Page 72 of Honor Bound

“Well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise,” Coleridge drawled, his voice cold and filled with dark amusement. “My prodigal son, back from the dead—playing the hero.”

Roan turned, keeping his body angled protectively in front of the containment unit. “Coleridge,” he said evenly, his eyes never leaving his father’s face as he pulled the helmet of his containment suit off and dropped it to the floor beside him. “Somehow, I knew you’d want to be on this ship. You always did like to have a front row seat to the destruction you unleashed.”

Coleridge’s pale gray eyes gleamed with cruel delight as he lifted his laser pistol, aiming it at Roan’s chest. “You’ve always had an inconvenient habit of surviving. Unfortunately for you, this is where it ends.”

The shot came fast—too fast to dodge completely. Pain exploded in Roan’s shoulder as the laser bolt struck, spinning him sideways. His teeth clenched, but he didn’t fall.

Twisting with the momentum, he dropped into a crouch, his hand instinctively reaching for the Gallant Staff strapped to his back. His fingers closed around the familiar grip, the staff humming to life as he spun it forward, the tip glowing with raw energy.

Coleridge’s eyes narrowed in surprise, a fleeting expression of doubt crossing his face before it hardened into resolve. “Still full of tricks, I see. Let’s see how long you can keep that up.”

“Long enough,” Roan growled, the staff crackling with energy as he raised it, ready for the fight to come.

* * *

The hum of the Gallant Staff vibrated through Roan’s arm as he swung it in a defensive arc, the glow illuminating the tense standoff. Coleridge circled him, the laser pistol still aimed, a cruel smirk twisting his lips.

“You should have stayed hidden, Roan. You’ve always been a disappointment, but I never thought you’d stoop to outright treason,” Coleridge sneered, firing another shot.

Roan deflected the blast with the staff, the energy crackling as it absorbed the bolt and sent blue sparks dancing across the floor. “I learned from the best,” Roan shot back, his voice steady despite the throbbing pain in his shoulder.

Coleridge’s face darkened. “You were supposed to be a weapon, a force the galaxy would fear. Instead, you’ve become a liability. Just like your mother.”

The mention of his mother hit Roan like a punch to the gut, but he shoved the emotion down, focusing on the man in front of him. “You murdered her because she wouldn’t be what you wanted. Just like you’ve destroyed everything else in your path.”

“Not me. Andri. But, I would have done it if he hadn’t,” his father scoffed.

Roan surged forward, the staff striking out in a rapid series of blows. Coleridge dodged and parried with surprising agility for a man his age, but Roan pressed the advantage, forcing him back with relentless precision.

The air grew thick with the scent of ozone and sweat as the two clashed, their movements fast and brutal—no wasted gestures, no hesitation. Each strike of Roan’s staff was aimed with deadly intent, but Coleridge was no easy target. Years of battle had honed his father’s reflexes, and he countered with brutal efficiency.

“You always did fight like a Plateauan—wild, reckless, relying on instinct,” Coleridge said between attacks. “It makes you predictable.”

Roan smirked despite the pain coursing through his body. “And yet, you’re still bleeding.”

Coleridge’s gaze flickered to the gash on his forearm, blood soaking through the pristine fabric of his uniform. His lips curled into a snarl, and he launched himself at Roan with renewed ferocity.

The fight turned vicious—more brawl than duel. Roan blocked another strike, then drove his knee into his father’s ribs, the satisfying thud followed by a sharp exhale from Coleridge. But the older man recovered quickly, swinging his pistol like a club and slamming it into Roan’s wounded shoulder.

Roan stumbled, his breath hitching from the impact. His fingers tightened around the staff, and he spun low, sweeping Coleridge’s legs out from under him. Coleridge hit the ground hard, but before Roan could deliver another blow, his father rolled and fired again.

The bolt grazed Roan’s thigh, searing the fabric and scorching his skin. He gritted his teeth, refusing to give Coleridge the satisfaction of hearing him cry out.

“You’re too late,” Coleridge growled, pushing to his feet. “Tesla Terra will burn, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”

Roan’s eyes darkened. “We’ll see about that.”

He surged forward, slamming the staff against Coleridge’s wrist. The pistol clattered to the floor, skidding out of reach. Roan followed with a powerful strike to his father’s chest, sending him sprawling against the containment unit.

Coleridge coughed, blood flecking his lips, but his eyes gleamed with twisted pride. “You’re stronger than I gave you credit for. Too bad it won’t matter.”

Roan stalked toward him, the tip of the staff crackling with energy. “It matters to me.”

Coleridge’s hand shot out, grabbing a small device from his belt. Roan’s eyes widened as he recognized it—a remote detonator linked to the containment units.

“You can kill me, son, but you’ll go down with me,” Coleridge said, his thumb hovering over the trigger.

The room seemed to hold its breath.

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