CHAPTER 1
NOVA
The atmosphere of Barakkus roars around me like a wild beast, clawing at the shuttle’s fuselage as I cut through the upper thermosphere. She’s bucking harder than I’d like—not because I’ve lost control, but because this planet likes to remind everyone who’s really in charge. Even the sky here feels militant.
Sweat beads at the base of my spine, though not from nerves. I don’t get nervous on reentry. Not anymore. I do get annoyed, though, when the ship’s nav system lags by a quarter of a second. My fingers dance across the manual override. Every adjustment is deliberate, surgical. I don’t ride the descent—I command it.
Barakkus unfolds below, a jagged sprawl of concrete and steel clinging to a high-altitude plateau like a parasite on a dying beast. The Academy is all clean lines and hard edges, gleaming under twin suns like a ceremonial blade. It’s familiar and cold, and part of me resents how much it still feels like home.
I’m not here to reminisce. This isn’t a victory lap.
The shuttle groans as I guide it into the docking cradle. I don’t wait for the deck crew to cycle through the welcome protocol. I punch the seal release and step into the hot breath of the flight deck—burnt ozone, fresh paint, jet fuel, and sweat. Iroll my shoulders once. The collar of my Alliance-issued uniform scratches like it always has, but I wear it like armor.
The line of cadets waiting for orientation barely masks their curiosity. All fresh-faced and gleaming, trying to look bored. They fail. Eyes flick toward me. One or two smirk. One Alzhon girl nudges the lanky human next to her, whispering behind her hand like I won’t notice. I do.
Then there’shim.
Kaz doesn’t smirk. He sprawls. Against the bulkhead, arms crossed, golden-scaled like a sunlit idol from some lost civilization. And he knows it. He has the kind of confidence that isn’t learned. It’s worn—weathered, habitual, infuriating.
He lifts his chin when I meet his gaze. Like he’s already filed me under “interesting” and “temporary.” Like I’m a challenge he’s already accepted.
“Hope we’re not keeping you,” I say, crisp and direct.
Some of them startle. Kaz doesn’t. He just smiles—lazy, slow. That smile is a problem.
“No, ma’am,” he replies, voice a low, rolling purr that could sell lies or lull babies, depending on the day. “Just taking in the view.”
There’s a subtle chuckle from one of the Vakutans behind him. I fix my stare on him so sharp you could slice hull plating with it. The chuckle dies.
I don’t rise to Kaz’s bait. That’s what he wants. I’ve dealt with his type. Beautiful and bored. Fast ships and faster mouths.
Instead, I pivot on my heel. “Orientation begins now. Follow me.”
They fall in line like I flipped a switch. Even Kaz moves, though he takes his sweet time. I can hear his boots dragging just a fraction. Deliberate. Testing.
Fine. Let him test. He’ll fail.
The orientation briefing is brutal by design. Minimal seating. No AC. And me, standing still while they try to decide if I’m decoration or detonation. Most of them figure it out by the end of the first hour.
I rattle through protocol, training rotation, combat expectations, Alliance fleet reassignment stats. I watch the way they shift. Who listens. Who writes notes. Who thinks they’re too good to need either.
Kaz slouches in the back, arms folded, looking for all the world like he’s lounging on a sunbed. But his eyes—blue and cutting—don’t miss a beat. He’s taking it all in. That makes him more dangerous than I thought.
After I dismiss them, I stay back, fingers tight around the edge of the console. My jaw aches from how long I’ve kept it clenched.
I shouldn’t let him get under my skin. But gods, the way he looks at me like we’ve already had the argument and he’s just waiting for me to catch up.
My quarters aren’t much bigger than a cargo crate, but they’re clean and quiet. The overhead fluorescents buzz like insects, and I kill them with a slap of my palm against the wall control. Darkness rushes in, broken only by the ambient cityglow creeping through the side viewport.
I drop onto the chair like I’m made of stone, my muscles finally giving out.
Kaz’s personnel file floats midair above the console. I should be reviewing all of them, evenly, impartially. But somehow, I’ve opened his three times.
Flight stats? Damn near flawless. Strategic adaptability in sims? Top five percentile. Discipline record? A disaster.
I snort under my breath.
The personnel photo captures him mid-turn, grinning like he knows what you’re thinking and doesn’t care. Shirt rumpled,collar askew. He looks like a walking violation of at least seven subsections of Alliance decorum.
