Page 21 of New World

The lift doors slid open with a soft whoosh, opening to the uppermost levels of the moon base where his personal headquarters overlooked Cryon II’s sprawling, ever-expanding construction. Through the reinforced glass windows, he could see the neon-lit streets stretching far below, a labyrinth of steel, light, and shadows. The distant glow of welding torches flickered like fireflies in the night. Drones, construction machinery, and supply shuttles hovered in intricate formations as they assembled yet another sector of Cryon II’s artificial world.

It was a place of ambition and ruthlessness, much like himself. His mind wasn’t here, though. It was on a different world, in a different time.

* * *

Plateau – Eighteen years before

* * *

“Where’s that scrawny sewer rat disappeared to now?”

Hor Dicer’s voice carried over the clang of cargo being unloaded, sharp and grating, thick with frustration.

Dorane didn’t look back. He never looked back. That was the first rule of survival. Instead, he slipped through the narrow gap between two crates, his body twisting with the ease of someone who had learned to navigate tight spaces out of necessity. He crouched low, waiting, listening.

The heavy footfalls stomped past, a string of curses trailing behind them. He let out a slow breath, pressing his fingers against the fresh bruise on his ribs. The dull ache was a reminder—Dicer had hit him last night, hard. It wasn’t the first time. But it would be the last.

If he stayed, he swore he’d kill the bastard.

The thought sent a dark thrill through him, but he forced it away. He had no time for revenge. Not yet. Right now, he had to get as far from that freighter as possible. His escape had led him here—wherever here was. He didn’t even know what planet they’d landed on.

He scanned the area before he stepped out of the shadows of the freighter. A hiss of disbelief slipped from him and his breath caught in his throat. Across a woven bridge, a market sprawled before him in a dizzying riot of color and sound. It was unlike anything he had ever seen.

The air was thick with the scent of spices, sizzling meats, and something sweet and floral carried on the humid breeze. Stalls lined the cobblestone paths, their owners calling out in languages Dorane only half understood. Above, winding bridges connected the floating islands, their jagged cliffs draped in thick vines and bioluminescent flora that pulsed faintly in the morning light.

And the sky—gods, the sky.

He turned in a tight circle, staring up at it in wonder. It wasn’t the dull gray haze of smog-choked atmospheres that he was used to. It was vast and open, swirling with golden light that reflected off the massive moth-like creatures gliding effortlessly between the islands. Their translucent wings caught the sun, scattering light like fractured gemstones.

Dorane had never smelled air this clean. Never seen a place that wasn’t falling apart at the seams. It was beautiful.

He hated it.

Places like this were for people who belonged. People who had someone who cared about what happened to them. Places like this were not for gutter rats like him.

His fingers curled into fists as the words echoed through his mind. He didn’t belong, but that had never stopped him before.

A shadow passed overhead, breaking his trance. A Legion transport. He turned just in time to see a group of soldiers striding toward a towering structure of onyx-black stone. Their rigid postures and pristine uniforms were unmistakable—Legion.

Dorane’s stomach turned.

He had seen what the Legion did to planets. He had watched their soldiers tear through the slums, hunting down those who resisted, those who fought back. His parents had been among them. He could still hear his mother’s scream, still see his father’s blood painting the alley walls.

He spat on the ground, his eyes narrowing with anger as his lips curled into a sneer. That was when Dorane saw him. A boy his own age, walking a few paces behind the soldiers, head held high, expression unreadable. His uniform was too clean, too stiff, his boots polished to a shine that had never known dirt. His dark hair was neatly combed, his features sharp and proud—but there was something about his eyes. Something that didn’t match the rest.

Dorane knew how to read people. It was what kept him alive. And this boy—this boy didn’t fit. Dorane’s lips curled into a smirk. Was the boy some rich kid playing soldier?

Curious, Dorane decided to follow him. The boy fell behind the others, his eyes darting from the line to the market. Dorane’s lips twitched when he saw the boy’s shoulders relax as the last of the progression of soldiers crossed the bridge. He followed the soldier boy into the market. The boy stopped at a vendor’s stall, scanning the wares with a careful, almost too-neutral expression. The stall owner, a short, stocky man with deep red skin and tusk-like protrusions from his lower jaw, grinned widely.

“Something for the young officer?” the merchant asked, voice oily with practiced charm.

Dorane leaned casually against the next stall over, just within earshot. He could already tell—this kid wasn’t used to being talked to like that. He was used to commands, not conversations.

The soldier hesitated.

Dorane smirked and waved his hand at the food. “I didn’t think Legion brats ate food from places like this,” he said, loud enough to be heard. “Don’t they just inject nutrition slop straight into your veins?”

The boy’s sharp brown eyes flicked to Dorane’s, unreadable. He didn’t react right away, which made Dorane like him slightly more. Most kids in his position would have bristled, barked something back.

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