Page 8 of Honor Bound

Julia studied the creatures, her analytical mind noting their camouflage and graceful movements. “Ma’qui said this structure is called the Cathedral of History,” she said, pulling her attention back to Roanna.

The Queen’s calm expression didn’t waver. “This cathedral pre-dates the ancients,” she said.

“Pre-dates?” Julia leaned forward, fascinated. “How old is it?”

“The first records began more than one million sun-cycles ago,” Roanna said simply. “After you finish, I will take you to the Room of History.”

Julia nodded, her appetite momentarily forgotten as her mind raced. One million sun-cycles? The implications staggered her, and yet, she couldn’t help but feel the flicker of excitement that always came with discovery.

CHAPTERTWO

Planet: Neri

Capital City: Jeslean

General Roan Landis stood motionless before the long stretch of windows in the Legion Headquarters. His tall frame was silhouetted against the pale light of a smoke-filled sky. The city that had once been a beacon of culture and innovation was now a rubble strewn graveyard. Outside, spirals of dark smoke clawed upward from the ruins of Jeslean, curling like ghostly fingers. The capital city lay in charred devastation, its skeletons of buildings jutting into the haze like broken teeth. Flames flickered weakly in pockets of debris, their light casting an eerie, hellish glow over the barren streets.

The world was silent from this vantage, but Roan knew better. He could feel the echoes of screams, the sobs of survivors, and the hollow rattle of despair woven into the stillness. This was the cost of Andri Andronikos’ tyranny—a scorched land, a suffocated people, and hope reduced to ash.

His jaw tightened as he stared at the haunting silhouette of the spiraling tower, its jagged form defiantly cutting through the smoke. The symbol of the Knights of the Gallant still stood, though the tower’s upper levels were battered and cracked. It rose like a ghostly sentinel over the ruins, its mere presence a silent negation of the Legion’s destruction.

Roan’s chest tightened.It shouldn’t be standing,Andri had hissed during the meeting.That tower should burn like the rest.But Roan had insisted otherwise, cloaking his defiance in cold logic. “Destroying it,” he had argued, “makes it a martyr. Leave it, and it remains nothing more than a relic.” Deep down, he had hoped Andri was right—that the tower would inspire resistance, not defeat.

The faint hum of the air circulators in the corridor did little to calm the storm within him. The meeting he had just endured with Andri and his father, General Coleridge Landais, had been suffocating. It wasn’t unusual for their interactions to bristle with tension; betrayal was their family legacy, after all. But this meeting had been different. Beneath the polished veneer of civility, Roan had caught the glint of knives—not literal ones, but sharp enough.

They tried to kill me.

The realization pulsed through him, heavy and cold. It wasn’t the first attempt, and he doubted it would be the last. That knowledge should have steeled his resolve. Instead, it had stoked the embers of bitterness smoldering in his gut.

He turned his gaze back to the horizon, to the smoke and rubble. The ruins weren’t just a symbol of Andri’s cruelty; they were a reminder of Roan’s impotence. He had been powerless to stop the destruction of Neri’s major city, the executions, the mass graves. The directives had come down from Andri, his father had enforced them, and Roan had been made a spectator to their atrocities.

His thoughts shifted, drawn to thoughts of the fragments of the alien pods that had so rattled Andri and his father. The artifacts had been unlike anything Roan had ever seen, and the symbols etched into their surfaces—three interlocking triangles encircling an unfamiliar spacecraft—spoke of a mystery that Andri feared but refused to explain.

Roan traced the memory of his brief encounter with the alien rebel who had infiltrated his battle cruiser. The man had been audacious, skilled, and fearless, his presence as sharp as the blade he carried. Even now, Roan could picture the defiant smirk and mocking salute the alien had thrown his way before disappearing into the void.

Why did he carry a Staff of the Gallant Order?

The question nagged at him like a thorn. The staff wasn’t just a weapon; it was a symbol of a forgotten legacy, one tied to myths Roan had dismissed as stories meant to pacify the oppressed. And yet, here it was—a living artifact, wielded by a man who embodied rebellion.

The faint echo of Andri’s voice crept into his mind, his tone venomous: “The Ancients have returned. We cannot allow this… hope to fester.”

Hope. That was what the alien and his companions had given the peoples. And it terrified Andri and Coleridge more than any weapon or fleet ever could.

A faint tremor rippled through Roan as he turned away from the window. He was under no illusions about the danger he faced—not just from Andri and Coleridge, but from the swirling chaos of questions and half-truths surrounding the pods and the so-called Ancients. He needed answers, and he knew where to find them.

Reaching the lift, Roan stepped inside, the doors hissing shut behind him. The descent to the flight deck was quiet, save for the faint hum of the machinery. When the doors opened, the scene before him burst into motion.

The flight deck was a hive of activity, alive with the clang of tools, the whine of engines, and the barked orders of mechanics. Ships of varying sizes lined the bay, their metal hulls gleaming under the bright lights. The smell of fuel and scorched metal filled the air, sharp and acrid.

A junior engineer approached, his boots clicking on the steel deck as he snapped to attention. “Sir, your transport is ready,” Ensign Tollant said, saluting crisply.

Roan nodded, his expression unreadable. “Excellent.”

With a measured stride, he crossed the flight deck toward his ship. The silver vessel stood apart from the others, its sleek, aerodynamic design a stark contrast to the older models around it. It was a prototype, a marvel of engineering that whispered of speed and precision.

He climbed into the cockpit, the interior dark and quiet, the air thick with anticipation. As he programmed the encrypted coordinates, the faint hum of the ship’s systems thrummed beneath his hands. He activated the jammer installed by Dorane LeGaugh’s engineers, ensuring his journey would remain untraceable.

The cockpit lights cast a soft glow over his face as he settled into the pilot’s seat. His thoughts lingered on Dorane—a man as elusive as smoke and just as dangerous. Their alliance was one of necessity, bound by mutual respect and an unspoken understanding that neither would betray the other. Yet, even in that bond, there were shadows, secrets buried too deep to unearth.

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