The sun beat down on them as they trudged forward. Jaxon could feel the heat pressing against his skin, his fatigues already damp with sweat and red sand. His tongue felt like sandpaper in his mouth. The urge to empty his canteen and drown his thirst gnawed at him, but he resisted. There wasn’t enough water for that. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, but he ignored it.


    The group moved in silence, each step slow and deliberate. One misstep, too much pressure on the sand, and the wyrms would return. Jaxon’s grip on his rifle tightened, his knuckles pale against the stock. His first shot against the beast had been more panic than precision. Would he choke again if it returned?


    Holt walked beside him, adjusting the strap on his kit.


    “Do you still think we’ll make it?”


    Jaxon didn’t answer.


    A few steps ahead, Dain kept his eyes locked on the horizon. The rock formations weren’t far now—barely a couple hundred feet ahead. Dark, jagged structures jutted out from the dunes like the bones of a dead giant.


    “We’ll set camp when we reach the rocks,” Dain said over his shoulder. “If we keep moving in this heat, someone is going to collapse.”


    Jaxon was not about to argue. His boots felt heavier with every step.


    They reached the rocks in silence, each of them keeping an ear open for any signs of danger. Exhaustion and sweat pressed on them like a second layer of gravity. Jaxon’s boots scraped against the cracks in the rocks as he climbed, his body aching from the harsh trek.


    Megiddo’s sun hung like a merciless god above them. Even though it was setting, its orange glare still painted the landscape in blazing heat. By the time they made it to the top, Guthrie collapsed onto his back, falling onto a shaded patch of rock, breathing heavily.


    “This… planet… was made… to kill us,” Guthrie panted. “But we’re somehow still alive. For now.”


    “Not for long if we let our guard down,” Dain muttered, his eyes scanning the desert beyond. His rifle remained in his grip, firm despite the glistening sweat on his palms.


    Holt flopped down beside Guthrie, wiping sand from his face. “That’s the spirit,” he said dryly. “Just ignore the fact that we were almost eaten.”


    Jaxon dumped his pack on the ground and rolled his shoulder, wincing as the joint crackled in protest. Sweat dripped from his brow, staining the dusty earth beneath his feet. He swiped a grimy forearm across his face, smearing dirt and exhaustion. His eyes scanned the desolate horizon, a scowl deepening the lines on his face. What was he doing here, anyway?


    He hadn’t signed up for this.


    Sera was the last to climb up. He seemed the least affected by the trek or the desert conditions, barely breaking a sweat. Crouching near the edge, he scanned the horizon and took a sip from his canteen.


    “We should take shifts watching. We don’t know what else is out here,” Sera suggested.


    This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Jaxon nodded, but for now, he needed rest.


    Holt stretched his legs out and sighed. “If we’re going to be stuck together for…” He glanced at his data pod.


    “Sixty-seven more hours… maybe we should actually get to know each other.”


    Guthrie groaned. “I think you already know enough about me.”


    Holt smirked. “That you scream louder than klaxons? Yeah, we know that part.”


    Guthrie shot him a halfhearted glare, too exhausted to argue.


    Jaxon leaned back against the rock, exhaling. “Holt’s got a point. We barely know each other. If we’re going to trust each other with our lives, we should at least know the basics.”


    Dain scoffed. “Trust is earned, not given.”


    Jaxon turned to him. “Then maybe we start earning it.”


    A beat of silence.


    Surprisingly, Sera spoke first.


    “I grew up on Kalthok,” he said, still watching the dunes. “A frontier planet on the outer colonies. A lawless place.Dry just like this— ruled by a triarchy of warlords and strategists who rose to power through conquest and cunning. It was brutal… but it was home. The imperium moved the child survivors to Canaan after a pirate raid wiped out my settlement.”


    Jaxon frowned. He hadn’t expected that.


    Holt whistled. “Pirates?I Thought sol wiped those out.”


    Sera’s expression remained cold. “Not all of them.”


    Silence fell over the group before Holt spoke again.


    “Well, since we’re sharing… My memories are mostly from Canaan. I don’t even remember my homeworld. I barely remember my parents—I do remember that they were civilian workers though, nothing special.


    He hesitated. “I don’t even know if they’re alive.”


    Jaxon’s stomach tightened. He knew that feeling all too well. His father could still be out there. He held onto hope, but deep down, he knew better. His father had probably fought to the end.


    He and Holt hadn''t ever had intimate talks like this before. They were close, but they had never had any reason to discuss their personal lives or homes.


    Guthrie let out a breath. “I am from Drangheim. A high-order world known for harsh winters. I Grew up around soldiers my whole life. My father was the High King of Drangheim, but he and my mother were killed by my uncle in a Blóer?kr.”


    They all looked at him, confused.


    Guthrie sighed in frustration before explaining , “It is… like a coup. I ran away. Maybe because I knew I was next. Or maybe… I wanted to gain enough strength to kill him. It did not matter though, I was caught by a Judicator while trying to board a ship. And, well… here I am.”


    Jaxon drooped his head before nodding slightly, pitying Guthrie.


    Why would a Judicator be on a high-order world? They were a higher caste of the Mortal Legions, more brutal judges than warriors. Then again, high-order worlds were critical industrial and strategic planets. It made sense.


    Then, all eyes turned to Jaxon.


    He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “New Antioch.”


    Guthrie blinked. “Wait. Antioch? The world that was raided by the Xerath?”


    Jaxon didn’t answer.


    He didn’t want to talk about his mother. About her death.


    Instead, he turned to the last member of their group. “What about you, Dain? Any dark secrets?”


    Dain’s jaw tightened. “There is nothing to tell.”


    Holt scoffed. “Come on. No tragic backstory? No noble house that sent you away? Not even a ‘fought for scraps on the streets’ story?”


    Dain lowered his gaze. “I lived on a station. Sol took me. End of story.”


    “Does it matter?”


    Holt smirked. “Yeah, it does. We are all trauma-dumping. Your turn.”


    Dain’s eyes remained unreadable.


    “I was raised on a station. No family. No homeworld. Just metal and emptiness.”


    Jaxon did not push further.


    Instead, he glanced at his data pod. The extraction point was still far—too far. But at least they had a plan.


    They would move at night.


    Stick to the rocks.


    Find water—somehow.


    And Survive.


    They had to.


    Dain stood up and slung his rifle over his shoulder. “We leave soon. Get some rest while you can.”


    Holt groaned.


    "Alright, leader. Wake me if something tries to eat us." Jaxon chuckled despite himself.


    For the first time since the drop, he didn’t feel like they were just strangers thrown together.


    They weren’t friends.


    Not yet.


    But they were closer than before.


    And that mattered.