CHAPTER 1
JOLIE
The wind on Glaeza 3 never howls; it hisses.
It slides along the metal bones of Myrza’s border like something alive, whispering through the chain-linked fence and rattling the sensor pylons just enough to keep you on edge. The air tastes like scorched dust and ion residue, dry enough to crack lips if you breathe too deep, and every inhale drags faint traces of burned ozone down the back of my throat. My skin feels tight beneath my uniform, stretched thin from weeks of exposure to the arid atmosphere and the residual heat shimmer that clings to everything after plasma discharge drills.
I roll my shoulders once, feeling the fabric pull across my back, then plant my boots in the packed grit along the patrol line. The ground crunches underfoot, brittle and overworked, like the planet itself is tired of being fought over.
Across the fence, Coalition troops move in loose formation, their silhouettes distorted by the rising heat. Tall, broad shapes, scales catching light, fur rippling in the wind—every species a reminder that this line carved through Myrza isn’t just geography. It’s everything.
I rest my hand on the grip of my sidearm, not because I need it, but because they need to see it.
“Keep your distance from the fence,” I call out, voice sharp enough to carry. “Regulation’s still in effect, unless you forgot how to read.”
A Vakutan on the far side turns his head slowly, ridged brow lowering as he sizes me up. He’s easily twice my mass, probably five times my strength, and it shows in the way he shifts his weight like the ground belongs to him.
“Relax, human,” he says, his voice carrying that gravel-thick confidence Vakutans always seem born with. “We’re just enjoying the view.”
I smile without warmth and take two deliberate steps closer to the fence, boots crunching louder than necessary.
“Funny,” I say, tilting my head. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like loitering. And loitering turns into violations real fast when I get bored.”
He bares his teeth, not quite a grin, not quite a threat.
“You always this pleasant?”
“Only on days that end in ‘y,’” I shoot back. “Now move.”
For a moment, neither of us moves. The air between the fence hums faintly with the low-grade current running through it, a constant reminder that this isn’t just a line—it’s a warning.
Then he snorts and turns away, muttering something under his breath as he signals to his unit. They drift back, slow and deliberate, like they’re doing me a favor.
I watch until they’re well clear, then shift my stance and scan the rest of the line.
Routine. Pattern. Control.
That’s how you survive out here.
That’s how you win, even when nothing’s technically happening.
A flicker of movement catches my eye a few posts down, and my gaze locks in before I even consciously register why.
Green scales. Slender build. Red eyes that don’t quite match the usual hostility I expect.
Tury.
He’s already watching me.
I don’t react right away. I let the seconds stretch, keep my posture rigid, my expression neutral, because anything else would be… noticed.
Then I walk.
Not toward him, exactly. Just along my patrol route. Just doing my job.
The fence buzz grows louder as I approach his section, the metal vibrating faintly in the dry air. Up close, I can see the fine patterning in his scales, the way the light hits them and morphs from deep forest green to something almost metallic.
“Rough morning?” he asks, voice low enough that it doesn’t carry beyond the fence.
