Knight-Commander Cassian Kael knelt in supplicant prayer within his private quarters aboard the strike cruiser Sanctum of Flame.

  The chamber was sparse by design: stone inlays veined with solarite, a single burning lumen suspended above him like a captive star. The quiet murmur of his prayers filled the space, soft yet insistent, weaving a hallowed stillness into the air. Each word was spoken with care, shaped by years of doctrine and devotion.

  He prayed for further ignition.

  Not power for its own sake but purity. Strength enough to burn brighter without burning away. Strength enough to one day rise and take his place among God’s stars.

  He prayed as well for the Meridian Empire, which even now felt as though it were fracturing under its own weight.

  It had been three months since the Emperor and his entire bloodline had been slain by an unknown hand. No faction had claimed the kill. No assassin had been named. Silence ruled where vengeance should have followed, and in that silence fear had taken root. The states maneuvered like circling predators, each cloaking ambition in rhetoric, each claiming to act “for the good of the Empire.”

  Cassian felt the faint ache in his shoulder and his thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the week prior.

  Heliovar.

  The duel had been clean, ceremonial, proper.

  The Solknight he had faced was skilled, dangerously so. His blade had come within a breath of Cassian’s throat, close enough that the heat of the man’s ignition had kissed his skin. For a moment, Cassian had known genuine risk.

  Then, the moment had passed.

  Steel flashed and Solar light flared.

  The knight’s head had separated from his shoulders and struck the deck with a sound Cassian would not soon forget.

  He exhaled slowly.

  The man had been faithful. Honorable. He had accepted the duel knowing the likely end, even as their fleets clashed beyond the station’s shields. Cassian had almost mourned him: almost.

  But duty was duty.

  Cassian had been charged by his Lord-Captain Commander with a sacred task: to recover all research pertaining to ignition from the rival states of the Empire: sanctioned or unsanctioned, open or hidden. It mattered little.

  Ignition was dangerous but necessary.

  Since the Emperor’s death, the restraint that once bound the states had evaporated. Each sought advantages: seizing territory, raiding facilities, harvesting citizens and data alike. Pyrexis, the state Cassian served, claimed no such ambition. Its doctrine was stability, order and protection.

  Someone had to keep the Empire from tearing itself apart.

  Ignition was the future. The Church taught that clearly. To ignite was to reach closer to God while still among the living. Only the worthy survived it. To burn away was not failure, it was judgment.

  Survival was proof of faith.

  Cassian felt no hatred toward the Cold-born, but he pitied them. Those who never dared ignition would wait until death, their dormant cores harvested and judged at the end of the universe. The Church promised that those whose radiance burned brightest would be placed closest to God’s eternal throne, beacons in the final firmament, lighting all of new creation and warming even those whose glow was lesser.

  Cassian wanted to be one of those stars.

  A chime rang softly through the chamber.

  Practice interval remaining: one hour.

  Cassian rose with effortless grace, joints silent, movements precise. He wore loose-fitting prayer robes of fine white silk: the blazing star of Meridian embroidered over his chest in gold thread. From a case beside his desk, he retrieved a practice blade.

  He extended it forward.

  His body flowed into the First Form of the Sun-Sword.

  Each movement followed the next in seamless succession, a controlled, lethal dance. The robes shifted and stretched with his motions, occasionally parting to reveal the corded muscle beneath. His breath never faltered. His core hummed softly: restrained, and obedient.

  An hour passed.

  Cassian did not sweat. His pulse remained steady.

  He ended on the final form, blade lowered, and his eyes closed.

  “Never enough time,” he thought.

  He returned the practice sword and began changing into his duty uniform.

  The sleek black armor of his office sealed around him, solar-etched plating locking into place with quiet precision. A golden sun of Meridian gleamed over his right breast beside his rank insignia.

  As he approached, the door slid open and sealed behind him, and Cassian moved through the corridors of the Sanctum of Flame toward the bridge: unhurried, his steps inevitable.

  Cassian chose the longer route to the bridge.

  The Sanctum of Flame was a mid-size cruiser, Cathedral class, and any commander should know the rhythm of his ship as intimately as the forms of the Sun-Sword.

  The passageways were wide and clean, lit by warm solar bands that pulsed faintly in time with the ship’s core. The hum beneath his boots was constant, comforting: a reminder that thousands of systems worked in harmony, bound by discipline and faith. Every bulkhead bore etched scripture or unit sigils burned directly into the metal; prayers fused into metal so that even the ship itself remembered why it existed.

  Crew members stepped aside as he passed.

  Not in fear, never that, but with practiced reverence.

  Engineers paused their diagnostics, fists crossing their hearts. Gunners straightened beside weapon racks that gleamed with polished solerite conduits. Even the voidhands hauling cargo slowed, eyes lifting briefly before returning to their labor. Cassian acknowledged them with nods, small gestures, brief words of blessing.

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  “May your core burn steady.”

  “Your service honors the Empire.”

  “Remain vigilant.”

  They answered as one.

  “Ignite to the heavens.”

  He passed an open training bay where a squad of Solar Marines drilled beneath a supervising Luminary all of them only having their first ignition completed. Their armor was stripped down to underlayers, cores dampened for safety, but heat steamed off them regardless. Their movements were sharp, fast, and disciplined. Cassian watched long enough to spot a flaw in a form, committed it to memory to relay later, and moved on without interrupting. The correction could wait. He had duties to attend.

  Further along, he paused near the infirmary viewport.

  Within, medics attended to wounded pulled from recent “border actions,” the polite fiction everyone maintained. Wounded were marked with burns from overdrawn cores, and bore fractured bones from decompression shock. One young deck officer lay unconscious, skin still faintly glowing where his ignition had nearly run away from him.

  Cassian whispered a prayer and moved on.

  Sacrifice was the Empire’s lifeblood.

  Through a reinforced viewing gallery, the void opened before him, and with it, his fleet.

  The Sanctum of Flame led them all, a spearhead of black and gold, solar veins glowing faintly along its armored hull. Around it moved the rest of his strike group in tight, disciplined formation.

  The Light of Pyrexis, a heavy destroyer, its broadside cannons capable of turning stations into slag fields. It was faithful, steady, and built to endure punishment while returning it tenfold.

  The Censer of Dawn, a fast-attack frigate, sleek and aggressive, had engines tuned for rapid insertion and pursuit. The ship’s captain favored decisive strikes and surgical violence: Cassian approved.

  And the Ashen Reliquary, a solar shield-vessel bearing drop-wings of Solar Knights and marine contingents. Its hangars were said to smell perpetually of incense and hot metal, a place where prayers were spoken before every launch and sometimes after landings never came.

  They were not a grand armada.

  But they were his.

  Cassian rested his hand briefly against the viewport glass. The stars beyond burned silently, indifferent to doctrine or empire, but God’s light was within them all the same. Order was imposed by those willing to act.

  That was Pyrexis’s burden.

  That was his burden too.

  He turned away and continued toward the bridge, uniform whispering softly beneath his armor plates. Each step echoed with purpose, with certainty. The ship responded to him, not mechanically, but spiritually. He felt it in the subtle shifts of lighting, the smooth opening of doors, the way the crew moved faster when he passed.

  By the time the bridge doors slid open, Cassian Kael was at peace.

  He was a Knight-Commander of the Meridian Empire.

  And he embodied it.

  Luminary Lieutenant Oren Vale, First Officer of the cruiser, was mid-sip from a carafe of sun-kissed brew when Cassian entered.

  He nearly spilled it.

  “Commander on deck!” Oren called sharply, snapping to attention as the bridge crew followed suit.

  “As you were,” Cassian said at once. “Carry on.”

  Oren recovered quickly, placing the carafe aside and stepping forward, fist over heart in salute. “Nothing new to report, Knight-Commander.”

  Cassian inclined his head. “Very good, Lieutenant Vale. I have command.”

  Formalities concluded, both men relaxed. A familiar grin tugged at Oren’s expression.

  “Get enough sleep?” Oren asked.

  “As much as I can hope for,” Cassian replied, exhaling. “Command keeps us moving. I fear it will worsen before it improves.”

  Oren nodded grimly. “I pray it ends soon. This infighting, our enemies must be celebrating.”

  Cassian snorted softly. “Ungodly barbarians. They lack the courage to challenge the Empire openly, even now.”

  “I’ll keep praying anyway,” Oren said with a tired smile. “My bunk is calling. I’ll see you next shift.”

  “Ignite to the heavens,” Cassian said, clasping his shoulder.

  “Ignite to the heavens,” Oren replied, departing the bridge.

  Cassian turned back toward the stars.

  Draven hadn’t sweated like this in a long time.

  The containment bed glided down the corridor toward his holding room, its antigrav hum low and steady, indifferent to the storm in his head. Sweat slicked his skin despite the regulated air, his breath shallow as a single word echoed over and over in his thoughts.

  Ignition.

  He had heard them right. They were going to attempt it: igniting his dormant solar core.

  Everyone knew what that meant.

  Most people didn’t survive ignition. Their bodies couldn’t handle the reaction. Flesh burned from the inside out, organs cooked by runaway heat, bones glowing before they cracked. Even the Church admitted it was a miracle when someone lived through it, and miracles were rare at best.

  Draven was terrified.

  He’d taken risks before. Dangerous ones. Smuggling, side hustles, skirting the law to make enough credits to breathe on Cinderhollow; but none of that had ever felt like this. This wasn’t danger; it was oblivion standing close enough to touch.

  What if it fails? he thought.

  What if it works?

  The second question scared him almost as much as the first.

  What would he become if it succeeded?

  His mind drifted, clinging to familiar faces like anchors in a rising tide.

  Senn. That idiot was probably dead already: twitching, pacing, burning through stim withdrawals with no one to joke it away. Jax, on the other hand, would be cracking jokes to himself in his cell, laughing just to hear a voice, even if it was his own.

  And Mira.

  God above, he hoped she was still okay.

  He and Mira had tried once, years ago, when they were younger and thought feelings were simpler than they really were. It hadn’t worked. Somehow, they’d managed to stay friends afterward. That alone felt like a small miracle. He was grateful it hadn’t broken them.

  He hadn’t seen any of them since the capture. Not a glimpse of them. Not a voice in the wind. Different test groups, he guessed. That thought made his chest tighten.

  Then his parents surfaced in his mind.

  They were still alive, still mining, still surviving the way miners always did on Cinderhollow. They were close to finishing their union contract. Close to retirement meant being close to a trade fleet job; no more backbreaking labor, no more chemical fumes burning their lungs raw.

  He hadn’t seen them in months.

  Not since they found out he was running with his crew.

  They were proud people, proud workers and proud citizens. His father believed in honest labor, in keeping your head down, and earning your place. Draven remembered the argument too clearly; the words he’d thrown like knives.

  Slave to the state! Drone he had called them. He hadn’t meant it, not really, he loved them.

  And now he didn’t know if he’d ever see them again.

  “I’m such an idiot,” he thought.

  The containment bed hissed softly as it settled. A sharp click pulsed through his spine as the restraining implant disengaged. Draven swung his legs over the side and stood.

  Once, just once, he’d thought about ripping the implant out.

  The pain had been instant. Blinding. So intense it had dropped him screaming to the floor, robbing him of control of his own body. He hadn’t tried again.

  Strangely, he didn’t feel pain anymore or exhaustion.

  Whatever they’d been injecting into him, it was working.

  To kill time, he dropped to the floor and started doing push-ups.

  One hundred...

  Two...

  Three...

  He stopped at three hundred, not because he was tired, but because he was bored.

  His body felt. . . different stronger, denser. His muscles responded instantly, perfectly, like they were waiting for commands instead of obeying them reluctantly. He rolled into a plank and held it. Minutes stretched into an hour. No shaking. No burn.

  Then, experimentally, he pushed himself up onto one arm, legs fully extended, body rigid.

  A laugh escaped him. “Ha.”

  He’d always wanted to do that. It looked cool in the vids—the kind of thing heroes did without effort.

  He lost his balance and face-planted onto the floor.

  “Fuck me!” he groaned, rolling onto his back, nose stinging.

  These hours, these gaps between restraints were the worst.

  Too much time. Too much silence.

  The walls didn’t answer. The hum of the station only reminded him how alone he was.

  Eventually, almost without realizing it, he dropped to his knees. He folded his hands together, fingers clumsy, unsure.

  “Uh… hey, God,” he muttered. “Never really talked to you before. Sorry about that. I guess.”

  The words felt strange in his mouth.

  “I don’t really believe. Or. . . I didn’t. But if you’re there—if you can hear me—I could really use some help right now.”

  His thoughts raced, tangled and raw. He hadn’t prayed since he was a child, standing beside his parents during mass, repeating words he didn’t understand.

  He stayed there longer than he meant to: head bowed, hands clasped.

  Feeling foolish.

  Then, just for a moment, he thought he felt heat bloom in his chest. A flicker. A pulse.

  He dismissed it as nerves.

  Eventually, he lay back down on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

  Somewhere in his mind, mirthful laughter echoed: soft, distant, unsettling.

  He couldn’t tell if it was his subconscious. . .

  or if solitude was finally cracking him open.