The Vanishing Point

Mythren faced her from a few careful steps away—close enough to see the glitter in her eyes, far enough to pretend he still had room to run.

The embassy behind them roared with music and laughter, but the space between them was louder: clean wind, polished stone, and everything they hadn’t said in years.

He tasted blood when he swallowed. His hands wanted to check his wounds, straighten his jacket, hide the grime—anything but stand there and be seen.

Nyvara didn’t move. White hair. Perfect posture. A familiar face wearing a life he’d never been allowed to imagine.

For a long moment they just stared.

He’d said her name like it hurt.

His eyes darted around, desperate for an anchor. Finally, they landed on the large holo-screen on the side of the embassy building. Larger than life.

Nyvara’s face.

Hers and other models, showcasing the latest in upper fashion. It was almost unreal, but it was actually just more proof of the distance between them.

“Wow,” he started, forcing a smile. “You really packed ’em out tonight, huh.”

Nyvara raised her freehand to her hip. “I haven’t even said anything and you’re already deflecting.”

“Deflecting from what?”

Nyvara’s voice dropped, sharper than the wind. “You’re covered in blood, Myth. I don’t know which is worse—that it could be yours… or someone else’s. What’s going on with you?”

Myth gave a weak laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “New look I’m tryin’ out. You don’t like it?”

Nyvara only raised an eyebrow.

Silence.

Myth’s shoulders sagged as he let out a breath. “It’s just another day on the job. Seriously. I’m fine.”

“Liar.”

The word landed clean.

For a heartbeat, the rooftop was gone.

—

A maintenance corridor, years ago. Too cold, too bright, the kind of light that made every bruise look like evidence. The orphan block smelled like disinfectant and recycled air, and the vents never stopped whining.

Nyvara sat on an overturned crate with her back to the wall, one arm locked around her ribs. White hair clung to her temple where someone had yanked it. A split traced her lower lip.

Myth crouched in front of her, hands hovering like he didn’t know where he was allowed to touch.

“Did they hit you?” he asked.

Nyvara’s eyes flicked away. “No.”

Myth stared at the swelling, at the faint red print on her cheek like a fingerprint.

His jaw set. “Liar.”

Her gaze snapped back—warning.

He dug into his pocket and pressed a folded scrap of cloth into her hand. “Hold that. Don’t wipe—just press.”

She obeyed, careful. Like bleeding wrong could get her punished.

“They said you took their ration tag,” Myth muttered.

“I didn’t.”

“I know.” He forced his voice lower. The corridor had ears. “Who was it?”

Nyvara didn’t answer.

Somewhere down the hall, a kid laughed—too loud, too pleased with himself.

Myth shifted.

Nyvara’s hand shot out and caught his sleeve. “Don’t.”

“Too many times,” he said, not looking at her.

“Don’t.” Her fingers tightened until the fabric bunched. “If you cause problems again, they’ll send you off to the mines.”

Myth finally met her eyes.

There was fear there—sharp and real—but not for herself.

“And you’re not their favorite,” Nyvara added, quieter. “Ms. Rayna already thinks you’re a criminal just because you’re duskborn.”

Myth’s mouth twitched like he wanted to argue.

He didn’t. His gaze slid past her shoulder, listening.

Nyvara squeezed his sleeve again. “Myth.”

He said, too fast, “I’m not gonna do anything crazy.”

Nyvara didn’t blink.

“Liar.”

—

Myth’s breath caught. His gaze slid away, like looking at her too long would crack something open.

Nyvara didn’t let him off the hook.

“Are you trying to get boxed?” she asked, quiet and dangerous. “Look at you. I haven’t seen or heard from you in ages, and you show up tonight…like this? They hunt people who don’t belong up here. You know that, right?”

Myth’s mouth twitched—half-smile, half-flinch. “Yeah… I was gonna ask where you got yours.”

“My what?”

“Your mask.”

A beat.

Nyvara’s eyes narrowed, not offended—just seeing too much. “That’s what you think this is?”

Myth looked away from her. He wanted to take it back, but it was true. She wasn’t from this place either. She was a rat, just like him once upon a time.

His voice came softer, like he hated how much it meant. “I think… I gotta space.”

He shifted toward the terrace edge, scanning the lines of glass and steel like he was already measuring exits. The walkway that bridged the embassy roof to the floating marketways above the streets below—his only clean line out—wouldn’t save him twice.

Nyvara’s jaw tightened. “Myth.”

He paused.

Before she could speak the words, the terrace door clicked.

Nyvara’s posture straightened in an instant—the performer snapping back into place.

Varin stepped out, shutting the door behind him with the kind of care that said he’d been trained to treat silence like property. His gaze flicked to her cigarette, then away. Professional. Pretending not to see.

“Apologies, ma’am,” he said quietly. “We have an advisory.”

Nyvara didn’t look away from Myth. “What kind of advisory?”

“A crash on the upper expansion highway,” Varin replied.

This got her full attention.

“Security reports an individual may have survived. Duskborn. Male. Possibly armed. They’re calling him a criminal at large.”

Myth’s teeth clenched. His head lowered. Slowly, he slid one boot back and pivoted. This was pointless to begin with.

Nyvara’s cigarette paused halfway to her lips. She started to turn back to Myth—then Varin spoke, and she stilled.

He continued, voice low. “They’re tightening access at the glass-district crossings. Anyone out of place is going to get screened.”

Nyvara turned this time—slowly—back to where Myth had been standing.

The terrace was empty.

Only clean wind, and the distant hum of traffic.

Her brows drew together.

Varin followed her stare, then frowned. “Miss Aiel… is everything alright?”

Nyvara didn’t answer at first. Her mouth opened—then closed. The polished smile tried to form and failed.

“…How close was the crash?” she asked.

Varin hesitated. “About half an hour out, ma’am.”

Nyvara stared at the empty space again, like she expected Myth to step back into it and laugh at her for blinking.

But she knew better.

Nyvara crushed the ash against the railing.

“Varin,” she said, voice suddenly careful. “Lock this terrace down. No one comes out here.”

Varin’s eyes sharpened. “Miss Aiel—”

“Please.”

He nodded once. “Yes, ma’am.”

Nyvara stared out into the glass-lit night, heart thudding in a way it hadn’t on stage.

Was that you?

And if it was… what the fuck have you gotten yourself into?

[LATER—GLASS DISTRICT BORDERLINE]

Mythren moved like a shadow through the upper rings—keeping to service lanes, cutting behind glass-planters and sculpted vents that breathed perfumed air. Every surface up here wanted to reflect him back at himself, and he hated how well it did.

He kept his head down until the architecture changed.

The glass didn’t stop. It simply… ended.

Ahead, the border line cut the city in half with all the subtlety of a blade. One side gleamed—clean lanes, bright lighting, polished security pylons that looked like art until you noticed the lenses. The other side dropped into a mess of stacked walkways and hanging markets where the lights flickered and nobody asked for your name.

Normally, he would’ve slipped through the seam.

Tonight, the seam was sealed.

Drones floated in slow grids over the crossing, spotlights sweeping like lazy predators. Gates pulsed with soft blue scans, people filing through in orderly lines—wrist tags lifted, faces turned, the occasional bag opened and pawed through with gloved indifference. Most were merchants—licensed to peddle their wares in the glass lanes, then herded back down the moment the credits changed hands. And every few seconds, a guard’s gaze cut toward anyone who looked like they’d bled recently.

Myth stopped short of the crowd.

His pulse thudded against the cut on his scalp.

He watched a duskborn worker try to step through with his head down. The scanner flashed. A guard caught his shoulder and turned him into the light like a piece of meat. The worker protested—quiet, respectful—and still got shoved to the side for a second scan.

Myth’s body stiffened.

He could feel it: the grime on his clothes, the dried blood, the way his limp didn’t match the people up here.

He wasn’t crossing that border unseen.

Not like this.

He backed into a shadowed alcove between two support columns, where the air smelled faintly of ozone and expensive sanitizer. The wall behind him was cool and smooth and unforgiving. He pressed his head against it for half a second—just to steady the spin in his skull.

Then the adrenaline finally let go.

His knees bent.

He slid down the wall in a slow, humiliating descent until he hit the ground and sat there with his boots out, one arm hooked over his knee.

He didn’t cry. He wanted to, but not because of the injuries or the hopelessness.

Shame.

His chest felt wrong—too tight, too hollow—like something inside him was trying to fold in on itself.

Get up.

His body didn’t listen.

All he could think about was her voice.

Liar.

A laugh tried to crawl out of him and died in his throat.

The comm at his wrist buzzed.

Once.

He stared at it like it was a hallucination.

Then it buzzed again—insistent.

A name flashed.

KADE.

Myth’s eyes narrowed.

He answered with a swipe so hard it nearly tore the screen.

“KADE, I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you!” he snapped, voice low but shaking. “—The fuck were you?”

Static hissed for half a beat—then Kade’s voice came through smooth as ever, like Myth was complaining about a hangnail.

“Whoa…Calm down, kiddo.”

Myth let out a sharp, humorless breath. “Don’t call me that. Do you have any idea what kind of night I’ve had?”

“Judging by the threats of murder,” Kade said, “I’m gonna guess it wasn’t relaxing.”

Myth stared at the border scanners, watched another spotlight sweep over the line.

“I got chased through the city,” he said. “By that fucking psycho rabbit bitch.”

There was a pause.

Kade’s tone shifted—just a notch. “Wait…Vire? The bounty hunter?”

Myth’s eyes flicked up. “Yeah.”

Another pause. Shorter. Dangerous.

“…Alright,” Kade said, and the calm wasn’t casual anymore. It was focused. “You hurt?”

“I’m alive,” Myth said.

“That wasn’t the question.”

Myth closed his eyes. His ribs throbbed where the new ink had been scraped raw. The cut on his head still felt warm.

“I’m fine,” he lied automatically.

Kade didn’t even bother calling it out.

“What do you need?” he asked.

Myth opened his eyes and watched the drones drift.

“A fucking ride outta here,” he said. “Border’s locked down. They’re screening everyone. I’m not making it through like this.”

“That it?” Kade answered, almost excited. ”I’ll do you one better.”

Myth blinked. “Wait—what?”

“I’m coming to get you myself,” Kade said.

Myth pushed a hand through his hair and winced. “Kade, that’s not— I don’t need you getting your face scanned because I couldn’t—”

“Too late,” Kade cut in, unbothered by the risks. “I’m already on my way.”

Myth’s throat tightened with something dangerously close to relief. He hated it.

“What for?” he demanded instead.

“Because I need to talk business with you,” Kade said, and there it was—that edge of excitement he always got when he’d found trouble worth money. “And because this is not a comms conversation. Too many metal ears—ya’ get me.”

Myth glanced at the pylons, the lenses, the guards.

“Great,” he muttered. “So you finally call me back and it’s because you found us another mess.”

Kade chuckled. "You got a funny way of saying paycheck.”

Myth’s head fell back against the wall. The glass above him reflected a version of himself that looked like a cautionary tale.

“What is it?” he asked, quieter.

“Not yet,” Kade said. “You’ll hear it when I’m in front of you. For now? Stay outta sight. And try not to look like a criminal. Got it?”

Myth’s eyes narrowed. “You want me...to not have blue skin?”

“I want you alive,” Kade replied, and for a second he sounded less like a fixer and more like a friend. Then the tone snapped back into place. “You got options. Just find a shadow. Don’t do anything to draw attention. And if the ‘psycho rabbit bitch’ shows up again—space like hell.”

Myth barked a laugh. “Oh, is that all?”

“Somethin' light,” Kade said. “Now hang tight. I’ll be there faster than you can say 'Duskborn fugitive.”

"Ha-ha...you're so fucking hilarious."

Kade let out a chuckle. “Don’t I know it."

The call clicked off.

Myth stared at the blank screen.

For a moment, the weight in his chest eased—just enough for anger to return.

He pushed himself up from the ground with a grunt, legs shaky, and pulled his jacket tight.

“Space like hell,” he muttered to nobody. "Never even thought of that."

Then he looked back at the border lights—at the seam between worlds—and started moving again.

[Meanwhile — Low Orbit above Aetherfell]

Not every hunt happened in the deep void.

Some were conducted planet-side. The Black Fleet preferred it this way—because skies had gravity, and gravity had consequences.

High above the bruised blue world, just beneath the cold edge of orbit, cloud-tops rolled like a white ocean. Lightning flickered in the depth of them, slow and distant, painting the undersides gold for a heartbeat at a time.

And above that ocean, a convoy flew.

A single freighter—broad-bodied, fat with cargo, grav-keel humming—kept a steady course along a corporate airlane marked by invisible beacons. It should’ve been alone.

It wasn’t.

Two escort corvettes bracketed it tight, weapons live, sensor petals unfurled like metal flowers. Drones rode the perimeter in a patient ring. And threaded through the formation were the real teeth: long-range sweep arrays that didn’t just protect—they recorded.

They were there to tag anyone stupid enough to get close.

Above the cloud line, where the air thinned and most pilots didn’t bother to look, a Black Fleet raider drifted with its lights dead and its signature folded down to almost nothing. A shadow against the planet’s curve.

Inside the bridge, the only illumination came from holo-glow and pale targeting overlays.

Kael Vaelren watched the convoy through a filter that stripped color and left only heat signatures and threat lines. Calm. Patient. Predatory.

Beside him, Veyra sat with one boot hooked on the console rail, fingers drumming slow against her thigh. Her gaze moved constantly—escort patterns, drone arcs, the timing on their sweeps.

“What’s with the babysitters?” she murmured.

Kael didn’t answer right away. He didn’t need to. The data spoke for itself.

New security protocols. Tight formations. Redundant comm relays. And those sweep arrays—high-end surveillance disguised as escort hardware.

Veyra exhaled through her nose. “Since when does a merchant haul rate this?”

Kael’s mouth twitched—not quite a smile. “Since someone made the upper class feel small.”

“The Starcutter,” Veyra said.

The name sat between them like a curse.

A voice cut in over comms—low, controlled, carrying command without needing volume.

“Abort the board,” the captain said.

Kael’s eyes flicked to the escort arrays again. Close enough to grapple the freighter meant close enough to get painted—scanned, stamped, catalogued. The kind of mark that didn’t wash off.

“Acknowledged,” Kael replied.

Veyra’s brows lifted. “We’re walking?”

“We get close, we get tagged,” Kael said. “Then we spend the next month dodging hunters with our name on their screens.”

The cutter rolled soundlessly, beginning its turn away.

Then the captain’s voice returned—without urgency, without anger.

“Vaelren.”

Kael paused his hands over the controls. “Captain?”

“Drop the freighter.”

Silence.

Even Veyra stopped drumming.

Kael’s gaze snapped back to the convoy. “We’re not taking it.”

“I know,” the captain said.

Kael’s jaw tightened. “If we fire, the escorts will sweep the vector. They’ll trace—”

“They’ll trace nothing,” the captain cut in. “Not from where we are.”

Kael stared at the range readouts.

They were sitting outside the escort’s clean scan envelope—far enough that the arrays couldn’t lock a signature. A kill at this distance would be a mystery, not a name.

The captain’s voice softened by a fraction—worse than if it had sharpened.

“You’re thinking like a thief,” he said. “We are pirates. If we can’t take the prize, we take the story away from them.”

Kael stayed still, hearing only the cutter’s quiet systems.

“They don’t get to limp home and tell anyone they survived a brush with us,” the captain continued. “They don’t get to make courage out of our caution.”

Veyra glanced at Kael, unreadable.

The captain finished, voice flat as iron.

“Make it hurt. Then we vanish. Simple.”

Kael looked down at the cloud ocean. Lightning flashed again—brief, bright, and hungry.

He hated how easy the order was to understand.

His hand moved.

A secondary panel slid open. Targeting brackets snapped into place—not over the escorts, not over the bridge—over the freighter’s grav-keel spine.

He didn’t fire a beam that screamed across the sky.

He launched something small.

A dark dart with no transponder and no vanity—just momentum and a quiet guidance lock that rode the freighter’s own emissions like a scent.

It disappeared into the thin air.

For half a second, nothing happened.

Then the freighter’s keel stuttered.

Its formation faltered.

Warning lights flared along its spine in frantic bursts as the ship tried to compensate.

It couldn’t.

The freighter dipped—slow at first, like a thought losing confidence.

Then its belly rolled and the drop became a plunge.

The escorts broke formation instantly, thrusters screaming as they scrambled to catch it, drones flaring outward in a panicked swarm. Sweep arrays lit up, searching for the attacker—and finding only empty sky and noise.

“Signal spike,” Veyra murmured, eyes on the comm band. “They’re screaming.”

“Let them,” the captain said.

Kael watched the freighter fall, swallowed by cloud.

A heartbeat later, lightning flashed in the depths—and for an instant, the freighter’s silhouette was there, tumbling through white.

Then it was gone.

Kael closed the panel.

The Black Fleet raider rolled away, lights still dead, sliding along the planet’s curve until the cloudbank rose to meet them.

They vanished into the weather.

Behind them, the escorts dove after their dying prize.

And somewhere far away, in towers made of glass and gold, the upper class would tighten their borders again.

One stolen ship had changed the rules.

Now the Black Fleet would change them back.

Chapter End—