Six months.
That was the leave granted to every cadet of the Stellar Academy after graduation. A pause—thinly veiled as rest, but in truth, a final breath before being hurled into the stars to wage wars that never truly ended.
Most celebrated. Some traveled. Others vanished into luxury, fleeting freedom, and synthetic dreams.
Kael Renn went home.
Not for celebration.
Not for rest.
But for something quieter. Something heavier.
To see the people who remembered him not as a soldier, but as a son.
His transport was a sleek Federation personal cruiser—silent as a ghost, built for speed and security. It sliced through the black void like a whisper. Assigned to him along with a full adjutant.
Elisa.
She was sharp-edged and dangerously calm, with a frame that turned heads and a gaze that made most look away. Her records were restricted beyond his clearance, which said enough. Former intel, maybe black ops. But none of it mattered to Kael. He wasn't interested in resumes.
"What's the current sub-fleet composition?" he asked during descent.
Elisa didn't miss a beat. "One flagship. Twenty Class A destroyers. One hundred crusaders. Two hundred frigates. Two Class B supply ships. Ten recon units. Twenty thousand deployed mechas, standby mode."
Kael leaned back in his seat, hands folded on his lap. The numbers felt distant. Just data.
But the moment they broke through the clouds over Velora Prime, his silence cracked.
His jaw clenched.
Where there should have been green fields and sun-reflecting towers—there were only scars.
Burnt land. Crooked metal. Smoke-stained ruins.
The cruiser set down with a soft thud, but the weight in Kael's chest was heavier than any ship.
He stepped outside without a word.
There it was: the old house, or what remained of it. The roof had caved in. The solar collectors were twisted like broken bones. The soil—the same soil he had played on as a boy—was scorched and dead.
He found them in the ruins.
His father, eyes dark with fury. His mother, arms curled around Kael's younger sisters. Dirt smudged their faces. His father's left arm hung stiffly—broken and barely wrapped.
Kael said nothing at first. He walked up and dropped to one knee in front of his mother.
She looked up. Her voice broke before the words came.
"They came for us, Kael… months ago. Said the tech we used on the farm wasn't authorized. That we were stealing from the Federation."
His father spat into the ashes. "I told them you designed it. That the irrigation drones, the fusion pumps—you registered them at the Academy. But the officer didn't believe it. Said no farm family could build tech like that."
Kael's eyes didn't blink.
"They destroyed everything. Drones. Mechs. Even the harvest. Burned it all. He detained me for 'false claims' and 'suspicion of tech laundering.'"
His mother added, quietly, "They called us liars."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Elisa, standing behind Kael, broke it. "Name?"
"I traced the incident already," she said, voice low and professional. "Lieutenant Commander Jarrek Solvan. Regional Compliance Division. Still stationed two clicks east."
Kael stood.
"Uniform?" Elisa asked.
Kael didn't look back.
"No."
The Compliance Bureau was a cold box of white walls and blinking terminals. Kael walked in like a shadow, dressed in black—no rank insignia, no salute, no warning.
Lieutenant Commander Jarrek Solvan was sipping synth-coffee when Kael kicked the door open.
The officer jolted, sloshing his drink on his shirt. "Who the hell—?"
Kael didn't flinch. He walked in, calm and silent, and sat across from him like he owned the chair.
"You don't know me," Kael said, voice steady. "But I know you."
Jarrek's brows furrowed. "You've got five seconds to explain yourself before I—"
Kael slid a metal badge across the desk.
Major Kael Renn. Human Federation. 20th Legion, Fourth Sub-Fleet.
Jarrek stared. The color drained from his face.
"I'm the son of the man whose farm you burned," Kael continued. "The one you detained. The one you humiliated."
"I didn't—listen, I didn't know—!"
"You didn't check."
Jarrek tried to recover. "You weren't even commissioned then! I couldn't know—!"
"You could've asked. You could've verified. Instead, you tore apart Federation-registered tech. You detained a citizen without trial. You endangered a family… mine."
"I—I can fix this! I'll file a reversal, clear the record—"
"You won't."
Elisa entered silently, tablet in hand. "Tribunal report submitted. Command has already flagged your status. You'll be removed from post in seventy-two hours."
Jarrek stood in a panic. "I have a family!"
Kael turned to leave.
"I did too," he said coldly. "Until you set it on fire."
They left without another word.
Later that night, standing among the ruin, Elisa asked, "Would you like a rebuild field? Our engineers can have this place restored within a month."
Kael looked over the broken fields, the twisted metal.
"No."
"Why?"
Kael turned away. "Prepare for departure."
"To where?"
He stared into the stars.
"The Federation officer-settlement planet."
It was a gift for those who served: planets reserved for the families of Federation officers. Secure. Advanced. Shielded from the chaos of the outer systems.
As the cruiser left orbit, his younger sister clung to her seat, staring out the window at the stars.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked softly.
Kael looked at her.
For a moment, the soldier faded. The brother remained.
"Because I can," he said. "Because I'm a Major now. And because I will never let anyone hurt you again."
They arrived within the week.
His family was given a home near the equatorial dome. Clean air. Enforced peace. Access to cutting-edge medical care and the Federation's top education institutes.
His father's tech was reinstated—this time protected under Kael's personal license. His mother smiled again. His sisters laughed for the first time in years.
And Kael stood on a balcony high above the city, hands resting behind his back.
Elisa stepped beside him. "They're safe now."
Kael didn't answer.
But deep down, he knew this truth:
The war didn't begin out there in the stars.
It had already begun here.
And he was no longer just a soldier.
He was the fire they couldn't put out.