The corridors felt longer on the way to my mother than they had any right to be, as if the ship itself were stretching time between what had been and what was left. Emergency lights pulsed softly along the walls, casting amber shadows that swayed with every micro-adjustment of the thrusters as we dipped toward Mercury's gravity well. The hum of the engines was deeper now, heavier, vibrating through the soles of my boots and into my bones. Every few seconds, the hull groaned faintly as it adjusted to the strain of trajectory calculations. Beyond the metal skin of the riot ship, I could almost feel the vast pull of the planet beneath us, invisible fingers trying to drag us back into its burning orbit.
I found Mother seated against the inner bulkhead with Sofia curled against her side and Diana close by, Fatimata and Athena standing just a few steps away in quiet vigilance. The air around them carried a different weight than the command deck; it was softer, warmer from the proximity of bodies, scented faintly with fabric, dried tears, and the lingering perfume Mother still wore despite everything. I greeted the section of the ship quietly, nodding to the remaining guards who straightened at my presence, their faces pale but disciplined. Before I could fully sit, Sofia broke free from Mother's embrace and ran into me.
She collided with my chest with more force than her small body should have carried, arms wrapping tightly around my waist as if I were the last solid thing in a collapsing world. "Aziri, I'm scared," she said, her voice trembling in a way I had never heard before. She paused, swallowing, and then asked the question I had been dreading. "Is what happened to Daddy going to happen to us? To you?"
The world narrowed into her eyes. They were too young to hold that much fear. I lifted her into my arms, feeling how small she still was despite the armour and blood and fire that had become our reality. How do you tell a child that safety has burned with the cities? How do you promise survival when you have just watched your father's heart ripped from his chest? I looked at her beautiful, innocent face and lied. I told her everything would be okay. I told her I would not let anything happen to her. I prayed silently to anything listening that the lie would become truth, and the universe did not answer.
Fatimata and Athena exchanged a glance and stepped away, giving us space without making it obvious. I carried Sofia back to Mother and sat close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her body through the chill of the ship. Mother reached up and placed her hand gently on my head, fingers threading briefly through my hair in a gesture so simple and intimate it nearly broke me. "You do not understand how proud I am of you, Aziri," she said softly.
I wanted to comfort her, to say something that could fill the void Aquila had left behind, but words felt fragile and useless. Bringing the hearts of the two monsters who had butchered him would not restore what she had lost. "I'm sorry you had to witness that," I said instead, and the apology felt hollow even as it left me.
She smiled a sad, knowing smile that carried more strength than grief. "You have nothing to be sorry for," she replied. "Your father would be proud. He spoke of you more than you know. In quiet conversations with Lucius and Whitescale, when he thought no one listened." The thought struck me harder than any blade. Father, discussing my small victories in secret, sharing pride in moments I had considered insignificant. The image cut deeper than the sight of his death. Tears slipped down my face without warning, betraying the composure I had been forcing since the bridge fell.
Sextus and Whitescale entered then, and for a moment the six of us stood together the last living blood of a dynasty that had once commanded fleets and bent sectors to its will. The realization hung in the air like smoke. Mother rose first, then I followed, and Diana straightened beside us. There was no ceremony to it, no speech. We simply moved toward one another and collapsed into a single, grounding embrace. It was not dignified. It was not controlled. It was survival. Sofia clung to me as if letting go would cause me to vanish, Diana's shoulders shook silently, Sextus's arms tightened until I could feel the tremor of restrained rage in his muscles, and even Whitescale, unbreakable Whitescale, held on without pretense. No one spoke. Words would have fractured what little stability we had left.
Quentin's voice crackled over the ship's speakers, steady but urgent. "Entering inner gravity pull of Mercury. All personnel to stations. Enemy aircraft may be tracking our vector." The moment shattered. I kissed Sofia's forehead and lied again, telling her I would return in five minutes. I kissed Mother and Diana quickly, then clasped forearms with Sextus and Whitescale before turning and sprinting toward the storage bay.
The metallic corridors echoed with my footsteps, alarms beginning to pulse low and heavy as we dipped deeper into the gravity sling. When I reached the armour bay, I found Jabir standing alone beside his heavy suit, hands raised in prayer. The soft murmur of his words blended with the hum of machinery and the distant vibration of engines. His faith had always been steady, unshaken by politics or glory. He prayed not out of fear but out of alignment, as though he were centering himself in a storm that did not deserve his panic. I waited quietly until he finished, watching as he cupped his hands and drew them over his head and down his body in a motion that seemed to wipe the weight of the world from his skin. "How are you?" I asked when he turned toward me.
"I am good, my brother," he replied with the faintest smile. "Just tired of coward tactics. But how is your family?"
"They are well," I answered, though the word felt like glass in my mouth. "I just had to lie to Sofia." Saying it aloud made it heavier. Jabir did not look away. "A child should not be in a place like this," he said gently. "And neither should we. We are not yet twenty. Sometimes I think Quentin is still the same age as Sofia just stretched taller by mischief." His attempt at humor softened the ache for a moment.
I asked him to help me into my armour, and he nodded without hesitation. As he fastened the plating and locked the seals, the familiar weight settled over my shoulders like responsibility made tangible. Before I could continue speaking, a voice rang out behind us. "Oi, so you're calling me an overgrown baby, are you?" Quentin appeared as if summoned by mockery itself, helmet under his arm, grin crooked despite the pallor that still lingered on his face.
Jabir and I broke into laughter, the sound unexpected and almost painful in its brightness. "That's what we've always thought," I shot back, and for a heartbeat the war outside felt distant. Quentin lunged at me, tackling me against a crate and pretending to throw punches before sitting upright with theatrical indignation. "By the way," he said, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve, "you're still terrible with medical equipment." Jabir laughed loudly at that. "See? I told you he was useless with his hands unless he's breaking something."
"Well next time either of you need medical aid," I retorted, locking the final brace into place, "we'll find you an Archiater and see how you enjoy that."
The three of us looked at each other and laughed harder than the joke deserved, because the laughter was not about skill or pride; it was about proof. Proof that we were still here. That the enemy had not yet stolen the simple rhythm of our friendship. Then the alarms shifted tone.
The low pulse became a sharp, insistent wail that reverberated through the bay. Red warning lights flared along the ceiling, casting violent shadows across the armour racks. The distant hum of engines intensified, and I felt the subtle tremor of course correction beneath my boots. Jabir finished sealing his suit, and Quentin's armour folded around him automatically, plates sliding into place with mechanical precision. The taste of sorrow and recycled air thickened in my mouth as adrenaline surged back into my veins.
We sprinted toward the command deck, boots striking metal in synchronized rhythm. The corridor lights flickered, shadows leaping along the walls like spectres racing beside us. Behind the glass panels lining the outer hull, I caught glimpses of Mercury's horizon curving beneath us, flames still visible along its surface. The gravity pull deepened, pressing subtly against my chest, reminding me that physics itself was part of this gamble.
As we burst onto the command deck, I could feel it before I saw it. The tension in the room was different quieter, sharper. Whatever awaited us on the screens had not merely followed. It had anticipated. And as the displays shifted to reveal the problem, the fragile thread of hope we had clung to tightened once more, threatening to snap under the weight of what was coming next.