Freya didn't know how many days had passed since she woke up in the sterile dark of the Eclipticon. Time didn't move here—it dragged, silent and unkind.
The cell was metallic and seamless, no edges to pry open, no seams to whisper freedom. Cold mist drifted from vents, coating the walls like breath from a beast that never slept. No sunlight. No ticking clocks. Only the mechanical hum of the alien ship's living systems and the slow, breaking drip of her sanity.
"I'm not broken. I won't be broken."
She repeated it each day, the words like prayer, like shield. Her once-toned muscles had thinned from lack of movement. Her shoulder still ached from the wound that brought her down—plasma burn, clean through armor.
No one told her why she was alive.
And no one told her what that voice was.
The voice had come only once—soft, deep, echoing in her bones. "Get up." It had startled her from a haze of pain and hopelessness weeks ago, during the first time they shoved her into the null-grav box. But since then? Nothing.
Maybe I imagined it. Maybe I died and took the ghost with me.
Today, something shifted. A klaxon rang low through the corridors—an alert of movement, or change. Then, the door opened.
She flinched as the light blinded her. Two figures stood silhouetted in the doorway, tall and draped in bone-white armor marked with crimson insignias. They didn't speak. They simply dragged her from the cell.
The corridors were massive, carved into sleek black alloys that hummed with Spectral technology. Transport bands shifted beneath her feet, glassy paths that moved of their own accord. She passed windowed domes filled with lush alien ecosystems—orchid-colored jungles breathing mist, crystal caverns that pulsed with internal light.
They built paradise and left the rest of us to rot.
She was brought to a chamber—no, a pit.
The training arena.
Hundreds of eyes stared down from balconies above. Spectral of all types. Pale, sharp-eyed, otherworldly. Not a single emotion across any face. No whisper, no jeer. Just silence and judgment.
She stumbled as they released her at the center. No weapon. No warning.
Another door opened.
A blur of movement charged at her—metal limbs, chaos-caste armor. A Spectral brute. Larger, faster, already swinging a curved blade. Freya's instincts screamed. She ducked low, rolled, narrowly missing a decapitation.
No explanation. No mercy.
This was the trial.
A test of survival. A spectacle. A punishment.
And she had no strength left to fight.
I can't... Her knees hit the floor, sand biting into her skin. I'm going to die here.
Then, a warm hand pulled her behind cover.
It wasn't her enemy.
It was another slave.
A female Spectral with shorter stature, charcoal-gray skin marbled with blue veins, and wide, frightened eyes. She looked younger, but there was knowledge in her gaze—knowledge of pain. Her robe was patchwork, her hair in thick coils that shimmered faintly.
"You have to move," the girl hissed, breathless. "Or they'll kill us both."
Freya blinked. "Who—what—?"
"No time. This one's stupid. First trial always is." The girl shoved a broken shard of metal into her hand. "Pretend it's a weapon. Make them believe you'll fight."
Freya rose slowly, her heart pounding. She caught sight of the brute circling again, war-cry silent behind its mask. She forced her legs to move, blocking, dodging, parrying with the shard. The pain from her wound screamed with every step.
The crowd above didn't cheer. They simply watched, cold and unblinking.
Eventually, the brute stepped back. The test was over.
A voice echoed from the chamber wall. Flat, filtered, judgmental. "Survival: marginal. She persists."
And just like that, the Spectral brute disappeared into a chamber door. The crowd dispersed.
The girl stayed by her side, helping her off the ground.
…
They sat in a holding cell—wider than her first one, but still suffocating. A communal cell for the unworthy.
"You'll bruise like mad," the girl said, dabbing at Freya's temple with cloth. "But you'll live."
Freya let out a breath. "Thanks. Who are you?"
"Mira. Chaos Mind caste." She smiled, faintly. "Labor division. We do the tasks no one wants to admit exist. But I've seen things. Enough to keep you alive, human."
Freya leaned back, exhausted. "I didn't imagine you'd help."
"I'm not like the rest," Mira said with a dry laugh. "Chaos caste are broken to them. Useless. But we feel. They can't stand that."
Freya let her gaze drift to the far wall. "I heard a voice, Mira. Back in my cell, before all this. It wasn't mine. I thought I was losing my mind. Still do."
Mira's hand stilled. "A voice?"
"A man's voice. It told me to get up. It felt... real."
Mira looked uneasy. "It's the Aether, maybe. Or trauma. Some slaves see things. Dream things. Maybe your mind's trying to survive."
Maybe she's right. Maybe I am broken.
Freya clenched her fists. Or maybe something inside me isn't giving up.
Before Mira could answer, the panel in the wall slid open soundlessly.
Through it marched a new figure — taller than the others, his presence slicing through the room like a blade.
He wore no helmet. His skin was a smooth, almost metallic gray-blue, and his eyes burned like twin stars — pale and pitiless.
His armor gleamed black and silver, etched with symbols Freya could feel vibrating against her bones.
He didn't look at Mira. He looked only at Freya.
"The human survives," he said, his voice low and commanding.
Freya stood, breath held.
He stepped closer. "You're not impressive. And yet... you've drawn interest."
Mira knelt instinctively, not daring to meet his gaze.
Freya didn't kneel.
"You are...?" she asked.
He stepped into her space, eyes narrowing. "You'll report to the Crucible from now on. You fight for the Spectral. Or you die."
This is the enemy, Freya thought, pulse spiking. Why do his eyes feel like thunder about to strike?
He tilted his head slightly. "Defiance. How quaint. We'll break that soon."
And he walked away.
"That's Khael. Commander of this sector," Mira said.
Freya didn't look at her.
She only stared at the spot where he'd stood.