The Healing Hours
The Red Radiant sailed through the wreckage fields beyond Outpost Korda, stars bleeding into the endless black.
Inside the ship, the air was tense but alive.
The crew had fought side by side.
They had bled together.
And in that strange, raw way only chaos can forge —
they had begun to trust.
Zaraya sat sprawled across the mess hall table, cosmic gauntlets tossed carelessly beside half-eaten ration bars.
Kaelen leaned against the far wall, arms folded, ever watchful.
Jaxen tinkered with his blasters, nervously checking the barrels for the fifth time in an hour.
And in the center of the room, newly cleaned and bandaged, sat Doctor Veyla Dran.
Her voice shook as she spoke:
"They came for me after I left the Velvaran fleet," she said. "I knew too much. About dimensional tech… about the fractures in the multiverse."
Kaelen's eyes narrowed.
"Fractures."
Veyla nodded grimly.
"The Cult seeks them. They believe if they can control the ancient gateways… they can rewrite the boundaries of life, death, and time itself."
Jaxen whistled low.
"Always knew they were crazy.
Didn't know they were crazy and ambitious."
Zaraya leaned forward, eyes gleaming.
"And the missing 'giant'?" she asked.
Veyla smiled faintly.
"Not a giant.
A mind.
One who could map the paths between universes themselves."
She paused.
"A girl named Plo."
⸻
The Lead
Coordinates appeared on the holo-map above the table:
an abandoned research station adrift near the collapsed star known as Verdan's Grave.
If Plo was alive —
if she had escaped the Cult's first sweeps —
that station might hold her trail.
It wasn't much.
But it was enough.
Zaraya cracked her knuckles, cosmic pulse humming.
"Sounds like an adventure to me."
⸻
The Private Moment
Later, under the cold blue lights of the Red Radiant's observation deck,
Kaelen found Jaxen staring out into the swirling stars.
For a moment, they stood in silence.
Then Kaelen spoke:
"You're hiding something."
Jaxen stiffened — but didn't turn.
"Everyone's hiding something, Shadowman."
Kaelen's gaze was steady.
"Yours could get us killed."
Another long silence.
Finally, Jaxen sighed — a ragged, tired sound.
"Yeah.
Probably.*"
Kaelen studied him — then did something unexpected:
He nodded.
"Tell us when you're ready.
Or when you're dead."
And he left.
No threats.
No ultimatums.
Just choice.
Freedom.
Trust.
Jaxen let out a slow breath, feeling a weight he didn't know he carried loosen just slightly.
⸻
Around the Fire
Later still, Zaraya called them together around the engine core, which she had jury-rigged into a makeshift campfire with flickering plasma lights.
She grinned at them, holding up an old ration tin like a toast.
"To the galaxy's worst rescue mission!" she said.
Kaelen rolled his eyes.
Jaxen barked a laugh and clinked his ration pack against hers.
For a few hours, they were just people again.
Not fugitives.
Not monsters.
Not legends.
Just a broken sword, a reckless star, and a rogue flyer —
bound together by a bond stronger than blood:
Choice.
⸻
The Broadcast
Somewhere out in the systems, newsfeeds crackled.
"Unknown ship — designated Red Radiant — engaged cult forces at Outpost Korda.
Refugees call them…"
Static burst.
Then a voice, almost reverent:
"The Dawnbreakers."
Zaraya blinked, mid-chew.
"Wait. What?"
"That's WAY cooler than what I was gonna call us!"
Jaxen grinned.
"What were you gonna call us?"
Zaraya smirked proudly:
"The Starpunchers."
Kaelen's eye twitched visibly.
Jaxen facepalmed.
"Thank every god for journalists," he muttered.
⸻
Bounties Declared
In the dark spaces between empires:
• The Black Circuit issued full bounty contracts on Zaraya Starheart, Kaelen Veylor, and Jaxen Rhane — "dead preferred, alive for vivisection."
• The Cult placed silent kill orders — whispered in dead languages across assassin networks.
The Dawnbreakers were no longer just a nuisance.
They were a threat.
And the galaxy had taken notice
The Healing Hours
The Red Radiant sailed through the wreckage fields beyond Outpost Korda, stars bleeding into the endless black.
Inside the ship, the air was tense but alive.
The crew had fought side by side.
They had bled together.
And in that strange, raw way only chaos can forge —
they had begun to trust.
Zaraya sat sprawled across the mess hall table, cosmic gauntlets tossed carelessly beside half-eaten ration bars.
Kaelen leaned against the far wall, arms folded, ever watchful.
Jaxen tinkered with his blasters, nervously checking the barrels for the fifth time in an hour.
And in the center of the room, newly cleaned and bandaged, sat Doctor Veyla Dran.
Her voice shook as she spoke:
"They came for me after I left the Velvaran fleet," she said. "I knew too much. About dimensional tech… about the fractures in the multiverse."
Kaelen's eyes narrowed.
"Fractures."
Veyla nodded grimly.
"The Cult seeks them. They believe if they can control the ancient gateways… they can rewrite the boundaries of life, death, and time itself."
Jaxen whistled low.
"Always knew they were crazy.
Didn't know they were crazy and ambitious."
Zaraya leaned forward, eyes gleaming.
"And the missing 'giant'?" she asked.
Veyla smiled faintly.
"Not a giant.
A mind.
One who could map the paths between universes themselves."
She paused.
"A girl named Plo."
⸻
The Lead
Coordinates appeared on the holo-map above the table:
an abandoned research station adrift near the collapsed star known as Verdan's Grave.
If Plo was alive —
if she had escaped the Cult's first sweeps —
that station might hold her trail.
It wasn't much.
But it was enough.
Zaraya cracked her knuckles, cosmic pulse humming.
"Sounds like an adventure to me."
⸻
The Private Moment
Later, under the cold blue lights of the Red Radiant's observation deck,
Kaelen found Jaxen staring out into the swirling stars.
For a moment, they stood in silence.
Then Kaelen spoke:
"You're hiding something."
Jaxen stiffened — but didn't turn.
"Everyone's hiding something, Shadowman."
Kaelen's gaze was steady.
"Yours could get us killed."
Another long silence.
Finally, Jaxen sighed — a ragged, tired sound.
"Yeah.
Probably.*"
Kaelen studied him — then did something unexpected:
He nodded.
"Tell us when you're ready.
Or when you're dead."
And he left.
No threats.
No ultimatums.
Just choice.
Freedom.
Trust.
Jaxen let out a slow breath, feeling a weight he didn't know he carried loosen just slightly.
⸻
Around the Fire
Later still, Zaraya called them together around the engine core, which she had jury-rigged into a makeshift campfire with flickering plasma lights.
She grinned at them, holding up an old ration tin like a toast.
"To the galaxy's worst rescue mission!" she said.
Kaelen rolled his eyes.
Jaxen barked a laugh and clinked his ration pack against hers.
For a few hours, they were just people again.
Not fugitives.
Not monsters.
Not legends.
Just a broken sword, a reckless star, and a rogue flyer —
bound together by a bond stronger than blood:
Choice.
⸻
The Broadcast
Somewhere out in the systems, newsfeeds crackled.
"Unknown ship — designated Red Radiant — engaged cult forces at Outpost Korda.
Refugees call them…"
Static burst.
Then a voice, almost reverent:
"The Dawnbreakers."
Zaraya blinked, mid-chew.
"Wait. What?"
"That's WAY cooler than what I was gonna call us!"
Jaxen grinned.
"What were you gonna call us?"
Zaraya smirked proudly:
"The Starpunchers."
Kaelen's eye twitched visibly.
Jaxen facepalmed.
"Thank every god for journalists," he muttered.
⸻
Bounties Declared
In the dark spaces between empires:
• The Black Circuit issued full bounty contracts on Zaraya Starheart, Kaelen Veylor, and Jaxen Rhane — "dead preferred, alive for vivisection."
• The Cult placed silent kill orders — whispered in dead languages across assassin networks.
The Dawnbreakers were no longer just a nuisance.
They were a threat.
And the galaxy had taken notice