Chapter 2 The Throne Room

The Rust Rabbit detached from the throne structure with a shudder, its engines whining in protest. Kael sat in the pilot's seat, his hands trembling on the controls, his mind still reeling from what he had experienced. "Orla, what happened back there?" "I am analyzing the data," Orla replied. "The quantum field disturbance has altered your biological signature. You are emitting a low-level gravitational resonance that is... unprecedented. I have never encountered anything like it." "Can you describe it?" "It is as if you have become part of the structure itself. Your body is now resonating with the same frequency as the throne. And there is something else—a marker, embedded in your DNA, that identifies you as the heir to the Aethelgard line." Kael felt a cold dread spreading through his chest. "A marker? Like a beacon?" "Precisely. And it is broadcasting on a frequency that is detectable by any vessel equipped with gravitational sensors." Kael's blood ran cold. "How long has it been broadcasting?" "Since the moment the throne recognized you. Approximately twelve minutes ago." He stared at the console, his mind racing. If the marker was broadcasting, then anyone with the right equipment could detect it. And given that the Aethelgard Empire had been erased from history, there were likely people in the galaxy who would do anything to find the heir—and eliminate them before they could restore the empire. "Orla, run a scan for incoming vessels." "Scanning. I am detecting three signatures approaching from the north quadrant. They are fast—military grade. And they are hailing us." Kael's hand hovered over the comm panel. "Put them through." The viewport filled with the image of a man in a uniform Kael did not recognize. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, with a face that was all sharp angles and hard lines. His eyes were cold, and they fixed on Kael with an intensity that made the salvage pilot want to look away. "Kael Vesper," the man said. "I am Commander Torren of the Galactic Coalition. You are under arrest for crimes against the established order." "What crimes?" Kael asked. "The crime of existing," Torren said. "The crime of being the heir to a empire that was destroyed for a reason. The crime of threatening the peace we have built." "I didn't threaten anything. I just found a ruin." "You found the Graviton Throne," Torren said. "And in doing so, you have become a target. The Coalition will not allow the Aethelgard legacy to be restored. That empire was a threat to every civilization in the galaxy, and we will not let it rise again." "Then why come for me? Why not just kill me?" "Because we need to know what you know," Torren said. "The throne's knowledge is too valuable to lose. And you, Kael Vesper, are the key to unlocking it. So you will come with us, willingly or otherwise, and you will tell us everything you have learned." The transmission cut off, and Kael turned to Orla. "Can we outrun them?" "Negative," Orla replied. "Their vessels are significantly faster than ours. However, I have detected a nearby nebula with dense gravitational interference. We could use it to mask our signature." "Plot a course." The Rust Rabbit surged forward, its engines roaring as it streaked toward the nebula. Behind them, the Coalition vessels gave chase, their weapons charging as they closed the distance. Kael gripped the controls, his knuckles white, and prayed that Orla's plan would work. --- Kael braced against the console as the Rust Rabbit plunged into the nebula's heart. The gravitational interference came in waves, each one bending the hull a few degrees and threatening to shear the vessel apart. Orla ran constant diagnostics, her voice steady even as the readouts flickered. "The interference is protecting us as much as it is threatening us," she said. "The Coalition sensors cannot resolve our signature through this much noise." Kael watched the viewport fill with violet light. "How long until they adapt?" "Two hours, perhaps three. Long enough for us to lose them. Not long enough to feel safe." He let out a breath he had not realized he was holding. For seven years he had been alone in the void, answerable to no one, the master of his own small fate. Now he was the heir to a dead empire, the most wanted man in known space, and the only thing standing between a galaxy and the silence that had taken it once before. The weight of it settled onto his shoulders like a physical thing. "The throne chose me," he said quietly. "I didn't ask for it. But I'm not going to run from it either." "Good," Orla replied. "Because running is no longer an option. I am detecting a derelict station at the nebula's edge. Built by a trade consortium three centuries ago, abandoned for two. Its systems are faintly active." "Can we dock?" "Affirmatively. It is the safest harbor within light-years." The Rust Rabbit slipped between curtains of ionized gas, its engines throttled to a whisper. Behind them, the Coalition vessels faltered, their pursuit vectors dissolving into the static. Kael allowed himself a single moment of relief, then turned his mind to what came next. The galaxy was vast, the enemies were many, and he had just become a symbol. He would need allies, a plan, and a way to turn a dying star's gift into something that could survive contact with the real world. The Rust Rabbit finally cleared the nebula's outer fringe and the Coalition pursuit was gone for good, swallowed by the static. Kael powered the sublights down to a crawl and let the station's silhouette grow on the viewport. It was a ring of rust and silence, five kilometers across, turning slowly in the dark like a sleeping animal. "Orla, how stable is that docking bay?" he asked. "Stable enough. The atmosphere systems are at sixty percent, but they will hold for a landing." He brought the vessel in by hand, the way he always did, feeling the deck plates shudder as the landing gear locked. For a long moment he simply sat there, in the sudden quiet, listening to the hum of systems that no longer needed to run for their lives. The throne's resonance was a low warmth in his chest, patient, waiting. Whatever was aboard that station, whatever heirs or hiding peoples Lira had spoken of, he would meet them as a salvage pilot who had followed a dying star to its end — not as the emperor the Coalition feared, but as the man who had refused to look away. He slung the plasma rifle, cycled the airlock, and stepped out into the cold.