Darion Veynar had always suspected that life had a particular grudge against him, though he would have been too polite—or too deadpan—to put it that way at the time. Most children worried about scraped knees, failed tests, or parents' disapproval. He had cousins who laughed while plotting the slow dismantling of his dignity, an uncle whose smug face could liquefy steel, and a universe that seemed designed to test his patience with the subtlety of a neutron star collision. By the age of ten, when his father, Emperor Kael Veynar, fell ill, Darion understood two things: first, the universe had a wicked sense of humor, and second, that "survive at all costs" was not merely a slogan—it was a lifestyle.
It began subtly. His cousins, once distant, started to notice him. They commented on his posture during ceremonial drills, on the fragility of his sword arm, on the way his boots clicked too softly on the palace floors. Valen, his eldest cousin, had a particular talent for mockery.
"Really, Darion," Valen said one morning during a fencing lesson, twirling his blade with an arrogance only a genetically favored heir could muster, "are we to believe you'll ever hold a weapon without slicing your own foot off?"
Darion's lip curled just enough to be dangerous. "Better than slicing the empire in half with your stupidity."
The general overseeing the training, Thoren, grunted in approval, which in his own grizzled way meant: Well, at least someone here knows what they're doing.
Over the years, the small whispers became elaborate schemes. His cousins experimented with psychological warfare: misplaced swords, deliberately swapped food rations, whispered rumors to servants and officials. Each day was a new lesson in patience, in restraint, and in how to survive while the universe wrote terrible poetry about you in the margins of its cosmic ledger.
Darion's uncle, Lord Malvek Veynar, did not merely watch; he conducted it all with the flair of a maestro. Politics were his orchestra: every bribe, assassination, and minor insult a note in a symphony of suppression. Teachers were subtly instructed to undermine Darion's studies; tutors threatened, bribed, or otherwise persuaded to mold the boy into a "harmless heir"—all while whispering that respect was a privilege he had yet to earn.
"Darion," Malvek would say on mornings when the sun glinted too perfectly off the palace spires, "you seem tired. I do hope it isn't contagious. I would hate to see the court weakened by your weakness."
Darion bowed with the mechanical grace of a man who had long since memorized the rhythms of insult. "I will endeavor to keep my ailments private, uncle."
Malvek's grin spread, sharp and gleaming like a well-polished ceremonial blade. "Good. We must maintain appearances. After all, the empire cannot survive unless everyone knows exactly who is in charge—and whose children are incompetent."
By the time Darion was twelve, his cousins' antics had escalated beyond the merely annoying. They had graduated to tampering with his equipment, turning minor training exercises into traps, and whispering threats so subtle that even the palace walls seemed complicit. Yet each act was carefully calculated, choreographed by Malvek to make Darion doubt his own capabilities, his own place in the world. The boy learned quickly: survival wasn't about being strong—it was about knowing when to speak, when to act, and when to smile while the knife was inches from your back.
Darion's allies were few, but loyal. General Thoren, a grizzled veteran whose armor had been patched with the remnants of thousands of battles, often muttered sarcastically under his breath, "Still alive, boy. Barely. But alive is a start."
Darion, adjusting his stance during one particularly difficult training session, replied, "Barely is an optimistic term for someone who just survived a collapsing platform and an enraged cousin."
"Optimistic is necessary for idiots and exiles," Thoren muttered, checking his plasma blade. "You, my boy, qualify for both."
Then there was Sire Calvek, the palace butler, whose memory was so precise it bordered on being a tactical weapon. He could tell you the number of times your uncle had sneered at you, the exact words, and the brand of ink used to document it in court records.
"Your cousins are whispering again," Calvek said one afternoon, polishing a ceremonial dagger with the kind of satisfaction that only someone with zero hope of redemption could manage.
Darion groaned. "Do you ever have good news?"
"Good news," Calvek replied solemnly, "is a myth, much like loyalty among nobles or a decent cup of tea in the royal kitchens."
The palace itself seemed to participate in the betrayal. Marble walls whispered secrets, chandeliers glinted at odd angles as if judging him, and even the air carried the faint tang of plotting. Yet Darion refused to crumble. He had learned that the universe, while cruel, was also laughably predictable if you watched closely enough. And Darion watched.
It all came to a head on the day he was summoned to the throne room. The palace, a cathedral of light and holographic splendor, seemed more magnificent than ever. Malvek lounged on the dais, crown tilted at a rakish angle, grin wide, eyes glinting with cruel amusement. Around him, the court laughed, nobles and generals both enraptured by the theater of his humiliation.
"Boy," Malvek's voice slithered like silk over blades, "decide your fate. Challenge me… or leave. Tradition permits you choice."
Darion surveyed the room. Cousins smirked, generals feigned loyalty, nobles whispered gossip like it was a sport. He felt nothing. No fear, no anger—only the cold clarity of calculation. Challenge meant bloodshed, defeat, and the deaths of those still loyal. Leave meant survival. Survival was underrated, often overlooked in favor of bravery or reputation. He chose wisely.
"I'll leave," he said, voice steady. "The empire is yours. Enjoy it."
Laughter erupted. Slow, deliberate, cruelly melodic, like a thousand mocking echoes bouncing across the dome. Spittle flew. Faces twisted in grotesque delight. Darion, unfazed, simply nodded, and moved on.
"Prepare the ships," he instructed Thoren. "Sell what we must. Gather our people. Leave nothing behind but gratitude for survival."
The preparations were ceremonial yet frantic. Thousands of loyal followers assembled: Mira Koss, the logistics officer, fussing over manifests; Rell Tarn, heavy arms slung across his broad back, scowling at the inefficiency of bureaucracy; and Kavik, fiddling with a gravity stabilizer, muttering about duct tape and neutron stars.
"This paperwork is insane," Mira muttered, glancing at the cargo manifest.
Darion smirked. "Insane paperwork is a galaxy-wide constant. Consider it a blessing: if you survive it, you survive everything else."
"Or go mad in under an hour," Rell added. "Whichever comes first."
"Details," Kavik said, "are for people who aren't clever enough to invent new physics to ignore them."
Darion chuckled. Banter, he decided, was a form of armor. Laughter was a shield no amount of political treachery could pierce.
As the last shuttles lifted off, the grandeur of Lightspire receding beneath them, Darion allowed himself a moment of reflection. His home was lost, yes. His family betrayed him, yes. But he had his people, and he had his wits—and that, he realized, was the most dangerous thing in a universe that prided itself on murder and manipulation.
Far ahead, in a dark corner of the galaxy, awaited a barren planet and its resident real estate agent. Grixen Fold's smile was stiff, unyielding, and utterly unnerving. Darion had no idea what awaited him there, but somehow, that seemed perfect.
"Looks… promising," Mira muttered as she adjusted the shuttle controls.
"Promising is a relative term," Darion said, leaning back and watching the stars stretch past. "If by promising you mean completely devoid of life, hope, and oxygen—then yes. Absolutely promising."
Rell snorted. "I vote for hoping they have beer."
Kavik tapped the navigation console. "Beer might be a stretch. Oxygen, too. But I've been wrong before."
Darion smiled faintly. "Wrong is just a word for the things the universe enjoys watching you suffer for. Consider it entertainment. Cosmic, unending entertainment."
The fleet moved in silence, though not somberly. Darion's people knew better than to mourn in full view. They were alive. That was enough for now.
And somewhere, on that dark, inhospitable rock of a planet, Grixen Fold waited. The smile never faltered.