The sky was burning. What once shimmered with constellations and floating citadels now looked like a graveyard of light. The world was dying, and the stars above wept molten tears.
Inside the collapsing command dome, two figures stood surrounded by failing systems and flickering holograms.
The man-Hades was tall, his skin the soft blue of fading ice, his long silver hair tangled and streaked with soot. Tattoos spiraled across his arms like constellations—lines glowing faintly, flickering with the ship's dying power. His eyes—bright and human in shape but deep as nebulae—were heavy with grief.
Across from him stood Hera, towering over him by nearly a head. Her skin was a darker shade, like midnight water under starlight. Tattoos traced down her neck and chest in sharp, beautiful patterns, the marks of her lineage. Her robes hung torn at the sleeves, yet her posture remained steady, unwavering. Around her neck and face shimmered fragments of diamond-like ornaments—symbols of what they once were, now dull under smoke and ruin.
"The eastern line has fallen," Hades said, voice cracking as another explosion trembled through the dome. "The citadel fleet is gone. The Vraek have surrounded us."
Hera's tone was calm, sharp, almost cold. "If they break through, they'll slaughter what's left and turn the survivors into drones."
He slammed his fist against the console. "We can't let that happen. We can't—"
"We can't stop it," she interrupted softly, her dark eyes never leaving the collapsing holographic map. "Our army is gone. Our defenses are nothing but smoke. The only thing left to protect is him."
Her gaze shifted toward the small cradle in the center of the chamber—a sphere of smooth crystal, humming faintly with inner light. Inside it, a child slept peacefully, his tiny fingers curled, unaware of the death of worlds around him.
Hades stepped closer, his voice breaking. "You really mean to send him away?"
Hera turned to face him, her expression composed but her eyes trembling with the faintest glimmer of pain. "If he stays, he dies with us. The system can search for a world where life still breathes, somewhere far from the Vraek's reach. Somewhere he can live."
"And grow up alone," Hades said, voice shaking. "An orphan in some unknown corner of the galaxy."
Hera's breath hitched, just slightly. "Alone is still alive."
The ship shuddered violently. A blast of light cut across the sky beyond the viewport, bright enough to wash their blue skin in white.
Hades looked down at the child. His throat tightened. "He should've grown up with us. He should've known our songs, our oceans, our stars."
Hera's eyes flickered—hardness cracking, finally revealing the storm underneath. "He will know them, in time."
She turned to the console and began the launch sequence. The cradle rose slowly, hovering in a shaft of pale light. The walls around them groaned as the dome began to collapse, metal screaming under pressure.
Hades stepped back, tears welling in his eyes. "There must be another way."
"There isn't," Hera said. Her voice was steady, but her hands trembled as she adjusted the final parameters. "I've encoded our memory patterns into the vessel's core. If he ever finds it… he'll know who we were."
Hades reached for her, but she pulled away—turning toward the cradle instead. For a moment, the world fell silent. Only the hum of the launch system remained.
She placed her palm against the glass, her tattoos glowing softly. Her breath shivered as tears began to roll down her cheeks, tracing paths through the soot and ash.
"My child," she whispered, her voice breaking. "You shall live. You must live. And when you grow… come find us again."
Her tears hit the glass and glowed faintly, absorbed into the light.
Hades's hand joined hers on the cradle. His voice was barely audible, trembling with loss. "Forgive us, little one. Forgive us for not being there to see you grow."
The sequence completed. The cradle filled with radiant light, brighter than any flame outside.
"Goodbye," Hera said.
The pod disappeared into the storm of flame and cloud, leaving a streak of light that faded into the endless dark. Hera and Hades stood there long after it was gone, eyes fixed on the place where their child had vanished.
The silence that followed was heavier than the roar of battle outside. Only the low hum of the dying power cores filled the air—a heartbeat of a dying world.
Hades's shoulders trembled. The glow from the ruined consoles flickered across his face, tracing the path of his tears. "He's gone…" he whispered, his voice breaking. "We sent him into the void… with nothing but hope."
Hera's lips parted, but no words came at first. Her breath shuddered as she stepped closer to him, her hand resting gently on his chest where the faint light of his tattoos pulsed. Her own tears fell silently, streaking down her dark blue skin like molten glass.
"We did what we must," she said softly. "He lives because of us."
Hades looked at her, eyes clouded with grief and fear. "And what about us? What if there's nothing left to live for?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she leaned closer—until their foreheads touched, until their breaths mingled. Then, without hesitation, Hera kissed him. It was not a tender kiss, but one born of desperation—of years of love forged through fire and loss. For a moment, the collapsing world fell away. There was no war, no dying sky—only them.
When she pulled back, her voice was steady again, quiet but filled with command. "You will not fall apart now, Hades. Not yet. If we still draw breath, we fight. For him."
He nodded slowly, clutching her hand. His tears burned away in the heat of resolve. "Together?"
"Together."
Another tremor shook the floor beneath them; distant explosions painted the horizon in crimson. Hera turned toward the doorway, her silhouette framed by the flames beyond.
"Come," she said, her voice low and resolute. "Let's remind the stars why we were feared."
And with that, they walked back into the storm, two fading lights against the burning sky.