The raider ship carved a lonely path through the darkness of space, its thrusters glowing faintly blue as it hurtled toward the Magus Alliance outpost. Inside, the stale metallic air buzzed with tension.
Emery sat in the rear chamber, cross-legged in a lotus position. His breathing was steady, his eyes closed, his spirit sinking into the depths of meditation.
At the front, the scar-faced raider who piloted the vessel sweated rivers. His scar, jagged across his left cheek, twitched every time his eyes flicked nervously at the sensors. For him, this was a nightmare. The Alliance outpost wasn't just a destination—it was a death sentence. Men like him, outlaws who lived off plunder, would be executed on sight.
For hours, his mind had raced in circles. Should he risk a desperate escape? Or should he throw himself on the mercy of the Alliance and hope for leniency? Neither choice promised survival.
Just then, a ragged cough split the silence. It came from the rear chamber.
