The Rustmoth was cold again.
Not the mechanical kind of cold—this was different. A creeping chill that settled into the bones of the ship and refused to leave. Every surface felt like it had been touched by something that didn’t belong in this part of the galaxy.
Vermond couldn’t sleep.
Ever since the message—“SHE IS NOT WHAT SHE SEEMS”—the ship had begun to act strange. Lights flickered in places that hadn’t had power in years. Doors opened and closed on their own. Static whispered through the comms even when they were off.
Kiana slept in Marloy’s old bunk now. She hadn’t spoken since the message appeared. She only stared at the walls, eyes flicking like she was listening to voices no one else could hear.
And sometimes... she smiled.
But it wasn’t her smile.
That night, the ship jolted awake.
A deep thud echoed through the hull—like something had landed on it from the outside.
Vermond bolted upright, grabbed his tool-pistol, and stumbled toward the cockpit. The scanners were dead. Screens full of static. Artificial gravity was fluctuating. Lights dimmed to nothing but a red emergency pulse.
K-thunk.
Another thud. Closer now.
Then the internal lights went black.
All of them.
A voice whispered over the intercom.
But it wasn’t his voice.
Not Marloy’s.
Not Kiana’s.
Just a dry, rasping breath. Like something ancient breathing through static.
“…Vermond…”
He spun around, heart pounding.
“Who’s there?!”
No answer.
Just a soft click… click… click coming from the hallway behind him.
Like footsteps. Metal on metal.
He raised the pistol and moved slowly toward the noise.
The hall stretched longer than he remembered. The shadows felt deeper. Wrong.
Another whisper slid down the walls.
“…you left the door open…”
“What door?!” he shouted.
The ship didn’t answer.
Then—screaming.
Kiana’s voice, from the bunk room.
Vermond ran. Burst through the door.
She was standing in the middle of the room, shaking, eyes rolled back, mouth open in a silent scream. The data chip floated in front of her, hovering mid-air, sparking with violet light.
Vermond tried to pull her back—but the moment he touched her, the room collapsed around them.
Not physically. Not yet.
But space bent.
He was somewhere else.
The walls of the Rustmoth twisted into endless black corridors. Symbols etched in red glowed along the metal, pulsing in sync with Kiana’s heartbeat. At the far end of the corridor stood a door.
A door that hadn’t existed before.
From behind it, he heard voices.
Screaming. Chanting. Crying.
All saying one name:
“Necra.”
Then everything snapped back.
He was on the floor.
Kiana collapsed beside him, blood dripping from her nose, eyes wide in horror.
“What was that?” he gasped, throat dry.
“I don’t know,” she said, voice shaking. “But… it’s inside me.”
He looked at her—really looked at her.
Her skin was paler than before. Veins under her eyes darker. Something was changing.
And then she whispered something he would never forget.
“They put me to sleep because I remembered too much. I think I was part of something terrible… Vermond, I think I wasn’t meant to wake up.”
Alarms blared.
The ship's scanner burst back to life.
An enormous vessel was approaching—silent, black, shaped like a dagger.
No markings.
No heat signature.
Just drifting straight toward them.
It didn’t make a sound.
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Not on the scanners. Not through the comms.
Not even in the void of space.
But Vermond felt it.
As if the stars themselves held their breath.
The black ship loomed behind them—its surface a matte, lightless void that seemed to drink in starlight. No windows. No engines. Just sharp angles and a hull that hurt to look at for too long.
“Are we... being hailed?” Kiana asked.
Vermond checked again. “Nothing. Dead silence.”
Then the lights inside the Rustmoth turned white.
Not bright—white. Cold. Sterile.
The ship hummed low, like it was being scanned… or read.
Kiana flinched, gripping the wall. “Something's inside. Not here—there. In that thing.”
Then something else pinged the hull.
A tiny, almost polite tap.
Vermond’s blood ran cold.
“Something’s boarding us,” he muttered.
He ran for the airlock, grabbing his old shock rifle—the one Marloy never let him use as a kid.
Kiana followed, slower, unsteady on her feet.
There was something wrong in the way she moved now.
Like her bones weren’t built for this gravity anymore.
The airlock door hissed.
They both froze.
“Don’t open,” Vermond whispered.
But it already was.
The room beyond was fogged. Cold vapor drifted in like dry ice, hissing against the warm metal floor.
Vermond aimed his rifle, heart hammering in his throat.
A figure stepped through the fog.
Tall. Thin. Wrapped in strips of black armor, parts of it fused into flesh. Its face was covered with a smooth metallic mask—no eyes, no mouth. Just symbols etched deep into its surface, glowing faintly red.
It stopped five feet from them and tilted its head like an animal studying prey.
Kiana stepped in front of Vermond, suddenly calm.
He grabbed her shoulder. “What are you doing?!”
“I know it,” she said softly. “I don’t remember how, but I’ve seen that thing before. In dreams. In the cryo pod. It’s one of the Watchers.”
“Watchers?”
Before she could answer, the creature raised one long, thin arm—unarmed, unmoving.
Then, in a voice not heard, but placed directly into their minds, it spoke:
“You are not meant to be alive.”
Kiana screamed, dropping to her knees. Blood poured from her nose and ears.
Vermond fired.
The blast hit the creature square in the chest—and passed through it. Like it wasn’t there at all.
Then it moved.
So fast he couldn’t see it—just felt it behind him.
Something cold touched the back of his neck.
His vision exploded.
He was falling. Spinning.
He saw stars collapsing, empires burning, worlds torn open.
He saw a throne made of bone, suspended in black gravity.
And he saw Kiana.
Not as she was—but older. Dressed in dark robes, eyes glowing with violet fire, speaking in a tongue that made the stars scream.
She wasn’t alone.
She sat among corpses.
Vermond gasped awake.
Back in the Rustmoth, on the floor, coughing.
Kiana knelt beside him, her face pale but steady.
The Watcher was gone.
So was the dagger ship.
No trace. No signal. Not even a blip on the radar.
“What happened?” he rasped.
Kiana just shook her head.
But her voice, when she finally spoke, sounded older.
“They’re not here to kill us,” she whispered. “They’re here to warn us. About what I was. About what I still might be.”
She met his eyes.
“But it’s too late, Vermond. I remember now.”
The Rustmoth drifted.
Silent. Untouched.
But inside, it felt like the gravity had doubled.
Vermond stared at Kiana from across the medbay, arms crossed, jaw tight. She hadn’t spoken since she said, “I remember now.” Not really.
Just sat there.
Hands folded in her lap. Hair tangled. Eyes unfocused—like she was watching something behind the walls.
“You gonna explain any of that?” he finally asked.
Kiana blinked slowly.
“I’m trying,” she whispered. “But every memory feels like it’s on fire.”
She stood and walked to the console. With shaking fingers, she brought up the encrypted data chip again. The symbols now appeared in full, no distortion.
They weren’t in any known language.
But she read them anyway.
“'Born beneath the black sun,’” she translated. “‘Eyes closed by the empires. A vessel. A weapon. A sin with a heartbeat.’”
She looked up at Vermond.
“I think that’s me.”
Vermond stepped back. “You’re telling me… you’re some kind of… galactic bioweapon?”
She didn’t answer.
Instead, she took a scalpel from the medkit drawer.
Before he could stop her, she dragged it across her arm.
Blood ran—thick, deep violet.
Not red.
Not human.
Vermond paled. “What are you?”
Kiana stared at the blood, almost hypnotized. Then, as if remembering, she whispered:
“There was a planet… they called it Necra. No coordinates. Not on any chart. It was a myth the empires feared. Said it birthed things that could control death itself. I remember walking through fields of bones… cities of whispering ghosts…”
She looked at him, tears brimming.
“I wasn’t born, Vermond. I was made.”
Vermond turned away, fists clenched.
He thought about Marloy.
The old man’s stories.
The legends he warned him about—the ones that sounded like bedtime tales, too absurd to be true.
He remembered Marloy saying once, half-drunk: “There are things in this galaxy the gods regret creating.”
He never thought he’d fall in with one.
Suddenly—the Rustmoth shook.
Screaming proximity alerts.
Vermond rushed to the cockpit.
A fleet had arrived. Ten ships.
Sleek. Black. No known signature.
They didn’t hail.
Just surrounded the Rustmoth like a silent execution squad.
“Who are they?” he muttered.
Kiana stood beside him now, voice low.
“They’re the Cleansers. They’re not here for a talk. They're here to erase me.”
“And me?” he asked.
She turned to him.
“They’ll kill you too. You’ve seen too much.”
“Great.”
A loud metallic clunk echoed through the ship—boarding clamps. Heavy ones.
They were out of time.
“You remember anything useful, like how to fight?”
She smiled faintly.
And for the first time since they met—her eyes glowed.
“I remember everything.”
The black ships began to move.
Each turned with perfect, eerie precision—sleek as blades in the void. Ten vessels, surrounding the Rustmoth, their cannons rotating slowly.
Target: Locked.
Vermond gritted his teeth, checking every escape vector, every thruster angle. They were boxed in. There was no way out.
Kiana stood behind him, quiet.
Too quiet.
Then she spoke.
Voice low. Calm.
Like she wasn’t afraid at all.
“Vermond…”
He glanced back.
She was staring at him with something between sadness and resolve.
“…drink my blood.”
“…What?!”
He turned fully, staring at her like she’d grown a second head.
“What the hell are you talking about?!”
But she didn’t answer.
She stepped forward, slit her palm, and before he could move—
She spit her violet blood into his mouth.
Vermond gagged.
Coughed.
His chest burned like it had been set on fire from the inside.
He dropped to his knees, grabbing his throat, gasping.
“What the hell did you do to me?!”
Kiana knelt beside him, pale and smiling softly.
“I gave you everything.”
Vermond’s vision blurred—colors melted together, the walls around him vibrating, the hum of the Rustmoth suddenly louder, deeper, like he could feel every wire and bolt.
“I saw it,” she whispered. “Your eye. When you looked at me. It glowed… like an emerald caught in starlight. You’re not just some salvager, Vermond. You’re a gate. A key.”
“A key to what?!”
She brushed his cheek.
“I’m becoming part of you now. My power—my memories—my curse. All of it. I’ll live through you.”
His heart stuttered.
“No, no, wait, this is too sudden—what happens to you?!”
She smiled again. But her face was fading, blurring—like smoke caught in wind.
“I become your strength.”
And then—
She exploded into light.
A glowing orb.
Pulsing with power, energy shifting like flame and stardust, ancient symbols spinning in its core.
The orb hovered for a moment—
—then shot straight into Vermond’s chest.
He screamed.
Pain. Fire. Cold. Pressure. Visions—
Ghosts. Battlefields. Temples of bone.
He saw her life.
And more than that—
He saw his own life… rewritten.
He collapsed, panting, body trembling.
Alarms screamed.
The Rustmoth’s radar flared to life again.
Another fleet had just jumped in.
Bigger. Louder. Armed.
A patrol.
Federation military. Heavy cruisers.
A distorted voice cracked through the comms:
“Unknown salvager, this is the Federation Patrol Fleet Commander Jorven. We’ve detected pirate vessels in your sector. Do not engage. Hold position.”
Vermond blinked. “Perfect timing…”
On screen, the Cleanser ships had turned their attention to the patrol fleet—firing instantly.
Bright lances of energy lit up the void.
Two Federation ships exploded within seconds.
The patrol fired back. The void became a war zone.
Vermond staggered to his feet, blood still on his lips, heart thundering.
The Cleanser fleet was distracted.
The Federation was fighting back.
This was his only shot.
He grabbed the helm and punched the Rustmoth into max thrust, scraping past enemy fire, spinning into a debris field to mask the signal.
“Come on, hold together,” he muttered. “Not today. Not yet.”
And deep inside his chest—
He felt her.
The Rustmoth shuddered as it tore through the last layers of wreckage and artificial dust left from the battle behind them.
Vermond didn’t look back.
The Cleanser fleet and Federation patrol were at each other’s throats now—blazing fire in the dark, explosions scattering radiation across the stars.
He should’ve felt relief.
Instead, he felt a chill crawl up his spine.
And the radar pinged.
One.
One ship.
Still behind them.
Smaller. Sleeker. Not part of the pack.
It followed.
“What the hell do you want from me?” he hissed, throttling the engines into a narrow asteroid channel.
The Cleanser vessel matched speed effortlessly.
Too fast.
It didn’t move like a ship. It glided. Like a shadow skimming across a wall.
Vermond weaved through the canyon of spinning rock—slicing between craters and fragments of old war stations.
The Cleanser never missed a turn.
“Come on, Kiana…” he whispered. “If you’re in there… if you’ve got something—anything—now’s the time.”
No answer.
Just the hum of power in his chest. Like pressure building beneath skin.
A rock slammed into their port side—sparks and alarms.
He gritted his teeth, twisting the ship sideways through a collapsing asteroid tunnel. The hull screeched.
And then—
The Cleanser fired.
A thin black beam of energy cut through the dark.
Didn’t explode. Didn’t burn.
It sliced.
Through stone. Through metal.
Like it was erasing reality itself.
Vermond banked hard left.
But the wing of the Rustmoth caught the edge of the beam—metal screamed as it tore clean off.
He was losing this fight.
Then…
A voice.
Inside his head.
“You run well, vessel.”
Cold. Amused.
Vermond gripped the controls, heart pounding.
“Who the hell are you?”
“I am Nox.”
“Last of the First Blade.”
“Hunter of Necra's Mistake.”
Vermond swallowed. “You mean Kiana.”
“No.”
“I mean you.”
The Cleanser ship accelerated—closing in.
Inside the Rustmoth, lights flickered. The strange hum inside Vermond’s chest surged. His fingers itched with pressure, like something wanted to pour out of him.
He screamed.
And suddenly—
The screens cracked.
Symbols—her symbols—burned into the console.
The ship jerked—
—and fired on its own.
A blast of green fire exploded from the rear cannon, not even connected to fuel lines anymore.
It tore through an asteroid, detonating the whole tunnel.
Debris swallowed them both.
Vermond spiraled, vision red.
Then silence.
Then cold.
And the Cleanser ship emerged… untouched.
“Damn it…” Vermond choked.
His systems were failing. The Rustmoth was bleeding air and heat.
But he wasn’t done.
Not yet.
He stood, staggered toward the back of the ship. To the weapon hold.
Inside his chest, the orb of light pulsed harder. Brighter. He screamed as it pushed into his limbs, his spine, his mind—
And when he opened the door…
The Cleanser was already inside the ship.
Tall.
Pale metal.
Mask gleaming with runes.
It reached out one hand.
“Give me the soul,” it hissed.
But Vermond—
Vermond reached back.
His arm erupted in black smoke and violet flame.
Symbols carved across his skin like brands.
His voice came out not his own.
“Come and take her.”
