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The air in the IPC ship was an artificial mix: the sharp, clean smell of ultrasonic cleaning, the deceptive sweetness of synthetic flowers, and, underneath it all, the metallic stench of fear. A fear that everyone strenuously disguised as frenetic joy. Stelle found refuge in a narrow service corridor, away from the grand halls, all the guests, and anyone who might look for her. She didn't want much. She just wanted to rest for a few moments. Here, there was only the humble hum of the auxiliary reactors and the raw view of the universe through a large viewport.
She leaned against the reinforced glass, which was cold as a tomb. Her reflection stared back: a woman in a simple dress the color of ash-grey, matching her hair, like the color of the void between stars. She looked like an elegant ghost amidst the grime and exposed cables of the corridor. Beyond, the stellar abyss stretched, indifferent. Out there, Nanook waited somewhere. Or one of the Lord Ravagers. Or, more likely, what remained of them. The memory of the forced retreat from Celenova, one of the Lord Ravagers, brought her no relief, only a longer prelude to the anxiety gnawing at her insides.
There had been a moment, during the preparations, when the pressure had driven her nails into her palms. March's laughter these past days sounded a bit forced, trying to feign normalcy; the congratulations from IPC members (many of them outright false) with eyes full of varied emotions, ranging from greed and interest to fear and resentment; Dan Heng's hand, firm and sure in hers, but with a slight tremor only she noticed. He, who had planned everything with military precision, to give them this gift of time amidst the chaos. "There's no better time than now," he had said. And she had nodded, because she loved him more than her own skin, more than her own stellar existence. But now, alone with her reflection, the weight of it all crushed her.
They could die at any moment. They could be attacked at any moment.
A movement. Subtle as the shadow of an asteroid passing in front of a distant star. Stelle stiffened. All her instincts, sharpened in a thousand encounters, went on high alert. Her hand flew instinctively to her side, where she would normally have carried her baseball bat, but only found the soft silk of her dress.
There, about ten feet away, standing at the intersection of two corridors, was the Slave of Destiny.
Elio.
He didn't seem to have arrived; he seemed to have coalesced from the very shadows (and perhaps she wasn't so wrong). He wore his usual Stellaron Hunter attire, a nice, simple fur coat as a cloak over an antique suit that reminded her of Mr. Yang's, but without the ceremonial weight or that aura of antiquity it should have had, and which contrasted enormously with his young face, even more so than Caelus's. His eyes, which had seen galaxies born and die, were fixed on her.
The first wave that hit her was not of relief, nor of familiarity. It was of acute, naked distrust. He was the leader of the Hunters. The architect of destinies, the weaver of plots so vast that individuals like her were merely threads. He had given her a home, yes (one she didn't remember). A family, certainly. But he had also launched her onto a path of incalculable peril. How many of her moves had been predicted by him? And this one? His appearance here, now?
"I didn't know you had docking clearance," she said, and her own voice sounded shrill in the corridor's silence. "My understanding is it's temporary. And you should be supervised, no?"
Elio tilted his head slightly, a gesture that could be an assent or simply an observation. His expression was inscrutable, yet with what seemed an air of amusement.
"Yes. The IPC is very protective of its ships. Even when those who help protect them ask to come aboard." His voice was soft, as always, a calm current hiding unfathomable depths. He moved, not with the threat of a predator, but with the tranquility of a visitor who knows the terrain. Like a cat, really. He stopped a few feet away, leaving a prudent space between them. Stelle did not relax.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, direct. The vulnerability of the moment, the dress, her fears, all made her feel exposed before him in a new and uncomfortable way.
"I simply wanted to see you before the event," he replied, with the same simplicity with which he might have listed the coordinates of a planet. His eyes scanned her, not as a target, but as one reviewing a finished work, with a mix of assessment and something else... softer. "And to make sure you weren't fleeing through the emergency exit. A bit of pressure always suits you, but even you have your limits."
The way he said it, with that particular cadence, touched something within her. Of all the Stellaron Hunters, he was the one she had interacted with the least since losing her memories, and still, the only one she still distrusted. A distant, blurry memory: a cup of something hot after a difficult mission, his voice telling her she had done well, that she could rest now. Memories that clashed with his nature as an Emanator of Finality. Besides, he unironically enjoyed Himeko's coffee. Few things set off more alarms than that.
"I don't want to run," Stelle lied, but the defensiveness in her voice had faded a bit.
"No?" he asked, with a touch of gentle irony. He nodded towards her reflection in the viewport. "The one over there, with fists so clenched her hands must hurt, and an expression like she's about to face an army of trash cans alone... doesn't seem very happy to be the protagonist of her own courtship."
Stelle looked at her reflection. She saw what he saw: the tension in her jaw, the shadow in her eyes. She slowly opened her hands and saw the red marks from her own nails on her palms. A silent concession.
"It's... a lot," she admitted, looking at her hands. "All this happiness, when out there..." She couldn't finish the sentence.
Elio took a step closer. Not to invade, but to reduce the distance the reactor noise had to cross. Now she could see the minute details of his face, the subtle lines that spoke of eons of observation.
"I know," he said, and for the first time, his voice lost a bit of its distant echo quality, sounding more earthly, closer. "That's why I'm here. Not just because the Hunters have permission, or because our contributions against Nanook have made us temporarily acceptable." He paused, searching for the right words, an oddly human act in him. "I'm here because you are my stellar child, and I thought you could use venting to someone. And families attend weddings, especially when the bride looks about ready to rip a reinforced door off its hinges with her bare fists to escape into outer space."
There was a moment of silence. The word "family," said by him, not with grandiloquence but with a matter-of-fact tone, pierced her distrust like a ray of light through a cloud. It wasn't a sentimental gesture; it was a statement. Simple.
Stelle looked up at him. The tension in her muscles began to ease, very slowly.
"And what would you do?" she asked, her voice a bit looser. "If... if all this was a mistake? If celebrating something now, in the midst of all this, was just tempting fate?"
Elio contemplated the question seriously, hand under his chin, as if asked to forecast the rotation of a distant planet.
"I have seen empires rise on a day of peace and crumble on a day of war," he began, his gaze losing itself beyond the viewport, into the stellar, with a small, resigned smile. "I have seen births celebrated amidst famine and deaths mourned amidst great abundance. Destiny, Stelle, does not choose its moments. We choose them." He looked back at her, and his eyes now held a quiet intensity. "They want to erase everything, even the idea that our galaxy once existed. Building a bright, hard, placid memory like this..." he gestured vaguely towards the direction of the party, looking at her with a placid smile, "is not tempting fate. It is a trench. The trench of those who call themselves human. It is throwing in their faces a truth they cannot understand: that some things are built with more strength when the darkness seeks to swallow them."
His words were not a motivational speech. They were too sincere for that. It almost seemed like he was venting himself. And coming from him, who saw everything from a cosmic perspective, it was the deepest recognition she could receive. Her distrust melted a bit more, turning into cautious acceptance. Maybe this was his way of distracting her?
"I'm scared," she whispered, and this time it was not an admission of weakness, but a confidence.
Elio's new smile (how many did he have?) was minuscule, just a slight curve of the lips, but it reached his eyes, softening them.
"I know," he repeated, and now the words sounded like solace. A hard, practical solace, like a survival blanket, but solace nonetheless. "He is scared too. In there. For you. His entire world has narrowed down to ensuring this moment belongs to you, because he knows what comes after might try to take everything from you." He leaned in a little, his voice lowering even more, as if sharing a strategic secret. "Your power, Stelle, has always been to keep moving forward. That's why we chose you. But to keep moving forward, sometimes you must stop and claim something for yourself. You, too, have a right to be happy, even if it feels like the opposite. Like tonight. Like him." It was then that she realized why Elio made her so uneasy. He didn't blink. It was that simple. She almost wanted to laugh.
Stelle took a deep breath. The air still smelled of fear and metal. But now she also sensed something else: the firm, unbreakable recognition from someone who had seen her born from the stars. It wasn't a paternalistic blessing; it was the support of a sort of distorted older brother who, from the edge of the battlefield, told her that her decision to plant a tree in the middle of a minefield wasn't madness, but the bravest act of all.
"You don't know how to be... normal," she said, with a tremulous smile that escaped her.
"No," THEY accepted calmly. "But I know how to recognize light when I see it. And you, tonight, are pure light, stellar child. Make it blinding. Dazzle them all and make Bladie want to kill your betrothed for daring to look at you." That made her laugh. Maybe she already was. Maybe, as they spoke, a funeral was taking place. How many funerals were taking place across the galaxy right then, while they were about to celebrate the union of their lives! Maybe they were all dead! The silly laughter was starting to creep in. Elio straightened up, and the moment of intimacy began to recede, returning to his usual reserve, but the warmth remained. "Now, go on. He's been looking for you with his eyes every thirty seconds for ten minutes now, and he's about to undo the complicated ponytail your pink friend surely fixed for him. Only you can calm him down."
Stelle nodded. The weight on her chest hadn't disappeared, but now it felt different. Less like a burden and more like armor. A heavy, precious memory she would carry into battle.
"Thank you, Elio," she said, and this time the words came from the heart, without filters or reservations.
He gave a slight nod, once again looking, for an instant, like the distant, shadowy sketch he had always been. But his eyes still held the echo of that fraternal tenderness.
"Don't mention it. Enjoy your day, little one." The word sounded strange and wonderful in his mouth. "And remember it well. The light of these moments will be your best shield."
When Stelle turned to return to the noise and light, her steps were firm. She knew he would fade back into the shadows from whence he came, watching. But she no longer felt watched. She felt accompanied. She adjusted the fold of her wedding dress, wiped the moisture from her eyes with the back of her hand, and, with her heart filling with a new, sweet determination, walked off to reunite with her future, with her light, with her pirate on a sea of stars about to burn.
The preparation room, an auxiliary IPC ship chamber converted for the occasion, seemed to have absorbed all the static electricity from the universe's nerves. The air was thick, sweet from the stardust Pom-Pom had sprinkled with hope, and bitter from unconfessed adrenaline.
Stelle was the epicenter of this silent storm. Standing on a small platform before a full-length mirror, she felt her wedding dress—a marvel of silk woven with stellar ash fibers that captured and refracted light in tones of grey, silver, and deep blue—weigh like a full suit of armor. It was a dress for a queen, a goddess, or a heroine from ancient tales, not for her, a girl who had learned society's rules with swings of a baseball bat and who related to the universe by collecting trash and facing gods with a somewhat cheeky attitude. Still, after the conversation with the Slave of Destiny, she was starting to like it more.
Himeko was her pillar. Standing behind her, her expert, calm hands were fixing the final details: a thin platinum ribbon woven into Stelle's ash-colored hair, small diamond points on her ears that shone like distant stars. She was sure she wouldn't forgive herself if any accessory fell from her head. Himeko's movements were methodical, soothing.
"The tension suits you," Himeko commented, her voice a soft murmur rising above the hum of the reactors. "It gives a shine to your eyes. Like before a decisive battle."
"That's what I'm hoping for," Stelle confessed, looking at her own image as if it were a stranger. Her hands, usually firm around her weapon, trembled slightly.
March 7th, a whirlwind of nervous energy in a dress of pink and sky blue hues, flitted around her with an immortal-capturer camera.
"Don't say that! There is no 'after' today! Today there is only now, and cake (synthetic, but cake nonetheless), and you staying still because I'm going to blur you out!" Her voice was high-pitched, a bit forced, betraying that she too was fighting the same future demons, like all of them. She stopped and put her hands on Stelle's shoulders, looking into her eyes through the reflection. "You and Dan Heng deserve this. This breath. This joy. Don't let Nanook or any other aeon jerk take it from you ahead of time."
In a corner of the room, almost fused with the shadows cast by an equipment locker, Kafka observed. Her presence had been a tacit negotiation. Elio had requested it, and after considering her history with Stelle, Himeko and the IPC higher-ups had allowed it with a curt nod. Kafka did nothing to help. She didn't approach. She was simply there, like a living reminder of Stelle's past, dressed in a simple mauve outfit that seemed like social armor. But her sharp eyes missed no detail, scanning her from head to toe to ensure Himeko was doing a good job.
"Anxiety is a signal from the sympathetic system," she said suddenly, her silky voice cutting the air like a hot knife through butter. "Increased heart rate, dilated pupils, muscle tension... they are fight-or-flight responses. In your case, Stelle, you have always chosen to fight. Why would you flee now?"
Stelle turned to look at her, a bit bewildered.
"I don't want to flee. And I won't. I want... everything to be perfect. And I know it won't be. Nothing is."
"Exactly," Kafka nodded, with an oddly soft smile. "Imperfection is what makes the outcome interesting. What makes it real." She paused. "As always, Elio was right. You are calmer."
"Really?" March looked at her with distrust. Stelle had to suppress a laugh. If it weren't for the dress, she would have smacked her on the back of the head for doubting her.
Before Stelle could respond, sounds came from the corridor. Voices. First, the unmistakable, somewhat clumsy enthusiasm, always on the edge of innocence and mischief: Caelus. Her brother. Yes, she had a brother, she didn't believe it at first either. And then, the voice that made her heart beat faster, Dan Heng's. But something was off. Dan Heng sounded... strained. As if speaking with a mouth full of glass.
"...I've practiced it, I tell you! It's the ideal speech," insisted Caelus, with a tone of pompous persuasion that was audible even through the armored door.
"Caelus, no. It's ridiculous. Thank Akivili she's not here to hear it." Dan Heng's voice was a taut wire, full of a resolute refusal that seemed about to snap.
"Precisely! It's the perfect time for a run-through! No pressure! Come on, give me this joy, boy! Look, just listen to the first line: 'Companions, friends, allies, occasional planet-destroyers…' It's a good opener, eh? Captures the audience!"
In the room, March 7th stifled a laugh with her hand. Himeko sighed, but a light of amusement crossed her eyes. Kafka tilted her head slightly, like a scientist interested in a social experiment.
Stelle stood still, listening. Her anxiety that was trying to drown her also fell silent, concentrating on that absurd dialogue.
"No," was Dan Heng's dry reply.
"Just one more line! 'When I met the love of my life, Caelus's heavy sister Stelle, her indomitable spirit immediately reminded me of the adorable yet very resilient cake cats of Ruan Mei…'"
Silence. A silence so potent on the other side of the door you could hear the hum of the emergency lights.
Inside the room, March opened her mouth, horrified and delighted at the same time. Himeko raised her eyebrows to her hairline. Kafka made a soft noise, an 'hm' that could mean anything.
Cake cats. Stelle blinked. The ones from Ruan Mei? Those fluffy creatures, with candy eyes and a tendency to melt dramatically? She knew her brother was a nutcase, but this almost crossed the line. If they survived, it was clear she would never marry March if they kept this up.
Caelus' voice continued, increasingly immersed in his own absurd rhetoric: "—yes, like those fluffy, sugar-eyed delights! Because, you see, like them, Stelle may seem sweet and a bit bewildered at first glance, but she has a core of iron and incredible resilience! Cake cats survive scorching ovens, and she has survived encounters with Aeons and the poor decisions of certain brothers! Cake cats make us smile with their antics (like when they steal the cream), and she makes us smile every day with her unique bravery and her collections of... found objects! And, just as I could never eat a cake cat because they are too precious and have judging eyes, Dan Heng could never... eh, that part needs polishing. End of sentence. Anyway, it's a beautiful, poetic metaphor!"
Another silence. This one, even deeper. Then, a noise was heard. A noise that sounded like a man surrendering to fate. It was Dan Heng.
And his voice emerged. Flat. Dead. Like the audio of an evacuation procedures manual read by a malfunctioning AI.
"I'll only do it to shut you up." The women looked at each other, not believing it. "My... dearest, the love of my life, the light of my days, the most beautiful woman in the entire unive… in the entire MULTIVERSE; Stelle... is like a cake cat. She... withstands... high temperatures. And... is pleasing to the eye."
The diction was perfect, and absolutely devoid of soul. It was the voice of a man reciting under coercion the complete works of a poet he hated, under the threat of a fate worse than death. The mental image was so vivid, so perfectly ridiculous: Dan Heng, the serious archivist of the Express, the Vidyadhara High Elder, a semi-god of the Earth, the strategist who spoke in long, precise sentences, reduced to describing her as a dairy confectionery derivative with thermal qualities.
Stelle began to tremble. Not from nerves. Not from fear. A strange hiccup shook her diaphragm. She brought a hand to her mouth, but it was too late.
The burst of laughter that escaped her was like the release of pressure accumulated for centuries. It was clear, resonant, and completely uncontrollable. She bent forward, shoulders shaking, tears of pure joy and absurdity bathing her face, ruining her makeup before a horrified Himeko. She laughed until her stomach hurt, until she lost her breath, clinging to the dress to keep from falling off the platform.
March 7th burst out immediately after, a sharp, euphoric laugh that made her fall backward onto a cushion, kicking her legs in the air. Himeko let out a low, husky laugh, covering her eyes with her hand, the muscles of her jaw relaxing for the first time since preparations had begun, despite the ruined makeup.
Even Kafka laughed. A brief, surprisingly genuine laugh, that sounded like the chime of a glass bell.
The corridor door clicked open a few centimeters. No one was seen, but Caelus's voice burst in, full of triumph and surprise:
"She heard it! My metaphor worked! I'm a rhetoric genius!"
A dull thud was heard, followed by a muffled "Oof!" from Caelus and the sound of fabric against the wall. Then, an embarrassed silence.
Then, Dan Heng's voice came through the crack. It was no longer flat. It was soft, full of a tender embarrassment, an absolute surrender, and immense relief.
"I suppose..." he said, his voice a bit hoarse, "that now you know that, whatever my real opinion about cake cats might be..."
Stelle, still catching her breath, her face bright with tears and a smile that hurt her cheeks, approached the door. She pressed her palm against the cold metal surface, as if she could transmit the warmth she felt.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice full of emotion. "For... the thermal praise about me. And for trying."
There was a pause. Then, Dan Heng's voice returned, now closer, as if he had also leaned his forehead against the other side of the door.
"Was it... that obvious?" he asked, with a touch of genuine curiosity and a stab of unease. The great Dan Heng, insecure about his ability to make a fool of himself.
Stelle laughed again, a soft, affectionate laugh.
"Obvious? Dan Heng, you have the emotional expressiveness of a five-language assembly instruction manual. I know you better than anyone. Of course you were trying to cheer me up."
A deep sigh was heard from the other side, surrendered and, finally, relaxed.
"And... Did it work?"
"Of course it did, silly." At that moment, energetic hands on her shoulders pulled her away from the door.
"You can go now, Dan Heng, I won't let you see Stelle!"
Himeko approached and slipped her arm through hers, guiding her back to the mirror. Stelle's expression was no longer that of a terrified girl. Her face was still wet, her eyes shone, but now with a calm, joyful light.
When the door swung open fully a few minutes later, Stelle stepped out with her head held high, Himeko's hand lightly supporting her back, followed by her maid of honor.
In the heart of that massive IPC ship, the main strategic briefing room—usually dominated by the harsh glare of holographic screens and stellar maps smeared with incursion vectors—had undergone a quiet, unprecedented metamorphosis. There was no trace of the tactical diagrams forecasting Nanook's movements. In their place, the bulkheads and the high ceiling had been wrapped in a translucent fabric of stabilized energy, a spatioweave that Himeko had negotiated with an artisan from Sector 7. This fabric, under a meticulously modulated electrical charge, diffused light from hidden sources, turning it into a soft, milky glow that cast no shadows but filled the entire space with a uniform, calming presence, of beautiful light tones fit for a wedding.
Upon this neutral, glowing backdrop, with the delicacy of a dream, lenticular stars were projected. They were not the raw images from astronomical archives, but artistic recreations, painted with pixels of warm light that pulsed slightly, as if breathing. They formed imaginary constellations: a broken heart mending, two intertwined spirals, a small ship skirting the abyss. It was March's work, hours of secret labor with a stolen projector, her own hopes encrypted in light.
The functional steel seats had been replaced by low cushions and folding armchairs covered in thick lavender-grey fabric, arranged in a wide oval that did not point towards an altar or a figure of authority, but opened like the arms of a circle, embracing the empty space at the center. This central space was elevated only a few inches, enough to distinguish it, not to separate it. Upon it, on a low pedestal of black lunar stone (a real fragment, not a replica, another incredible luxury), rested two objects on a silk cloth woven with platinum and ash-grey threads.
On the left, Alisa Rand's Lance. It was not in its enlarged, menacing form, spewing flames, but lay inactive. Someone, probably Welt, had cleaned it thoroughly, and the steel of its surface captured the ambient light, reflecting it like a quiet pool. It was not a weapon there; it was a witness, a symbol of the path that had brought Stelle to this point.
On the right, Cloud-Piercer rested. But not the long, lethal combat weapon. It was its ceremonial form, a piece so beautiful it seemed more suited for dance than battle. A perfect needle of some dark blue alloy that seemed to absorb light, making it almost invisible except for the etchings that ran along its surface. They were not mere decorations; they were runes from Vidyadhara antiquity, prayers of protection, names of ocean currents and high winds, all interlaced in a silent spell of preservation. It was his history, his weight, offered in this reduced and pure form.
The attendance was a living map of the fragile alliances and personal loyalties the imminent war had forged. On the right flank, several high-ranking members of many different factions, mostly from the IPC, who wouldn't miss the union of two such prominent Nameless. Many were unused to ceremonies like this; it was an alien ritual, but they respected it because Himeko and Welt requested it, and because deep down, they understood the value of a moment of humanity before the deluge.
On the left flank, the Astral Express contingent was a lively counterpoint. Welt Yang occupied a front seat, his figure slightly stooped by the weight of so many epochs, but his eyes behind his spectacles shone with a soft, appreciative light, eager to see two members he considered almost like children unite until death do them part (hopefully in many decades). Beside him, March could not stay still. Her dress, a controlled explosion of roses and blues that seemed to capture the very essence of her lost memories, fluttered with every nervous movement. She sat, stood up, bit her lower lip, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Himeko, a bit further back, was the image of serenity. She wore a simple wine-colored dress, and her flaming hair was tied back simply. Her eyes, as sharp as any pilot's, scanned the environment, ensuring every detail, from the light intensity to the tension in March's shoulders, was within controllable parameters. She held a tablet through which Pom-Pom could be seen, who had never wanted so badly to leave the train. Checking her wristwatch, she hurried to pass the tablet to March and head towards the pavilion entrance.
At the center of the oval, forming a compact block that seemed to create its own gravity (likely due to the enormous number of assessing stares), were the Stellaron Hunters. Elio occupied the central point, the epicenter of stillness. Seated with his spine perfectly aligned, dressed in a very ugly brown suit unworthy of someone with his reputation, he looked more like an obsidian sculpture than a man. His hands, with long, pale fingers, rested motionless on his legs. He wasn't looking at the platform, or the guests, or the stars. His gaze was focused on an indefinite point in the air before him, as if contemplating the very fabric of reality, listening to the subtlest vibrations of the destiny he himself had helped weave. The serenity emanating from him was not passive; it was active, a force that smoothed the waves of agitation around him, creating a pool of calm amidst the contained emotion of the room.
To his right, Kafka leaned against him with the natural elegance of a vine leaning on a tree. A long, form-fitting dress of mauve, of a fabric that seemed to drink the light and return it with a slight silky sheen, enveloped her. Her face, a well-crafted mystery, was slightly tilted. Now and then, her lips, painted a color reminiscent of moon hues, moved, forming words so quiet only Elio and Blade could catch them. He responded with minimal movements: a slight lowering of the eyelid, a tilt of the head a few degrees, a crack so subtle at the corner of his lips it might have been an optical illusion.
To Elio's left, Caelus seemed like a creature trapped in a habitat too solemn for his nature. His black jacket was new and had sharp creases, but he moved in it with discomfort, adjusting the collar, fixing the cuffs, as if it were suffocating him. His eyes, wide and bright, absorbed everything with childlike wonder: the complexity of the star projections, the imposing rigidity of the IPC uniforms, the vivid colors of the Express. His hand kept going to his pants pocket, from which he pulled a handful of metallic confetti, small squares of aluminum foil that shone with all the colors of the rainbow. He observed them for a moment, as if consulting them, and then, under Elio's placid yet unquestionable gaze, put them back, embarrassed but unable to stop repeating the ritual minutes later. He was the excited and somewhat lost younger brother, carrying his own private celebration in his pocket.
One row back, occupying the space of two people, was SAM (undoubtedly, the one attracting the least stares). The metallic exoskeleton, usually a shadowy, humming presence, was exceptionally quiet and polished. No trace of heat escaped the joints, no red light from the sensors. No clue revealed where his attention lay, but his mere massive presence, the way the air seemed to bend around him, added a tangible weight to the atmosphere. Beside him, almost lost in his shadow, was Silver Wolf. She sat hunched, knees folded against her chest, wrapped in an oversized t-shirt with the logo of an obscure arcade game (but hey, the shirt was from a dating simulator). Her huge headphones, silent, hung around her neck. She seemed absorbed in a minimal handheld device she held between her hands, the screen dark. But now and then, without looking up, her eyes—quick, sharp, intelligent—moved to scan the surroundings with analytical speed. She might have been calculating the site's security, or perhaps imagining how all this would translate into the mechanics of a future video game.
And then, where the milky light from the walls seemed unwilling to reach, standing against a massive steel support column that jutted out like the rib of a sleeping beast, was Blade. He made no attempt to hide. Oh no, he made it clear the groom could see him throughout the ceremony. He wore a simple, dark suit, which concealed each and every one of his bandages. What stood out most to anyone present was the abrasive intensity of his eyes, a burning gold with a core of crimson red, like coal about to become flame. That gaze was not fixed on the platform, or the couple, or the friends. It was nailed, immovable, hypnotic, on the main corridor, the only entrance not supervised by automated security systems. His right hand, with pronounced knuckles, firmly gripped a long, thin object wrapped in a thick, light-absorbing black cloth.
Well, technically there were two objects but no high-ranking IPC member had to know, right? Elio sighed. In each and every wedding he could witness in his mind, the maximum he had achieved was having Blade leave the shotgun outside Dan Heng's room, not bring it to the wedding. THE MAXIMUM.
A sound was born in the air, low and deep, like the song of a whale navigating the ether between stars. The note held, vibrating in the silence, growing in volume until it filled every corner of the room without being intrusive. It was the signal. All heads turned in an almost choreographed motion. All breaths were held, creating an even deeper void of sound.
Himeko appeared at the end of the corridor. She walked not with the quick, decisive step of a captain, but with a measured, glacial elegance. She carried a small bouquet, not of natural flowers, but a delicate sculpture made from recycled electronic components, copper wires, and small capacitor crystals, all intertwined by Welt Yang's patient hands. It was a piece of ephemeral art, a hybrid of technology and nature, perfect for the moment. Her smile was soft, directed at the audience, but her eyes, of a deep coffee color, scanned the scene, ensuring everything was in exact position, the light correct, the tension in the air that of expectation, not fear. No one would ruin her passenger's wedding.
And then, at her side, with her arm slightly linked to Himeko's by a silk ribbon of ash-grey, Stelle appeared.
There were no exclamations, no admiring whispers. There was a silence that was not a lack of noise, but full of a tangible substance: stunned respect, contained affection, the collective recognition of the absolute importance of that image. It was not the classic, ethereal beauty of a fairy-tale bride. It was something more powerful, more true, more Stelle. The dress fitted her body not with constriction, but with the natural flow of a second skin, draping in folds that seemed to capture and then release the ambient light, as if she herself were a source of faint brightness. Her hair, normally a disheveled, rebellious crown of ashen tones, was tied back in a simple bun at the back of her head, leaving her neck and the line of her back muscles exposed. She wore no veil. There was nothing between her and the world at that moment. Along her hairline, small diamond points, no larger than particles of star dust, shone with their own light. But none of that was what captured attention. It was her eyes. Of an intense, liquid gold, shining with a reflective moisture that was not sadness, but the reflection of all the room's emotion concentrated on her. Those eyes did not seek admiration, or confirmation. They swept the space once, quickly, with the intelligence of a strategist and the heart of a nervous girl, and then they stopped.
And they found what they were looking for.
Dan Heng was already on the platform. He had turned completely to face her, and the moment she appeared, all the rigidity that consumed him during preparations, the laughable and endearing vulnerability he had shown at the dressing room door, had all evaporated. In its place was an absolute stillness, the calm found in the very eye of the hurricane. His attire was an elegant fusion of his practical style and ceremonial elements from the Luofu. The fabric was a blue so dark it was almost black, but embroidered with threads of blue and silver silk in patterns evoking tranquil waves, dragon scales catching the light, and spiraling air currents.
But all that—the fabric, the embroideries, the talisman—were accessories. The only real thing, the only thing that mattered at that precise instant, was his expression. It was the look of a man who, after centuries navigating seas of time, loss, and solitude, had finally found his sole beacon, his only true shore. In his eyes, which she knew so well, Stelle could read the entire chapter of their shared journey: the painfully earned trust, the connections forged in nights of nightmares and hot chocolate, the confessions amidst golden blood and algorithms, rails through the stars… and a devotion so faithful, so fiercely protective and so completely surrendered, that it stopped her heart for one solid beat.
The path from the end of the corridor to the edge of the platform seemed to Stelle an epic crossing, a walk through the personal history of everyone present, and at the same time, the most natural and shortest step in the world. She felt the comforting firmness of Himeko's arm, an anchor to reality. She felt the weight of all the gazes: the blessings, the curiosity, the joy, the vigilance, the interest, the respect, the palpable emotion from the Express and all her loved ones. But all of that, all this mosaic of feelings and intentions, blurred, became unimportant, like the background of a photograph with depth of field focused on the main subject. Only the straight line existed, illuminated by something that was not the room's lights, leading her directly to him.
When she reached the edge of the platform, Himeko released her arm with a slight motion. She leaned in and placed her hands on Stelle's cheeks, a warm, brief contact, a gesture of blessing, of handing over, of "I release you to your destiny." Then, she stepped back with a fluid step, without turning her back, disappearing into the front row of seats. Stelle and Dan Heng stood face to face, separated by less than a meter of air charged with static electricity and all the unspoken words of their lives.
He extended his right hand, palm up, fingers slightly apart. It was not a demand, nor an order. It was an offer. A question. An opportunity to give chase that she would never take. Stelle looked at his hand, looked at his eyes, and then placed her right hand over his. Skin made contact. A silent shudder, not physical but emotional, a gentle shockwave that seemed to travel the space between them and then expand, touching everyone present. It was the contact that anchored the present to the past and initiated the future, all at once.
Mr. Yang stepped forward then. He did not step onto the platform, but stopped right at its edge, his slender, ancient profile contrasting with the young couple. He wore no ceremonial robe, no insignia of office. None were needed. The only insignia was the weight of his own history, of the worlds he had seen grow and die, etched in the lines of his face and the depth of his eyes behind his glasses.
"We are not gathered here," he began, his voice not a thunderclap but a low, round, and clear tone that moved through the room effortlessly, filling every corner, "under the gaze of an Aeon, nor by the grace of a cosmic authority. Aeons walk paths too vast for our footprints. Creation, Erudition, Preservation... they are tides that move the oceans we sail. We, however, are eddies, fortuitous meetings of divergent currents. And from time to time, with a rarity that defies probability, two such currents meet and decide, not by fate but by their own will, to flow as one river to the sea, even knowing that the sea awaiting them may be the absolute darkness."
His gaze, full of a wisdom acquired at a price no one in the room wanted to calculate fully, swept over the faces present, passing over the young, the veterans, the soldiers, the hunters, the travelers. Finally, it stopped, with a tenderness that was almost painful, on those of the two youths before him.
"This act," he continued, "is not a denial of what is to come. It is not a trap of oblivion, nor a childish attempt to cover our eyes before the storm. It is quite the opposite. It is a declaration. It is looking directly into the maw of the approaching abyss and, before taking the definitive step towards it, embracing with all the strength a being can muster, to tell that abyss, with every fiber of one's being: 'What we carry, our bond, is denser than your darkness, more persistent than your void, more real than your negation.' There is no more powerful majority, no more fearsome weapon, than this. It is a celebration of life."
He paused, letting the simple, heavy truth of his words settle like star dust upon the listeners. Welt then turned fully to Dan Heng, bestowing upon him his full attention.
"Dan Heng," he said, and the name sounded like an invocation to his many layers. "Son of two worlds, child of oceans and skies, archiver of memories that were not yours, guardian of secrets that weighed upon you. Warrior who has swum in the waters of time, death, and rebirth until losing sense of the shore. You have walked alone for eons, carrying the echoes of past lives like a chalice filled with tears so salty they burn the tongue. Today, before these witnesses, before this woman, you offer this chalice, no longer as a burden, but as an offering. As a source. What do you promise to her, to this light that has dispelled the thickest mists of your memories?"
Dan Heng inhaled. It was not a nervous sigh, but a deep, deliberate movement, as if absorbing not only the air of the room, but the accumulated courage of all his past lives, of all the decisions that had led him here. He was aware it might not last long. That his life could be cut short at any moment. Centuries later, decades later, or even minutes after this moment. But what he knew with certainty is that it would never stop making sense. His gaze did not waver for an instant from Stelle's golden eyes, as if drawing from her the strength for every word.
"I promise," he began, his voice no louder than before, but cutting the air with the clean, sharp precision of a well-honed blade, "to stop walking alone. I promise that my shoulders, which have borne the sleepless weight of history, will, from today, be your place of rest when the fight leaves you breathless. I promise I will protect you with my spear for the rest of my life, even if it means my death. I promise that my memories, even those that make me tremble in the deepest dark of night, will no longer be my prisons. I open them to you. I place them at your disposal, because I know your light, even in its faintest, weariest form, has the power to cleanse, to soothe, to make harmless what once made me fear."
He squeezed her hand, and the gesture was not just a contact, but an anchor, a promise made flesh.
"I promise to be your most loyal ally. Not just on the battlefield, when metal clashes and destinies are decided, but in every stolen moment of quiet, in every uncertain dawn that finds us united. I promise to protect your smile—that smile which broke through my defenses before any sword could—with the same ferocity, the same absolute determination, with which I would protect your last heartbeat, your last breath." From the back of the room, where the shadows were thickest, a slight metallic clink was heard, clean and dry. Without needing to look, everyone present knew what it was: Blade had adjusted his grip on the black-wrapped object. She almost rolled her eyes, thinking of the moment when, ironically, a sword pierced him, stripped him, and exposed his secrets. Secrets that his almost-wife received with open arms, and which only increased her love for him.
His voice lowered a bit, became even more intimate, as if the following words were only for her, even though everyone heard them with bated breath.
"And I promise... I promise that, when the final night we all know approaches arrives, when all seems consumed by flames or swallowed by the void, my last conscious thought, my last drop of strength, my final impulse, will be for one thing alone: to find your hand amidst the shadows. To ensure that, in the end as in the beginning, you are not alone, and while I live, you never will be. I love you, Stelle. Not as a destiny written in the scrolls of heaven or the runes of the water. But as the most conscious, most free, and most certain choice of all my past, present, and future existences. My choice. My truth."
The words hung in the air, material and heavy like molten steel, brilliant and indelible. There were no tears in him, but the intensity of his surrender was so palpable it made even the most stoic factions of IPC commanders adjust their posture, as if respecting a sacred moment. Among the Hunters, Kafka inclined her head slightly, as if appreciating the internal logic and beauty of this oath. Caelus wiped his eyes with his forearm, a tremulous smile on his lips. Elio, at the center of it all, maintained his impassivity, smiling inside at seeing the shock that speech had provoked in a certain shotgun owner.
Welt waited, proud of the man that youth had become, who never expected anything in return and saw himself as the most dispensable thing of all. He gave time for Dan Heng's words to resonate, for their weight to settle in everyone's hearts. Then, with slow majesty, he turned to Stelle. His expression softened even further, with infinite compassion.
"Stelle," he said, and the name sounded like a birth, "birth of a star, fall of ash, heart of the new hope that, against all logic, drives us onward when all indicates we should let go. You have always walked forward from your first conscious breath, with a baseball bat as a shield and an indomitable curiosity as your only compass. You have learned the rules of the universe, of society, of friendship and loss, literally beating them until they revealed their secrets to you. Today, you continue your inexorable march. You stop time for yourself. To choose a companion for the journey. What do you promise to this man who would give everything for you? What truths from your heart, forged in the crucible of experience and not in theory, do you give into his custody forever?"
Stelle felt a knot of tears and pure joy rise from her gut to her throat. A tear, rebellious and free, broke the dam and rolled down her cheek, leaving a brilliant trail like the tail of a fleeting star on her skin. She did not wipe it away. She let it be part of the moment. When she opened her mouth, her voice did not tremble. It came out clear, firm, surprising even herself with its certainty.
"I promise," she said, and the first word sounded like a key turning in an ancient lock, "to stop walking only forward. I promise that, from today, every day granted to us, I will turn around. I will turn to make sure you are still by my side. That you are not left behind in the shadows. That my light, however little, also illuminates your path." She paused, as if rethinking it. "Well, all of you here forget that nonsense. Of course your path will be illuminated, since you yourself are the most radiant being I have ever seen."
She paused, searching for the exact words not in a book, but in her own memories, in the thousand battles and the thousand quiet moments.
"I promise that my madness, this insatiable need to see what's around the next corner, to touch what burns, to taste what perhaps should not be tasted, will always have a place to return to. A safe harbor. And that harbor is you. Not to stop me, but so that my return has meaning. A harbor that will receive me with open arms, and that I will make sure to care for with all that I have."
A tender smile, broken by emotion but radiant with sincerity, illuminated her face for her man, making the tears in his eyes shine like liquid diamonds. Stelle almost wanted to laugh. Dan Heng never cried.
"I promise to learn. To learn the language of your silences, which are so many and so complex. To learn to read your ghosts, not to exorcise them (because they are part of you, and I'm not Huohuo), but to know them, to be able to stand by your side when they visit you. I promise, like you, to be your shield, Dan Heng. Not just against external enemies, against swords and energy rays, but against the shadows you carry within, against the voices of the past that tell you you are not enough, that you do not deserve this."
Her voice gained greater intensity, more personal, as if each word were a small confession of love.
"I promise to remember you. And without needing the Remembrance, okay? To remember you every morning, every night, amidst chaos and amidst calm, that you are much more than what you were. Much more than the guardian, the archivist, the heir, the fugitive. You are Dan Heng. The man who chooses to be here. Today. With me. And you are my Dan Heng. Not a possession, but my beacon, my map, my man."
She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the scent of night flowers and air charged with promises.
"And I promise, with all the strength I can gather from the stars that created me and the ashes I am, that when the final void calls our names, I will not go only as Stelle, the Nameless. I will go as Stelle, your wife. Your ally. Your friend. The one who chooses you. United. Before the void, before the fire, before the end or the new beginning, united. I love you. Not because a cosmic hand threw us together on the same path, but because, before all possible destinies, before all the infinite branches of reality that could have existed, in each and every one, if I had the ability to choose, I would choose you. Once. And a thousand. And a million times. Always you."
Her words, like his, were not empty poetry. They were oaths of shared war, pacts of emotional survival. They were real, practical, full of the acute, non-fearful awareness of the approaching danger, and precisely for that reason, they sounded unbreakable. They were the foundations of a fortress built to withstand the end of the world together. She was quite, proudly, satisfied; she had done well!
Mr. Yang slowly raised his hands, palms up, as if physically holding the weight of those oaths, the sacred gravity of this moment.
"You have heard their promises," he said, his voice regaining its declarative tone for the whole room. "They are not words that can be offered before the Aeons, because they are too human. Too full of the glorious fragility of limited life, of love born knowing it may die, of strength fed by the consciousness of one's own weakness. Words like these are too small and, at the same time, too great for timeless ears. They are made, instead, before you. Before the witnesses of their journeys, their struggles, their losses and their joys. Before this precise and stolen instant of shared courage. If anyone present here sees any reason, any hidden truth, any shadow of the past or future, that legitimately prevents this path, this river of two currents, from continuing its united course, let them speak now. Let them present their objection before this council of souls. Or be silent forever."
His eye, old as the stones of the first worlds, swept over the audience with slow solemnity. It passed over the high IPC commanders, who maintained their respectful silence. It passed over the friends from the Express, faces full of emotion and assent. It passed over the Stellaron Hunters. It stopped, for an instant that became eternal, on the figure by the column, on Blade.
The immortal man held Welt's gaze. In his red eyes, where the fire of vengeance and pain always burned, something different appeared for a second: a recognition. An acceptance. A "yes, I see it too." Then, without haste, with the slow ceremony of an ancient ritual, Blade moved his right hand away from the black-wrapped object. With his left, he grasped the cloth by the top corner and slid it down, like one revealing a relic.
It was not a shotgun. It was a sword. An energy sword from a forgotten era, its design austere and lethally efficient. The blade, now dark and inactive, without the characteristic energy hum, was polished to a perfect mirror that reflected the faint lights of the room and the projected stars, distorting them into strange beauties. Without a word, without a sound, Blade held the sword vertically before him, the pommel at chest height, the tip toward the ceiling. He held it thus for a long second, while everyone held their breath. Then, with a fluid motion that spoke of centuries of practice, he inclined the blade, not at an aggressive angle, but in a respectful and precise arc, until the tip pointed directly at the platform, at the couple.
Stelle blinked. Dan Heng blinked. Elio blinked.
A salute of arms. Not from one warrior to another, but from a protector to the one he protects. His kiss. His blessing. The only one he knew how to give and, in his personal code of conduct, the only one with real value, because it was accompanied by the implicit offering of his own lethal strength. Without a word, he slid the cloth back up, covering the sword. And he returned to his seat as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn't just accepted that the man he probably hated most in the entire universe was marrying basically his daughter.
The silence that followed his gesture was not empty. It was full of what had happened, full of mutual recognition, full of a deep, unspoken agreement. It was a complete, rich silence, like that of a forest after heavy rain.
Welt allowed himself a smile. It was not a smile of carefree joy, but a sad, beautiful, deeply moved gesture that wrinkled his eyes and softened the lines of his face.
"Then," he said, and his voice sounded like the closing of a very ancient and very precious book, "by the power granted to me by the mutual respect we see here, by the shared path that has brought you to this crossing, and by the fragile yet indestructible faith that binds you to each other and to all of us in this precise instant, I declare you, Dan Heng and Stelle, united. United before whatever destiny, war, or the universe itself may bring. United in the fullest sense of the word. And now, you may seal this pact, this shared journey, with a kiss."
Time, already distorted by the gravity of emotion, seemed to stop completely. Dan Heng lifted his free hands and placed them, with infinite tenderness, on Stelle's cheeks. His hands, a bit rough from old weapon-calluses, were extraordinarily soft in this gesture. His thumbs, with slow, reverent movements, wiped away the last tears of emotion and joy still on her cheeks, tracing the path they had made. His gaze did not hurry. It traveled every centimeter of her face: the arch of her brows, the curve of her still-damp lashes, the line of her nose, the shape of her lips. She was perfect. By Long's love, how lucky he was. If it weren't for his vow to protect her all his life, he'd have thought he could leave this world without regrets.
And finally, his gaze stopped, fixed, on her lips. There was a mute question there, an offering of all he was, and a plea for all she was. Stelle closed her eyes. She did not do so out of shyness, but to concentrate completely on the sensation, on the moment. She made a slight movement of her head, a nod that was more than a yes: it was an "always."
When their lips met, it was like the perfect, silent closing of a circuit the universe had been trying to complete since the beginning of time, since the explosion of the first star and the formation of the first ash. In that contact was all the tenderness of calmed nerves, the shared, laughable madness of the cake cat speech, the fierce and solemn protection of the just-uttered promises, the bittersweet awareness of the uncertain future approaching, and the radiant, pure, triumphant joy of the now. Of this precise now they had stolen together. It tasted of Luofu night flowers and cold star dust, of irrevocable loss and miraculous finding, of the end of old lives and the absolute beginning of a new one. They remained thus, united, while the outside world—the lights, the people, the ship, the imminent war—disappeared completely, dissolved by the stronger reality they were creating in that tiny space between their bodies. A space of their own. A universe complete only for them.
They would live.
The two of them.
They would live.
The gentle wind of Thalos XI was an old friend. It carried the scent of the silvered grass that waved in the field and the nocturnal perfume of the blinking flowers, small earthly stars that opened under the light of the two moons. Through the open window of the stone and wood house by the lake, that twin brightness—one large yellow moon, the other small and blue—illuminated the child's room with an unreal tenderness.
Stelle was sitting on the edge of the bed, the mattress still sinking under the remembered weight of a larger body. Her daughter, Mei, five years old, had the deep golden eyes of her mother, but with those rebellious streaks of azure that seemed taken directly from her father's hair. She was bundled up to her chin in a quilt full of clouds and childish drawings.
"...and then, Aunt March cried so much that Aunt Firefly had to give her her handkerchief, which was bigger than her head," Stelle finished narrating, her voice a bit hoarse from the night's quiet. It was a story she had never told Mei before, a gilded and war-dust-cleaned version where the only peril was excessive emotion and love won everything.
Mei wrinkled her nose, a gesture that was all her father in concentration. "And the flower bouquet, Mama? All princesses, when they get married, toss their bouquet. Who caught it?"
The question, innocent and direct, pierced the air like a fine needle. Stelle paused. The night seemed to fade for a moment, replaced by the intense memory of the IPC ship hall, the fragrance of flowers from some distant planet, the weight of her own dress. She remembered the toss. She hadn't thrown it with force, but with a gesture of release, like letting go of something that had fulfilled its purpose. She was sure March, or one of her friends, would catch it. The bouquet had described a soft, slow arc in the artificial gravity.
"Ah, that," Stelle said, and her voice found a different tone, a bit more distant. "Grandpa Blade caught it."
"Grandpa Bladevil?" exclaimed Mei, her eyes shining with recognition of the affectionate nickname she and her father had given the man seen in some photos scattered around the house.
"Yes. As if by magic, it fell into his arms." Stelle smiled, but it was a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "And then, he turned and gave it to Aunt Kafka."
"To Aunt Kafka? Why?"
"Because... they two were like the two sides of the same coin. They had known each other for a very, very long time. And Grandpa Blade knew that Aunt Kafka would understand what that bouquet meant. So he gave her the bouquet, and she kept it. A little piece of that day stayed with her."
"Where is Grandpa Bladevil now?" asked Mei, with the fathomless curiosity of a child for whom death is still an abstract concept, a word applied to garden insects and storybook characters.
Stelle smoothed her daughter's hair, letting a smile form on her face that she hoped looked happy. "He went to a very important fight, little star. The last one. And there... he found the peace he had been seeking for so long." They were the words they had chosen, soft as silk but strong as steel, to explain the end of an immortal man who only yearned to cease being so. Like many other lives, lost in the days after their wedding.
At that precise instant, the soft, characteristic sound at the door was heard: not the clunk-clunk of a common wheelchair, but a light, fluid hum, like the movement of a well-oiled mechanical insect. Dan Heng appeared in the doorway.
Time and war had passed over him, but differently than for others. His Vidyadhara nature kept his youthful appearance, but in his eyes a deep peace had settled, a conquered serenity, not given. He wore soft cloth pants and a simple shirt. And he stood upright, leaning lightly on an elegant dark wood cane with a steel pommel. Of his legs, there was no trace of weakness. The prosthetics he wore, a gift from the incomparable Screwllum, were marvels of mechanics and synthetic bioengineering. They integrated perfectly with his body, responded to his nerve impulses with natural fluidity, and had allowed him to regain almost complete mobility. They were discreet under his clothes, only revealed by a slight geometric pattern visible on the pant legs and by his step, which was perfectly uniform, too perfect to be completely organic.
He stopped, and his presence, always calm, filled the room. "Bedtime for the two bravest warriors in this sector," he announced, his voice the same low rumble as always, but with an edge of tenderness that only existed within these walls. "It has arrived."
"Papa!" cried Mei, immediately distracted. "Grandpa Bladevil caught your wedding bouquet and gave it to Aunt Kafka! Did you know?"
Dan Heng made his eyes meet Stelle's. There was a quick, silent exchange: the memory of a red-eyed man catching the bouquet with unexpected care, turning, and handing it to Kafka, who had accepted it with an oddly soft smile, as if accepting a sacred responsibility, still made him and his wife laugh on nights they couldn't sleep.
"I knew," Dan Heng confirmed with a nod. "Grandpa Blade was a man of actions, not words. That act made a lot of sense to him." He approached the bed, the hum of his prosthetics almost inaudible. "But actions of the past are done. Now the most important action is to sleep."
"But I'm not sleepy!" protested Mei, though an involuntary yawn contradicted her.
"Me neither," added Stelle, smiling and leaning her head on her prosthetic arm, with a gremlin expression. It was part of the ritual.
Dan Heng sighed, a theatrical sigh that made Mei suppress a giggle. He assumed the expression of "commander-in-chief of rest operations," an expression that, despite years of peace, could still look formidable. "Intelligence reports are clear. Tomorrow at first light we will have a high-level visit from allies of the Express. Specifically, the units known as 'Aunt March' and 'Uncle Caelus.' Their mission: inspection of facilities and distribution of unauthorized confetti."
Mei's eyes opened like the two moons of Thalos. "They're coming? Really?"
"Confirmed," Dan Heng said gravely. "Uncle Caelus has already sent a forward messenger announcing a 'motor coordination game with volatile decorative elements.' And Aunt March has asked if we have enough shelves to display new photos." He paused for dramatic effect. "Therefore, if we wish to pass the inspection and be able to dedicate ourselves to recreational activities, this base must be in optimal condition. And that requires its commanders to be well-rested."
It was irrefutable logic for a five-year-old. Mei gave another yawn, this one more yielding. "Okay... but tomorrow you let me polish the support of your shiny leg?"
Dan Heng looked down at his right leg, where one of the prosthetic panels glowed softly in the moonlight. "Negotiated. Now, sleep, soldier."
Stelle leaned down, deposited a kiss on her daughter's soft forehead. "Until tomorrow, my heart."
"Until tomorrow, Mama... Papa..."
Dan Heng leaned down too and did the same. Then, with a gentle motion, he adjusted something at his waist and the light hum activated again, withdrawing him towards the door. Stelle followed after turning off the light, leaving only the silver and blue bath of the satellites.
In the living room, austere yet full of life—with shelves of old and new books, mineral samples, toys, and Mei's omnipresent drawings—Dan Heng waited for her standing before the window. Stelle approached and rested her forehead against his shoulder. He put an arm around her. At first, no one said anything, just looked at their own reflection in the glass. Too often they had that look, the thousand-yard stare, imprinted in their eyes.
"Well then," Dan Heng said, changing tone with a smile, while swatting his wife's behind with his tail, making her let out a squeak, "now we must face a more immediate threat: the invasion of the March-Caelus chaos confederation tomorrow morning."
Stelle laughed, a true, clear sound that dissipated the last shadows. "Oh, aeons. Caelus said something about a game involving throwing blankets over prosthetic limbs. It'll drive us crazy."
"And we still haven't cleaned the pantry where the molasses spilled last week," Dan Heng added, nodding his head towards the kitchen with false severity. "It's a job for a team. And I, as commander-in-chief of this house, designate you as my second-in-command."
Stelle looked at him, love and amusement mixing in her chest. She raised her hand in a sloppy military salute. "At your command, General. But only if there's a reward after the cleaning."
Dan Heng pulled her to him and kissed her. It was a long, sweet kiss that tasted of home, of a future built on the ashes of the past, of a peace that wasn't perfect, but was theirs, and was strong.
"The reward," he said as they parted, "is that tomorrow, after they've left and Mei is asleep, I would like to pamper my wife very much."
And so, under the twin light of Thalos, they began planning their domestic defense, more united than ever. As husband and wife who had weathered storms and survived the impossible.