I’m flying because I need to remind myself who the hell I am.
But even as I push harder, faster, until G-force grips my ribs and the hull whines in protest… I know.
I’m already falling.
CHAPTER 7
NOVA
The warning klaxon blares through the zero-G chamber, sharp and brassy, followed by a disembodied voice announcing a simulated hull breach. The lights strobe red, the air fans cut to silence, and the floor—if it can be called that—tilts into pure chaos. My trainees launch into motion, flailing like they’re stuck in a broken amusement ride. Except one.
Kaz.
He moves with intention—legs tucked, core tight, hands finding grips like he’s magnetized to the walls. I hover in the glass-paneled observation deck above, arms crossed and breath held. I created this scenario to catch him slipping. The notorious showoff, the rule-bender, the hotshot. But he’s not grandstanding today. He’s strategizing.
Cadet Elven—a wiry Alzhon with a nervous tic in his left eye—gets snagged in a tether net. Panic spreads across his face like fire. Kaz doubles back without hesitation. One clean twist of the release latch, a shoulder bump for momentum, and he’s shoving Elven toward the evac zone with surprising grace.
He doesn’t even look up to see if I’m watching.
My hands tighten around the railing.
By the time the timer buzzes and the simulation ends, I’m still standing there, fingers white-knuckled, jaw clenched against something I don’t want to name. Pride? Admiration? No. I came here to mold pilots, not fawn over them.
But when I pull up the review footage at my desk later, it isn’t tactics I study. It’s his face.
The sharp angle of his jaw, the way his eyes stay locked on the task like gravity itself might bend to his will. He looks older in the footage. Not in years—he’ll always look annoyingly perfect, even with disheveled scales and that infuriating grin—but older in the way soldiers get. Like he’s finally understood what all this is for.
I scrub the footage back. Replay the moment he shoves Elven toward the finish point. His mouth is moving—something encouraging, probably. I mute it anyway. Because the sound I can’t silence is the one in my chest. The hitch in my breathing when I realize I want him to make it. Not just through training. Through everything.
I need air.
I grab my jacket, wave off the cadets lingering outside the command hub, and make a beeline for the observation lounge. It’s quiet this time of night, most trainees crashed or cramming for sims, the corridors humming with a kind of hushed discipline. I nod at the AI security post and step inside.
And stop.
Kaz is already there.
He’s seated on the far bench by the curved starview, arms resting on his knees, fingers steepled like he’s praying to the galaxy. The room’s ambient lighting casts him in deep bronze shadows, scales flickering dimly under the slow spin of the stars beyond.
I almost turn around. Almost pretend I came in here by accident. But he lifts his head just enough to catch my reflection.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” he asks, voice low, unassuming.
I walk in slowly, my boots soft against the woven floor panels. “Guess we’re both light-years from REM tonight.”
Kaz huffs a quiet laugh. “You always talk like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like your sentences come with a helmet and an oxygen tank.”
I sit beside him. Not touching. Not even close. Just enough to feel the space we’re sharing. “Comes with the job.”
He nods. Silence settles like dust between us. Comfortable. Dangerous.
After a while, he says, “When I was ten, I built a flyer out of old parts from my uncle’s scrapyard. Took it up on my own without telling anyone.”
I glance over. He’s watching the stars again. I say nothing.
