Chapter 26 — Between Stars and Shadows
The new coordinates led us through an unmarked section of space, a hollow lane between mapped sectors where few dared to travel. The stars here were distant, faded, like watching memories lose their color.
I sat in silence at the helm, mind tangled in fragments of the message from the engine room. My past had reached out—its shadow stretching long, demanding something I wasn't sure I could give.
Beside me, Mira adjusted the navigation, her fingers gliding across the console. She wasn't speaking much either. But her presence was grounding, like a tether in the vacuum.
"You haven't said a word in over an hour," she finally murmured, not looking at me.
I turned to her. "There's a storm brewing ahead, Mira. One I thought I left behind."
"I figured," she said. "You wear it on your face. Like the stars are asking too much of you."
That made me almost smile. "Maybe they are."
A moment passed.
Then she leaned back in her seat, exhaling slowly. "You ever wonder what we'd be doing if the war never happened? If you hadn't run? If I hadn't followed?"
"All the time," I replied. "I imagine you laughing more."
"And you?"
"Probably still watching from a distance. I was good at hiding."
She laughed then, soft and real. "You still are."
Something about the way she said that made me pause. Not in shame, but recognition. Mira didn't just know who I had become—she had seen who I was before I even realized I'd changed. Somehow, she kept believing in both versions of me.
I stood and walked over to the small galley corner behind the cockpit. The coffee wasn't great, but the routine helped. Two cups, both cracked from previous hits to the ship. I handed her one.
She took it, our fingers brushing. Neither of us pulled away immediately.
"Thank you," she said, eyes locking onto mine. "Not just for this. For letting me in. You didn't have to."
"No," I said quietly. "But I wanted to."
The hum of the ship filled the silence between us. But this time, it wasn't awkward. It was warm.
"I used to think connection was weakness," I admitted. "That the more I cared, the more they could use it against me."
Mira sipped slowly. "They did teach us that. They taught me, too."
"But you never stopped caring," I said.
She shrugged. "It hurt. A lot. But it also saved me. People like us… we need something to fight for, not just against."
I nodded slowly. Then, impulsively, I reached out and brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. My fingers lingered a second too long, and her breath hitched.
"Mira," I said, barely above a whisper, "if I don't make it out—"
"You will," she cut in gently.
"But if I don't—"
She leaned forward, her hand finding mine. "Then I'll carry the stars for both of us."
That undid something in me.
We stood like that for a moment, suspended in a space that felt timeless. I hadn't felt warmth like this in years—not the kind that came from trust, from being seen.
Then the ship jerked suddenly. Alarms flashed. I cursed and rushed back to the helm.
"Gravitational well," Mira said, strapping in. "Something's pulling us out of drift."
"Not natural," I muttered, working the controls. "This is a net. Someone set this."
The stars around us stretched, warped. The engines whined.
"I can try rerouting the power—"
"No," I said. "Too late. We're caught."
The ship groaned under the weight of invisible chains. Through the viewport, a shape appeared—sleek, dark, massive. A vessel from the old fleet. One I remembered well.
"They found us," I whispered.
"No," Mira said, eyes narrowing. "You led them here."
I looked at her, heart pounding. "What do you mean?"
"You said the signal wanted you to finish something. This—this is part of it."
I swallowed hard. "Then let's find out what they want."