Chapter 3: Erynn

I watched Kelric slide the crate beneath my bunk with that familiar too-casual movement I’d seen a thousand times before. The one that screamed he was hiding something. His shoulders hunched slightly forward, his movements just a touch too deliberate—the same posture I hadn’t seen since we were children and he’d dropped our mother’s precious antique teapot and broken the spout.

“Just valuable art, sis,” he said, not meeting my eyes as he straightened. The crate made a soft scraping sound against the deck plating. “Nothing dangerous.”

I leaned against the doorframe of my compact sleeping quarters, arms crossed, feeling the familiar worn fabric of my tunic catch slightly on the rough edge where I’d never quite repaired the frame properly. The air smelled of tea leaves and old metal, with the underlying sweetness of the Jhyra plants I kept in tiny pots along my window ledge—the scent of my space, usually a comfort. My quarters were small but mine—neatly organized shelves of tea samples, star charts of the best growing regions, and the faded image of my mother’s original tearoom that had inspired the Eppersip’s Dream.

“Funny how your ‘nothing dangerous’ usually ends with someone shooting at us.” I kept my voice light, but memories flashed through my mind—running through the markets of Nolvrak Prime, security drones in pursuit; hiding in a cargo container for six hours while port authorities searched for Kelric’s “completely legitimate” Aurenai wine shipment.

Kelric’s laugh came too quickly, bouncing off the metal walls of my cabin. “Paranoid as ever. This is different.”

The crate itself was nondescript enough—standard shipping composite, reinforced corners, the identifying tags conveniently damaged beyond recognition. But something about it felt wrong. Not just the weight, which seemed to shift subtly even when stationary, but something else. A faint vibration that made my skin prickle when I stood too close, like the hum of a misaligned Leyline conductor but more… intimate, somehow. As if it were reaching for something.

“My ship, my rules, Kelric,” I said, pushing off from the doorframe and planting myself squarely in front of him. The deck plates creaked slightly beneath my boots—the old girl needed some maintenance in this section. “Whatever’s in there gets logged and locked in the secure hold, not under my bunk where it could—”

“Wouldn’t dream of breaking the captain’s rules,” he interrupted, hands raised in mock surrender. That charming smile hadn’t changed since childhood—the one he’d used after stealing my dessert or blaming me for his messes. His eyes, the same amber as mine but lacking the flecks of gold our mother had passed to me, crinkled at the corners with practiced innocence.

After he left, I dragged the crate to the small security locker behind the main control console of the Eppersip’s Dream . My ship wasn’t large—the central tearoom took most of the space, with its polished wooden tables and comfortable cushions arranged for intimate tea ceremonies, the galley with its specialized brewing equipment, my quarters, and two guest cabins wrapping around it.

I’d installed a shielded compartment when I’d first purchased her. You don’t survive long as an independent trader without a few precautions.

The crate was heavier than it appeared, and seemed to push back against my hands, as if reluctant to move. When I gripped the edges, an odd coolness traveled up my fingers, followed by a warmth that dissipated as quickly as it had come. Or maybe that was just my imagination, fueled by years of Kelric’s lies leading to trouble.

I secured it in the locker, engaged the electromagnetic shield, and tried to shake the unease that had settled in my stomach. Having Kelric aboard after three years of silence was disorienting enough without mysterious cargo complicating matters. The last time I’d seen him, he’d been boarding a transport to the outer rings, promising to pay back the money he’d “borrowed” from my first trading venture. I was still waiting.

I made my way to the tearoom, automatically reaching for my favorite clay pot—the one with the hairline crack I’d repaired with Sylnithian resin that somehow made the Mora leaf blend taste even better. The familiar ritual calmed me, my hands moving through the motions of measuring leaves, heating water to the precise temperature, arranging the small cups on their saucers.

The tea had just reached perfect steeping temperature when the lights flickered.

Four hours later, the ship’s internal comms went down.

“Just an accident!” Kelric called from the rear maintenance hatch, where he’d supposedly been “fixing” a minor power fluctuation. The acrid smell of burned circuits wafted through the narrow corridor. “Crossed the wrong circuits.”

I didn’t believe him for a second. Kelric knew his way around ship systems too well for rookie mistakes. He wanted the comms down for a reason. His fingers had been stained with conductive gel, but the maintenance panel he claimed to be working on used dry connections.

While he worked to “repair” what he’d broken, I slipped out to check the external docking clamps and access ports—the first places any pursuer would target to prevent a quick departure. The docking ring hummed with the usual activity—traders arguing over berth allocations, maintenance crews running diagnostics, the occasional ripple of emotion-laden harmonics from an Aurenai merchant negotiating passage rates.

My breath caught when I spotted the crude metal shard jammed into the primary external communications port. It gleamed dully in the ambient light, roughly hammered into place with enough force to bend the surrounding housing. Someone had disabled our ability to call for station security. But it was the message scratched into the hull plating beside it that turned my blood cold: Varr wants his due. The Crystal or the Captain. Your choice.

Crystal? I ran my fingers over the jagged lettering, feeling the sharp edges where the metal had been gouged away. What crystal? And who the hell was Varr? The metallic scent of the damaged port mixed with the distinctive ozone tang of the docking ring’s atmospheric processors. A nearby Leyline conduit pulsed with soft blue light, casting shifting shadows across the threatening message.

My mouth went dry as I realized what Kelric had brought to my ship—not just trouble, but targeted, specific trouble.

Back inside, I found Kelric in the galley, making himself at home with my premium Danti leaf tea. The delicate aroma of the rare blend—notes of wild honey and something like cinnamon but earthier—filled the small space. I’d paid two months’ worth of passage fees for those leaves, harvested during the lunar eclipse when the Leyline currents ran strongest through Danti’s fertile valleys.

“Who’s Varr?” I asked without preamble.

The cup froze halfway to his lips, a flash of genuine fear crossing his face before he smoothed it away. Steam curled between us, carrying the rich scent of the tea. “No idea.”

“Try again.” I tossed the metal shard onto the counter between us. It clattered loudly, leaving a faint scratch on the polished surface. “Someone’s disabled our comms port and left a friendly note about a crystal.”

He swallowed hard, the sound audible in the tense silence. The ship creaked around us, settling against its moorings. “Look, it’s just a minor disagreement about payment—”

“Kelric, I swear by all the Leylines in the Reach, if you don’t tell me what’s in that crate and who’s after you…” My emotions ran high. It was a simple mark, but the Pel’ax artist who had inked it had infused the design with trace elements that resonated with my energy patterns.

“Fine!” He set the cup down so hard tea sloshed over the rim, staining the countertop. The rich aroma intensified as the liquid spread. “It’s some old Aurenai artifact. And yes, Varr wants it back.”

“You stole an Aurenai artifact?” I ran a hand through my short purple hair, tugging at the ends in frustration. The coarse, tight coils felt rough against my fingers, recently dyed and still slightly stiff from the process. “Are you insane?”

“I didn’t steal it exactly—”

“From the Crimson Kestrels? Jarek Varr’s smuggling ring?” The name had clicked into place—rumors and whispers heard in ports throughout the station. The barista at the northern docking ring who’d disappeared after crossing them. The weapons dealer with the mysterious “accident” in the maintenance tunnels. “Kelric, they’ll kill you. They’ll kill us both.”

He didn’t deny it this time. Instead, he stared into his cup, the reflection of the overhead lights shimmering in the dark liquid. His shoulders slumped, the facade of confidence finally cracking. “I needed something big, Erynn. Something to set me up so I could pay you back, get my own ship…”

I closed my eyes, feeling the familiar mixture of exasperation and reluctant affection that only Kelric could inspire. The gentle hum of the ship’s environmental systems provided a backdrop to my racing thoughts. I needed help.

Not station security—they’d arrest Kelric on the spot, and probably me too for harboring him. No, I needed someone who operated in the shadows, someone who knew how to handle threats like Varr. Someone who wouldn’t ask too many questions.

A name surfaced in my mind—one Soryn had mentioned months ago when I’d asked about security for a particularly valuable tea shipment. A former Solace Pact mercenary who specialized in artifact recovery.

The Thaskari’s gravelly voice echoed in my memory: “Not the friendliest option, but the most effective. If you ever need real protection, not just show…”

“Stay here,” I ordered Kelric, already heading for the hatch. My boots rang against the metal floor as I moved. “Don’t touch anything else, don’t answer any calls, and for gods’ sake, don’t open that crate.”

The ship’s hatch hissed open, releasing a rush of station air—slightly metallic, tinged with the countless scents of the Commons beyond. I patted the worn edge of the door frame out of habit, a silent promise to my ship that I’d keep her safe.

I needed to find Lyrian.