Skorrag was not a planet people chose. It was assigned, inherited, or survived. Of the hundred settled worlds scattered across the Milky Way, Skorrag sat close to the edge—far from trade routes, far from politics, far from anything that resembled comfort. It was a mining world, stripped down to its function and left to harden under neglect. Ships came for ore and left with profit. Very few stayed for anything else.
The surface was a wasteland of red dust and exposed rock, broken only by scattered settlements built from scrap and stubbornness. Beneath it, however, lay its true value—deep veins of rare minerals that fed industries across distant planets most of us would never see. There was no official currency here. Not really. Credits existed, but only off-world. On Skorrag, value was measured in silver coin, solid, tangible, and often stained with blood. They passed from hand to hand in markets, in mines, and most often… in the pits. Because Skorrag did not just mine ore. It bred fighters. Illegal fight rings operated in the shadows of every major settlement.
They were not sanctioned, but they were tolerated. Too many people depended on them. Too many debts were settled there. It was the fastest way to earn, and the fastest way to die. The dust never settled on Skorrag. It clung to everything—skin, clothes, lungs. It turned sweat into mud and breath into labor. Even the wind carried weight here, dragging grains of rust-red earth across the broken settlements like it had somewhere to be.
I had learned to breathe shallow.
Deeper breaths only reminded you that the planet was trying to kill you. I tightened the cloth around my nose and stepped over a rusted pipe jutting out of the ground. The settlement stretched ahead in uneven layers of scrap metal and patched alloy, leaning into each other like they were tired of standing alone. Same as the people.
A man coughed somewhere behind me. Wet. Deep. Not long for this world. I didn't turn. You don't look unless you can help. And I couldn't. Not today. Not when Mary hadn't eaten since yesterday. The dust never settled on Skorrag. It clung to everything—skin, clothes, lungs. It turned sweat into mud and breath into labor. Even the wind carried weight here, dragging grains of rust-red earth across the broken settlements like it had somewhere to be. I had learned to breathe shallow. Deeper breaths only reminded you that the planet was trying to kill you. I tightened the cloth around my nose and stepped over a rusted pipe jutting out of the ground. The settlement stretched ahead in uneven layers of scrap metal and patched alloy, leaning into each other like they were tired of standing alone.
Same as the people. The market was already thinning. Bad sign. I picked up my pace, boots crunching over gravel and discarded ore shards. A few traders were packing up, their stalls little more than crates and tarps. The good stuff—clean water, preserved rations—was long gone. What remained was what always remained. Scraps. Leftovers. Desperation. I stopped at a stall run by a woman with a mechanical eye. The lens rotated with a faint whirr, narrowing as it locked onto my face. Her real eye stayed dull and half-lidded, like she had long since grown tired of judging people. She looked me over—dust-stained clothes, tight jaw, empty hands—and her lips pressed into a thin line. Late. Desperate. Predictable. Her voice came flat, without interest. I caught the meaning before the words fully formed. I nodded once and glanced at what remained on her crate. Dried root strips. Tough enough to break teeth, but edible. When she named the price, her jaw shifted slightly, testing my reaction. No shame.
Just calculation. I almost laughed, but the sound died in my throat. My fingers tightened around the coins in my pocket. Cold. Too few. For a moment, I just stood there, staring. Mary's face surfaced in my mind—thin cheeks, tired eyes, forcing strength she shouldn't have needed at thirteen. I dropped the coins. The woman didn't react. She simply pushed the strips forward with two fingers, already looking past me for the next buyer. No sympathy. No pity. Good. I didn't want either. I stepped away from the market and into a narrow alley between two leaning structures.
The wind howled through it like a warning. I leaned against the wall and stared at what I'd just bought. Three silvers. Gone. For this. I clenched my jaw. This wasn't living. This was waiting to die slower than the next man.
A voice cut through the wind behind me. I turned. Darek stood at the mouth of the alley, one shoulder leaning against the wall. His posture was relaxed, but his hands told a different story—knuckles bruised, skin split in places, drying blood tracing the lines of his fingers. His smirk came easy, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"Still pretending you're better than the pit?"
He looked me up and down, gaze lingering on the food in my hand. One brow lifted slightly. I held his stare.
"I am."
He pushed himself off the wall and took a few slow steps forward, boots scraping against the ground. His head tilted as if weighing something. "Keep telling yourself that," he said, eyes flicking to the strips,
"while you starve."
I spoke first, short and firm
. "I'm not starving."
He exhaled through his nose, amused, then shook his head. His gaze drifted again to the strips in my hand before returning to my face. For a moment, neither of us spoke. The wind filled the space between us. He leaned in slightly, voice lower now, more deliberate. The kind of tone people used when they were about to offer something dangerous.
"There's a match tonight," he said. "Good payout."
I didn't respond. He watched me, waiting. Testing. When I finally spoke, it was quiet but steady.
"I'm not fighting."
That got a reaction. His smirk faded just a fraction, replaced by something closer to disbelief. Then came the laugh—short, dry, without humor. He stepped closer, close enough now that I could see the fine cracks in his lips, the exhaustion sitting behind his eyes.
"Then what's the plan, Ceaser?" he asked, softer now.
"This?"
He tipped his chin toward the food. His gaze sharpened. Questioning. Challenging. I didn't look away.
"I'm leaving."
We stood there like that for a few seconds. Then he exhaled again, longer this time, shoulders dropping slightly.
"Jomark?" he said, almost a scoff. His hand flexed unconsciously, fingers curling as if remembering the feel of a fight. The pit hung between us without needing to be named. I shook my head once.
"That place isn't for us," he said, not quite meeting my eyes.
"That's your limit," I replied. "Not mine."
That was enough. Darek studied me for a moment longer, then gave a small, dismissive shrug.
"You'll come around," he muttered. He stepped back, turning away, one hand lifting in a half-hearted gesture as if discarding the conversation.
"Planet always wins," he added over his shoulder. The wind swallowed him as he left.
I stayed in the alley longer than I should have. Not because of what he said. But because part of me knew he wasn't wrong.
Mary was waiting when I got back. She sat near the ventilation grate, where the air moved just enough to matter. Her knees were pulled to her chest, arms wrapped loosely around them. When she looked up, her eyes searched my face first, not my hands. Then they dropped.
To the food.
Her shoulders relaxed slightly, though she tried to hide it. She always did. I stepped closer and held the strips out. She took them carefully, like they might disappear if she moved too fast. Her fingers were thinner than they should have been. She glanced up at me again, studying my face—looking for something. A lie, maybe. I gave a small nod. That was enough for her. She looked back down and began to eat, slow at first, then a little faster when she realized I wasn't going to take it back.
I leaned against the wall, watching. She knew. She just didn't say it.
"You're going to leave one day, right?" she asked.
"Yes." "When?"
"Soon." "How soon?"
"Soon enough." She nodded slowly.
"Will you take me with you?"
"Yes."
The knock came just after dusk. Three sharp hits. Evenly spaced. Intentional. I opened the door. The man standing there was older, his face lined deep from years under Skorrag's sky. Dust clung to his beard, and his eyes carried the kind of weight that didn't come from exhaustion alone. Behind him, two others stood slightly apart, their posture rigid, watchful. Miners.
Not scavengers.
Not drifters.
The real kind.
The lead man studied me in silence first. His gaze moved from my face to my shoulders, down to my hands, then back up again. Measuring. I let him.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, controlled. I answered just as briefly. He nodded once, then shifted his weight slightly, as if deciding how much to say. As he spoke about the new shaft, his jaw tightened. Not excitement. Not pride. Something else. When he mentioned the missing men, the two behind him exchanged a quick glance. Subtle.
Easy to miss. I didn't miss it.
"What happened down there?" I asked. He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he held my gaze a moment longer than necessary, as if weighing whether I was worth telling the truth. One of the men behind him shifted, throat working.
"They… they said there's something down there," he muttered, eyes flicking to his leader. The older man's jaw tightened. He didn't look back.
"They came up shaking," the second added quietly.
"Wouldn't touch their tools. Kept saying it wasn't the rock." A beat.
The lead man spoke at last, voice lower. "Something's down there," he said. "And it's not ore." The words sat heavy in the air. Outside, the wind scraped against the metal walls, filling the silence that followed. He continued, outlining the expedition with the same controlled tone, but his fingers flexed once at his side. A tell.
"Triple share," he added, eyes sharpening slightly as he watched for my reaction.
"In and out. We confirm the vein, we pull the missing if they're alive. If not…" He let it hang.
He got a reaction. I went still. That was enough for him. I glanced back at Mary. She hadn't moved. Her eyes were fixed on me, wide but steady.
Trusting.
Always trusting.
I turned back to the man and gave a short nod.
"Dawn," I said. Decision made. He held my gaze for a second longer, then returned the nod. "Dawn." He turned and left, the others falling in behind him without a sound. Mary shifted slightly where she sat, her fingers tightening around the last of the food. She looked up at me, searching again. I met her gaze. That was all it took. Her lips pressed together for a moment, then she gave a small, controlled nod. Acceptance. Too easy. Too practiced. That night, I didn't sleep. I sat by the door and listened to Skorrag breathe. Dust. Wind. Silence. And somewhere beneath it all… Something waiting. By dawn, I was already outside. Ready. Or close enough.