Page 64 of New World

Dorane sighed and turned to look at Mei. Without thinking, he leaned forward and pressed his forehead against hers. In the forefront of his mind was a sharp, aching memory—the screams coming from his village, the shake of the ground from the explosions, and the stench of burning flesh. The horror of being powerless as he watched his family die.

His fingers curled gently around the back of Mei’s neck, his breath uneven, his heart hammering. He swallowed past the lump in his throat, his voice low, rough with emotion.

“I will never let that happen again.”

Mei’s dark eyes softened, her fingers brushing against his cheek. She said nothing at first—just studied him, as if memorizing every line of his face. Then, finally, she murmured, “You are no longer a defenseless boy, Dorane. You are a fierce and powerful warrior.” Her voice was soft but unshaken. “And most of all—you are not alone.”

Dorane exhaled, the tension in his chest easing as he held onto her words.

Not alone.

He had fought for years, carving his own path, shouldering the burdens of his past alone. But now… he wasn’t just fighting for vengeance. He was fighting for his people. For his found family.

For Mei.

Dorane pulled back slightly, his eyes locking onto hers. Resolve settled into his bones, deep and unshakable.

Andri Andronikos had made a grave mistake. The Legion director was coming to eradicate them.

But Dorane had no intention of dying.

16

Aboard the Legion Warship Tyrannis

Three Days from Cryon II

* * *

The bridge of the Tyrannis pulsed with quiet tension. Andri Andronikos paced back and forth, each step measured, controlled—yet seething with the storm beneath his surface. The crew stationed at their consoles stole covert glances in his direction, wary, their movements precise, as if afraid to draw his attention. He could feel their unease, their silent fear. It was a tangible thing, slithering through the air like a living entity.

The only one who seemed unaffected was Commander Ri Manta.

Manta stood near the command console, his posture relaxed yet poised, like a predator surveying its domain. Andri had promoted him after executing the previous captain for incompetence. The memory was still fresh—the look of stunned horror in the man’s eyes before Andri fired his blaster at point-blank range, the spray of blood staining the cold metal deck. The four officers removing the body had worked quickly, efficiently. Andri had watched dispassionately as the lifeless husk was dragged out of sight, never to be spoken of again.

Ri Manta, on the other hand, had not flinched.

Instead, he had merely turned away from the sight, addressing the bridge officers as if nothing had occurred.

“Status report,” Manta ordered now, his voice level.

The navigations officer straightened immediately. “The fleet is maintaining formation. We are three days from our target.”

Manta nodded. “Hold course. Keep the formation tight.”

Andri paused, tilting his head as he watched his new captain at work. Yes… Manta was different. Calculated. He took command effortlessly, without hesitation, without the constant, self-serving fear that plagued so many officers. He reminded Andri of them.

Coleridge. Roan.

A slow, seething rage burned through Andri’s veins. They had betrayed him. They had turned against their purpose, against their destiny. His own brother, his blood, had defied him, questioned him, as if Andri was the one who had lost sight of their goal.

And Roan… Roan had been Andri’s greatest disappointment. His nephew—his heir—who had every advantage, every opportunity to rise above the rabble, only to abandon everything for a pathetic cause.

No.

This one, Ri Manta, would be different. This one would be loyal.

Andri’s lips curled. “Captain Manta,” he said smoothly, gesturing toward the doors. “Walk with me.”

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