<h2 style="text-align: center" spellcheck="false">Prologue</h2>


    The Far Future. 412 Interstellar Era. The Colonial Planet of Parnaxxus.


    Death.


    A powerful word.


    An inescapable truth.


    It comes for all, leaving behind only ashes, fragments, fading memories—or the echoes of one''s choices.


    But it isn''t you lying still beneath the flag. Not yet.


    It''s Trysha Corson.


    Once a firebrand pilot with limitless potential and fierce devotion to her Mother-World. Now, only fragments remain, draped in the colors she died for.


    The afternoon sun is smothered behind a heavy curtain of clouds. Nature, usually brimming with sound, holds its breath. The bugles blare. Salutes are rendered. Tears are shed. But like the silent drizzle that melts into the moist Earth, you drink up your grief, forbidding it to escape.


    She wouldn''t have wanted your tears.


    She wouldn''t have wanted her death to be in vain.


    Her sacrifice—and those of every brave soul in the resistance—was for a cause worth dying for. A hope worth bleeding for. A freedom they might never see, but one they believed in.


    Even the birds are silent. The wind howls with a strange desperation, mourning lives lost in the void of war. The sky is dark. The mood, even darker.


    The only sound is the muffled sobbing of the ones left behind: wives without husbands, parents without children, comrades without comrades.


    You never expected this. Not so soon. Not like this.


    Could you have?


    <hr>


    A week earlier


    Parnaxxus. The Colonial Planet. Before the Funeral.


    "No, but I don''t get it," you say, walking beside her to the V-Toll pickup point. "Even with all that high-tech Armature you fly into battle with—and all the so-called safety protocols—there''s still way too much strain on the human body. I did the math. The speed, the inertia near orbit—it''s insane. How do you even manage?"


    "Good thing the R&D cocktail that amps up my reflexes is top secret. Wouldn''t want a junkie like you getting your hands on it," she quips, nudging you playfully in the ribs.


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    You scoff. "Can''t say for sure. But I know nothing beats my bear hugs."


    "That sounded so wrong."


    You frown. "Seriously?"


    "Sheesh, little brother," she laughs. "I love messing with you."


    She stops in front of the single-seated V-Toll, sleek and humming with idle power. The cockpit opens. She turns to you, arms wide.


    You don''t need an invitation.


    You embrace—deep, tight, neither of you willing to be the first to let go. When she finally pulls back, she grips your shoulders, mock-serious.


    "I expect you to behave while I''m gone. No stupidity. Clear?"


    "Aye aye, Captain!" you reply, saluting with a pirate''s lisp and a ridiculous grin. "Hoist the sails and call me Captain Bushy Beard!"


    "More like Captain Balding Head," she snorts, then softens. Her warm brown eyes study your face with that quiet, unconditional love only an older sister could give.


    <blockquote>


    V-Toll will be departing in T-minus 2 minutes. Please prepare for departure, intones the automated voice—monotone and grating.


    </blockquote>


    "Centuries of tech advancements, space travel, orbital combat, wormholes—and this is still the voice we''re stuck with?" you groan.


    "Centuries of evolution... and we still have people like you," she fires back.


    Before you can respond, she cups your cheeks and kisses your forehead like she always has—since you were nothing more than a child in her arms.


    "I''ll miss you, Teeril."


    "I won''t miss you," you say, voice cracking slightly. "Because I know you''ll dominate out there. You''ll make those Impies regret ever crossing us. And you''ll be back before I even notice. I love you. More than anything."


    "I love you too, little brother." Her voice nearly falters.


    <blockquote>


    T-minus 1 minute. Please prepare for departure.


    </blockquote>


    She ruffles your hair, hugs you one final time, and steps into the cockpit.


    You step back, give her your stiffest salute—then break into a grin.


    She smiles through the glass dome, pressing her palm against it. You lift your hand to meet hers.


    "WHERE''S YOUR GEAR?" you shout over the whirring engines.


    "ALL I PACKED WAS A TOOTHBRUSH!" she yells back. "I am the total package!"


    She ends with that familiar goofy wink.


    You shake your head, half-laughing, half-tearing up, watching her rise into the sky. The V-Toll hums louder. You swear you feel a tear trail down your cheek as she vanishes into the horizon.


    Who could have known this was the last time you''d see her?


    Sure, every departure carried that risk. But you never believed it. You couldn''t.


    You never thought that would be the last time you held her.


    The last time you felt her warmth.


    The last time you saw those beautiful brown eyes.


    The last time you heard her voice.


    The last time her scent lingered on your shirt.


    The last time you got a mouthful of her hair during a hug.


    The final thread of love, woven into that parting moment—unaware it was the last.