Prologue: The Star Thief

The docking bay of Harrow Station stretched out like a cathedral of metal and vapor. Conveyor lines carried ships along steel rails overhead, each hull caught in the flicker of rotating hazard lights. The air tasted of engine exhaust and cold tin, a recycled tang that never quite left the lungs. Workers shouted over hydraulic pumps, their voices swallowed by the machinery that kept the bay alive.

Mythren stood among them, motionless in the flow of bodies. His flight jacket was simple and worn, sleek orange and white bodysuit covered by a pilots jacket. His gloves, much like the jacket, were frayed at the seams. A matching pilot’s helmet sat on his head, visor darkened enough to hide his eyes, his silver hair jutting out the bottom. He didn’t look like much at a glance — lean, young, expression unreadable. But he had the stillness of someone who did not waste motion. Or intention.

A maintenance tech leaned against the railing beside him, sipping from a dented thermos. Older man, grease on his sleeves, weary posture. The kind of worker who knew the bay like his own hands.

“Don’t see many Duskborn pilots out here,” the tech said, a casual remark tossed into the noise.

Mythren said nothing.

The tech shifted, uncomfortable now that the words were already in the air.

“Just— y’know. Most of your kind stick to the ring colonies. Didn’t mean anything by it.”

Silence stretched. The bay clanged around them.

Then a ship glided into view along the conveyor. Sleek, silver, burnished to a mirror-shine. Blue underlights pulsed like a heartbeat beneath its hull plating. The engines purred rather than roared — a predator’s breath.

The maintenance tech let out a low whistle.

“Helios-9 Starcutter,” he murmured. “Haven’t seen one of those in years. Fast as sin and twice as expensive. Where the hell do you even take a ship like that without getting jumped by pirates?”

Mythren’s lips curled at the edge — a small, private smirk.

“Oh,” he said quietly. “I can think of a few places.”

The tech blinked. Something in the young pilot’s tone prickled at the back of his neck. He turned to get a clearer look at Mythren’s face—

“I’ve never seen you on this dock,” he realized aloud. “Hold on—who—”

Mythren’s hand was already on the pistol at his hip.

The movement was slow. Gentle. Almost polite.

The barrel pointed at the tech’s ribs, hidden from everyone else by angle and crowding.

Mythren raised a finger to his lips.

“Shh.”

The Starcutter’s hatch cycled open with a soft hiss.

Mythren stepped backward — not taking his eyes off the tech — and let himself drop into the cockpit. The fall was only about 8 meters, but he landed like someone who had done it a hundred times.

He slid aside a panel beneath the central controls, revealing a neural access port.

From his pocket, he produced a small device, no larger than a knife handle — braided silver cabling wrapped around a black core, humming faintly with internal charge. He fitted it into the port, locking it with a practiced twist.

The console lights shifted.

A tone chimed.

SYSTEM AUTHORIZATION: ACCEPTED.

WELCOME ABOARD, CAPTAIN RYLAN VOSS.

The ship believed him.

Alarms barked as the clamp locks protested. Mythren flicked switches in sequence — efficient, graceful — and the Starcutter lurched free. The ship dropped off the rail, engines coughing to flame. He rolled her into a tight corkscrew, angling toward the bay doors just as they began to close.

Shouts erupted. Sirens wailed. Security scrambled.

Mythren hit the boosters.

The engines roared, white-hot fire flaring in the dock. The ship shot forward, threading the narrowing gap with inches to spare.

Then—

The noise fell away.

Space opened before him — vast, black, endless, glittered with stars.

The comm crackled.

“Myth.” The voice was rough, old, and unimpressed. “You really love making me sweat.”

Mythren allowed himself a breath — not relief, just release.

“Kade,” he replied. “Relax. Had it under control.”

“You scratch that hull and it’s coming out of your cut.”

Mythren smirked at the stars. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

A soft chime sounded.

Diagnostics Complete. All Systems Stable, Captain Voss.

How are you feeling today?

Mythren leaned back in the pilot’s seat.

The starlight reflected off the visor of his helmet.

“With a view like this?” he murmured.

“Just lovely.”

Space rippled ahead.

A tear in the dark.

Light spilled.

And a fleet dropped out of warp.

Cruisers. Patrol craft. Interceptors.

Far too many.

His smirk thinned — not quite gone.

“Of course,” he whispered.

The comm cut through the quiet.

UNREGISTERED STARCUTTER. POWER DOWN AND PREPARE FOR BOARDING.

Mythren’s fingers curled once around the throttle.

“Yeah,” he said, voice soft and steady.

“Not today.”

He hit the drive. Engines burned white as the fleet of ships loomed in front of him.

He wasn’t going to stop here. Not even for them.

StarCutter —