Three years. Out here, time doesn't move the way it does on a planet. It's measured in jumps between stars, in the slow ticking of ship clocks, in the rhythm of repairs and upgrades. But if there's one thing I've never done, it's run. Not from the Draathari, not from anyone. When their first ship came for Halcyon, I destroyed it. Titan-my oldest ally, my anchor-caught the burning hull as it fell and hurled it back into the void, past orbit, a warning to anyone watching. Halcyon stood that day because we made it clear: we don't surrender, and we don't run.
Since then, I've been on the offensive. Every planet I've touched since leaving Halcyon has been another step in this war-a war I never asked for, but one I refuse to lose. The Draathari thought they could break us with force. They didn't expect resistance. They didn't expect me.
I remember the first world after Halcyon's skies cleared. The air was thin, the ground a lattice of glass and iron, reflecting starlight in a thousand fractured colors. I landed hard, engines coughing, hull scorched from the last skirmish. The place was abandoned, but it was a graveyard of machines. Draathari drones, scavenger bots, even a few human-made husks from some old, forgotten conflict. I tore through the wreckage, pulling out anything that could be repurposed-energy cores, shield capacitors, targeting arrays. I spent weeks in that scrapyard, my hands black with grease and blood, until my ship was more weapon than vessel.
The next planet was alive-a world of bioluminescent jungles, every plant pulsing with its own inner light. I moved through the undergrowth, careful, silent, watching the local wildlife with a mix of awe and caution. It was here I learned the value of adaptation. The creatures here had survived by evolving, by changing faster than their predators. I took the lesson to heart. I harvested compounds from the plants, synthesized new armors, even reworked my medkits to handle toxins I'd never seen before. Every upgrade was a promise: I would not be caught off guard again.
On a moon orbiting a gas giant, I found a settlement of traders-outcasts, smugglers, and exiles from a dozen worlds. They eyed me warily at first, but respect comes quickly when you walk in wearing Draathari armor and carrying a plasma rifle that hums with stolen power. I didn't come to trade, but I listened. Information is the real currency out here, and I paid attention to every whisper, every rumor. That's where I first heard about the Champion-not a title, but a legend among the Draathari. Their ultimate warrior, undefeated, feared even by his own people. They said he hadn't come to Halcyon because he was needed elsewhere, because our world was supposed to be an easy victory. The traders laughed at that. They'd seen the wreckage Titan threw into the void. They knew better.
The water world was next-endless ocean, storms that could tear a cruiser apart, and islands that vanished beneath the waves. I needed fuel, and the thermal vents below the surface were rich with minerals. I built a rig from spare parts, dove into the black depths, and fought off scavenger eels the size of shuttles. It was worth it. The reactor upgrades I pulled from the ocean floor tripled my ship's range and let me outrun or outmaneuver anything short of a full Draathari warfleet.
It was on a frozen outpost, far from any trade lanes, that I finally heard the name I'd been chasing. The locals were survivors-people who'd lost everything to the Draathari and had nothing left but stories and scars. I helped them repair their defenses, and in return, they shared what they knew. One night, as the aurora danced overhead, an old engineer poured me a drink and leaned in close.
"You want to know where they come from?" he asked, voice rough from years of breathing frozen air. "Their home is a world called Draathari. That's the name you need. That's where this all began."
Hearing it out loud changed everything. Draathari. It wasn't just a faceless enemy anymore. It was a place, a target, a wound in the galaxy that needed to be closed. I spent the next months gathering every scrap of data I could-star charts, fleet movements, supply routes. I hacked into Draathari comms, listened to their officers bark orders, heard the fear in their voices when they spoke of the Champion.
They were preparing for something big. The Champion was rallying fleets, calling in every favor, every debt. The Draathari weren't just coming for Halcyon anymore-they wanted to erase any world that dared defy them. But I was ready. Every planet I visited, every upgrade I installed, every lesson I learned had been building to this.
My ship isn't what it was when I left Halcyon. The hull is layered with alloys from half a dozen worlds, the engines run on a hybrid core that no Draathari engineer would recognize, and the weapons are a patchwork of human and alien tech, each one tested in real combat. My crew is smaller now-some lost, some left behind-but those who remain are the best. We've survived things that should have killed us, and we're still here.
Now, I'm 1.1 million kilometers from Draathari. The sensors pick up their patrols, their fleets, the constant chatter of a civilization on high alert. I know the Champion is out there, somewhere, gathering his strength, waiting for the signal to strike. He thinks he's coming for vengeance. He thinks he can finish what his people started.
Let him come.