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Pamarthe – Brune Family Hangar
Lioras walked the rocky path down toward the old family hangar, his boots crunching against the gravel. The conversation from minutes ago still echoed in his mind. He felt angry. Resentful. But mostly, he felt alone. He was tired of this dynamic—tired of the same story playing out over and over again, with nothing ever changing.
Eventually, his thoughts quieted as he reached the hangar. It stood alone in the clearing, a building that once looked proud—like it had a purpose. Now it was laid bare, forgotten, invisible to the world. Its shape felt wrong somehow, unnatural, like even the building didn't understand why it was still here. Rust covered the walls. Cobwebs clung to every corner. The roof sagged with holes that hadn't been patched in decades.
He supposed that was just the Brune family charm coming through.
Lioras stepped up to the door. The handle still bore the handprints of those who came before him—ghosts of ancestors who had opened it the same way. He gripped it and pulled. The door groaned and screeched like it always did, but the sound was familiar. Comforting, in a strange way.
Inside, she sat.
The Brunes' pride and joy. The one thing that set them apart from the rest of the working-class village, even if their financial struggles were the same. The ship was beautiful in Lioras's eyes. Gorgeous, despite its battered exterior. The scratches, the missing bolts, the gaping holes in the hull—they only added to its beauty. The damage told a story not many could understand.
But Lioras understood. He understood better than most what it was like to be judged by your exterior, and never truly seen for what you were on the inside.
He inhaled deeply through his nose, taking in the scent of oil, dust, and memory. This place—the ship, the hangar—it was a sanctuary. A place where silence gave him strength.
Until he remembered why he was here.
Lioras let out a laugh—dry, hollow, lifeless. He wasn't here to find peace. He was here for a job. A job only he could do. The one thing that made his brothers and father look at him with something close to respect. They'd never say it out loud, but he saw it in their eyes. In these moments, when they needed him, he was their hope.
This was the part they needed him for. The part that made sense.
And now, it was time to get to work.
He breathed through his nose, watching the cold air bloom in front of him.
Grabbing his old, worn-out T-shirt, he rolled up the sleeves, revealing arms that were lean but defined—muscle built from years of work, not vanity. It was the kind of strength that came from being the family's tool, the one who fixed what no one else could.
His steps moved with quiet purpose as he climbed into the ship, his old boots echoing against the metal floor.
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Pamarthe – Brune Family Hangar - Inside Ship
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Lioras finally stopped walking as he reached the navigation core. He could already tell this wasn't going to be easy—the damage was obvious, the system's loud beeps echoing through the hollow corridors of the ship. His genius could only go so far when he was handed junk to work with.
Seriously, how did his father expect him to fix this by sunrise? With this?
He probably wanted him to fail.
Lioras chuckled under his breath.
"Probably does. He might respect me sometimes, but that doesn't mean he'll ever accept me."
He sighed and shook his head, trying to push the thought away before it dug in too deep.
"Okay… let's see what's wrong with you, you old rust bucket."
He grabbed a screwdriver from the floor and pressed it to the side of the nav core's metal casing. With a few twists, the pins came loose, and the panel dropped open.
A low whistle escaped him as he stared inside.
"Damn," he muttered. "How do you even let something this small get this bad?"
The wiring was a mess—burnt, tangled, half-melted in places. He didn't know whether to be impressed or horrified.
"This is gonna be a long night."
He gathered a torch, a blowtorch, and a few other tools from the nearby crate, then knelt beside the open panel. The blowtorch hissed to life, casting flickering light across the chamber as he got to work.
Slow progress. But progress.
And yeah—this was definitely going to be a long night.
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Pamarthe – Brune Family Hangar – Inside Ship – Hours Later
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The sound of the blowtorch sputtering, then dying with a soft hiss, echoed through the ship, leaving the hallways in a thick, humming silence. The only sound now was the low, steady pulse of the nav core—alive again, glowing faint blue in the dark.
Lioras lay against the cold metal wall, the back of his head resting comfortably as his eyes fluttered, struggling to stay open. He was truly exhausted. He could feel the ache in every joint, the burns and cuts etched into his skin from sharp metal edges and the heat of the blowtorch biting into his nerves.
His tools were scattered around him—wrenches, wires, a half-empty canister of coolant. The floor was littered with metal shavings and stripped insulation.
He yawned, letting his head tilt back as he tried to stay awake, wondering how long he'd been in the ship. The roof still had holes in it. Through one of them, he could see the faintest hint of morning light bleeding into the sky.
"They don't pay me enough for this," Lioras muttered, voice dry and half-asleep.
He remembered a year ago, at just twelve years old, when a similar loop played in his head—right here, in this same hallway. He chuckled, the sound dry and faint, as the memory surfaced: his father cursing at the nav system like it had personally insulted his mother.
Back then, Lioras thought the ship was magic. And in some ways, he still did.
While everything else in his life felt distant or confused, the ship understood. It held the memories. It held him together.
This ship was a part of him in a way he could never fully explain.
Lioras slowly picked himself up, a wave of dizziness washing over him. He pressed one hand to the wall for balance as he made his way through the ship's narrow halls. He'd planned to walk home—but he was just too tired.
The halls were dim, seeming smaller than his younger self remembered—but the walls were still strong, still holding everything together. Every step echoed like a memory.
He passed the old mess hall, where Halric once broke his foot slipping on a pile of eggs. Lioras shook his head, smiling faintly. He still couldn't believe Halric was the older one.
Then came the dent in the wall—Jace's doing, from that time he threw a wrench during a fight. With him, of course. Lioras chuckled. Some things never changed.
He could never explain it, but Jace always seemed to place his problems on him. Maybe that was his escape. Maybe Lioras was just the easiest target.
He sighed.
This ship had seen everything. The anger. The laughter. The fights. And somehow, it was still standing.
It would still be here long after they were gone. "I promise that," he whispered.
He stopped in front of a doorway and pressed the button on the panel. The doors slid open with a tired hiss, revealing the room inside.
It didn't look warm. In fact, it looked like someone might've been murdered there. Honestly, he wasn't sure he'd even be surprised.
The walls were dry and cracked. The room was stripped of anything resembling comfort. The bed looked like it had been cobbled together from shoelaces, tape, and nails. But at this point, anything would do.
And really—what was one more nail in the coffin of his future?
His steps were slow. Very slow. He reached the bed and gently lowered himself onto the cold, damp mattress, wet from rain leaking through the ship's broken roof. The chill of the room seeped into his bones. The nails dug into his back.
But in the cold, in the ache, in the ruin of it all—he found one small semblance of peace.
The silence.
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