The stars above Prometheus didn't flicker like the ones Evan remembered as a child. Here, they burned steady—cold, distant judges over a world long abandoned by their light. He stared through the rusted bars of the arena barracks, battered and bruised, ribs aching from the last fight.
"You ever think about where we came from?" came a gravelly voice. "Back there, I never imagined I'd end up in a place like this."
It was Rask—the older fighter. Scarred, broken, half-drunk on synth-painkillers. He gestured with a bloodied hand at the lifeless expanse outside.
"All this? It's a landfill. A graveyard for the galaxy's unwanted. This planet didn't even exist a few generations ago. But the clans… they stopped pretending to be better. Now they show what happens to people who defy them. They make us examples."
Evan didn't answer. But he was thinking—about the clans, about his past. About what it meant to be thrown away.
He knew what it was like out there. Beyond this pit.
The great clans ruled entire systems. They wielded impossible technologies, guarded ancient relics, and engineered power through perfected bloodlines. Each clan had its crest, its beliefs—some ruled like kings, others like corporate dynasties—but all were built on one foundation: power and loyalty.
Evan once bore the insignia of House Elrod. Not the most powerful, but respected. Elrod produced many legendary warriors and always held a seat among the Clan Elders. He was born into that house—talented, praised. At the time, he felt invincible, proud. Untouchable.
Then everything crumbled.
His parents were gone—killed in a power struggle. The house didn't want to protect him. Worse, they feared him. Feared that he'd grow strong, that he'd remember, that he'd seek revenge. And so, they erased him. Quietly. Politically.
He was twelve when they exiled him.
No trial. No words. Just a shuttle. Coordinates. And silence.
At first, it was terrifying. He thought he'd be killed within days. But eventually, a strange calm settled in. What did it matter? Death wasn't scary when there was nothing left to lose. That realization—the moment he stopped fearing the end—he never forgot it.
Thinking back to who he used to be, Evan almost laughed. If those warriors from the old days could see him now, they'd probably find the contrast hilarious. He used to strut like a peacock. Now he crawled just to breathe.
Prometheus wasn't a planet.
It was a verdict.
No one left it. No one could.
Some said the Exile System was developed during the Age of Fracture, when humanity nearly tore itself apart chasing godhood through gene-weaving and flesh-forging. The failures of those experiments still roamed the wild sectors—mutated, half-conscious, driven mad by powers they couldn't control.
The clans called them monsters.
But Evan wondered—did they have a choice? Were they still clinging to the hope of being human again?
Was the hope he held any different?
No. Not for him. Never for him.
He pressed his back against the cold wall of his cell.
Stars could burn out.
And sometimes...
They could ignite again.
He had nothing to lose. Just like those beasts.