Pain woke him first.
A deep, burning fire in his chest, like soone had poured hot tal under his skin. Lian’s eyes opened slowly. The world was blurred, red-tinted from the storm light still leaking through the broken roof.
He was lying on the cold tal floor, exactly where he had collapsed. Dust and dried blood covered him. His miner’s suit was torn open at the chest. A long, ugly wound ran across it—jagged edges, black around the cut where the sword Qi had burned. Blood had soaked through, crusted now into a dark stain the size of a dinner plate.
Every small breath hurt. Every heartbeat felt like a hamr on the wound.
He didn’t move at first. Just lay there, staring up at the open sky. The storm had passed. The twin suns were high, casting harsh light on the ruined pod.
Then mory ca back.
All of it.
The slice through the roof. The old man with white machine eyes. The shadow with red glow. Harlan’s scream. The claws. The heart pulled out. The eyes taken. The body cut apart.
Lian turned his head slow. Pain shot through his neck, but he forced it.
What was left of Harlan lay a few feet away on the torn bed. Pieces. Blood everywhere, dark and thick on the floor. The empty face stared at nothing. No eyes. No heart. Just ruin.
Lian dragged himself toward it.
Inch by inch.
His arms shook. His chest scread. Blood started fresh from the wound with every pull. He left a red trail on the tal behind him.
When he reached the bed, he stopped.
He pulled himself up just enough to rest his head near what used to be Harlan’s hand.
Then he stared.
For hours.
The suns moved across the sky. Light shifted. Shadows grew long.
He didn’t blink much. Didn’t cry anymore. The tears had run out soti in the night.
He just looked at the pieces of the man who raised him. The man who told stories. Who laughed at bad jokes. Who brewed weak tea and fixed broken things.
Gone.
Cut away.
Taken.
Lian stayed there until his arms gave out. Until the pain pulled him back down.
He collapsed again, face against the cold floor, and the darkness took him.
He woke the second ti to quiet voices and the sll of strong herbs.
Light was softer now. Evening, maybe.
He was on a low cot, not the floor. Clean bandages wrapped tight around his chest. The wound still burned, but less sharp.
Old Jax sat beside him on a crate. His face was tired, eyes red like he hadn’t slept. His tal arm rested on his knee.
Behind him, the dic Mira moved quiet, mixing sothing in a bowl.
Jax leaned forward when Lian’s eyes opened.
"Hey, kid," Jax said, voice rough but gentle. "You’re back. Scared us good. Been out a whole week."
Lian stared at him.
Jax tried a small smile. "We found you. and a few others. Carried you out. Buried... what was left. Proper spot under the east dune. Harlan would’ve liked it."
No answer.
Jax kept talking, soft. "You’re safe now. Wound’s bad, but Mira says you’ll live. Tough little bastard, always were."
Lian’s blue eyes—once bright, once full of life—looked straight at Jax.
But they were different now.
Dull no longer.
Not empty either.
Sothing cold and hard had settled in them. Deep. Sharp. Forged in blood and loss.
Like steel cooled slow after fire.
Jax saw it. His words slowed. Stopped.
He reached out and put his good hand on Lian’s shoulder. "Talk to , sparkle-boy."
Lian didn’t speak.
Didn’t blink.
Just looked through Jax, like he was seeing sothing far away.
The boy who laughed loud, who made everyone smile, who bounced through doors with stories and hope—that boy was gone.
Sothing new had taken his place.
Quiet.
Still.
Unbreakable.
Refined by pain into sothing harder than any aug, any Qi, any blade.
Jax sat with him a long ti.
Mira checked the bandages and left food.
No one spoke again.
Outside, the twin suns set red over the dunes.
Inside, Lian breathed slow and steady.
He didn’t cry.
He didn’t speak.
He just waited.
The hunt would begin soon.
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