Prologue

The White Crow had stood in Hangar 3 of the Heliona for what felt like days. For months now, the Heliona—the crown jewel of Master Wellfram’s once-fearsome fleet—had been slowly falling apart, along with its remaining ships, now a pitiful echo of the armada that had once defied the Imperial Navy, now reduced to lingering in orbit above a dead rock, waiting for time to finish what war had begun.

From minor logistics failures to the collapse of entire ship sections, the decay was spreading over Heliona. All four hangars on the Heliona had succumbed—except Hangar 3.

Mister Scotty, the chief engineer of Heliona, had had no rest for the last few months, helping Lieutenant Fry coordinate all activities in the ship. Everyday, the small Pattix officer and him walked from bow to stern, to very and modify any processes that might compromise the survival of the crew. He hadn’t had so much work for the better part of 20 odd years, not since the Ferrian conflict, but unlike then, the reasons for all the breakdown had proven more and more elusive. Even for a fleet of pirates east of the Last Watch, in an aging fleet, the amount of malfunctions was… unnatural. Everyday the blunt pain on his back weighted more, screming to run away back to Imperial space, take a shuttle and board the first Imperial cruiser, tell them all. Tell them about Wellfram’s fleet, about the breakage, about the stories….

Oh god the stories.

A sharp pain twisted in his stomach at the mere thought. He forced his focus back to the present—two deck boys struggled to get another crane working, the third one they’d brought to unload crates from the White Crow. It, too, had broken down.

Lieutenant Fry watched him closely, expectantly. The inland Pattix was no taller than three feet, shaped like a pudgy little bird. To the unfamiliar, he looked harmless.

But no one aboard the Heliona after the Ferrian would make that mistake.

The expectation—or rather, the threat—was clear.

Scotty was afraid. Afraid of Lieutenant Fry. Afraid of Master Wellfram.

But more than that, he was afraid of something else—something screaming in his gut, begging him not to look inside the crane.

He walked toward it anyway.

He looked inside.

Everything appeared in order. No reason for a malfunction.

He had to look harder.

Wire after wire, neatly aligned. And then—

Oh no. Not another one.

He ripped the circuit board from the control panel and held it up for the Pattix to see: a sickly spiral growth, just like the others. Small enough to hide, but lodged in the exact point where everything would fail if compromised.

A place that should have been unbreachable.

The stories returned…

A cold bead of sweat slipped into his eye, and for a moment, in the blindness he saw it all—

The shadows in the thick cold fog.

The risen.

The curse.

Then a small feathered hand—

Then a sharp pain in his cheek.

“Bring another,” the Pattix spat.

Two more cranes were brought over before they finally chanced upon one that worked.

Five more hours passed.

Five hours to unload the crates of supplies—

Enough to buy the crew a couple more months of life.

…Hopefully.

In any other transaction, the payment would have gone straight to Captain McGregor’s bank account the moment the last crate hit the deck.

But this time was different.

Wellfram wanted to pay the captain in person.

And worse—he wanted Scotty to shadow him throughout the exchange.

Scotty’s shoulders grew heavier by the minute.

On the unloading ramp of the White Crow, a tall human stood—taller than most, nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with Wellfram himself. As broad as he was tall.

Another thug.

Thugs. Curses. Scotty was an engineer. Dealing with thugs wasn’t in the job description.

At least, not as far as he was concerned.

In sepulchral silence, the two walked through the winding, decrepit, and deserted corridors of the Heliona.

It felt like hours before they reached it—

A heavy wooden door, rich and dark, framed by golden etchings of dragons on either side.

Inside, leaning against a wooden table as fine as the door—though not quite as rich as the rest of the quarters—stood a loosely dressed river Pattix.

Unlike their inland cousins, river Pattixes were tall, lean, and muscular reptilians with intricate scales—creatures bred for beauty and strength.

But the figure before Scotty was none of that.

Pale. Smooth. Hunched.

A hollow creature pretending to be Master Wellfram.

“Captain McGregor!”

A grotesque, gargling voice rasped from the slumped, pale, and descaled creature.

“Welcome! Welcome!”

With a jerky, commanding gesture, he signaled for Scotty to fetch drinks.

“Sit! Sit!”

“Master Wellfram… to what do I owe the pleasure?”

The human’s voice cracked as he spoke—

Not quite fear. Not quite respect. Something in between.

“Damned dark wizards!”

For a fleeting moment, Wellfram’s old voice broke through—booming, furious.

Then he downed his drink in a single gulp.

McGregor looked confused.

McGregor looked confused.

“Those Guardians. Those shadowy friends of yours from the West! They cursed us!”

Wellfram slammed his empty cup down and signaled for another.

“Cursed, Your Excellency? Don’t you think that’s a bit improbable?”

His voice cracked again.

“Bring me the damn bottle, boy!”

In a single gulp, he drained it.

“Smuggle! Damn it—what else are you gutter rats good for!”

“Smuggle… what?”

McGregor’s voice was careful now.

“Me.”

The Master Pirate whispered.

“Smuggle me back.”

For about an hour more, they negotiated.

Wellfram drank.

Scotty was offered as a slave—and denied.

A wooden box was brought in. Wellfram’s eyes lingered on it—just for a moment—his hands tightening slightly around it.

McGregor nodded.

The deal was settled.

That night, the Pattix Master and the Captain would take flight, while the rest of the ship slept.

That was Scotty’s chance.

The chief engineer spent the rest of the day evading Lieutenant Fry, searching for a way—any way—to stow away aboard the White Crow.

He found a narrow vent behind torn wall panels in Hangar 3.

He hid.

He waited.

When the ramp began to lower, he would run.

Run.

Finally!

He waited—for what felt like days—until he heard something behind him.

Noises.

A foul smell.

He took it as a sign.

He bolted beneath the White Crow, heart pounding.

It wasn’t long before he heard the ramp begin to rattle down…

and the distinctive voice of his master.

Scotty made a quick calculation in his head, then began counting sets of ten rattles.

By fifty, the ramp would be low enough for him to squirm inside.

Twenty rattles… thirty… forty—

He ran.

He ran like his life depended on it.

He tore off his coat, his belt, even his datapad—flung them all away—and dove forward.

He squirmed, pulled, pushed—

He was…

Free?

Something didn’t feel right.

Cold… too cold.

Where were they?

By now, they should’ve been halfway across the hangar.

Scotty counted again—just long enough to muster the courage to look.

Four… three… two…

He turned.

He looked.

The ramp was wide open now,

but there was no sign of his master—or the tall fellow.

Instead, the hangar was shrouded in a thick, foul-smelling fog.

A burning cold boiled his insides and froze his skin.

And shadows…

Too many shadows.

“Oh…” he whispered, the realization sinking in.

The evacuation alarm screeched in his ears,

the emergency red lights flickered, dim and hazy,

as the still shadows stalked.

Suddenly, Scotty felt himself trapped—not in the hangar,

or on the loading ramp of the White Crow,

but in a void…

“It fell apart AGAIN!”

The crane boy’s voice screamed in his ears.

“Three days in the brig… NOW!”

Lieutenant Fry’s sharp caw rang out,

as Scotty fled the burning hands of thugs,

fleeing back to the dark cell…

to the lashings.

A warm trickle fell down his leg,

just long enough to pull him out of his trance.

The shadows moved, circling closer to the ship,

in an eerie, yet still dance.

It was then he realized—the trickle was falling in the wrong direction…

The ropes tangled.

The cranes floated.

And the shadows stirred closer.

Coff… coff… coff… coff…

Something sharp crawled up Scotty’s throat—

a dry choke, like fear trying to claw its way out.

A javelin zipped upward…

Then another.

He looked.

The Captain and his Master clung to a grapple line,

Slugging across the hangar,

closing in on the White Crow.

Coff…coff…coff

Another zip—familiar, painful—snapped his focus back to the White Crow’s cargo bay.

A shuffle behind a crate.

Then another.

Scotty had never been one for reading fights.

But machines, crates, and noises?

Those he understood.

Even in microgravity, he knew that sound.

An Inland Pattix was trying to hide.

Coff…coff…coff

-“L-Liu-coff…Coff-nant F-Fry?” – Scotty felt another trickle going up – “I-Im So-Sor…Coff…Coff”

Revised Version:

“L-Lieu—coff… coff—tenant F-Fry?”

Another warm trickle ran upward along his side.

“I-I’m so—sor… coff… coff—”

The feathery punch struck from the left.

Then the right.

Then something Scotty didn’t expect happened— Scotty jumped, dodging another punch.

His hand caught a shaft.

He held on.

He breathed.

For a brief moment, he saw the small creature bathed in red light.

It wore the face of his Lieutenant, sure enough—but he didn’t remember Fry having a pipe shaft rammed through his eye socket, or half his guts spilling out in a trail of blackened goop.

Then, just as fast as the former Pattix appeared, it vanished.

Another trickle.

Coff…coff…coff

Scotty surprised himself again, stealing a moment off the chaos inside his head to listen.

Another shuffle.

In a controlled trot, he moved toward the slightly shifting crate. Then, mustering all the strength he had left, he kicked it out of the cargo bay—into the mist, where it vanished without a sound.

Coff…coff…coff

He heard some thuds coming from the emergency hatch.

McGregor wouldn’t close the ramp before takeoff.

Scotty moved up, toward the living quarters.

Coff…Coff…Coff

The sharp thing crawled out of Scotty’s throat, and there, under White Crow’s light, he saw it on his hand—a green goop, dotted with spiral spores.

Suddenly, his head was enveloped in a cloud of ecstasy. It felt like the first time he kissed a girl. The first time he rode a bike alone. Built his first contraption. Fixed his first car.

His body floated, his eyes closed, his smile tight… and why was he so anxious again?

From a distance, he heard voices, drifting from somewhere above.

“Quick, set a course for Zhi Zhou!”

Wellfram slithered urgently, his voice sharp

“I know a guy there!”

“Caaaaazz…”

The ethereal voice echoed, soft, yet powerful enough to blow the clouds from Scotty’s mind for a moment.

“Caz?”

McGregor muttered, his voice a mix of confusion and frustration

“Caz!”

He realized

“Who the hell is this Caz!?”

Wellfram’s voice surged with agitation.

“This better not be some game…”

“Fuck!”

McGregor snapped.

Scotty realized he couldn’t feel his body, and his vision was barely more than a blur. But for a brief moment, he felt something sharp across his torso, followed by a warmth in what was once his hands.

“Wellfram…”

Scotty whispered. In his hands, he held an eye and bits of brain. Before him stood his former master, Wellfram—missing an eye and parts of his head.

“Wellfram…”

Scotty murmured again, and finally, he saw his torso, burnt by plasma.

As quick as his shot, McGregor opened another emergency hatch, and Scotty felt a thousand demons blowing him away…

The stars looked beautiful from the vacuum he was floating in. Ahead, he saw Heliona submerge into a thundering cloud, as the micro-warp residue tugged on his skin. The clouds then enveloped his head, followed by ecstasy… then, nothing.