Page 94 of New World

His fingers curled into a fist and he pressed it against the side of his head. No. Zoak was reckless. He overestimated his prey.

Andri was smarter. Stronger.

The whisper vanished.

His hands stilled, his control returning. Zoak had been a weak tool of his brother’s. Nothing more.

Andri turned away from the viewport.

“Prepare to land,” he ordered.

The pilot acknowledged, adjusting their descent.

The momentary flicker of doubt was gone—obliterated by the iron will that had carried him this far.

Andri was chosen.

The stars had aligned for him.

Those thoughts had no sooner flitted through his brain when the transport shuddered violently, throwing him off-balance. He caught the handrail with one hand while a soldier grabbed his other arm to steady him. The transport rocked violently. Andri’s free hand reached to grab the railing as his feet lifted off the floor. Alarms warned of engine damage and power loss as the ship jerked sideways.

“What the hell was that?!” Andri snapped, gripping the railing.

The pilot’s frantic response came through the comms. “Direct hit! Starboard engine is failing?—!”

Andri lunged for the viewport, his vision narrowing on the sky.

Above them, a second ship moved, momentarily blocking the suns and casting a shadow. A Gallant shuttle—unseen, cloaked, deadly.

The rebels!

His rage boiled, roaring through his veins.

The Gallant rebels did this.

The ship tilted sharply, spiraling toward the ground. The wreckage of buildings rushed up to meet them.

“Brace for impact!” the pilot warned.

Andri twisted and fumbled to grab the railing. The soldier who had helped him before reached out, jerking him forward. Andri’s hands wrapped around the metal bar just as the transport slammed into the earth.

His grip loosened. He was thrown violently forward, his shoulder colliding with steel, pain exploding through him as the bar hit his collarbone. The world twisted sideways as the viewport cracked, dust and fire spilling into the shattered remains of the ship.

The transport spun, tossing the unprepared like rag dolls in a cyclone. Andri’s head swam as the world tilted, spinning, filling with heat, smoke, and pain before finally coming to a stop, the side door partially crumpled and torn.

Then— blissful stillness.

Andri heard the moans and groans of pain. None of them came from him. He pulled himself up by the bent metal bar he was still holding, doing a mental assessment of his body. His shoulder hurt where he’d hit the bar, but other than that, he was fine.

He was alive.

He was alive… because he was meant to be.

He forced himself upright, blood trickling from a small cut on his temple, his uniform torn on the sleeve.

A handful of his soldiers—those who had survived the impact—were stumbling outside, their weapons drawn, waiting for his command.

Andri straightened his collar, ignoring the pain. Bending, he squeezed through the narrow opening before straightening. His gaze warily swept the sky before he looked behind him. He could see the burning remains of their other transport. There were no survivors.

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