The Gizotso tore free of the recessed hanger with a muffled roar. No fanfare or fair well. Just the churn of its engines and a tremor shaking the steel-blue hull.

  Inside, the forward viewscreen was divided into two feeds. One side the sky ahead—white, swirling with snowflakes—the other showed what they were leaving behind.

  Home.

  Azrhar was a mountainous, icy wasteland. Blue. Gray. Hopeless. Storms swept its empty horizon in treacherous, frozen tsunamis.

  Snow melted into slurry from the heat of their drivefire. Centered in the rear feed were The Moonlit Holds. Four squat military complexes embedded in the side of Black Ice Mountain like sticks of dynamite. Covered in scarlet lights that flickered in the haze.

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  The Ulvenhold spired at the peak, and reached out for them like a glacial hand. Like it was waving goodbye. Or flagging them down in warning.

  It was quiet on the bridge as they broke atmosphere. No one spoke. Systems hummed. Panels blinked. But nobody moved.

  Azrhar drifted further away, more a memory by the second. The stars stretched as far as the eye could see, indifferent as always. Indifferent to the Clans. To their mission. Their lives. Unlimited possibilities lurked in the dark, either to be surmounted or overtaken by.

  In an abrupt flash of cerulean light the Gizotso shot into the cosmic fold, into the luminescent void of ceespace...

  ...gone in a blink.

  Maybe never to return.