Ashbound (TBD)

Darkness gripped me, pain echoing like a twin pulse. My life unraveled in flashes and hung in the void of my mind. And in that unraveling— my memories slipped through the folds of my unconsciousness.

The roar of the coliseum was familiar and deafening.

I was fifteen, crouched high in the rafters, peeking through rusted slats.

My chest tight with pride. Eyes glued to the arena with admiration.

I loved watching him. My father.

He stood beneath the twin suns, bronze not by choice but by years of burn.

Fierce, but with a quiet regality that made you look twice.

His hair, short and faded pink to near-white, clung to his scalp in a crust of sweat and dust.

His large wings—dark, translucent—manifested only in the crucible of battle, glimmering like oil across flame.

Blue eyes, sharp and unwavering, stared forward.

In his grip, Stars Tempest—the light blade whose hilt bore the Zorecian insignia, a relic of empire and ruin.

The final heirloom of a vanished fae bloodline.

He was the last.

My father wore a crown once.

A Fae king.

Zorela—his homeworld of forests, temples, and sky—left in ruin, ash trailing the Levisthian siege.

His throne shattered. His name silenced.

He was captured. Paraded.

Then they cast him into the coliseum—to die without merit.

"Fight for your freedom," they told him. "Survive a lunar century and you walk free."

He nearly did.

His skin bore the scars of a thousand battles—each a constellation in his ruin, a story carved in flesh.

For decades, he reigned.

A champion, unbeaten.

Just weeks shy of his lunar century, he fell—his first defeat, and his last.

With him went the nights he whispered promises into my hair.

We'd leave behind the blood and the façade.

No more pretending to be a boy.

No more weapons, sparring, or combat training.

I could be soft.

Spoiled.

A proper girl.

Just a little girl—his princess.

But mother always reminded us, "This universe is unforgiving to women."

She'd say it with that quiet warning in her voice.

That this disguise was survival.

The Levisthian's would've snatched me up, sold me before I even had a name.

I know it hurt him—to see his daughter hide everything that made her a daughter.

But it fueled him. Every match was a war waged for our escape.

That dream dying the day he did.

They blamed the outcome on a wager gone wrong.

A champion killed too early. A bet buried with his body.

The time left on his lunar century inherited to me. They revised the terms, extended the punishment, raised the stakes.

A week later after my father passed, I stepped into the blood-soaked sands.

Masked. Silent.

Holding Stars Tempest.

It wasn't for glory.

It was to keep my mother from the brothel.

To keep me from the slave pens.

That was the moment I stopped dreaming of being someone's daughter. I instead became known in the coliseum as the Heir of Ruin.

Then another memory surfaced.

My mother.

She wasn't born into this hell—she was stolen from Earth. A planet I've never seen, but one she described with sunlit wonder: rivers that sang, skies that opened without fire, wind that carried voices rather than warnings. The Levisthian's took her as a girl, smuggled her across star systems, traded her through ranks well into womanhood until she was presented as a gift to my father—the reigning champion.

He despised the transaction.

But he fought harder because of it. Fought to earn her freedom. Loved her with quiet fervor, unwavering and fierce. And she loved him back—completely, without apology.

She was human, with soft light brown curls that spilled across her collarbones, and sun-warmed skin that refused to pale beneath confinement. Her eyes—light brown, flecked with amber—held the storm and the story. At night, she'd sing softly, threading stories of Earth into my dreams: seashells, snowfall, laughter that didn't echo off concrete.

But after he died...

She began to fade.

Not suddenly. Grief is slow—sharp at the edges, soft in the middle. It curled around her lungs, tightening with every breath. And a few years after the coliseum swallowed him whole, her body began to give. Her lungs stuttered. Her strength waned. The light in her eyes flickered, but never quite went out.

Each time I stepped into that arena, worry peeled years from her soul.

The Levisthian's withheld medicine. Claimed she'd outlived her value.

That was enough.

I lit a spark through the coliseum's veins—through slave corridors and warrior barracks. Whispered codes. Smuggled blades. Broke open gates. A rebellion roared behind me, loud enough to drown the broadcasts.

We were close. So close.

I would've carried her. I tried.

But she knew the truth before I admitted it.

She pressed the passkey into my palm with one trembling hand—and with the other, reached beneath the collar of her tunic. Her fingers fumbled briefly before retrieving the necklace: a simple chain strung with a weathered pendant carved from pale crystal, worn soft around the edges.

I stared at it in disbelief. I'd only heard about it—how she thought she'd lost it when she was capture, years ago by the Levisthian's. How my father, years into his contract, traded a decade off his life to win it back in a wager fight and had it smuggled into her cell.

It was the last piece of Earth she ever had.

She held it to her lips for a beat, then looped it gently around my neck. I knew what this meant before she even spoke the words.

"I'll only slow you down. They'll catch us if you carry dead weight... go. Have another chance at life."

Before I could protest she shoved me toward the hatch. Her lips were cracked. Her eyes burned. But her voice cut like steel.

She stayed.

She perished.

And I never looked back.

The world slammed into me. Shaking me out of the shadows of my past, grief splintered by impact.

My skull rang like a struck bell, and a hot ache bloomed above my temple. Blood trickled down the side of my face, warm and steady, soaking into the collar of my bodysuit. Red lights pulsed overhead, harsh and rhythmic. Alarms screeched—high-pitched, looping. Smoke hung thick in the cabin. Broken wires hissed and spat static like dying snakes.

The shuttle tilted violently beneath me, groaning against sand that was too black, too heavy. Sparks flared from torn panels, casting flickering shadows across the ruined interior.

My thoughts recapped what got me in this situation.

A bounty hunter had tracked me across systems—a Levisthian agent bought with blood coin and promises of silence. He's been tracking me ever since the rebellion on Levis. He wasn't hot on my trail. Not until my former crew I trusted informed him of my whereabouts. Anger pulsed in my veins.

I'd been on my own for months before I met them. Scavenging dead satellites. Smuggling engine cores through pirate sectors. Trading decrypted tech for scraps of currency. Upgrading my gear whenever necessary. No ties. No names. Just survival.

And always in disguise.

I never took off my helmet. Even after leaving the coliseum, I clung to the false persona: the male voice modulator, the broad-cut armor, the mannerisms honed through years of performance. To the outside world, I was just another masked merc—silent, sharp, forgettable. It was familiar to me. I couldn't let go of this identity. Traveling through space has shown me the truth of my mother's words. No matter what species you were woman were always at a bigger disadvantage.

Loneliness cracked the disguise. I wanted kin. Camaraderie. I let them see pieces of me. I got comfortable. Too comfortable. Too reckless.

The ragtag crew gave me just that—offering fast laughs, shared meals, moments that felt almost like a life. I was naïve. I thought I knew how to exist with caution. Just surviving with comrades. They only saw me as valuable, not as family. They made that clear when the offered the Levisthian's bounty hunter a trade.

Corrie for coin.

But the bounty hunter wasn't trading. As soon as he got word. He Leaped across the outer star systems firing into our ship mid-orbit, breaching the hull. No warning. No negotiation. Vacuum swallowed the crew one by one, screaming into the void before the breach collapsed.

Lucky for me before all that, I had intercepted their transmission with the hunter during routine helm maintenance. I bolted. Slammed into the escape shuttle before the breach hit my section. But I wasn't fast enough.

He chased me through star systems, biting at my thrusters, the fire licking at my hull. Until something changed.

My ship veered.

Dragged damn near.

I wasn't anywhere near this planets gravity, yet I felt it—like ropes tightening around my vessel, steering me toward a point I hadn't charted. I fought it. Recalibrated. Fired stabilizers. Nothing worked.

This planet pulled me in.

The bounty hunter took his final shot as I hit atmospheric breach. A blast across the side sent my shuttle spiraling. Systems failed. Lights flashed. Gravity crushed.

I crashed.

Bringing me to this moment, the wreck beneath me moaned, black sand pouring in like floodwater. I had to move.

I fought against gravity to rise. I forced myself upright, staggering through the smoldering wreckage. My balance faltered, but the gear absorbed the worst of it but not everything.

I raised my head.

The visor across my helmet bore a jagged crack stretching diagonally across the lens—splintered like glass stressed past its limits. It didn't shatter, not yet. The fracture slightly distorted my view, bending light where clarity used to live. Ash stuck to the edges, smudging the hairline fault like a wound refusing to close.

Every breath fogged the interior just enough to make the damage feel personal. I check the rest of me.

From neck to toe, I was armored in survival: a matte black bodysuit laced with reinforced segments along the spine and thighs, flexible enough to move but built to withstand impact. Armored thigh-high boots locked tight at my legs, their tread biting into trembling metal.

A thick, angular breastplate hugged my torso—originally forged for a male combatant, intentionally chosen to obscure my shape, flatten my presence. A long dark cape draped over my shoulders and curled around my hips, hood masking my helm's contours. It muted my silhouette—hid me even from those who got too close.

My helmet begin to filter the smoke that raised from the console. Good to know my helmet is functioning even with its unseemly fracture.

The belt at my waist cradled Stars Tempest—my father's light blade, still with me. My fingers traced my collar, tugged out the chain. My mother's necklace gleamed, quiet and whole. I breathed out, slow. The modulator masked my voice, but not my relief. Let the stars take a limb—so long as her legacy and his blade remain.

I worked my way through the narrow corridors of the shattered vessel, limbs aching, balance crooked. My head spun with every step, the wound pulsing behind my eye. I can't linger here.

I could feel it sinking, the floor tilting beneath me as sand poured in through ruptured seams. Dense and aggressive. It clawed its way up the walls like water swallowing a tomb.

My fingers moved on instinct. I found two empty packs. I tore through compartments taking everything the shuttle has to offer and started throwing provisions into them. Rations, medkits, hydration packets, tools for gear repair.

The black sand roared louder now, scratching across metal as the shuttle sank deeper into the planet's embrace. The ship was dying, and I wasn't going to die with it.

I slung both packs over my shoulders, staggered toward the rear hatch. My boots skidded on the incline. The door refused to open—jammed, sealed tight, warped by impact.

I steadied myself.

Then I raised my left arm.

The thick metal bangle locked around my wrist gleamed. With a quick, practiced flick of my hand, it hissed. Segments split, unfolded, twisted outward and wrapped around my forearm—transforming into a sleek gauntlet that hummed to life.

I planted my feet the best I can.

Swung hard.

With one quick blow the metal screamed and groaned as my gauntlet crashed into the seal. Splintered the locking mechanism bursting the hatch open.

Black sand surged in like breath.

I threw the packs outside and dove after them, lungs burning, just as the ship screeched and slumped, folding into the dune like a corpse dragged under.

Gone.