Chapter 1 

Ruby

The Novarian sunrise always looks like something painted by a deity with a fondness for overripe citrus and gauzy veils. Mist curls in peach and blood-orange tendrils over the cobbled walkways of the Interstellar Commons District, lazily draping itself over terraformed flora and shimmering storefronts like a lover reluctant to leave the bed. I breathe it in—warm, faintly metallic, and undercut with the scent of marine air pumped in from the coastal filters to keep our lungs Earth-happy. It’s like waking up inside a dream where everything is softly backlit and drenched in hope.

I unlock the bakery door with a tap of my compad against the maglock and it chirps back cheerfully, the little digital chime echoing inside the hollow shop. Earth Bites yawns open before me, dark and empty and perfect. The gleaming steel of the ovens reflects the morning light, stainless counters catching the pink glow like polished marble. It’s quiet—too quiet, maybe—but it’s the kind of silence I can fill with good things. Cinnamon. Chocolate. Real cream.

“Time to work, sweetheart,” I murmur, brushing my fingers over the countertop like I’m smoothing down a lover’s bedhead. Then I hum. I always hum in the mornings. Not because I’m especially chipper—although people seem to think so—but because if I don’t, the memories have too much room to creep in.

The kitchen lights auto-adjust as I step inside. My apron hangs on its hook, white cotton with a stitched Earth Bites logo that’s been washed so many times the thread has started to fray. I loop it over my neck, tie it behind me, and stretch. My back pops. My wrists crackle. I rub a palm down my side absently—just a habit, grounding myself.

“Ruby.” Lyrie’s voice is syrupy and amused, already coming from the back hallway, a ghost in the mist of flour I haven’t even started to throw yet. “You’re humming again. What’s today’s disaster?”

“Hope and poor impulse control,” I reply without missing a beat. “Also, pecan caramel clusters.”

She steps into the kitchen with a grin that shows off her smooth pink scales, glinting like sugared rose quartz under the overheads. She’s wearing a top that could generously be called a band and bottoms that are technically a skirt only if you’re being polite. Her horns are lacquered gold today. She’s ready for war—or at least war with someone’s libido.

“I licked the bowl yesterday,” she says, tossing a wink as she sashays over to the prep sink. “I regret nothing.”

“I know you don’t.” I’m already turning toward the proofing cabinet, opening the warm humid door to a blast of bready heat and rising yeast. “But one of these days, someone’s going to sue me for emotional damage when you flirt with them too hard.”

“They’ll thank me with tips,” she says primly, then smirks. “Besides, you know the real reason I behave around Rekkgar.”

I pause, fingers lightly resting on a tray of ready-to-bake croissants. My heart does that traitorous little flutter in my chest, the kind I usually ignore the way you ignore a drip from a leaky ceiling you can’t afford to fix.

“Because you value your life?” I ask, keeping my tone light.

“Nope.” She flicks a towel off the counter, slapping it into place. “Because he only growls at me when you’re watching. He watches you like he wants to devour you whole.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

She shrugs. “I’m just calling it like I see it.”

Before I can retort, the front bell dings with that crisp digital chime that sounds far too cheerful for this early, and here comes the stampede I call Vonn.

Vonn doesn’t walk so much as march. She’s barely over four feet tall, covered in soft, snow-white fur that sticks up in irate cowlicks no matter what she does to tame it. Her eyes, too sharp for her years, squint at me over her spectacles as she tugs her apron on like she’s getting ready for combat. Fratvoyans don’t do ‘gentle,’ and Vonn’s voice is basically a bark soaked in vinegar and rolled in salt.

“Already burned the morning loaves?” she asks by way of greeting.

“Not yet,” I say, smiling as I hold up the untouched baking tray like a shield.

“Hmph. There’s still time.”

She takes up her position at the register like a general surveying her battlefield, muttering to herself about ingredient inventory and feckless delivery boys and ‘idiots who think a cronut is a pastry instead of a war crime.’

We get to work.

There’s rhythm to mornings like this. The thump of dough on marble, the hiss of the espresso machine warming up, the sharp clink of metal bowls, the low hum of the oven kicking to life. The scents build slowly—yeast, sugar, cinnamon, chocolate, caramelizing butter—and I lose myself in it. For a little while, I let the motion and the smells and the sound of my girls bickering carry me through.

And yet.

Even while I knead, even while I roll and cut and fold, there’s a part of me—the smallest sliver—that stays curled around a different ache. The one I don’t show. Not to Lyrie, not to Vonn, not to Rekkgar.

Especially not to Rekkgar.

My smile doesn’t crack when I think of my parents anymore. Not unless I let it. But the weight behind it doesn’t go away. I was five when the Centuries War took them—too young to understand, too old to forget. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time. The whole war was the wrong time.

Uncle Joren and Aunt Tayla took me in, gave me everything they could. Love, safety, support. And an arranged marriage.

I don’t talk about it. Not even with myself, most days.

But it's there—like the pressure of a hand on the back of my neck, reminding me that no matter how free I act, there’s a leash hidden in the collar of my fate. I’m not sad exactly. I’ve made peace with the life I’m supposed to live.

Mostly.

The oven dings and I’m pulled back to the present, sliding in the trays, feeling the heat kiss my skin and make my eyes water. The chocolate chip muffin tops I’m known for—my signature Earth recipe—are lined up like little promises waiting to rise.

And just as I close the oven door, I feel it. That shift in the air.

The door chimes again.

My heart skips. It always does.

He's early today.

There’s a distinct shift in atmosphere when he enters.

The door chimes like it always does, cheerful and benign, but the sound is swallowed a half-second later by something denser—like the space itself recognizes who just crossed the threshold and adjusts accordingly. The temperature doesn’t drop, but something cooler seems to glide up my spine nonetheless, some electric hush that rolls through the shop and settles low in my belly.

Rekkgar.

I don’t have to look to know it’s him. No one else carries that weight, that presence. He’s a walking thundercloud in slow motion—gravity made flesh. I hear the low scrape of his boots on the floor, the faint creak of our reinforced support beams shifting as his bulk moves inside, the almost imperceptible hum of the cybernetic eye embedded in his face adjusting to the light. A growl of static and red illumination. I’ve learned the sound of it.

He says nothing. He never does, not right away. That first minute is always a communion of silence—him soaking in the warmth, the smells, the flickering lights of the ovens, and me pretending like I’m not hyper-aware of every inch of him.

Then I glance up from the cooling rack, and there he is, just where I expect him to be—at the counter, tall enough to cast a shadow over half the glass display, arms folded across that massive, scarred chest like some battle-hardened statue plucked out of myth and dropped into my bakery like a challenge from the gods.

“Morning, Rekkgar,” I say, pulling on the easy tone I’ve perfected over the years. Warm. Familiar. Breezy, like my heart isn’t doing a drum solo against my ribs. “You’re early. I didn’t even have time to hide the good stuff.”

His mouth tugs upward just slightly at one corner. Not quite a smile, but close. Close enough that it makes my throat tighten a little.

“I smelled chocolate.” His voice is low and gritty, a half-purr, half-growl that scratches across my nerves in the most illicit way. “From the street.”

“Don’t blame me if you followed your nose into sin.” I nudge the tray of muffin tops toward him with a flick of my fingers. “Still warm. And they’ve got extra chips today. Vonn got heavy-handed.”

“I like them that way.”

I know. Of course I know. I could recite his order in my sleep, down to the second he lifts the muffin to his mouth after the first sip of espresso. I could probably sketch the exact pattern of tiger-like red stripes that rake across the black scale of his forearms without looking. I could also admit—though I won’t—that sometimes I make the muffin tops a little bigger, a little richer, just to see the way his eyes darken slightly when he takes that first bite.

“Coffee?” I ask, reaching for the machine before he can answer. “Or do we need to go straight to mainlining caffeine this morning?”

“Double shot. No foam.”

“Rough night?”

His cybernetic eye whirs faintly, the aperture narrowing as he watches me move. “Sparring. Some idiot thought he could land a hit if he charged with enough enthusiasm.”

“Ah. The sacred rite of Testosterone and Regret. I remember it well.”

He huffs once, the sound almost a laugh, then reaches for the muffin as I turn to the espresso machine. I can feel him behind me—the sheer heat of his body, the subtle tension in his stillness. Most people his size move like bulldozers. Rekkgar waits. Watches. Like a hunter, or a soldier trained too well to ever fully stand down.

The hiss of steam fills the space. The bittersweet aroma of dark roast curls into the air. I angle the portafilter just right, pack the grounds, pull the shot, and set the tiny cup—barely large enough to look like anything in his huge hand—on the counter.

He takes it with reverent care. Always does.

Then, as always, he sits.

Not at a corner table or one of the booths by the window. At the counter. On the high stool directly across from where I prep, close enough that I could reach across and brush my fingers over his wrist if I dared. I never do. But the possibility hangs there, a phantom touch in the space between us.

“Slow start this morning,” I murmur, arranging pastries behind the display glass with exaggerated care. “Even Lyrie’s off her game. She only flirted with two customers instead of the usual five.”

“Should I be concerned?”

“She might be sick. Or cursed.”

“I’ll keep my blade ready.” His tone is flat, but there’s a flicker of something in his expression—amusement, maybe. Fondness? It’s hard to tell with him. His face is a map of long-healed wounds, his expressions honed into stone by years of keeping people at arm’s length.

But he’s here. Every morning. And I know what that means, even if we don’t say it.

“How’s the dojo?” I ask, slicing a fresh loaf behind the counter even though no one’s ordered one.

“Quiet. Good for focus.”

“You say that like the idea of children breaking boards with their faces doesn’t fill you with existential dread.”

He arches one brow ridge at me. “They use their hands.”

“Sure they do.”

He bites into the muffin top. I watch the way his jaw flexes, the way his throat moves when he swallows. His scars catch the light in uneven streaks—testament to battles I’ll never ask about, and he’ll never offer to explain. One runs across his clavicle, another across the back of his hand. The one on his temple is jagged, like it was torn open rather than sliced. They should be horrifying. They aren’t.

They’re beautiful. He’s beautiful. And I hate that I can’t tell him that.

“You’re staring,” he says quietly.

I look up, caught. “No, I’m—was checking to see if you were going to leave me a single crumb.”

He tears off a piece of muffin, sets it on a napkin, and pushes it toward me without a word.

It feels like a gift. Stupid, but true. I reach out to take it and our fingers brush against each other. As if in sudden, desperate search for relief, our digits caress and briefly clasp. I pull back like I’ve touched a live wire. 

“I’m engaged, you know,” I say before I can stop myself.

His posture stiffens just slightly. Not much. But I know him too well not to see it.

“I’m aware.”

“I just… in case you didn’t remember.”

“I remember everything,” he says simply. Then he drinks his espresso in one long, slow swallow, like it’s the end of the conversation.

I want to scream. Or cry. Or throw something. Maybe all three.

Instead, I smile. I always smile.

“Tell your idiot student to aim for your soft spots next time. You’ve got to have one somewhere.”

He stares at me for a long moment. “I do,” he says finally. His voice is even lower now, almost a whisper. “But I keep it guarded.”

And with that, he slides the empty cup toward me, stands, and walks out the way he came—heavy boots echoing against tile, the door chime sounding too bright in his wake.

I don’t move. Don’t speak.

Lyrie peeks in from the kitchen, brows raised.

“Still alive?” she asks.

“Barely,” I reply, and turn back to my baking.

The door hisses shut behind him, the chime fading too quickly into the bustle of the street outside. I don’t move right away. I linger where I’m rooted, fingertips pressed to the edge of the counter, watching through the bakery’s front window as Rekkgar crosses the square.

His stride is deliberate, steady, unhurried—each step a controlled deployment of power wrapped in control, like he's resisting the urge to crush the cobblestones beneath his boots. The sunlight glances off the curve of his shoulders, catching the iridescence that lives deep in his black scales. Even through the mist and the morning shimmer, he gleams faintly, like obsidian under water. The red stripes are stark, warlike, jagged where they stretch over scar tissue that refuses to heal smooth.

And then he disappears into the side alley between our buildings, slipping into the dojo’s entry corridor like he was never there at all.

Still I stay.

It’s not healthy, the way my eyes follow him. Not normal. This quiet ache that coils low and sharp in my chest isn’t something I can bake away or bury under sugar and flour. It's the kind of thing that only grows heavier with silence. And yet here I am, holding it again like it’s some old family heirloom I can’t bring myself to throw away.

“Girl, if you don’t stop mooning at that window, I’m going to start charging you rent for it,” Vonn snaps from the register, her voice clipped like she’s wielding it as a weapon.

I blink. “Sorry.”

“You say that every morning.” She eyes me over her glasses, tufts of white fur trembling with each agitated huff. “He’s not going to come back and throw you over his shoulder just because you gawk hard enough.”

“Wouldn’t that be something,” Lyrie chimes in from the back, voice dripping with sarcasm and glittering amusement. “Although if he ever does, I hope he’s shirtless. For science.”

Vonn doesn’t even dignify that with a response. She just snorts and goes back to reorganizing the receipt drawer like it's a puzzle box that holds the key to galactic peace.

I turn away from the window and try—really try—to dive back into work. My hands move through muscle memory: mixing, folding, cutting, arranging trays like clockwork. The scents shift again—sugar burning just slightly on the edges, butter going nutty and golden—but the rhythm doesn’t soothe me the way it usually does.

There’s too much static in my chest, a low buzz beneath my breastbone that hums every time I think about the way he looked at me this morning. Not long. Not deep. But enough. Always just enough.

I’m icing a tray of lemon-glazed scones when the past sneaks up and sucker punches me right in the spine.

It starts with the color of the icing—pale gold, just like the silken tunic I wore the day my aunt and uncle sat me down in the parlor and changed the trajectory of my life with five quiet words: You’ve been promised to someone.

I was sixteen. Still soft with hope. Still stupid enough to believe I’d have some kind of say in who I loved.

I remember everything about that afternoon. The way the furniture gleamed with fresh polish, how the sun bled through the window and caught on the edge of the carved frames, how my aunt’s hands trembled slightly as she poured the tea even though she smiled like nothing was wrong.

Uncle Joren’s voice was steady, firm. He explained the family obligation, the old agreement from the war years, how this match would honor our name and strengthen our station.

They looked so proud. So certain they were doing the right thing.

I nodded. I smiled. I told them I understood.

And inside, I broke into a thousand silent pieces.

They didn’t see it. How could they? I didn’t let them.

But I remember the way my lungs refused to expand after they left the room, how the air seemed suddenly too thin, too sharp, too full of the life I wasn’t going to get to live. I remember curling my fingers into my skirts and pressing them hard against my thighs just to feel something solid.

And I remember staring out the window, not unlike how I just did with Rekkgar, thinking about a boy who didn’t know my name and wondering what kind of love I’d never get to have.

Now, years later, I know that boy’s name. I know every inch of him, every rhythm of his breathing, every low cadence of his voice. And it’s so much worse because I never outgrew that hope. I just buried it beneath layers of civility and cream filling.

I wipe the edge of the icing bowl too aggressively and crack the ceramic against the counter. A hairline fracture blooms across the side like a web.

“Damn it.”

Lyrie leans around the edge of the wall. “You okay out there, sunshine?”

“I’m fine,” I lie. “Clumsy.”

“You say that every day, too,” Vonn mutters, flipping through receipts with the venom of someone personally offended by fiscal responsibility.

The bell above the door jingles and I slap the mask back on. Smile. Bright eyes. Polished voice. I offer pastries to aliens in elegant robes and tourists looking for a taste of Earth they’ve only read about. I recommend muffins, hand out tarts, fill orders with practiced cheer.

But the whole time, I feel like my skin doesn’t fit quite right.

Because the truth is, I can make a hundred customers happy before lunch and it won’t matter.

One glance. One word. One lingering moment of silence from Rekkgar has more sway over my heart than all the smiles I give away like party favors.

He softens when he’s here. I see it in the way his shoulders lower half an inch, in the way he watches my hands move like I’m performing some sacred rite. He doesn't touch much—doesn’t speak unless necessary—but when he does, I feel like I’ve been chosen. Like the universe cracked open just long enough to slip me a secret.

And every time he walks out, I remember that I’m not allowed to keep it.