The Koiyokan dropped out of hyperspace about two parsecs above the galactic plane and ten parsecs from the Rishi Maze—a satellite galaxy clinging stubbornly to the fringes of known space. The Koiyokan was ready for its boring, tedious task, tearing through the empty, dead space between, and, hopefully, in a few months, returning to base to report they hadn't found anything that would become a hazard to hyperspace travel.

  One could draw a straight line between Coruscant and Nar Shaddaa on a star chart and attempt the jump, but the truth was that the moment they turned their gaze away, that line was broken. Coruscant moved in one direction, Nar Shaddaa in another, and the straight line between them was already forced to curve, if only slightly. Nav computers could help track what was known—assuming they were frequently updated—and facilitate safe travel along pre-plotted routes.

  But from that assumption of "pre-plotted" came the question: how truly "known" was known space? A galaxy was vast, and even in the so-called Known Regions, it was doubtful that every planet, star system, moon, nebula, and asteroid had been accounted for. Star charts couldn't guarantee that a cruise liner wouldn't smack into an uncharted object, ending its journey far sooner—and far more fatally—than expected. The truth was, hyperspace was a minefield, and the maintenance of it paid well for those willing to fly at sublight speeds and serve as minesweepers. This was the exact venture that had brought the Koiyokan to the dead space between two galaxies, searching for stray asteroids, comets, and nebulae that sat uncharted in the void.

  Gazrael sat staring out the large viewport on the Koiyokan's observation deck, his brown eyes taking in the sight of their galaxy beneath them. The chill of the room raised goosebumps on his arms, the air carrying the metallic tang that permeated the entire ship—recycled and filtered too many times. Behind him, the distant hum of the sublight engines vibrated through the deck plates, a constant reminder of their slow progress into the void.

  As the ship slowly ascended further away from any source of warmth and plunged deeper into the barren, breathless expanse, Gazrael couldn't help but feel a certain kinship with their journey. Hope to find the proverbial diamond in the rough, he thought bitterly. As if we'd ever be that lucky.

  The Koiyokan was an old vessel, a Hammerhead Corvette repurposed to act as a makeshift freighter in case they found anything worth hauling back. It had never happened before, but the crew remained hopeful. Maybe an odd Kamtono full of Kyber crystals, they dreamed. Gazrael figured they'd never find such treasure. By a sick twist of fate, at the ripe age of 27, he was still the oldest and most experienced member on board. Most of the others still had starry eyes, their hopes and dreams semi-intact.

  The observation deck's dim lighting cast long shadows across his face, the only illumination coming from the distant stars and the soft blue glow of the emergency strips along the floor. The silence in this part of the ship was almost complete—a luxury on a vessel where you could usually hear pipes creaking or the occasional droid whirring past.

  Gazrael had lost track of time as he watched the galaxy beneath them grow ever smaller. He'd seen the sight so many times before that it no longer humbled him. Couldn't say the same for the rest of the crew. Most of them don't want to be humbled. He liked this solitude, the quiet, until the hiss of a door behind him broke the silence. The light from the doorway flooded the dim observation deck, illuminating the room they'd passed off as a place for reflection. Gazrael didn't turn. He knew the clack of her boots—too precise for someone who claimed to hate the Empire's "drill sergeant fetish."

  "How long are you going to sit in here moping?" Her voice was honey laced with shrapnel. He finally glanced back. Leonia leaned against the doorway, violet eyes sharp as the winged liner she'd spent an hour perfecting. Her raven-dark hair drank the light like a void, save for thin streaks of silver that pierced through like distant constellations—tiny rebellions against the darkness, mirroring the starlit expanse he'd turned away from to face her. The scent of her lavender perfume—too expensive and complex for their mundane mission—cut through the recycled air.

  "I'm not moping," Gazrael replied, his voice sharp—though he caught himself softening as her reflection flickered in the viewport. "I'm just— Can you leave me alone?" Why does she always have to intrude? he thought irritably. It wasn't like anyone on board was particularly busy or needed help.

  "Not moping, just practicing your 'galactic savior' glare. Admirable, but it's wasted on asteroids." She tilted her head, a strand of silver-streaked hair catching the starlight. "You could at least glare my way. I'd appreciate the effort."

  He turned to her. She was small and slender, barely five feet tall if that, her skin pale enough to see her blue veins and smooth as porcelain. She stood with her arms crossed, her posture leaning slightly, as if to remind everyone around her that she considered them beneath her. She was beautiful—objectively, infuriatingly so. The kind of beauty that made you resent your own eyes for noticing. If he just wanted a pretty view while he spaced out, she was as suitable a sight as anything else.

  "What do you want, Leonia?" he asked, letting irritation consume his tone. Why does she always have to disturb my peace? Yet, even now, he felt the familiar tug of relief at seeing her. His emotions were a tangled mess whenever she was around.

  "Me?" she asked sarcastically, a smirk playing on her lips as she stretched out a hand to examine her nails, polished to perfection with a glossy black finish. "Maybe I'm just bored, and you're the only handsome guy to talk to."

  He rolled his eyes. She said it with sarcasm, but she always clearly preferred his attention over the others. He'd never been sure why. While he didn't consider himself unattractive, he wasn't an icon of beauty either. He frequently forgot to trim his beard and struggled to keep a beer gut from developing. Still, she had marked him as the target of her adoration, despite how little he reciprocated.

  Luckily, he didn't need to respond to her comment about handsome guys. After a few tense moments, she continued. "They're playing Sabacc again."

  "Well, then you can solve your boredom problem by playing Sabacc," he replied flatly. 'They' were the other members of the crew, he presumed.

  "I don't want to play Sabacc. I want you to play Sabacc." She kept her gaze on her nails, refusing to look at him as she spoke. Of course, he thought. She wants me to play for her. Another excuse to spend time together.

  "I'm not much of a gambler," he said, turning his attention back to the observation panel. Maybe that'll end this conversation.

  "Then don't gamble. Play on my behalf. I'll be the one gambling," she countered nonchalantly, lowering her hands to her pockets and producing a small mirror to touch up her hair. If vanity were a drug, she'd have overdosed a long time ago.

  "You can't be serious," he said, turning to face her. Why am I even surprised?

  "Oh, I'm very serious," she replied, her tone dripping with conviction. "I have things I'm willing to part with and things I'm willing to gain. And you're better at that game than I am."

  He wanted to say no, but he already knew she'd persist. Arguments didn't tire her; she'd just go on and on, wearing her opponents down. It'll be easier to agree, he thought, though he wasn't going to hide his irritation. "Fine. I'll play Sabacc for you."

  She stepped forward, reaching into her pocket again and withdrawing a bag of credits that she handed him, letting her fingers linger before pulling them back, the warmth of them causing his heart to speed up, her sharp chemical perfume filling him with the gentle scent of lavender. Get ahold of yourself, he thought as she turned and started walking away. There was a slight skip in her step, confirming his suspicion that this was just another ploy to spend time with him.

  Leonia paused before they came to the first corner to turn, glancing over her shoulder. "Don't worry—if we lose, I'll let you blame it on luck or whatever it is you Corellians mutter."

  "I'm not Corellian," he grumbled.

  "Could've fooled me with that beard. Very 'smuggler-chic.'"

  The ship was dimly lit to conserve power, the air thick with the smell of ozone and machine oil. Their footsteps echoed in the empty corridors, metal on metal creating a hollow rhythm that emphasized how understaffed they were. Occasionally, a pipe would hiss with escaping steam or a panel would flicker, reminding them of the vessel's age. The halls felt vacant, a reminder of how understaffed they were. The Sphyrna-Class Hammerhead Corvette, originally designed for a forty-seven-person crew, now housed only seven. Even with automation and droid support, the ship felt empty and deserted.

  In the dim light, with Leonia's small frame and dark clothing, it would have been easy to lose her. But she stopped frequently, reaching out to grab his hand and remind him which way to go—even though he already knew the layout of the ship. Her fingers brushed his palm, warm against the ship's chill. Gazrael stiffened, the contact lingering like a static shock. Focus on the game, not her, he chided himself, but the ghost of her touch lingered.

  Tucked just behind the bridge was the ship's recreation room. As they approached, the ambient sounds of the ship gave way to voices and the characteristic electronic tones of a Sabacc table. The smell of unwashed bodies and cheap alcohol grew stronger.

  In classic Sphyrna models, this space would have housed the escape pods, with the level above serving as the crew's lounge. But Garrett, the captain, had gutted and rearranged the interior multiple times. Now, the bottom floor—where four crew quarters should have been—held the escape pods. The recreation room occupied the space where the escape pods once were, and the level above had been converted into storage. With so few crew members, Garrett had felt comfortable repurposing much of the living space.

  The modifications didn't end there. The observation deck Gazrael had just left wasn't even on the original blueprints. Garrett had welded the entire deck to the ship, throwing off its symmetry, because he'd wanted a private space to try—and fail—to romance his crew. Not that anyone's ever taken him up on the offer, Gazrael thought wryly.

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  Leonia led Gazrael into the recreation room. The space was brighter than the corridors, with lights focused on the central table where three figures hunched over their cards. On the opposite side of the room was the door to the bridge, while to the starboard and port sides were elevators leading to other floors. The door they had just entered connected the recreation room to the engineering bay, cargo bay, hangar bay, and most of the ship's critical areas.

  Gazrael immediately spotted three others seated around a table playing Sabacc: Jerec, So-mi Syung, and Garrett.

  Jerec, a Pantoran with blue skin and steel-colored eyes, was bald with a hooked nose and served as the cargo handler. His massive frame dwarfed the chair he sat in, which creaked in protest with each of his movements. So-mi, also a Pantoran, had blue skin and yellow eyes, her bubblegum-pink hair styled in elaborate cultural buns. She was the ship's engineer, her hands still stained with grease from her last repair job. Garrett, the 25-year-old captain, was a human with olive skin, brown eyes, and spiked dirty-blonde hair with buzzed sides. He was the failson of a corporate executive who had somehow convinced his father to fund his subspace-charting venture.

  They were already mid-game, but Gazrael noticed they had left a seat open next to Garrett—likely intended for Leonia, in hopes of exploiting her incompetence at Sabacc to drain her credits. The air around the table was thick with tension and the faint odor of sweat.

  Gazrael took the empty seat beside Garrett. The captain's scowl deepened—probably annoyed he'd have to play against someone who knew the rules. Gazrael dumped Leonia's credits onto the table and ignored him. So-mi snorted, a giggle bubbling up as she reshuffled the Sabacc deck—a nervous tic that always struck like a spark in a fuel depot. He quickly found himself absorbed in the game, losing track of time.

  The crew played by Empress Teta-style rules, which Gazrael found slightly disorienting. He had been taught the Corellian style, which omitted face cards, so he had to adjust his strategy on the fly. The electronic hum of the table's randomizer was punctuated by the occasional curse or sigh from the players.

  The game was mostly silent, with little chatter among the crew. None of them seemed particularly fond of one another, though Jerec was the kindest, offering occasional comments like "Ooh, well played" or "Nice save" as the game progressed. The clinking of chips and shuffling of cards filled the awkward silences.

  Gazrael wasn't winning much, but he wasn't losing much either. He was largely breaking even with the credits Leonia had handed him. At least I'm not hemorrhaging her money, he thought dryly.

  Leonia herself watched from the corner of the room for a round or two before losing interest. She began touching up her nails, then her hair, and finally her makeup, reapplying pale foundation and adjusting her eyeliner. But as the game dragged on and her pile of credits failed to grow, her irritation became more visible. She started drawing long, sharp, jagged lines beneath her eyes with her eyeliner, her frustration simmering just beneath the surface. The scrape of her nail file and the clicking of makeup containers grew steadily louder.

  Gazrael could feel her irritated gaze burning into the back of his head, her restless movements growing louder behind him. *Good*, he thought. Let her stew. Maybe she'll think twice before dragging me into her schemes again. He was intentionally throwing rounds, ensuring she didn't walk away with any winnings. It was his silent punishment for her forcing him to play.

  After a few more rounds, Leonia's restlessness became impossible to ignore. She shuffled around loudly, her movements sharp and erratic. Even the other players noticed, smirking as they sensed one of her infamous temper tantrums brewing. The tension at the table grew, a silent countdown to her inevitable explosion.

  Halfway through another round, Leonia's fist slammed down on the table with a crack that seemed to shake the entire room.

  "YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE TRYING!" she screamed, dragging her arm across the table and sending chips and cards flying everywhere. "YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE MAKING ME MONEY!"

  So much for her saying she had things she was willing to lose, Gazrael thought dryly as So-mi stifled laughter.

  The earlier glee on Jerec and Garrett's faces drained away, replaced by anger at her outburst. Garrett stood, his chair screeching against the metal floor as he shouted—though his eyes locked onto Leonia, not the scattered cards. Like her tantrum was a betrayal, not just a nuisance. The scene devolved into chaos as the shouting match escalated.

  "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU, YOU FUCKING PSYCHO?" Garrett bellowed, his face reddening.

  "SIT DOWN! IT'S NOT YOUR BUSINESS HOW I HANDLE MY INVESTMENTS!" Leonia shrieked back, hands balled into white-knuckled fists.

  Jerec stood up and tried pushing his way into the shouting match, his massive frame looming over the table. "OUR GAME ISN'T YOUR BUSINESS, PRINCESS! GO BACK TO YOUR MIRROR!"

  "SHOVE YOUR FUCKING COCK IN A KRAYT DRAGON'S MOUTH AND GET BIT, YOU BLUE BASTARD!" Leonia countered, spittle flying from her lips.

  As the screaming unfolded, Gazrael calmly began picking up stray cards and chips. So-mi, no longer laughing, shot to her feet and joined the fray, her yellow eyes flashing with anger.

  "BLUE WHAT? SAY IT, YOU COWARD! WHAT'S SO BAD ABOUT BEING BLUE?" So-mi demanded, pushing forward.

  "NOBODY ASKED YOU! WHY DON'T YOU DROP A WRENCH IN THE HYPERDRIVE CIRCUIT AGAIN?" Leonia shot back, her words hitting a nerve.

  So-mi clenched her fists and started climbing over the table toward Leonia, her face twisted with anger—she was still quite sore about that incident. Gazrael grabbed her leg, stopping her advance. If she gets violent, things escalate, and I get trapped in the middle of it.

  "Let me go!" So-mi hissed at Gazrael, trying to shake free of his grip.

  For a moment, Leonia stood her ground against the onslaught of insults and empty threats, too stubborn to back down in a three-on-one shouting match. She screamed, hurling increasingly vulgar insults as she fought back, the veins in her neck standing out with each word.

  Her eyes briefly flicked to Gazrael, as if pleading for something—though he wasn't sure what. Her violet eyes glazed over, pupils dilating as if staring through him—or at some invisible horror only she could see—before snapping back with a shudder. Then, her gaze narrowed, and she let out a blood-curdling shriek, the kind usually heard in the throes of a violent nightmare. She stormed out of the room, kicking the door for taking too long to open on her way out.

  "YEAH, YOU'D BETTER LEAVE, YOU IMPERIAL ARMY BRAT!" Jerec yelled after her, his massive hands curled into fists, knuckles whitened.

  Leonia turned just long enough to shoot them a venomous glare, flipping what they could only assume was a rude gesture from her homeworld before disappearing into the hallway.

  The door hissed shut behind her, but the remaining crew had no appetite to continue the game. Even if they had, the table was in disarray, and no one could remember the exact state of play. The only sounds in the room were their heavy breathing and the faint echo of Leonia's footsteps fading down the corridor.

  So-mi broke the silence before it could fully settle. "Why is she on this ship?" she demanded, glaring at Garrett, yanking her leg free from Gazrael's grip.

  Garrett avoided her gaze, wiping sweat from his brow as his tone turned unnervingly casual. "We needed a spare hand to handle cargo."

  "Oh, yeah," Jerec cut in sarcastically, his deep voice rumbling with skepticism. "So you hired the smallest human you could find to load big, heavy boxes. Is the job market that bad? Is she getting paid the same cut I am? Because she's not working as hard as I am."

  So-mi cut in, folding her arms across her chest. "She barely works at all."

  "Well, yes, but—" Garrett started, running a hand through his spiked hair.

  Gazrael interrupted, his voice sharp as he stood to face Garrett. "You're telling me she makes as much as I do? We don't even handle cargo."

  Tension tightened Garrett's face. He looked like he was ready to start pulling at his collar. "It's not like that."

  "Then what IS it like?" Gazrael snapped, stepping closer.

  Garrett exhaled heavily, glancing at the door as if to make sure Leonia wasn't returning. "Her being here doesn't affect your pay because her cut doesn't come out of the fee the New Republic pays us for being out here."

  So-mi cocked her head, disbelief etched across her face. "Why would the New Republic pay for her to be here?" she wondered aloud. "Elaborate."

  Garrett leaned over the table, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The New Republic pays extra to keep her… occupied and far away from them."

  So-mi's eyes narrowed, her tone accusatory. "Why? What's so important about her?"

  Garrett looked around, confused. "Well, that should be obvious." He glanced at their blank faces. "She's Leonia Tarkin."

  Gazrael froze, his mind racing through every memory he had of Leonia. She never told me her full name. He vaguely recalled her mentioning she'd been at an Imperial officer academy when news of the Emperor's death reached Coruscant, but he couldn't remember when or how she'd shared that information. From the looks on So-mi and Jerec's faces, they were equally blindsided.

  "Tarkin?" Jerec asked, his voice incredulous. "Like the 'entire family was hanged or arrested for war crimes' Tarkins? The 'let's just casually turn Alderaan into an asteroid field' Tarkins? Those Tarkins?"

  "Yes," Garrett confirmed, a smug smile playing at his lips. "She's from that very same family. She lost quite a bit when the New Republic won."

  So-mi's eyes drifted upward as she pieced together the implications, her pink buns bobbing as she nodded slowly. "The New Republic must think the Tarkin name would give her sway with enough Imperial remnants in the Outer Rim to form her own warlord faction." She rubbed her chin, her gaze locking onto Garrett. "They're paying you to keep her out here because it saves them from having to monitor her movements and comms."

  Gazrael raised an eyebrow. "You got all that just from hearing her name?"

  So-mi shrugged. "Why else would the New Republic pay Garrett to babysit her? They're worried about the family name, but given she was a teenager during the Battle of Endor, it would've been a PR nightmare to treat her the same way as the rest of her family. They couldn't kill or arrest her, but they couldn't let her be a liability."

  Jerec snorted, finding the idea absurd. "She's 22 and 100 pounds tops. How dangerous can she be?"

  So-mi rolled her eyes. "It's not about what she personally can do. It's about what happens if she becomes a symbol for the Imperials. There's a reason her family is dead or in prison now. They were practically an extension of the Emperor himself."

  Garrett stood, resting his weight on the table. "Enough. I don't know, and I don't care. I don't know or care why she wasn't given a death sentence like her parents. I don't know or care how dangerous she could be to the New Republic. And I don't know or care why they'd pay me to keep her on board instead of having three armed intelligence agents watching her. They pay me to keep her clear of Imperial-held space, and I do it. They pay me to keep her off interstellar or galactic comms, and I do it. As long as they pay me, I make sure she stays too busy having temper tantrums and doing her nails to become a problem for them." His expression turned cold, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "No one tells her we had this conversation. I get paid to keep her in the dark and out of their hair. If she found out how 'special' they think she is, she might get ideas that would make my job—and yours, by extension—much harder."

  So-mi leaned back, nodding slowly. "And you just pay me to make sure the ship runs well…" She brushed dust from her jumpsuit and turned away. "I'll be in the engineering bay." She stood and left the room, the door hissing shut behind her.

  As she disappeared into the hallway, a voice crackled over the ship's PA system, the static cutting through the tension. It was Blitzer, the copilot.

  "Hey, uh, Captain? You might want to come up…" There was a pause. "I think we found something."