Maren Voss jolted awake, heart pounding. The cloying scent of pine and cinnamon lingered in the cramped quarters of the generation ship
Aurora, more chemical than comforting. A holographic tree flickered in the corner, its forced cheer casting shifting colors onto the iron walls. Nothing had changed: the dented table bolted to the floor, the persistent hum of the engines, the same stale routine.
Any second now, Lyra would call her name.
"Maren! Help me hang these!"
Right on cue, her sister burst into the cramped space, arms tangled in a string of glowing star-lights. Her face shone with a childlike radiance that made Maren's chest tighten. How many times had she lived this memory, each time told it was for her own good? She focused on the spark of outrage within her, stoking it into the fury that kept her resolve intact. Once, Lyra's happiness had softened her; now it was just another blade aimed at her heart.
"Sure, Lyra!" Maren replied, voice sweet and unforced. The words slipped out too naturally, shaping her into something unwanted—but not exactly what
they intended her to be. She clung to that realization as armor against their designs. The memory flowed more smoothly when she played along, so she reached out to Lyra, hands outstretched.
"Carry me!" she said, reaching for Lyra with playful insistence. Though she loathed acting the part of a child again, but this was a time before the serum and the training, a time when intellect was her only weapon.
"Coming!" Lyra cried, dropping the tangled lights and lifting Maren into her arms. She strained only slightly—Lyra had always been strong. Still, the warmth of her embrace felt fragile, like a spark of light that would soon be swallowed by darkness.
Lyra set Maren down gently, then brushed invisible dust from her sister's shoulders before nodding in satisfaction. "Hold these," she said, pressing a handful of shimmering ornaments into Maren's hands. Each tiny sphere bore etched patterns—wreaths, evergreen boughs, and snowflakes—that Maren half-recalled from old Earth.
She hadn't seen snow as a child, had she?
"Maren, pass me that red one," Lyra called, oblivious to her sister's silence.
She handed over the ornament without a word.
On the colony ship—before Earth learned to outrun light—these decorations had
their own meanings. No midnight choirs, no crisp winter air—just pipes and bulkheads, holodeck projections, and the generator's hum. Yet they carried a promise of a home never seen, a season of peace borne through the darkness between stars. Back then, this festival hadn't been a hollow echo; it whispered that hope existed beyond Earth, that humanity could thrive as one family under distant suns.
"Where's Mom?" Maren asked, making a point of looking around.
Lyra shrugged, standing on her tiptoes to hang the ornament. "She's at the deck. We're passing a binary star system, so they needed her to keep an eye on things."
"Then can we see the stars while we work?" Maren asked, flashing Lyra a mischievous grin.
Lyra dropped to her heels, frowning. "But Mom said not to open the viewport."
"Pleaaaase?" Maren wheedled, fluttering her eyelashes theatrically.
Lyra flinched, hands raised defensively. "Noooo! Maren, stop! You know I can't say no when you do that!"
"Pleaaaase?" Maren repeated, letting her lower lip tremble.
"Ugh! Fine!" Lyra pressed a hand to her heart as though mortally wounded and stuck out her tongue. "But I'm definitely telling Mom you forced me!"
"That's fine," Maren said with a gentle, if guarded, smile.
Her sister had been so hopeful back then.
Lyra clambered onto the dented table and tinkered with hidden controls until the metal panel hissed open, unveiling a crown of stars beyond. Maren's breath caught for an instant as she caught the filtered view of the void from her childhood. Then she forced the emotion aside. Awe, after all, was a weakness she refused to entertain. Still, she felt a surge of fierce determination—there was so much out there, so many obstacles yet to overcome.
"That's fine," Maren said with a gentle smile—not mocking, but not entirely honest either. Her sister had been so hopeful back then.
Clambering onto the dented table, Lyra fiddled with hidden controls until the metal panel hissed open, revealing a gleaming crown of stars beyond. Maren's breath caught—just for an instant—before she forced the emotion down. Awe, after all, was a weakness she refused to indulge. Instead, she focused on her determination. There was so much out there—so much they would have to contend with.
"Lyra!" Maren called, lifting her arms.
With a playful huff, Lyra scooped her up again, setting her on the table's edge. Maren pressed both palms to the glass, her eyes gleaming at the sight of endless stars. The table wobbled beneath her feet, but Lyra's hands were steady. For a moment, Maren allowed herself a small spark of joy—one she'd thought buried for good.
How long had she gazed in wonder at this vista as a child?
For a moment, just a moment, her shoulders felt lighter.
"The Soren Nebula Cluster is right there," Maren whispered, tracing a faint purple-blue haze. "And the Voss Supergiant… it's passing just below us." Her fingertip glided across the glass. "Those are the Pisces Twins, but their light is blocked—we're too close."
She froze, realizing what she'd revealed. A knot of tension coiled in her stomach.
Lyra, however, seemed blissfully unaware. She settled beside Maren, fiddling with a tiny carriage pulled by horned creatures—a toy from their homeworld, symbolic of an ancient gift-giver. It jingled softly, the sound both tender and a little sad. "Why do you love the stars so much, Maren?" she asked, not once looking away from the toy in her hand.
Maren watched the tiny figure's head bob. "Because they're beautiful," she replied absently, the answer well-rehearsed. "They're vast and bright... and they remind me there's more out there than just this place."
It was more than beauty: the stars had represented hope. They existed beyond this cage of steel and plastic—beyond confinement. They had meant freedom. They had meant plenty. All things her parents had told her waited at the end of this generational journey. This was before she lost hope, before the disappointment hardened into something like steel within her.
Lyra giggled, lifting the toy as though to share the view with it. "Did you know that when we land, we'll have real trees? Not just projections. Whole forests—" She paused, squinting as one star flickered from the viewport's filter. "Mom said we'll build our homes right under the leaves, where it smells like nothing but grass."
Maren's heart clenched. "That sounds wonderful," she replied, forcing a smile. "What else do you want to do when you get there?"
Maren chuckled. "Dragons don't exist."
"They do too!" Lyra insisted. "They're from Komodo!"
Maren raised an eyebrow.
Lyra stuck out her tongue. "Well, what do
you want to do?"
"Me?" Maren echoed, her smile fading. "I think I'll become a geneticist."
Lyra tilted her head. "What's a
jenitist?"
Maren blinked, then offered a gentle smile. "Someone who can code people like a machine," she said, working to keep her tone light. "They make them function better—kind of like how Mom helps the ship." The future would require adaptability, and someone had to ensure their people survived whatever awaited them.
"Oh." Lyra's eyes lit up. "Then I'll be a
jenitist too!"
"You know you have to study a lot for that, right?" Maren teased, making Lyra frown. "Maybe you can become a guard, like Dad. You'd be good at that."
Lyra tilted her head. "Do
jenitists need guards?"
"No, but those who are also empresses do," Maren said at once. "I can be the empress, and you can protect me. Wouldn't that be fun?"
Lyra tilted her head again. "What's an empress?"
"Someone who rules from afar, Lyra," Maren replied, turning slightly. "Like the emperor from Earth—though I guess he won't be where we're going."
But that was a lie.
Long before the
Aurora reached its destination, Earth's rulers had learned to burn faster than light, seizing worlds ahead of slower ships like theirs. What had once been promised to all had already been hoarded by the few. By the time Maren's people arrived, the galaxy's best prospects would be stripped away—leaving them only scraps of starlight.
Her fingers slid toward the control panel while Lyra was distracted, steady and sure. The starlight intensified, glittering in Maren's eyes as she made her choice. Pressing her lips into a thin line, she let the distant glow reflect in her gaze. Slowly, the embers of her rage cooled to a measured calm.
Remember, Maren. This was no mere memory—it was a battleground for her soul.
She would never break.
"Don't you think this has gone far enough, spirit?" she said suddenly, letting the childlike timbre fade from her voice. "This nostalgia won't make me falter."
Lyra turned towards her, perplexed. "What are you talking about, Maren?"
Maren sighed, deliberately placing a hand on the viewport. "How long will we play games?"
Lyra's eyes followed her motion, and in that instant, they were old—older than Maren herself. "I'm not playing games,
Empress," she said, her tone harsh in a way she had never heard from her true sister. "I just want you to remember. Your sister wouldn't want this for you."
"That's not for you to say," Maren replied, her expression hardening. "Nor for her, in fact."
The spirit wearing Lyra's face looked resigned.
Maren flicked her wrist, pressing the button.
With a sudden crack, the viewport opened, flooding the room with twin-sun brilliance. Light devoured all shadows, searing away any veneer of warmth or joy. Blistering heat scorched her skin, but in that instant of pain, Maren tasted freedom. She was still trapped—but one day, she would be free.
"Try again," she whispered, as the radiance consumed everything.
Then—silence.
| | | | | | | | | |
The air hung heavy with exhaustion as three figures gathered in the ethereal void. Fragments of Maren's life drifted around them, each shard depicting a chapter of her relentless rise—from the bright-eyed refugee who became the mother of immortality, to the ruthless pragmatist who became the tyrant of the stars. At their center stood the image of a defiant little girl, her fierce eyes fixed on distant stars, her whispered challenge still echoing.
"Try again."
"Damn her," the spirit hissed, pacing in sharp, uneven steps. She still wore Lyra's guise, though distorted—a child's face drawn tight with rage, hair flickering like a coal-red ember. Her glow sputtered weakly, mirroring the fragile memories swirling around them. "We've redeemed warlords, tyrants, monsters. But her—she just won't bend."
"The more we show her, the tighter she clings to her fury," another figure murmured, his voice trembling as they studied the image. "It's... not nice."
This spirit was hunched and burdened, draped in jolly red fabric that had faded to a dull shadow of its former splendor. The edges of their cloak hung frayed and threadbare, symbolizing the erosion of hope and joy. His trembling hands methodically carved a piece of wood, the rough strokes more an outlet for their pent-up frustration than a work of art.
The childlike spirit—still wearing that old face—rounded on the red-cloaked one. "Are you saying I made a mistake?" she demanded, voice sharp.
"You provoked her with that old image of me," he accused, carving more deeply. "You knew how she would react to that face, those traditions. We need her to yield, not dig in her heels."
"And yet she once cherished such images," The childlike spirit retorted, folding its arms, sparks flaring dimly from her hair. "I just wanted her to remember that."
There was a sharp crack, knife digging in as the red-cloaked spirit carved. "Now, she's turned that hope into an iron purpose, and we cannot crack it."
"I can't rewrite the past," Lyra's face replied, eyes filled with unchildlike exhaustion. "I must use what was, just as you can only use what is. That is all I did."
A skeletal hand came up between them, and the other two figures cut off abruptly. Quiet spread like spilled ink and only a distant breath escaped the silence. An oppressive shape loomed closer—a specter cloaked in shadows, a face more hollow than the void around them. They turned towards the childlike spirit, who looked away uncomfortably.
Then they came to rest upon the red-cloaked spirit. He kept carving, the sound of his knife rough and loud as if to defy the silence. The knife broke from the force. The red-cloaked spirit exhaled heavily, before getting up. He glanced at his carving - now ruined - and tossed it aside. He rubbed his faded cloak and color began to appear on it, and then he looked up at the silent spector, reluctance etched into every line of his posture.
"Fine," He said at last, voice low and resigned. "Let me try this time."
| | | | | | | | | |
Snow fell in perfect silence, each flake reflecting the artificial light like shards of glass. Beneath Maren's feet stretched a smooth steel plain—cold, unyielding, and faintly aglow under the towering spires. Above her, satellite stars orbited lazily, their lights flickering in unnatural rhythms as distorted jingles echoed across the metallic expanse. The air smelled faintly of rust—sharp and acrid—clashing with the delicate, sterile beauty of the falling snow.
Maren stood motionless, her gaze sweeping the strange horizon. She felt no chill—only the weight of her power armor, each plate a perfect fit. Flexing her gauntleted hands, she tested their strength. She was strong—impossibly so—and it was no mere illusion. This body was her own design, precisely as she had envisioned. Yet a subtle tension coiled in her stomach, programmed instincts preparing her for battle.
A faint smirk played on her lips.
"So, you're the one who wants to play," she muttered, voice low and sharp in the unmoving air. Tilting her head toward the sky, she waited. The Spirit would come—they always did.
The distorted jingle grew louder, gradually returning to a more familiar tune. Its rhythm deepened, layered with the creak of wood and the beat of hooves. Maren narrowed her eyes at a flicker of motion against the artificial stars. A sleigh emerged—drawn by reindeer that glowed with an otherworldly, spectral light. Their eyes burned a steady red, leaving ribbons of luminescence trailing behind them like fading echoes of festive cheer.
The sleigh descended slowly, almost regally. Its vivid red paint shone against the white snow, golden trim stark against the gray steel. Seated atop it was one of the spirits that haunted her: a massive, commanding figure. His broad shoulders were draped in a flowing red robe lined with white fur, and a crown of holly perched upon his head.
He moved with the bearing of one long used to grandeur, his gaze sweeping over Maren with a practiced authority. But she noticed the faint slump of his shoulders, the hesitation as he stepped down from the sleigh. His boots crunched against the steel with a sound just a fraction too heavy, as though every step exacted a toll.
"Empress Maren Voss," he boomed, voice resonant yet wary. "How fitting that you greet me with a smirk, standing amidst a world hollowed out by your own ambition."
"Hello, Spirit," Maren said, letting her grin widen. She crossed her arms over her chest, surveying the metallic plain with slow deliberation. "This is Earth, isn't it? A bit dramatic to claim I ruined it. I haven't set foot here since my coronation."
The spirit sighed, long and low.
"You came from a ship where this festival was a lifeline in the void—a place where children told tales of Earth's green forests and gentle snows." He gestured around them, genuine grief etched in his features. "Yet you turned it into
this. Not even its ancient oligarchs warped humanity's cradle so completely. But you did, in
our name."
"In humanity's name," Maren corrected, her tone smooth, almost bored. "How was I supposed to know the ancient festival I spread across the stars would come with opinionated ghosts?"
"Was it not
your orders that turned the planet into this?" he asked, shaking his head. "We've shown you before, and yet you remain unmoved. Why do you refuse to care about what you've done—about what you've destroyed?"
Maren raised an eyebrow. "Earth is but one world," she replied, her gaze clinical. "A bounty unmatched in the cosmos, but still a single planet. I've cataloged every species, every unique variation. We can rebuild it after I'm done."
The Spirit studied her for a long moment, his piercing gaze probing for cracks beneath her armored composure. "Always so sure of yourself," he murmured, almost to himself. Then, louder, "Very well. Let us see the truth of your reign." Maren offered only the faintest tilt of her head in reply.
He raised one hand, and with a flick of his wrist, the sleigh's door swung open. Maren's eyes narrowed as she observed it—this was how he always transported her to the next vision, and she couldn't help wondering about the mechanism. The Spirit caught her curious look, but Maren only smirked in response. She seated herself, gesturing with a gauntleted hand for him to proceed.
"Lead the way, then," she said. "Show me whatever truth you've uncovered this time."
As the sleigh glided forward, Maren leaned back with her arms crossed, her gaze locked on the Spirit. His face was impassive, yet she caught how his knuckles whitened around the reins. The distorted jingle bells grew distant as the sleigh climbed a fraction, then plunged straight through the metal plain. Gleaming steel parted like liquid, revealing a stark world below.
The sleigh slowed above a dark, cavernous chamber where flickering lights cast jagged shadows on corrugated metal walls. Below them, makeshift homes—assembled from emergency shelters and salvaged machinery—clustered along what passed for streets. Silent figures drifted between these cramped dwellings, eking out a life far removed from any official settlement.
They descended through the roof of a makeshift shelter, the air growing warmer as the hollow hum overhead gave way to murmured voices below. Quiet conversation mingled with the clatter of tools and the hiss of a dying generator. The sleigh came to rest in the center of a dim, cramped room, its walls patched with scavenged panels.
The Spirit stepped out first, his massive frame throwing an elongated shadow across the floor. Maren followed, the impact of her armored boots making the metal beneath them tremble. She surveyed her surroundings, cool and calculating.
What is he trying to show me this time?
In the room's center stood a battered table ringed by mismatched chairs. A gaunt woman, perhaps in her forties, meticulously divided a handful of ration packs into even piles. Nearby, her husband hunched over a broken music player, fiddling with its innards in a half-hearted attempt at repair. Two children sat close by, wrapped in threadbare thermal blankets, their wide eyes flicking toward a faintly glowing holographic tree in the corner.
Maren's gaze lingered on the holographic tree until the Spirit's voice shattered the silence, laden with reproach. "Your kin, Maren. The descendants of your sister, Lyra. She brought them here, away from the Empire—away from
you."
Maren remained silent for a moment, head tilted as she evaluated the little family. "They're surviving," she said at last. "It could be worse—they have rations and shelter." The woman at the table lifted her gaze, her face drawn but her eyes unwavering. She didn't speak, didn't even notice them, but the set of her jaw told Maren all she needed to know.
The Spirit advanced, his voice cutting. "Shelter? Rations? This is what remains for your sister's children—your own nieces and nephews. You took the ones who loved you, bent them to fuel your ambitions, then left them scavenging the scraps of your dreams."
Maren folded her arms, meeting his gaze without emotion. "I ensured everyone lived—not just me and mine, but
all of them. Isn't that the essence of your archaic festival? Sharing with everyone?"
"This isn't living!" the Spirit nearly shouted, his presence looming. "Do you truly believe your empire was worth all the lives you extinguished—your own kin among them?"
"Yes," Maren answered, her voice growing colder. "They'll make do—until I unite all of humanity.
All of it. Only together can we survive the stars."
She recalled the daily reports. Colonies dying out mere moments before her arrival, their final transmissions pleading only to be remembered. The galaxy beyond Earth's cradle was not gentle; she had to be faster, stronger,
better. If she failed—if humanity stayed divided—they'd become little more than scattered embers, snuffed out one by one. The unity she imposed was the only shield against that annihilation.
"You can't do this, Maren!" the Spirit burst out, straightening before faltering again. He paused, visibly collecting himself. "Do you really think these sacrifices will mean anything? Misery only breeds more misery. Your ambitions might never bear fruit."
Maren merely raised an eyebrow. "That isn't for
you to decide, is it?"
"Maren, please." The Spirit pleaded, face filled with naked compassion. "For the sake of your own happiness, if no one else's."
"No." Maren answered simply, shaking her head.
The Spirit's expression hardened. "So be it then."
She made a dismissive gesture. "Then send forth your older sibling. I'll have words with him now, for whatever measure of words there can be with one such as him."
"You won't win, Maren." The Spirit said, meeting her eyes. "You are only human."
She looked back, unflinching. "Am I?"
They locked eyes for a long moment before, at last, the Spirit looked away. The room began to fade, dissolving into streaks of light and shadow. Maren stood unmoving, her armored frame rigid. Yet as the world unraveled, a subtle tension coiled in the pit of her stomach, gnawing at her resolve. For one fleeting instant, her smile faltered—and something else, unnamable, flickered in her eyes.
| | | | | | | | |
The void had fallen silent, broken only by a distant hum like the breath of a sleeping giant. The Spirit moved toward the swirling maelstrom of memories, his crimson robes fading back to dull, threadbare red with each step. Shoulders slumped beneath a once-majestic cloak, he exhaled heavily and rubbed a hand across his face before turning to his siblings.
"She's relentless," he muttered, voice subdued. "Every word, every vision—she only grows more resolute. It's like trying to crack iron with mere words."
Lyra—or the spirit wearing her visage—lowered her gaze to the fading image of Maren that spun before them. The glow in her ember-like hair was steadier now, burning with a persistent heat. "She broke, there at the end," she said, her tone almost hopeful. But as she looked up, uncertainty crept in. "At least…I think she broke. Right?"
The red-cloaked spirit crouched beside the image, studying it with care. "Maybe," he reluctantly allowed, then shook his head. "She's done this before—shown cracks—and every time, instead of remorse, she finds fuel. Each memory we present only becomes another spark."
"Then what do you want me to do?" The childlike spirit demanded, throwing up her hands. The glow of her ember hair flared, causing the fractured images around them to swirl faster. "I gave her
everything—the stars, her sister—and she just burns right through it all, like none of it matters."
"It matters," the red-cloaked spirit said, kneeling beside her, his voice heavy with fatigue. The faded colors of his robe brightened faintly, as if recalling some lost era of purpose. "She does feel it. We know she does. That's why she resists so fiercely. It's why
we must fight just as hard."
"Maybe she's right," the childlike spirit murmured, shaking her head. "Maybe she isn't even human anymore. How many times have we tried? How many times have we failed? How many more times can we endure before
we break?"
"We can't break," the red-cloaked spirit whispered. "For humanity's sake."
The childlike spirit gave a bitter laugh. "She
is humanity."
A sudden weight fell on the childlike spirit's shoulder—a presence of silence and gravity. Their hooded shape revealed no face, yet despite the chill emanating from them, the flame on Lyra's hair seemed to blaze brighter. Then the surrounding air grew heavier still, as though time and truth themselves were bending.
"You could speak for once," the red-cloaked spirit said to the hooded figure, though any defiance in his voice faded halfway. "We're running out of time."
The childlike shook her head, eyes shut. "Words aren't necessary, and you know that."
The towering shadow inclined their head in a slow, deliberate gesture. In the swirling image between them, the final flicker of Maren's hesitant smirk glimmered like a dying star. The childlike spirit inhaled sharply. Even the red-cloaked spirit straightened. An energy passed between them—cautious yet promising.
"Fine," the red-cloaked spirit said softly, his tone both weary and resolute. "It's
your turn again. Maybe the shape of what's to come will slip past that chink in her armor."
The silent one—tall and cloaked—lifted a skeletal hand, pointing into Maren's image. The space around them darkened further, while the distant hum intensified, as though some colossal force was waking. Then the towering shadow stepped forward, and the image swallowed him whole.
| | | | | | | | | |
The air felt heavier here, thick with a silence that pressed down like physical weight. Maren stood in the shadow of a crumbling spire, its once-polished surface streaked with grime and cracks. Shattered pieces of masonry lay scattered, half-buried beneath creeping vines that had forced their way through broken stone. Above her, a dull gray sky stood empty of stars, and the weak glow of distant lamps steeped the ruins in a sickly pallor.
Her gauntleted hand slid over a fallen column, its surface etched with faded inscriptions. The words were almost illegible—worn away by time and neglect—yet she recognized them. They were hers, after all. Or at least, they had been. The face carved beneath them, however, was unfamiliar, bearing little resemblance to any depiction of herself she'd known.
She tilted her head, murmuring fragmented words under her breath.
"…humanity together, a sun that blots out the disparate stars…"
She turned away, sensing the Spirit's silent presence behind her. Though he said nothing, his aura pressed against her like a sudden chill. For now, she ignored him, surveying the broken skyline. The city was unfamiliar, yet she inclined her head slightly in a gesture of respect. It was a planetary capital born of her influence—and so she would honor them.
The Spirit lifted a skeletal hand, pointing toward the heart of the ruins, where a massive tower jutted into the lifeless sky. Maren took the cue without hesitation. Her armored boots ground against scattered gravel as she traversed unfamiliar streets—calm, measured, unstoppable.
She didn't know this city, but it was hers.
Debris choked the streets—broken machinery, splintered glass, and chunks of stone carved in her image. She stooped to pick up a small fragment, turning it over in her hand. A weathered corner of her own visage stared back, a haunting echo of faded grandeur. Across it, in jagged neon paint, someone had scrawled a single phrase.
The Tyrant.
She shook her head and dropped the shard, moving on.
Up ahead, the ruins of a central building loomed in the gloom, its once-grand doors splintered—one barely clinging to a broken hinge. Maren stepped inside without pause. A faded mural drew her gaze. It depicted her younger self in the moment of her coronation, hands stretched high as though plucking stars from the sky.
Poetic, she mused,
and not so far from the truth.
Beneath that grand scene lay signs of a fierce battle—charred barricades, crude weapons, and decaying remains of the defenders. She crouched beside one barricade, letting her fingers skim over the brittle threads of a torn banner. The emblem was unfamiliar to her, but the meaning of the scene was unmistakable. Her empire had not met its end in peace.
She rose slowly and turned to face the Spirit. "This was a rebellion," she observed, her tone thoughtful. "But it wasn't against me." The Spirit tilted its head, wordless yet watchful.
Maren frowned, glancing at the damaged mural again. "What happened?" she murmured, almost to herself. "What could have brought all of this down?"
The Spirit lifted a skeletal hand once more, indicating a darkened doorway at the end of the hall. As she entered, the air turned colder, heavier. She threw a brief glance at the silent figure trailing behind her, then refocused on the shadows ahead.
"This looks like the final battleground," she observed, pointing to two corpses still clutching a small box, their fingers interlocked despite the decay.
One of the corpses wore an emblem on their shoulder—her insignia, or something derived from it. Maren crouched, carefully prying a small box from their stiffened grip. It was a terminal, its projector cracked but operable. She swept away the dust and tapped a few commands, bringing it to life with a distorted hum. Lines of corrupted text flickered before stabilizing.
Supply Lines Cut Off—Sorry, but you are on your own.
Her eyebrow lifted. This city was too advanced to have been easily deserted. She tapped the controls again, scanning fragmented files as they flickered across the projection.
…Rebellion in the homefront…
…Advance unsustainable…
…Evacuation initiated. You have one solar revolution…
As she reviewed the data, the pieces slotted together in her mind. A little too much pressure here, not enough support there—and the empire would buckle without her guiding hand. She committed the information to memory, the time, the place, the people. Then with a respectful nod, she placed the terminal back between the fallen corpses.
Turning to the Spirit, she regarded him curiously. "A bit to the point this time."
The Spirit offered no reply, merely gesturing toward a nearby doorway.
"I don't need to see any more," she said, folding her arms over her chest. "You think I haven't considered a dozen doomsdays like this? I've stared down failures worse than anything you can conjure. I won't hesitate simply because I might get unlucky."
She began to pace, her sharp gaze sweeping the room and capturing every detail. Even here, she spotted innovations—some she understood instantly, others that might inform future minds. Speaking aloud as she moved, she dissected the chain of events that had brought this place to ruin.
"My empire collapsed," Maren said coolly, each word honed like a scalpel. "Not at the hands of a grand foe, but through simple, unyielding arithmetic. Too many fronts, not enough fuel. Stress fractures in a grand machine that couldn't hold." She swept her armored hand in a slow arc. "This is what becomes of humanity when it hesitates—when unity crumbles."
She shrugged, as though describing a failed experiment rather than a shattered civilization. "Does it matter?" she asked, glancing at the Spirit. "I knew the risks. I acted anyway—necessity doesn't wait for perfection. Earth spread like wildfire, and by the time I took the reins, a trillion souls were scattered across countless colonies, clinging to survival."
"Star travel isn't cheap—certainly not at the speed and scale I demand." She advanced on the Spirit, her armored boots grinding broken rubble underfoot. "Should I have waited while they died off one by one? Let the void swallow them because they couldn't stand on their own?
No." Her voice sliced through the silent air. "I spent everything—every resource, every life—to save them. If I'd hesitated, even for a moment, they would all be lost."
"Isn't that what your precious holiday is about?" she pressed, her tone razor-edged. "Sacrifice for the greater good, even if it costs everything? So tell me, Spirit—what should I do if you are the ones who condemn me?"
The Spirit remained utterly still, shadows unwavering in the stale air. Maren tilted her head, the intensity in her eyes easing for a moment, though her voice held its edge.
"I understand," she said finally. "You want humanity to thrive, to find joy, to feel something more than survival pressing down on their shoulders like a yoke. You yearn for them to sing carols beneath real trees, to build lives where hope isn't just a word whispered against the dark." Her lips curved into a faint, almost wistful smile. "I admire that."
The Spirit shifted, their form flickering like a flame in an errant wind. Sensing thier uncertainty, Maren continued, her tone steady but laced with something approaching warmth.
"Your mission isn't so different from mine," she went on. "You believe I don't want them to be happy? That
I don't want to be happy? I wish we could build worlds without blood staining every foundation stone—I wish it
every day. But wishing isn't enough. It takes more."
Her gaze swept the crumbling ruins—a world that might have been saved, or perhaps still could be. Her next words came quietly, threaded with sorrow. "I wish there was another way, Spirit. But there isn't. Not in a galaxy like this."
"You've seen the scope of it, haven't you?" she said, her voice hushed, almost tender. "The weight of every decision I've made—how it grinds you down until all that remains is the mission. The galaxy is immense, Spirit. A trillion souls rely on someone to hold them together."
Maren laughed, shaking my head. "You haunt me because you care about humanity's fate, just as I do. But I'm just one woman, doing the work no one else dares."
She paused, letting her words reverberate in the stillness. "Join me."
The Spirit flinched, their shadowy cloak twisting in sharp, wary swirls.
"You have power I can only guess at," she said, raising a hand. "Together, we could
fix this—see the past and restore it, find the lost colonies before they perish. We could spot our errors
before we make them." She closed her fist, a triumphant spark lighting her eyes. "We'd ensure humanity doesn't just survive, but truly thrives."
"Or you can keep me here," she said, grinning. "I won't break—you know that as well as I do. I may not fully grasp your methods yet, but time is slipping away, and every second costs a million lives." She kept her hand extended, gaze locked on the Spirit's eyeless void. "If you truly care for them, then join me."
"Tick tock, Spirit," she teased, her grin widening. "Time is running out."
The Spirit's shadows quivered again, and for an instant, Maren glimpsed something beyond anger in the void—
doubt, pain, longing. A skeletal hand twitched, then clenched into a fist. Shadows churned around them in a tempest of indecision before they whirled away, vanishing into the dark with a trembling shudder.
"Tick," she murmured, her voice cutting through the lingering silence. "Tock."
The world around her began to dissolve, the shattered ruins melting into streaks of light and shadow. The terminal's hum died away, leaving the void's oppressive hush. Maren stood statuesque in her armor, unflinching, eyes forward. For the briefest instant, a skeletal hand lingered nearby, and a whisper—almost too faint to hear—sighed through the emptiness.
Then the final shards of the city vanished, taking her with them.
| | | | | | | | | |
The void had grown quieter than before, like a breath held in anticipation. Yet beneath that silence seethed a tension that pressed against the very fabric of this realm. The silent specter reappeared, trembling; even the void seemed to quiver, as though uncertain how much longer they could keep their form. Even inevitability, it seemed, could be worn down with time.
The towering shape loomed behind them, silent as always. With agonizing slowness, they reached out to snatch the last lingering fragment of Maren's gentler past—a memory bearing her sister's face and a child's starlit innocence. The glow sputtered, then dimmed, swallowed by cold shadow as skeletal fingers touched the image in thought, almost caressing it.
The red-cloaked spirit flinched, then squared his shoulders. "She made an offer," he murmured, voice heavy with doubt. "A dangerous one. But… she believes it. Like she always does."
The childlike spirit sank to her knees, absently toying with remnants of shattered memories—tiny shards of past failures that glimmered like broken glass. "She's just stalling," she snapped, though the fire in her ember hair flickered unevenly. "That's what she always does—wearing us down, buying herself time."
The red-cloaked Spirit shook his head. "No. She isn't stalling. She's
daring us."
"Daring us?" the childlike spirit repeated, letting out a bark of brittle, bitter laughter. "She's mocking us—claiming we've already lost, trying to make us
complicit in her madness."
The red-cloaked Spirit didn't answer immediately. He turned toward the looming specter, his weary eyes meeting the void where their gaze might have been. "And yet," they said softly, "what if she's right? What if this truly is the only way?"
The childlike spirit froze, her ember hair flaring to life. "You can't mean—"
"Look at her," the red-cloaked spirit cut in, nodding at the fragments still trapped in the childlike spirit's grasp. "Every vision we present, she hammers into steel. Every fracture we cause, she reforges into resolve. What if we've misjudged things? What if
her strength is exactly what this future needs?" His voice dipped, heavy with reluctance.
"She wants to remake the galaxy on
her terms," the childlike spirit retorted, pressing the shards so tightly they bit into her palms. "She's dangerous, stubborn, reckless—"
"And utterly committed," the red-cloaked spirit countered, a spark of grudging admiration in his weary tone. "She'd burn herself to ash if it meant saving them."
The looming specter inclined their head in a slow, deliberate gesture. The void's tension coiled tighter still, as if it, too, was contemplating Maren's proposition.
The childlike spirit's ember hair flared, frustration warping her features. "You're actually considering this? After everything she's done?"
"
Because of everything she's done," the red-cloaked spirit answered, voice steady now. "Because she's unyielding. Because she won't stop. Because…" He paused, exhaling softly. "…maybe she
shouldn't." As he rubbed his robes with trembling hands, the jolly red grew a shade brighter.
The childlike spirit faltered, her fiery hair dimming. For an instant, she looked truly young—fingers clenched around the broken shards as though they might slip away. "But what if she's wrong?" she whispered, voice quavering. "What if she risks everything and
fails?"
At that question, the towering specter gave a subtle twitch. Gradually, they raised a skeletal hand, pointing into the swirling void where the image of Maren's smirk hovered, defiant and unbroken.
The childlike spirit exhaled, her ember hair flaring in one final burst. "So… you're open to her offer, then."
"Better to burn than to fade," the red-cloaked spirit said, a flicker of joy and renewed majesty creeping back into his once-faded robes.
The spirit wearing Lyra's face stood, hair glowing like the wick of a candle. "Fine then," she said at last, her voice gentle yet firm. "We'll guide her. But if she falters…"
"She won't," the red-cloaked spirit assured her. "She's already made that perfectly clear—she will never break."
The void fell silent as the specter inclined its head in a slow, deliberate nod. Far off, every lingering shard of Maren's memories—her sister's laughter, Earth's lush promise, the blaze of coronations and the fury of wars—began to spin. One by one, they spiraled inward, collapsing into a single point of light. At the center of that nexus, Maren's image coalesced, armored and steady, past and present whirling around her like a galaxy of stars.
In a sudden rush, the shards together, merging seamlessly into one form. When the last memory settled, Maren found herself standing face-to-face with the three spirits. She glanced around thoughtfully, then inclined her head. Her voice was as cool as starlight.
"I take it you're ready to discuss my offer," she said, her gaze calmly sweeping over each of them in turn.
The childlike spirit followed, her ember hair flaring and dimming, now steady, like a hearth-fire in a well-kept home. "The old rules aren't working," she said, her voice, so often bitter, was now quiet. "So we will try it your way now. But do not dare think I will let it be easy. I will show you the costs you cannot see. I will ensure you never turn a blind eye to the price of your unity. I will be your historian and your judge of consequence. I will make you see, no matter the cost."
Maren inclined her head, respect glinting in her gaze. "I accept your counsel."
"You've won this time," the childlike spirit said, flashing a smile that was suddenly sharp and resolute. In the intensifying light, she resembled Maren far more than Lyra. "But remember—there
will be a price for this."
Maren met her gaze, calm and unflinching. "Then I'll bear that price—just as I bear them all."
The red-cloaked spirit came forward, his robe blazing with renewed color, as though recalling a more hopeful age. "I want you and your people to be happy," he said softly, his voice both weary but steady. "But don't mistake my compassion for weakness. I'll hold you accountable at every turn—so your empire never becomes an empire of ash. I'll show you where to go, every life that could be lost, every world that could die. I'll make you see the faces, the tears, the nightmares of all those you claim to protect."
Maren inclined her head, her expression sober. "I accept your guidance."
"I hope that's true." The Red-cloaked Spirit lifted his hands once more, this time with renewed determination. "Not just for your sake, but for all our sake."
Slowly, she turned to the specter looming behind the others, their skeletal form silent and still. Her eyes never wavered. For a long moment, they merely watched each other, thoughts passing unspoken. Then, the specter lifted a bony hand in a deliberate gesture, as though they bore the weight of every fate in the galaxy.
"I accept your vigilance," she said, clasping the specter's hands with quiet resolve. "We
will succeed," she continued, addressing them all—and perhaps reassuring herself.
Finally, the towering specter spoke, their voice like thunder rolling through a silent night—distant yet inevitable.
"BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY."
