Starborn Legacy

The Martian dawn bled across the desert like a wound, spilling crimson light over endless dunes of rust and stone. For most colonists, it was another day of survival under the Syndicate’s chokehold.

For Tim Watt, it meant opportunity.

His patched-up skiff rattled across the sand, heading for the Graveyard—an ancient battlefield littered with wrecked starships. Where Syndicate drones found scraps, he found treasures.

Tim parked behind a dune and slipped into a broken hull, plasma cutter in hand. Inside, dust floated like ghosts in the beam of his wrist-light. He knew the risks: collapsed decks, rogue drones, even unexploded ordnance. But hunger was deadlier than fear.

Then he felt it—a vibration beneath his boots, faint but steady. He followed it to the bridge, where rubble half-buried something impossible.

A black sphere, veined with glowing cobalt, pulsed like a living heart.

The hum synced with his heartbeat. Tim froze, plasma cutter shaking in his grip.

And then it spoke.

“At last.”

Tim staggered back. No, not real. Hallucination. Thin air, desert heat. But the voice came again, inside his bones.

“You are chosen.”

Blue light seeped into his veins. His pulse quickened until he thought his chest would burst. The artifact wasn’t just alive—it was binding to him.

Then the hull trembled. Tim heard the whine of Syndicate drones outside. They had found him.

He grabbed the sphere, shoving it into his pack. Pain lanced through his chest, searing-hot, but his legs carried him anyway. He sprinted back to the skiff, ducking plasma fire as drones tore across the dunes.

“Not today,” he hissed, slamming the throttle. The skiff roared to life, bouncing hard over the sand. Plasma bolts scorched the desert at his heels.

Ahead, the colony’s domes glowed faintly in the night. Home. Safety. Maybe.

The drones strafed low, cutting molten scars into the ground. Tim yanked the controls, barely staying ahead of them. The artifact pulsed hotter in his chest, the same rhythm as his heartbeat, whispering one word again and again.

“Run.”

He didn’t argue.

The colony’s spotlights flicked on, watchtowers opening fire. One drone exploded in midair, fragments raining like sparks. The others pulled higher, circling like predators.

Tim’s skiff limped into the landing bay, engines shrieking. He stumbled out as alarms howled and red lights bathed the domes.

Overhead, shadows eclipsed the stars. Syndicate warships.

Tim’s blood went cold. They weren’t here for salvage. They were here for him.

The first barrage hit. Plasma bolts rained down, shattering domes, tearing watchtowers apart. Screams filled the comm channel before static cut them short.

The colony—his home—was burning.

“Tim!” Jax, the foreman, grabbed his arm. “What the hell’s going on?”

Tim couldn’t answer. His chest glowed blue through his shirt, veins lit like fire. The artifact roared inside him:

“Fight.”

But if he unleashed it now, who else would burn?

Another blast tore through the central dome. Fire bloomed across the basin, devouring everything Tim had ever known.

Tears blurred his vision. The colony was gone.

The artifact pulsed, stronger, fiercer.

“Run, Starborn. Run, and rise.”

Jax dragged him into the skiff, engines coughing back to life. They shot skyward, weaving through debris and plasma fire. Behind them, Mars glowed with flame.

Tim clenched the controls, jaw tight. He hadn’t chosen this. But the Syndicate had.

If they wanted the Starborn, they were going to get him.

And he would burn their empire to ash