The last thing Sergeant Kaelen Vance remembered was the acrid tang of ozone and the metallic taste of his own blood. The Human Reclamation Front's final, desperate stand on the lunar surface had been a meat grinder, a futile gesture against the overwhelming might of the Xylosian war machine. He'd been a tactical pragmatist, a man who understood the brutal calculus of survival, leading a squad of exhausted, defiant soldiers. Then, the blinding flash of a plasma mortar, a searing white oblivion that promised an end to the fight.
But the end was not oblivion. It was a sterile, alien awakening.
Kaelen's eyes snapped open, but the world was wrong. The light was a haunting, bioluminescent violet, the air thick with an unfamiliar, ammonia-tinged scent. His first instinct, honed by years of combat, was to reach for his pulse rifle, but his limbs felt like lead, unresponsive and strangely elongated. He tried to draw a sharp breath, but his lungs worked with an unfamiliar, slow efficiency, filtering gases he didn't recognize.
"Ah, Your Highness. Awake at last. The neural reintegration is always… disorienting after such a profound episode."
The voice was smooth, like polished glass, and it spoke in a language Kaelen shouldn't have understood. Yet, the words translated instantly in his mind, a seamless integration of thought and alien tongue. He turned his head—a slow, agonizing movement that sent a wave of nausea through him—and saw a tall, slender figure draped in robes of shimmering silver. The being's skin was a pale, translucent blue, and its eyes were large, almond-shaped pools of deep amethyst.
A Xylosian. His enemy.
Panic, raw and primal, surged through him. He tried to lunge, to attack, to do anything but lie there, vulnerable. But his body, this new, alien vessel, merely twitched. A pathetic, uncoordinated spasm that left him gasping, not for air, but for control.
"Peace, Prince Valerius," the Xylosian said, its voice devoid of warmth but filled with a practiced, professional patience. "Healer Valen has spent three cycles stabilizing your essence. Your collapse during the Grand Ascension ceremony was… most inconvenient for your father's standing. House V'lar cannot afford such public displays of… fragility."
Prince Valerius? House V'lar? Fragility?
Kaelen's mind reeled. He looked down at his hands. They were long, elegant, and tipped with obsidian-colored nails. The skin was the same pale blue as the Xylosian standing over him. He wasn't in a hospital; he was in a body that wasn't his. He was in the skin of the enemy.
"Where… am I?" Kaelen croaked. The voice that came out was melodic, resonant, and utterly alien. It lacked the gravel of a man who had spent a decade shouting over artillery fire. It was soft, almost effeminate.
"You are in your private sanctum within the Spire of V'lar," Valen replied, adjusting a floating data-slate that hummed with a low-frequency vibration. "And I am Healer Valen. You suffered a catastrophic neural desync. Quite rare for a Xylosian of your lineage, though perhaps not surprising given your… sedentary habits and obsession with forbidden archives. Your physical conditioning, Prince, leaves much to be desired."
Valen's eyes flickered with a hint of disdain—a subtle, aristocratic contempt that Kaelen recognized from the battlefield, though here it was wrapped in silk. The implication was clear: Valerius was weak, a disappointment.
"I need… a mirror," Kaelen managed to say, the words feeling foreign on his new tongue.
Valen sighed, a soft, whistling sound. "Vanity is the last thing you should concern yourself with, Valerius. Your father, the High Lord, expects your presence at the evening meal. He is not pleased. The Third Son of House V'lar fainting like a common thrall in front of the Imperial Emissary… it has provided much ammunition for House K'tharr."
With a flick of his wrist, Valen activated a shimmering field of light near the bed. It solidified into a reflective surface.
Kaelen stared. The face looking back was hauntingly beautiful by Xylosian standards—sharp, angular features, high cheekbones, and eyes that glowed with a faint, internal violet light. But it was also soft, almost delicate. The shoulders were narrow, the frame slight. This was the face of a youth who had never known hunger, never felt the sting of a vacuum burn, and never lost a comrade in the mud. It was the face of a prince of the empire that had systematically dismantled humanity. And it was weak.
I'm a Xylosian. I'm one of them. And I'm a featherweight.
The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow. He was Kaelen Vance, a hardened soldier of Earth, now trapped in the pampered, fragile body of a minor noble's third son. He was a ghost in the machine of his own destroyers, and that machine was barely functional.
"Leave me," Kaelen said, forcing a tone of princely command into his alien voice.
Valen paused, surprised by the sudden shift in tone. "As you wish, Your Highness. But do not dally. The High Lord's patience is thinner than the atmosphere of a dying moon. And remember, your access to the lower archives remains suspended until the Emissary departs. Your 'hobbies' have caused enough trouble. Try not to collapse again. It's… messy."
The healer bowed stiffly and glided out of the room, the heavy, pressurized doors hissing shut behind him.
Kaelen sat up, his head throbbing. He tried to swing his legs over the side of the bed, but his muscles protested, a dull ache spreading through his unfamiliar frame. He managed to stand, but his legs trembled, unaccustomed to supporting his weight. He was a man of action, but this body was a cage of indolence.
Status report, he thought, a habit of a lifetime. Location: Enemy heartland. Identity: Prince Valerius V'lar, Third Son. Assets: None. Intel: Zero. Objective: Survival. Secondary Objective: Sabotage. Physical Condition: Pathetic.
He walked toward a desk that seemed to be carved from a single piece of dark, translucent stone. On it lay a small, hexagonal device—a personal data-slate.
He touched it, and a holographic interface bloomed. It was locked. A series of complex geometric patterns pulsed, demanding a biometric signature. Kaelen hesitated, then pressed his thumb to the center. The device hummed, and a list of files appeared.
Most were useless—poetry, philosophical treatises on the "Harmony of the Core," and invitations to social functions he had no intention of attending. But one folder was hidden behind a secondary layer of encryption. It was labeled 'The Forbidden Lineage'.
Kaelen tried to open it, but the slate flashed red. [Access Denied. Authority Level: Sub-Noble. Required: High Lord or Imperial Oversight.]
He cursed under his breath. Even as a prince, he was a nobody. The Xylosian hierarchy was absolute, a pyramid of power where every level was strictly monitored by the "Sovereign Core"—the massive AI network that managed the empire's logistics, laws, and even the thoughts of its citizens.
A soft chime echoed through the room. A voice, feminine and melodic, spoke from the walls. "Prince Valerius, your attendant Lyra requests entry. She brings your ceremonial attire for the evening meal."
Kaelen stiffened. An attendant. Someone who knew the real Valerius. This was his first true test. If he slipped up now, he'd be sent back to the healers—or worse, to the inquisitors. He had to play the part.
"Enter," he said, forcing a princely cadence into his voice, trying to recall the subtle inflections Valen had used.
The doors slid open, and a young Xylosian woman entered. She was shorter than Valen, her skin a deeper shade of azure, and her eyes held a warmth that seemed out of place in this cold spire. She carried a tray with a garment of dark, woven fibers that seemed to absorb the light around it.
"My Prince," she said, bowing low. When she looked up, her eyes searched his face with an intensity that made Kaelen's new skin crawl. "You look… different. The healers said the desync was severe, but your eyes… they seem sharper. And your posture… less slumped."
Kaelen forced a weak, princely smile. "The 'episode' has, shall we say, cleared my mind of many things, Lyra. A rather… invigorating experience, despite its unpleasantness. One might even say it has sharpened my focus."
Lyra stepped closer, her movements fluid and silent. She began to drape the heavy fabric over his shoulders, her touch light and professional. "The High Lord is in a foul mood, Valerius. He spent the afternoon with General K'tharr. They spoke of the 'Human Problem' on the frontier. K'tharr wants to initiate a total purge of the remaining labor colonies. He says the humans are becoming… restless."
Kaelen felt a cold spike of rage, but he forced his expression to remain one of mild, academic interest. Restless. That was one word for a species fighting for its right to exist.
"And my father?" Kaelen asked, trying to sound detached.
"He agrees with the General," Lyra whispered, her voice dropping so low it was almost a hum. "He thinks House V'lar needs a show of strength to regain the Emperor's favor after your… public display. He intends to announce your appointment to the frontier oversight committee tonight. He wants you to witness the purge. To 'harden your spirit,' as he put it."
Kaelen's hands clenched into fists, the obsidian nails digging into his palms. They wanted him to oversee the slaughter of his own people. They wanted the "useless" third son to wash his hands in human blood to prove his worth to a dying empire. The irony was a bitter taste in his mouth.
"I see," Kaelen said, his voice a low, dangerous vibration, quickly masked by a cough. "A most… educational assignment."
Lyra paused, her hand lingering on his shoulder. She looked at him, really looked at him, and for a second, Kaelen saw a flicker of something in her eyes. Not pity. Not loyalty. It was a spark of shared resentment, a flicker of understanding.
"You've always hated the violence, Valerius," she said softly. "You spent your cycles in the archives looking for a different way. A way to achieve harmony without the Core's iron grip. Is that why you collapsed? Because you saw what was coming?"
Kaelen looked at her, realizing that the real Valerius might have been more than just a pampered scholar. He might have been a dissident, a quiet rebel. This was an unexpected asset.
"I collapsed because I saw the truth, Lyra," Kaelen said, choosing his words with the precision of a sniper. "And the truth is that this empire is a hollow shell, held together by fear and a machine that has forgotten the meaning of life. A machine that is… inefficient."
Lyra gasped, her eyes widening. To speak such words was heresy. The Sovereign Core heard everything. But the Spire of V'lar was shielded, a privilege of the high nobility, and for a brief moment, they were in a vacuum of silence.
"Be careful, my Prince," she whispered, her voice trembling. "The walls have ears, even if they are made of stone. If the High Lord heard you…"
"He will hear what I want him to hear," Kaelen said, his mind already spinning a web of lies. "But tonight, I will play the part. I will be the dutiful son. I will accept this 'appointment'. It is, after all, an opportunity to study the frontier firsthand. To understand the 'problem' from a new perspective."
He looked at his reflection one last time. He was a human soldier in an alien skin, a sergeant in a prince's palace. He had no weapons, no allies, and no plan. But he had something the Xylosians had long since lost: the desperate, unyielding will to survive, and a mind trained for war.
"Tell me, Lyra," Kaelen said as he turned toward the door, forcing a casual tone. "My recent… intellectual pursuits… have led me to question the efficiency of the Core's primary nodes on the frontier. If I am to oversee a purge, I should at least understand the tools of our 'harmony'. Where might one find the most detailed, unfiltered schematics of such systems? The ones not… sanitized for public consumption?"
Lyra looked at him, a strange, hopeful light in her eyes, mixed with a healthy dose of suspicion. "The nodes are absolute, Valerius. They are the law. But even a law has its… exceptions. If one knows where to look. The deepest, most restricted archives, those that predate the current Core architecture, might contain such… raw data. But access is… highly restricted. Even for a Prince."
Kaelen nodded. The game had begun. He was walking into the lion's den, but he wasn't going there to be eaten. He was going there to learn how the lion breathed, so he could eventually cut its throat.
The walk to the dining hall was a journey through a nightmare of architectural arrogance. Every pillar was a monument to a conquered world, every tapestry a record of a genocided race. Kaelen felt the ghosts of a thousand civilizations screaming in the silence of the halls, a cacophony only he could hear.
He reached the massive, arched entrance to the High Lord's private dining chamber. Two guards, encased in bio-organic armor that pulsed with a sickly green light, crossed their energy pikes.
"Prince Valerius V'lar," one of them announced, his voice distorted by his helmet.
The pikes retracted. Kaelen stepped inside.
The room was dominated by a long table of floating crystal. At the head sat a Xylosian of immense stature, his skin a deep, weathered indigo, his eyes like cold stars. This was High Lord Xylos V'lar—the man who had ordered the bombardment of Earth's last cities.
To his right sat a younger Xylosian, his features a more arrogant version of Valerius's own. This was Alaric, the firstborn, a commander in the Imperial Fleet. He looked at Kaelen with a sneer that spoke of years of sibling rivalry and deep-seated contempt.
"So," the High Lord said, his voice a heavy, resonant boom that seemed to vibrate in Kaelen's very bones. "The scholar has decided to join the living. Sit, Valerius. We have much to discuss, and very little time for your usual theatrics."
Kaelen took his seat, the silence of the room pressing in on him. He looked at his "father," the man who held the fate of humanity in his hands, and felt a cold, hard resolve settle over him.
I am Kaelen Vance, he told himself, a silent mantra in the dark of his mind. And I am going to burn your empire to the ground.
"I am ready, Father," Kaelen said, his voice steady and clear, a careful imitation of Valerius's usual respectful, if somewhat detached, tone. "Tell me of the frontier. Tell me of the humans. I find myself with a newfound… appreciation for the practical application of our Imperial might."
The High Lord paused, his cold eyes narrowing as he studied his son. For the first time in Valerius's life, he saw something in the boy's gaze that wasn't fear or academic abstraction. He saw a reflection of his own iron will, albeit a nascent one.
"Good," the High Lord said, a grim smile touching his lips. "Perhaps that desync was exactly what you needed. Let us speak of blood and empire."
The meal began, a parade of alien delicacies that tasted like ash in Kaelen's mouth. But as the High Lord spoke of logistics, of troop movements, and of the Sovereign Core's oversight, Kaelen listened with the intensity of a man memorizing a map of a minefield. He was no longer a victim of the Xylosian Empire. He was its most dangerous guest.
The first brick of his kingdom was being laid, not in stone, but in the secrets he was about to steal. The reclamation had begun, cloaked in the guise of a newly awakened, pragmatic prince.