Aēllion's POV. The mist clings to my skin like memory, thick, cold, and full of ghosts. My feet hammer the cracked earth, muscles screaming, lungs burning with the sour air of this ruined world. Behind me, it howls. Not with voice or breath, but with that deep, pulsing drone that infects the air itself, an alien vibration that rattles my bones. Humanoids. Not one, many. I don't dare look back. My name is °Aēllion-197. At least, that's what they called me in the Edge. In this place, this broken, ash-swept wasteland of what Earth used to be, names feel meaningless. It's the year 2100 am running from what seems to be a mindless humanoid. I'm exhausted, drained, dehydrated, hungry even but I can't stop now. The survival of my entire civilization rests on my unworthy shoulders. I vault over a collapsed wall, nearly twisting my ankle on the descent. Blood oozes from my shoulder where one of the creatures grazed me earlier. The wound pulses with strange heat, as though something insid

The voices grew louder. Aēlion pressed his back against the cold server column, the heat of the data console still pulsing at his fingertips. His breath caught in his throat as a beam of white light swept across the archives, slicing through the shadows. "...Zōnē 7-C hās trīggērēd ā lōcāl āccēss brēāch," a deep, filtered voice crackled. "Infrārēd pīckēd ūp ān ēnērgy sūrgē frōm ōnē ōf thē ōld tērmīnāls." "Cōūld bē ānōthēr rāt snīffīng ārōūnd" another responded, bored. Aēlion clenched his jaw. He couldn't leave without the file. He spotted it, an old quantum slate glowing dimly on the desk, buried beneath layers of security glass. He had already unlocked most of its layers, just one more protocol, just one more bypass. He glanced toward the voices. Two silhouettes stood in the hallway, watching the flicker of the archive's hallway lights. Now or never. Aēlion dove forward, fingertips dancing across the console. The final barrier cracked open. The slate hissed softly as i

The next morning, °Aēlion-197 was up before the first morning chime. Vehlarā expected to see the same quiet, shaken son from the night before, haunted by the truth they had uncovered. But instead, she found him standing tall, dressed, and already spooning mouthfuls of breakfast stew into his mouth like nothing had happened. "You're up early," she said cautiously. Aēlion gave her a half-smile. "Thought I'd get ahead on my drills. You know how Veydrān is with form." Vehlarā narrowed her eyes. Something in his tone was too light. Too normal. Still, she said nothing. As the morning rolled on, Aēlion resumed his daily routine as though the codec, the footage, and the truth of their past had all been nothing more than a dream. He joined his training cohort, took orders, followed instructions, and sparred like usual. He even laughed when one of the trainees cracked a joke about Veydrān's hair looking like a nesting crow. He didn't flinch when he heard other soldiers

Aēllion's eyes flew open just in time to see the soldier standing in front of him jerk backward, a sharp beam of energy tearing through his chestplate. The young man's mouth opened like he wanted to say something, but no words came out. His rifle clattered to the ground. Behind him, another soldier lowered his weapon, his face twisted in cold disgust. "Yōu wērē āctūālly līstēnīng tō hīs nōnsēnsē," the newcomer spat. The first soldier collapsed to the ground with a dull thud. Aēllion's pulse exploded in his ears. He didn't wait to think. In the space between one heartbeat and the next, he lunged sideways. "Yōu! Stōp rīght thērē!" the second soldier barked, already raising his weapon again. Aēllion didn't stop. He bolted, boots pounding against the metal walkway, air burning his lungs. A beam of plasma slammed into the ground beside him, searing the metal and spraying sparks across his path. Another shot. Too close. He didn't look back. He didn't dare. The Gate

The two broad-shouldered men closed in on Aēllion, their shadows falling over him like dark towers. One cracked his knuckles, the other smirked, and both looked ready to teach him a lesson. Aēllion took a slow step back, his mind racing for a way out. He had no money, no idea what “Thalon credits” were, and no strength left to fight. "Ī'm scrēwēd," Aēllion whispered to himself. His chest tightened, and he could already imagine the pain that was coming. “Add his bill to mine,” a voice said from behind. The two men froze. The waiter turned. Aēllion’s eyes widened when he saw her. It was Sira. She stood at the entrance, arms crossed, a faint smile on her face. Her blue hair shimmered under the neon lights of the half-restaurant, half-bar. Every eye in the place turned to look at her. The waiter blinked in surprise. “Lady Sireya-Val?” Sira walked closer, her boots echoing softly on the metallic floor. “You heard me,” she said calmly. “Add his bill to mine.” The waiter