Maverick did not sleep.
Not truly.
His body did — shallow, uneven breaths beneath silk sheets — but his mind refused to relinquish control.
Five years old.
The thought still felt like an operational assessment rather than an identity.
He lay on his side, facing the tall arched windows of his chamber. Dawn had fully broken now, the amber star cresting the horizon of Chukdem and casting long shafts of molten light across carved stone and woven circuitry. The ceiling no longer seemed wrong.
It seemed claimed.
This was his battlefield now.
And battlefields demanded understanding.
He rolled onto his back and studied the constellations etched into the ceiling panels. They were not decorative. The patterns corresponded to trade lanes. Military corridors. Known Imperial expansion routes.
His room was a map.
His father had done that intentionally.
A reminder.
You are born into war.
A soft knock sounded at the chamber doors.
He did not answer.
The doors opened regardless.
Kaelira entered first.
Always first.
She moved like something that did not disturb air unless it wished to. White hair braided loosely over one shoulder. Crystal blue eyes calm, attentive. Fox ears angled slightly forward — alert but not alarmed.
Behind her came a smaller woman, shoulders slightly rounded, hands clasped nervously before her apron.
Beastfolk.
Wolf lineage.
Dark hair streaked with silver far too early. Brown eyes wary, but not bitter.
Maverick recognised her without knowing how.
Riven's mother.
The name surfaced instinctively, though the memory itself had not yet formed.
"Good morning, my lord," the wolf-woman said quietly.
Her accent carried the faint edge of someone who had learned the language late in life.
Maverick pushed himself upright.
His limbs trembled from weakness, and he despised it.
"Good morning," he replied evenly.
Kaelira watched him closely.
"You should remain in bed," she said.
"Should I?" he asked.
Her ears twitched once.
"Yes."
He swung his legs over the side regardless.
His feet touched the polished stone floor. Cold. Grounding.
The wolf-woman inhaled sharply.
"Careful, my lord—"
"I am not made of glass," he replied.
The words came sharper than intended.
The woman flinched, then bowed her head.
"My apologies."
He watched her carefully.
Fear.
But not of him.
Of failing him.
He adjusted his tone.
"I am grateful for your concern."
That seemed to ease her shoulders slightly.
Kaelira's gaze remained assessing.
"You speak as though you are older," she observed.
He met her eyes.
"I was ill."
"Yes," she said softly. "You were."
He moved towards the window slowly, allowing his body to adjust. The city of Chukdem spread below in layers of stone and steel, banners snapping in the morning wind. Mixed species moved through the streets — humans, fox-line beastfolk, wolf-line, horned bovine-line, even a pair of scaled dragonkin visible along a distant terrace.
Integration was not theoretical here.
It was survival.
He leaned lightly against the glass.
"How many were taken?" he asked.
The wolf-woman stiffened.
Kaelira answered.
"Three kitchen staff. One junior guard. Two physicians."
Dead.
He did not need clarification.
"Publicly?" he asked.
"No," Kaelira replied. "Internally."
Good.
Panic weakens morale.
"Was it internal or Imperial?"
Kaelira paused.
"That is under investigation."
Which meant they suspected both.
He turned back to the room.
"Has Father increased patrols?"
"Yes."
"Has he moved the fleet closer to orbit?"
A flicker of surprise crossed her expression.
"Yes."
Good.
Roland Marshall did not hesitate.
The wolf-woman spoke hesitantly.
"The Duke did not leave your chambers all night."
That surprised him.
He masked it.
"He should have slept."
Kaelira allowed the faintest hint of a smile.
"He rarely does."
Maverick studied her again.
She was not merely a guard.
She was a blade wrapped in silk.
"How long have you served this House?" he asked.
"Since before your birth."
"Before Chukdem?"
Her ears shifted subtly.
"Yes."
Rescue transport.
Intercepted slave convoy.
House Marshall had built its power by tearing Imperial chains apart.
He felt something unfamiliar then.
Pride.
Not borrowed from his previous life.
New.
Earned.
The wolf-woman stepped forward hesitantly.
"I prepared broth," she said softly. "The physicians recommended light nourishment."
He nodded.
"Thank you."
As she set the tray upon a low table, her hands trembled slightly.
Not weakness.
Grief.
Loss of staff. Fear of reprisals. The ever-present shadow of the Empire.
He recognised it.
He had seen it on civilians before evacuation zones.
He sat and took the bowl.
The broth was simple. Nutrient-dense. Efficient.
He ate without complaint.
Kaelira moved to stand behind him, not intrusive, but present.
"You will begin light training again in three days," she said.
"Tomorrow."
"No."
He glanced up at her.
She did not raise her voice.
"You nearly died."
"Then I will not nearly die next time."
Her tail shifted once — irritation? Approval? Hard to tell.
"You are five," she reminded him.
"I am aware."
The wolf-woman finished arranging the tray and hesitated near the door.
"My son often speaks of you, my lord."
The words slipped out before she could stop them.
Silence settled.
Kaelira's eyes flicked to her sharply.
The woman bowed quickly.
"Forgive me. It is not my place."
Maverick's mind sharpened.
Your son.
A wolf boy laughing in corridors.
Stories told in quiet corners of the estate.
The Starfall Chronicles.
Not Star Wars.
Not Earth.
His version.
He set the bowl down slowly.
"What is his name?" he asked.
The woman looked up, surprised.
"Riven, my lord."
The name felt… anchored.
"Bring him tomorrow," Maverick said.
Kaelira's ears angled sharply.
"My lord—"
"I require company suitable to my age."
That silenced further objection.
The wolf-woman's eyes glistened faintly.
"As you wish."
She exited quickly, perhaps to hide her emotion.
The door closed.
Kaelira spoke without looking at him.
"You choose carefully."
"Yes."
"Why?"
He considered his answer.
"Because this House stands because your people were saved."
She turned her head slightly.
"And?"
"And if this House forgets that, it deserves to fall."
Her gaze lingered on him for several seconds.
"You speak dangerously for a child."
"Then ensure I live long enough to speak it as a man."
A pause.
Then:
"That is my purpose."
He finished the broth and rose again, steadier now.
"Take me to the map room."
"No."
He blinked.
"No?"
"Not yet."
She stepped closer, lowering her voice slightly.
"You must understand something, Maverick Marshall."
He did not correct her for using his full name.
"You are watched."
"I assumed as much."
"Not merely by enemies."
Ah.
Court politics.
He exhaled quietly.
"Then let them watch."
"They will interpret every movement."
"Good."
Her brow lifted slightly.
"If I appear weak, they will move. If I appear strong, they will hesitate."
"And which do you intend?"
He met her gaze fully.
"Both."
Silence hung between them.
Then, unexpectedly, she laughed softly.
Not mockery.
Approval.
"Very well, my lord."
She straightened.
"We will begin with walking."
"Walking?"
"You cannot fight if you cannot stand without trembling."
He grimaced.
Annoyingly accurate.
They moved towards the chamber doors together.
As they stepped into the corridor, sunlight filtered through high windows, illuminating banners bearing the sigil of House Marshall — a blade crossed with a broken chain.
Symbolism mattered.
It told a story.
Just like the ones he would tell Riven.
Not of Earth's franchises.
But of his own making.
The Starfall Chronicles.
The Order that never abandoned its own.
The Thousand Dawn that outran empires.
He had changed the names as a child because he wanted them to belong here.
To this world.
To this war.
Perhaps even then, some part of him had known he would need them again.
Kaelira walked half a step behind him, though she was the protector.
He noticed that.
He did not comment on it.
Five years old.
Second life.
Twelfth son.
Target of poison.
Border world heir.
He felt the weight of it settle into place.
Good.
Weight builds strength.
They turned a corner, and distant below, the city stirred with the sound of mixed voices and morning industry.
Chukdem was not a soft world.
It was a promise forged in defiance.
And if the Empire came for it again…
They would find this House ready.
Even if readiness began with a five-year-old boy relearning how to walk