Orion accepted the chip, palm like holding ice.
"I will," he said. "Young Shen."
Shen Cetus opened the door for him, voice returning to that relaxing gentleness: "Go back. Peregrine waits for you. He dislikes others occupying his things too long—I may jest, but on this, I'm serious."
Orion walked from the lounge, corridor lights passing one by one across his eyelids.
He suddenly understood what "Shen Cetus attention" meant.
Not appreciation.
Locking.
When night fell, the standby cabin's bed was twenty centimeters wider than the storage closet's fold-down, yet still hard. Orion showered, wearing the direct fleet's gray internal duty uniform, sitting on the bed edge towel-drying his hair, hearing extremely light tapping through the wall—three beats, pause, one beat.
Like code, like boredom.
He tapped back twice.
Silence held several seconds, then Peregrine's voice cut directly through the internal comm, husky: "Can't sleep?"
Orion: "You neither."
"Mm."
In the silence, Orion could imagine that person sitting on the command cabin platform. Silver hair, golden pupils, black coffee, and the back pretending it needed no one near.
"The thing Cetus gave you, bring it here," Peregrine said.
Orion paused, then smiled bitterly. He should have known—nothing escaped the Crown Prince's eyes, or ears.
He took the chip and knocked on the command cabin door. Peregrine wasn't seated before the star chart, but leaning against the platform edge, as if finally permitting himself to shed some "heir" weight. He reached out; Orion placed the chip on his palm, fingertips accidentally brushing Peregrine's palm.
Hot.
Peregrine didn't withdraw, but gripped him an instant, then released, as if confirming he still lived, still remained here.
"The compatibility patch is genuine," Peregrine said, "but Cetus doesn't give benefits freely."
"He asked me to guess politely next time," Orion said.
Peregrine made an extremely light scoff, like laughter, like cold: "He doesn't want politeness. He wants you."
Orion's heartbeat skipped.
Peregrine looked at him, golden pupils narrowing to slits in dim light, then slowly relaxing: "Wants your 'miracle,' also wants your leverage. Cetus has always been thus."
Orion said low: "Then you still gave me half an hour?"
Peregrine held silence.
Long after, he said: "Because I also wanted to know—how much you would reveal there."
Orion raised his eyes.
Peregrine averted his gaze, unaccustomed to laying certain words under light: "You didn't reveal. Good."
Orion's throat tightened.
This wasn't praise for a subordinate's tone. This was... some more private confirmation, like withdrawing a blade to its sheath before daring to touch whether the edge had dulled.
"Peregrine," Orion spoke his name, voice very light.
Peregrine's shoulders microscopically stiffened, then "mm'd."
"In that half hour, I only spoke of dreams and talent," Orion said. "Nothing else."
Peregrine finally turned back, looking at him, as if dismantling this sentence segment by segment to verify truth.
"I know," Peregrine finally said. "I could hear your heartbeat."
Orion: "..."
What was this? How many sensors filled the command cabin? Or was the Crown Prince using that unreasonable intuition again?
Peregrine seemed to read his silent criticism, raising his hand, fingertip tapping his own neck side: "When you're nervous, this pulses fast. With Cetus there, you pulsed fast; when you returned here—"
He stopped.
Orion continued, voice dry: "Returned here?"
Something extremely faint flashed in Peregrine's golden pupils, like starlight reflected on snow: "Fast too. But different."
Where different, he didn't explain.
He only said: "Go sleep. Tomorrow, continue coordination. Fleet isn't mecha—however well you can guess alone, you must learn to make them believe you."
Orion saluted, turning to leave.
Peregrine spoke again, as if casual, as if finally admitting: "Orion."
"Present."
"Is the standby cabin bed hard?"
Orion paused, then answered honestly: "Hard."
Peregrine "mm'd," as if obtaining some crucial data: "Tomorrow, change the mattress. If logistics asks, say it's my habit."
Orion walked from the command cabin, door closing, and leaned against the cold metal wall, exhaling long.
Habit.
The Prince's habits, from now on, included one entry related to him, writable into process forms.
He closed his eyes, smelling his pheromones cleaner after the hot shower—like post-snow air, like that nonexistent white from Peregrine's dreams.
Eighty-three days.
Shen Cetus watched him, Lieutenant Zhou hated him, some in the fleet respected him, others waited for his fall.
And Peregrine began using "habit" to bind him near—not every night gripping his throat threatening "I'll kill you," but asking if the mattress was hard.
Orion suddenly wanted to laugh, wanted to curse himself mad.
He returned to the standby cabin, lay down, hearing an extremely light sound from next door—like sigh, like some finally settled peace.
In the darkness, he said low: "Good night, Peregrine."
Uncertain if the other heard.
But he knew, tomorrow at six, the outer ring orbit would still light with the same cold white bands, and he would still stand in the docking corridor counting berth errors, prying fate inch by inch from the script.
And this time, he wouldn't pry alone.