Somewhere near the Sun.
Mercury's orbit.
The Scythian, Captain Manuel's ship, cuts through the seething brilliance—slicing molten streams of solar wind like a blade through boiling gold.
Outside—a firestorm.
Inside—cold precision.
Manuel lounges in his command chair, half-reclined, eyes narrowed against the glare of holographic light. His face is calm, but in his eyes—a hunter's flame.
He reaches for the console, voice steady, as if spoken through the roar of solar winds.
"Location, Pietro?"
The tone is casual, but beneath it—something coiled. Waiting.
"We're closing in, Captain," Pietro grins, fingers dancing across the interface. "Confirmed. We're right on top of it. Smooth entry."
"Begin access sequence."
Manuel clenches his fist, as if he's grabbing fate by the throat.
The screen blooms with branching, tree-like symbols—an alien glyphscape pulsing like mist. Then—flash. Camouflage shatters.
A dark silhouette appears, etched against the blinding light.
"Captain… it's an autonomous container," Pietro's voice wavers between tension and awe. "It's just... hanging there. In the void."
"Take it in. Now."
Manuel springs to his feet—his movement sharp, like a predator mid-pounce.
The Scythian spins into a tight maneuver. Energy fields bend under the strain. Warning lights flare across the displays. A titanium manipulator extends—like a mechanical tendril—and with a resonant clack, the container is pulled into the airlock.
A soft jolt. A vibration. A locking snap.
It's aboard.
"Let's go," Manuel says, and his voice brims with a reckless thrill, like a child waiting for a firework to explode.
The three of them—Captain, Pietro, and Maria—stand before the airlock. Tension coils in the air, humming like a storm on the verge.
Silence.
Only the systems hum, as if the ship itself is holding its breath.
The hatch slides open.
And inside—treasure.
The container is filled with ergon. Its soft luminescence spills through the seams, like the breath of a star imprisoned in steel.
Manuel steps forward. His eyes devour the glow—but the wonder in them is already shadowed by caution. Gifts like this don't fall from the sky without a price.
"We're... rich," Maria whispers, her voice cracking under the sheer impossibility of it.
"Now that's a haul," Pietro laughs, though there's a flicker of disbelief behind it. "Maria, you're a damn genius. We wouldn't have made it here without you."
"We should mark the moment," Manuel says solemnly.
He reaches into his coat, fumbles for something—and pulls out an amulet. Silver-toned, etched with pulsing lines, like liquid metal that remembers how to breathe.
He holds it out to Maria.
"For you. A reward. From me."
Maria takes it. It's cold at first—then, strangely warm. Her fingers glide across the polished surface, and a sensation blooms: as if she's not holding an object... but something alive.
"It feels... strange. Like it doesn't belong here."
"Exactly!" Manuel's eyes blaze. "Scanners couldn't identify the material. Not from our system. It's... extraterrestrial. Something other."
"Holy hell..." Pietro shakes his head, stunned.
Maria fastens the amulet around her neck. It clings to her skin, responds to her biofield. A warm vibration pulses along her collarbone.
"It's beautiful. And… warm. Almost alive," she says with a small smile.
"I knew you'd like it." Manuel winks. His expression softens, but a flicker of unease stirs behind his calm.
Because gifts—especially ones like this—are never just gifts.
At that moment, the siren howls.
A blade of sound tears through the silence.
The world freezes—
Then detonates.
"All stations!" Manuel barks. His voice cracks, raw with tension that cuts to the bone.
The three of them rush to the cockpit.
Hard turns. Rushing wind. Heartbeats pounding like war drums.
"Weapons—combat mode!" The captain nearly hisses the words. His eyes narrow like a predator's, already locking onto a target that hasn't appeared yet.
"What the hell is going on?" Maria leaps into her seat, hands already flying across the console.
"Inquisitors," she breathes, going pale. "They've been cloaked. Watching us this whole time."
"They're hailing us!" Pietro shouts, fingers trembling as they tap at the interface. Keys twitch like overstrung nerves.
"Put them through," Manuel growls through clenched teeth—like bracing for a punch.
A hologram flares to life:
A man in immaculate uniform.
Harsh features. Eyes like ice.
The background—nothing but cold void. No insignias. Just silence and command.
"Greetings, rescuers," he says with venomous courtesy. "I'm Captain Ragnar. The container you retrieved belongs to us. Return it."
"On what grounds?" Manuel's voice is hard, laced with defiant edge. "Prove it."
"Simple. We've acquired the debt holdings of the Fire Song Station's owner. That ergon is syndicate property now."
"Corporate salvage code is clear—first to claim, first to keep. We found it. It's ours."
"The owner's bankrupt. Everything he had is now an Inquisitor asset. Hand it over, clean and quiet. Or..."
Silence crashes in.
Sharp.
Electric.
In the cockpit, only the creak of joints and the faint whir of systems dares to speak.
Manuel squints at the feed.
"So this is a threat. Impressive."
A pause.
"No problem. You want it? Take it. We'll jettison the container—part ways clean."
The hologram vanishes.
But Manuel is already moving, turning like a storm.
"Maria, prep a dump—just not the ergon. Trash only. Pietro, the moment they uncloak, fire. Emma—full burn. Course for the Sun."
"What?!" Both of them shoot to their feet, faces stunned like they'd glimpsed madness.
"Execute!" the captain roars. His eyes blaze. He isn't bluffing.
Maria hits the release. The airlock yawns open. Into the void goes a container stuffed with useless scrap and outdated electronics.
Click. Hiss. Silence.
The bait is gone. The trick—played.
"Fire!" Manuel bellows.
Pietro rips off the safety panel. His hand slams down.
The red button explodes the calm.
A roar. A shockwave.
The missiles tear into space like fury uncaged.
"Full speed!" the captain commands.
Engines scream.
The Scythian doesn't flee—it erupts, hurling itself toward the burning horizon.
**
Aboard the Inquisitor ship, Captain Ragnar leaps to his feet.
"Goddamn it! They're diving toward the Sun!"
He nearly hurls his datapad into the wall.
"Because we make people afraid, Captain," his aide says dryly.
"You're a bloody genius," Ragnar snarls, narrowing his eyes. "Pursue them. That cargo is ours."
**
Battle in the void.
The rescuers' barrage slams into the Inquisitor shields.
Energy fields flicker—like the pulse of a dying beast.
Armor groans.
The hull sings under pressure.
Fractures scream like struck glass.
Retaliation blasts from the Inquisitor cannons—ripping toward the fleeing ship.
But the Scythian's shields hold. The shaking is no damage—only rage.
They're flying.
Straight for the Sun.
Two ships.
Two wills.
Two fires.
One path—into the mouth of the star.
Everything will be decided here.
At velocity.
At the edge.
On the razor of light.