The stars over Arcadia shone with a brilliance rare in the galaxy, unclouded by the scars of industry or the haze of war. Silver-white and endless, they were the birthright of a people who had long been custodians of the void. To the nobles of Arcadia, they were more than distant suns — they were inheritance, promise, and burden.
Francis Harlock was born to that promise.
The House of Harlock was old, its marble halls carved high above the Veyran Sea, its bloodline etched into the annals of Arcadia's void-navy. Yet in Francis's youth, the family stood at a crossroads: rich in honor but poor in coin, guardians of a legacy but lacking the power to enforce it. His father, stern and aloof, clung to protocol. His mother, softer, filled the household with music and laughter, though sorrow lingered in her eyes. Both were gone before Francis reached manhood, leaving him heir to a name greater than its fortunes.
Francis was not the brooding scion his tutors had hoped for. He was alive in every sense of the word. He laughed often and loudly, drank with sailors and nobles alike, and could turn a feast into a festival with a few well-placed words. He raced yachts across Arcadia's rings, fought duels with a grin, and was known to sing old void-ballads so loudly that even the harbor dogs joined in.
But beneath his brightness lay steel. At the Naval Academy on Arcadia's second moon, he excelled in strategy, navigation, and gunnery. He played war-games like a gambler, improvising maneuvers his peers would never dare — and winning with them. He earned friends quickly, and rivals just as swiftly.
His instructors called him gifted. His fellow cadets called him reckless. Francis called it instinct.
One lecture etched itself into memory.
The Chaplain of the Academy, draped in crimson, thundered to the assembled cadets:
"The Emperor protects! The Emperor guides the prow! In prayer, we find the course through storm and flame!"
The cadets echoed as one: "The Emperor protects!"
Francis Harlock's lips moved with the others, but quietly. His voice was soft, almost thoughtful, as though weighing the words.
When the hall had emptied, the Chaplain barred his path. "You do not believe," he accused.
Francis inclined his head respectfully. "I do, Father. The Emperor protects. But when the guns fire and the void shakes, I believe He expects us to act, not wait. A steady helm is prayer enough."
The priest studied him, suspicion sharp as a blade. "Careful, boy. Doubt is a dangerous habit."
Francis gave a faint smile, courteous but unreadable. "Then I will keep my habits to myself."
The Chaplain let him go, but Francis felt the weight of eyes on his back long after.
His first command came earlier than expected. The Veyran Star, a sleek corvette, was placed under his authority when pirate raiders struck near the Drelath Belt. His squadron was outnumbered three to one.
The obvious order was retreat. But Francis Harlock saw the hesitation in the raiders' movements, the gaps in their formation. He stood upon the bridge, eyes alight, and smiled.
"Helm, bring us in close. We'll gut their flagship before they realize their mistake."
The crew hesitated — then obeyed. Under Francis's command, the Veyran Star wove through fire like a dancer in a duel. He called for maneuvers that seemed suicidal, but each one carved deeper into the enemy. A lance strike crippled the raider's lead engines, and panic spread through the flotilla. Within an hour, the pirates were broken and scattered.
His men roared with victory. Francis only laughed, clapping his helmsman on the back. "Simple enough. Just don't get hit."
That night, he opened the officer's stores and shared the wine with the lowest deckhands. By dawn, half the crew was drunk and singing, and Francis himself was sprawled across the captain's chair, grinning as though the void itself had blessed him.
On Arcadia, his legend grew. He was celebrated as the laughing captain, the daring noble who led from the front and drank with his men. His charisma filled taverns and halls alike. Sailors swore they would follow him into any storm.
But not all praised him. Ecclesiarchal priests whispered of arrogance. Administrators frowned at his questions about tithe demands that starved his people. An Inquisitorial scribe underlined his name on a parchment, though no order followed.
Still, Francis endured. His charm shielded him, his victories justified him, and his people loved him. He was Arcadia's brightest son, the noble who carried both laughter and fire into every room.
And in rare quiet moments, standing alone on the cliffs of his ancestral home, he would look up at the stars. His smile would fade, and for a breath, sorrow touched his eyes. As if some shadow lingered just beyond sight, waiting.