Chapter Forty Five: Old Acquaintances
The shuttle hummed under Axir’s boots as it cut through Nimoa’s atmosphere. The vibration was steady, almost soothing, but he leaned forward, watching the planet’s surface grow larger in the viewport. Beside him, Rexan tapped calmly at the controls, checking numbers and readings like always. Across from them, Greon fidgeted with his harness straps, restless, as if being strapped into anything made him feel caged.
The silence dragged on too long. Too neat. Too smooth.
Axir broke it first. “Still nothing unusual with the codes?”
Rexan shook his head, eyes still on the panel. “No. They cleared us to enter. Rhorvak’s insignia looks legitimate. If they’re hiding something, they’re hiding it well.”
Greon grunted. “Nimoans don’t bother hiding. They’re rich, arrogant, and love to show it off. I’m betting we’ll step into halls covered in glass and jewels, with smiles wide enough to blind us.”
Axir didn’t answer, but his jaw tightened. Wealth didn’t blunt ambition; it sharpened it. He’d learned that the hard way.
Nimoa sparkled like a jewel—silver towers stretching into the sky, floating platforms connected by bridges that glowed faint blue, and rivers that wound through the cities like ribbons of light. Even from above, the place looked expensive, every inch of it crafted to impress.
Their shuttle eased down onto a massive landing pad attached to an estate at the city’s edge. Terraces spread outward in layers, with fountains, manicured orchards, and even glowing fruit that looked as if it had been grown just to show off.
The ship touched down. The hiss of the stabilizers filled the cabin.
“Remember,” Rexan said quietly as he unstrapped. “We’re here for their new technologies, their trinkets. Nothing more. No one hears a word about Vorkesh or the Core.”
Axir nodded once, standing. He’d worn enough masks in his life; one more wouldn’t kill him. His fingers brushed the hidden blade tucked inside his coat, a reminder that not every mask held forever.
The ramp dropped open, warm air sweeping inside, thick with spice and something sharp, almost metallic. A man stood waiting at the base. He wore deep green robes laced with silver, his grin stretched wide the moment he spotted them.
“Welcome, welcome!” he called, throwing his arms out as if greeting long-lost friends. “Prince Axirlon of Zytherion— since our last meeting, I’ve heard all sorts of wild tales about you. Half of them claimed you were missing an eye after a bloody fight, a third said you were scarred head to toe during one of your interstellar travels. Honestly, I’m relieved you still look the same.”
Axir blinked once. Rexan’s brow rose slightly. Greon muttered something that sounded like a curse.
The man laughed. “Ah, see? You do have a sense of humor. It’s so good to see you again, High Prince Axirlon.”
Axir frowned faintly. “Again?”
Kehan’s grin widened. “You don’t remember me, do you? It was years ago, during one of our bigger trades. Zytherion purchased a whole shipment of Zigma energy. Biggest deal Nimoa had seen in decades. I was assigned to oversee the delivery myself—make sure every unit reached your fleet safely.”
Recognition flickered across Axir’s face, but he didn’t give it words. Instead, he smiled just slightly and dipped his chin in acknowledgment.
Kehan chuckled. “Thought so. Not every day I get to escort a prince and a mountain of Zigma crystals. That one nearly broke the ledgers.”
He gave a short bow and straightened, still grinning.
Rexan inclined his head politely, though his voice stayed sharp. “We’re honored, Steward Kehan. Thank you for receiving us.”
“Pleasure’s mine,” Kehan said cheerfully. “Come on. Walking will shake the stiffness from your legs. Unless you’d like me to carry you? I’ve got a sturdy back.”
Greon glared at him, and Kehan just winked.
They followed him across a marble terrace where fountains arced in strange shapes, the water shimmering as if it held tiny stars. Axir’s gaze swept the area, cataloging guards positioned at quiet corners, drones hovering above with almost invisible hums. Nimoa wore luxury like armor.
“You’ll like what we’ve been working on,” Kehan chatted, walking backward for a few steps as if to keep his eyes on them. “Our newest line is called Aetherlix Conduits. They weave energy through buildings like threads in cloth—makes everything stronger, faster, cleaner. We like to say we’re stitching the future.”
Axir gave him a small nod, though his mind stuck on the name. Aetherlix… It sounded like the kind of tech that could hide something as powerful as the Core.
Kehan caught the look and smirked faintly. “Don’t worry, I’ll save the full sales pitch for the banquet. Right now, let’s get you settled.”
At the estate’s great doors, a tall woman waited. Her silver hair was braided with thin strands of crystal, and her cool gaze measured them in seconds.
“This is Rima,” Kehan said, introducing her with a flourish. “She’ll take you to your rooms. Hospitality at its finest. She’s nice, as long as you don’t test her patience.”
Rima inclined her head. “Your chambers are ready. A meal will be served once you’ve rested.”
Axir gave a short nod in return. “We appreciate it.”
They followed Rima inside. Kehan lagged behind, his grin still in place, but Axir felt his watchful eyes on them even as they walked away. Beneath the jokes, Kehan was sharp. Careful. Testing them.
The halls glittered with crystal carvings of oceans, storms, and skies frozen mid-motion. Their rooms were lavish—silken couches, art on every wall, balconies overlooking glowing orchards. But the beauty didn’t put Axir at ease. If anything, it made the tension worse, as though danger was hidden under every polished surface.
When the door shut, Rexan let out a quiet breath. “He’s probing us.”
“Of course he is,” Axir said, his voice low. “That’s exactly what I expected.”
In his chamber, another man stirred.
Vorkesh sat on the edge of his bed, his body still marked with bruises but strength returning bit by bit. He reached for a sleek, palm-sized device resting on the table beside him. The Whisperlink came alive with a soft pulse of light.
“You’re alive,” came the smooth female voice on the other end.
Vorkesh’s lips twisted into a sharp smile. “Alive and healing. Axir didn’t finish the job.”
“Your luck’s holding,” the voice replied. “You’ll need it. Axir and his men just landed at Kehan’s estate.”
Vorkesh’s eyes lit up. “Already?”
“Yes. They’re pretending to be looking at new tech. A ship has been arranged for you—a Skyshard Cutter, fast and quiet. You can leave whenever you want.”
Vorkesh laughed, low and harsh. “Leave? Not yet. Let Axir play guest in Kehan’s fancy halls. I want to know if the Core is here. Find it for me.”
“That will take time,” the voice said evenly. “Patience—”
“Patience is for the weak,” Vorkesh cut in, his grin hard. “Dig deeper. Find it. Once the Core is mine, Axir will watch his whole world burn.”
The Whisperlink dimmed, the call ended. Vorkesh leaned back against the wall, breathing slow but steady, hatred keeping him upright.
The game had only just started.