Carson pressed his back against the curved wall of the observation balcony, wondering how he'd let Wind talk him into this. The Inner Ring wasn't a place where miners belonged, especially during a high-profile diplomatic reception. His worker's jumpsuit—practical gray fabric worn at the knees—stood out among the sleek designer outfits of Inner Ring residents passing through adjacent corridors.

  "We shouldn't be here," he whispered, eyes tracking the security drones hovering near the ceiling. "Three outer-ring workers at a Theist reception? We might as well wear signs saying 'arrest us.'"

  Wind's lips curved into a half-smile. "Sometimes the most obvious hiding place is the safest. Security's looking for infiltrators, not spectators."

  The observation balcony offered a perfect view of the ceremonial reception area below. Designed for station executives to monitor official functions without participating, its curved transparent barrier allowed them to see without being seen—at least in theory.

  "I just want to see what all the fuss is about," Link said, leaning dangerously far over the railing. "Never seen real Theists before. Heard their royals can shoot light from their fingertips."

  Carson pulled him back by his collar. "That's propaganda. They're just people with fancy titles and too much power."

  The air changed before the Theists appeared—Carson felt it first as a pressure shift, then registered the unfamiliar scent. Sweet and smoky, like burning honey. Incense. The station's ventilation system struggled to process the foreign particles, creating visible wisps in the otherwise sterile atmosphere.

  The TITAN delegation entered first—five executives in identical gray suits, their posture rigid and expressions carefully neutral. Behind them, the station commander's forced smile looked painful under the ceremonial lighting.

  Then came the Theists.

  Carson's breath caught. The contrast was stunning. Where TITAN valued uniformity, the Theist procession celebrated individualism through elaborate costume. Guards in crimson and gold armor flanked robed figures whose garments shimmered with embedded light filaments. Each robe displayed intricate patterns that shifted with their movements—constellations and sacred geometries dancing across fabric that cost more than Carson would earn in a decade.

  "That's him," Wind whispered, her body suddenly tense beside him. "Prince Roman."

  The prince walked with practiced grace, his tall frame draped in deep blue robes embroidered with golden symbols. Unlike the others, his attire featured no technology—no light filaments, no holographic elements. Just ancient craftsmanship that somehow outshone everything else. His face remained composed, but Carson noted the slight downward curl of his mouth, the way his eyes cataloged the room with barely concealed disdain.

  "He looks like he's smelling something rotten," Link observed.

  Carson nodded. "To him, this station probably is."

  Wind's fingers dug into Carson's arm. "The woman behind him. Second row, gold headpiece."

  Carson followed her gaze to a severe-looking woman whose ornate golden headdress framed a face locked in permanent disapproval. Unlike the others, she carried an ornate staff topped with a crystalline orb.

  "What about her?" Carson asked.

  "High Priestess Kora," Wind whispered. "She oversees all Theist education on Mars. I've seen her before..." She stopped abruptly, pulling back from the railing.

  Below, the formal introductions began. Carson tuned out the ceremonial language until Prince Roman's voice cut through the diplomatic pleasantries.

  "—appreciate TITAN's continued cooperation in matters of mutual security," the prince was saying, his voice carrying easily to their hiding spot. "Particularly regarding the Architect artifacts recovered from Europa."

  The TITAN commander stiffened almost imperceptibly. "That matter remains classified, Your Highness."

  Roman smiled thinly. "Nothing remains classified when it concerns the prophecy, Commander. The Architect technology belongs to all humanity, not just TITAN bureaucrats."

  Carson frowned. Architect artifacts? The term sounded familiar, like something from a half-remembered dream.

  Wind's breathing had changed, becoming shallow and quick. When Carson glanced at her, her face had drained of color.

  "We should go," she whispered urgently.

  "Wait," Carson replied, leaning forward. Something about the prince's words had triggered a strange sensation in his chest—a warmth similar to what he'd felt after his blackout episode.

  Below, Prince Roman paused mid-sentence. His head tilted slightly, like an animal catching an unfamiliar scent. Then, with unsettling precision, he looked up—directly at their hiding spot.

  Carson froze as the prince's eyes seemed to lock with his own across the impossible distance. A knowing smile spread across Roman's face, subtle but unmistakable.

  "He sees us," Link breathed.

  "That's impossible," Carson replied, but he couldn't break the prince's gaze. The warmth in his chest intensified to near-burning.

  Wind grabbed both their arms. "Now. We leave now."

  Carson's knees ached against the hard metal grating. The maintenance alcove, designed for service droids half his size, forced him into an awkward crouch that sent needles of pain shooting up his thighs. Sweat trickled down his spine, pooling uncomfortably at the small of his back. He didn't dare shift position—not with station security patrolling every corridor since the Theist delegation's arrival.

  Link pressed against his left side, their shoulders touching in the cramped space. On his right, Wind's breathing came in controlled, measured intervals that seemed too deliberate to be natural. The scent of industrial cleaner stung Carson's nostrils, mixing with the metallic taste of fear coating his tongue.

  "Boost the gain," Carson whispered, nodding toward the crude listening device Link had cobbled together from spare parts lifted from maintenance storage.

  Link twisted a small dial, and suddenly the muffled voices from the private conference room became clearer through the ventilation duct.

  "—cannot continue to deny us access," Prince Roman's voice carried a sharp edge beneath its cultured tones. "The artifacts recovered from Europa facility belong to all humanity, not just TITAN's research division."

  Carson's pulse quickened. Europa facility? The outer moon research station had been officially listed as a water purification center, but rumors suggested otherwise.

  "Your Highness," a clipped TITAN voice responded, "I must remind you that unclassified speculation about Architect technology violates security protocols established in the Unified Settlement Act."

  Architect technology. The phrase sent an unexpected jolt of heat through Carson's chest. He'd heard those words before, but not in waking life—in his dreams. The same dreams where he guarded a mysterious flame.

  "Don't lecture me about protocols, Director Novak." Roman's voice hardened. "My intelligence confirms your researchers have recovered at least one artifact with unusual properties. A crystalline object that creates dimensional distortions when activated."

  Carson's breath caught. His hand instinctively moved to his chest, where the phantom warmth had intensified.

  "Those reports are grossly exaggerated," Director Novak replied, but Carson detected the slight tremor in his voice. He was lying.

  Wind shifted beside him, her body suddenly tense. Carson glanced at her face and found her eyes wide, lips pressed into a thin line. She knew something.

  "The Light Stone is real," Roman continued, the words hitting Carson like a physical blow. "My family's archives describe it perfectly. A key-shaped crystal that opens doorways between worlds."

  Key-shaped crystal. Opening doorways. The exact imagery from Carson's recurring dreams.

  Link's elbow dug into Carson's ribs as he leaned closer to the listening device. "What the hell is he talking about?" he whispered.

  Carson shook his head, unable to form words as his mind raced. How could a Theist prince be describing objects from his private dreams?

  "Your family's archives are based on religious texts, not scientific evidence," Novak countered, but his voice lacked conviction.

  "Then explain the energy signatures your teams detected beneath Europa's surface," Roman demanded. "Explain the dimensional anomalies your own scientists can't account for. The Architect left us keys to the universe, Director. Seven keys to transcend our limitations."

  Seven keys. The number resonated within Carson like a struck bell.

  Wind's fingers suddenly gripped Carson's wrist, her nails digging into his skin. "We need to go," she whispered urgently. "Now."

  "Wait," Carson breathed, straining to hear more.

  "This conversation is over," Novak declared. "Security will escort you back to your quarters."

  "You can't hide the truth forever," Roman's voice remained calm, almost amused. "The Firekeeper will emerge, with or without TITAN's blessing."

  Firekeeper. The word crashed through Carson's consciousness like a meteor. Guardian of the flame. His dream.

  A sharp clang from the corridor outside froze all three of them in place. The rhythmic footfalls of security boots approached their hiding spot.

  "Patrol," Link mouthed silently.

  Carson nodded, gathering his limbs for quick movement. With practiced signals developed during years of avoiding TITAN authorities, he indicated their escape route through the secondary maintenance shaft.

  As they slipped away, Carson's mind burned with questions. How could strangers be discussing the private symbols from his dreams? What was this Light Stone they mentioned? And why did Wind look like she'd seen a ghost?

  Carson slumped against the wall in the Middle Ring marketplace, his breathing finally slowing to normal. The narrow escape from station security had left his nerves raw, but now he forced his posture into practiced casualness. Around him, the marketplace buzzed with its usual afternoon energy—food vendors calling out specials, traders haggling over parts, the constant hum of commerce that kept Celestia 28 functioning.

  "That was too close," Link muttered, adjusting his work coveralls to look less rumpled. "Next time you want to spy on royalty, maybe don't pick a vent directly above security's patrol route."

  Carson barely heard him. His mind still reverberated with the words he'd overheard. Light Stone. Architect technology. Firekeeper. The same images that haunted his dreams now spoken aloud by strangers. It couldn't be coincidence.

  "Wind," Carson turned to her, noting the tight set of her jaw, "you recognized something back there. What aren't you telling us?"

  Before she could answer, a commotion rippled through the marketplace. Conversations halted as a squad of crimson-uniformed guards pushed into the crowded thoroughfare.

  "Make way for His Royal Highness, Prince Roman of the Sanctum Lineage!" a guard announced, his voice amplified by a throat implant that cost more than Carson earned in a year.

  The crowd reluctantly parted, station residents pressing themselves against vendor stalls. Carson felt his jaw tighten as he watched the Theist entourage cut through the marketplace like a blade—unconcerned with the daily commerce they disrupted.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  "Look at that tech," Link whispered, nodding toward the personal devices hovering around the Theist officials. Sleek, golden spheres that projected holographic data only their users could see. "Makes our station-issue tablets look like children's toys."

  Carson's eyes narrowed as he spotted an elderly man struggling with a cart of recycled parts. The man wasn't moving aside quickly enough, and a Theist guard approached him with deliberate menace.

  "Clear the path, station rat," the guard snapped, shoving the old man with enough force to send him sprawling. Parts scattered across the floor as the cart tipped.

  Carson's body tensed, moving forward before his mind could catch up. A hand clamped around his wrist—Link, shaking his head in warning.

  "Not worth it," Link murmured. "You know what happens to people who challenge Theist guards."

  Carson's fists clenched as he forced himself to remain still. This was exactly why he'd deliberately failed his advancement exams—to avoid becoming part of systems that treated people as disposable. But standing by while others suffered felt like swallowing acid.

  Prince Roman appeared at the center of the entourage, resplendent in layered robes of crimson and gold that seemed designed to absorb all attention in the room. His personal guards carried incense burners that released sweet-smelling smoke, creating a literal cloud of privilege around him that contrasted sharply with the industrial scents of the station.

  "Your Highness," a station administrator approached, bowing deeply. "We weren't informed you would be touring the public sectors today. We could have prepared a more suitable—"

  "This will suffice," Roman interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. "I wish to observe how the common folk live under TITAN's... stewardship."

  The way he said "common folk" made Carson's teeth grind. As if they were curiosities in a museum rather than people trying to survive.

  From the corner of his eye, Carson noticed Wind deliberately turning away, pulling her hood lower over her face. She angled her body toward a vendor stall, clearly trying to avoid being seen by someone in the entourage. Another mystery to add to the growing list.

  "I've heard whispers of the Firekeeper prophecy even here," one Theist official said to another as they passed near Carson's position. "The common people speak of it in their quarters after curfew."

  "Superstitious nonsense," his companion replied. "Though His Highness seems convinced the signs are manifesting."

  Carson froze. There it was again—Firekeeper. The same word that haunted his dreams now spoken casually in a crowded marketplace.

  The procession continued its disruptive path, station residents forced to pause their lives for the royal inspection. Carson watched a mother pull her child close as guards swept past, their hands resting on ceremonial weapons that were anything but ceremonial.

  As the entourage neared Carson's position, Prince Roman's gaze suddenly swept across the crowd. For a heartbeat, his eyes locked with Carson's. Something electric and unexpected passed between them—a jolt of recognition that made no sense. Carson felt the phantom warmth in his chest flare again, stronger than before.

  Roman's eyes widened slightly, his steady pace faltering for just a moment. Then the prince's expression hardened, and he looked away, continuing his procession as if nothing had happened.

  Carson broke the gaze first, turning toward Link with forced casualness. But the brief connection left him shaken. It had felt like looking into a distorted mirror—seeing something familiar in the most unlikely place.

  Carson's shoulders tensed as he watched the Theist guards bulldoze their way through the marketplace. The noise level dropped to a nervous murmur as people pressed themselves against stalls, some bowing their heads while others stared with barely concealed resentment. He recognized that look—the same one he'd worn during mandatory TITAN assemblies.

  "Make way for His Royal Highness, Prince Roman of the Sanctum Lineage!" A guard's voice boomed through the market, artificially amplified to a volume that made Carson wince.

  The smell of spiced protein cakes from nearby food stalls mixed unpleasantly with the cloying scent of incense that billowed from ornate burners carried by attendants. Carson's stomach growled—he'd been about to buy lunch before the commotion started. Now he stood hungry, watching as station residents were treated like inconveniences in their own home.

  "Those devices," Link whispered beside him, nodding toward the golden spheres hovering around Theist officials. They projected shimmering data screens visible only to their users. "Pure Martian tech. Makes our stuff look like junk."

  Carson nodded, eyes tracking the royal entourage. Their clothing alone—layers of crimson and gold fabric embroidered with symbols of the Sanctum—probably cost more than most miners earned in a decade. Meanwhile, station residents wore practical jumpsuits patched and repatched until the original color was barely visible.

  Security drones hovered above the procession, their sensors sweeping the crowd. Carson instinctively tucked his chin, an old habit from academy days when he'd learned to avoid notice.

  An elderly man struggled with a cart of salvaged parts, his gnarled hands trembling as he tried to maneuver it out of the way. He wasn't moving fast enough.

  "Clear the path, station rat," a guard snapped, shoving the old man with the butt of his ceremonial staff. The man tumbled backward, his cart overturning with a crash that scattered precious salvage across the floor.

  Before Carson could think, his body surged forward. Link's hand clamped around his wrist, yanking him back.

  "Not worth it," Link hissed. "Remember what happened to Jace when he mouthed off to a Theist?"

  Carson's jaw clenched so tight his teeth hurt. Jace had disappeared for two weeks and returned with a blank stare and a neural implant scar. He forced himself to stay put, though his body hummed with adrenaline and suppressed rage.

  Prince Roman appeared at the center of the entourage, his face a mask of practiced benevolence that didn't reach his eyes. Carson had seen that look before—the same expression TITAN executives wore when touring the mining facilities, observing workers like specimens.

  "Your Highness," a station administrator approached, bowing deeply. "We weren't informed of your visit to the public sectors. We could have prepared—"

  "This will suffice," Roman interrupted with a dismissive wave. "I wish to observe how the common folk live under TITAN's... stewardship."

  The condescension in his voice made Carson's fingernails dig into his palms. Common folk. As if they were characters in a historical simulation rather than people.

  From the corner of his eye, Carson noticed Wind's sudden movement. She turned sharply away from the procession, pulling her hood lower and angling her body toward a vendor stall. Her shoulders hunched with tension as if trying to make herself invisible. Who was she hiding from?

  Two Theist officials passed close enough for Carson to hear their conversation.

  "I've heard whispers of the Firekeeper prophecy even here," one said. "The common people speak of it in their quarters after curfew."

  "Superstitious nonsense," his companion replied. "Though His Highness seems convinced the signs are manifesting."

  Carson's breath caught. Firekeeper. The word from his dreams, spoken so casually here in the marketplace. The heat in his chest flared again, a phantom warmth that had no source.

  As the entourage approached, Prince Roman's gaze swept across the crowd with practiced indifference. Then his eyes locked with Carson's.

  Something electric passed between them—a jolt of recognition that made no sense. Carson felt a strange doubling, as if looking at a distorted reflection. The warmth in his chest intensified, spreading through his limbs.

  Roman's eyes widened slightly, his confident stride faltering for just a moment. Then his expression hardened, and he looked away, continuing as if nothing had happened.

  Carson broke the gaze first, turning toward Link with forced casualness. But the brief connection left him shaken. What had just happened? And why did he feel like he'd just been seen—truly seen—for the first time in years?

  Carson slumped against the cool metal wall of the maintenance corridor, the day's revelations weighing on him like a gravity malfunction. The familiar hum of life support systems vibrated through the bulkhead against his back—a rhythm he and Link had used for years to mask their conversations from potential eavesdroppers.

  Link crouched before a small device he'd cobbled together from discarded parts, adjusting something with practiced precision. The signal jammer's indicator light blinked from red to green, and he nodded with satisfaction.

  "We're clear," he said, settling beside Carson. Their shoulders touched—a comfortable familiarity built over years of shared spaces, shared meals, shared secrets.

  Carson exhaled, feeling some tension leave his body. This corridor had been their meeting spot since their third year at the academy. The security camera overhead had been "malfunctioning" for almost as long—a minor oversight in TITAN's surveillance network that maintenance crews conveniently forgot to repair. Everyone needed somewhere to breathe.

  "You've got that look," Link said, passing him a nutrient bar from his pocket. "The one that means you're about to do something stupid."

  Carson accepted the bar with a half-smile. "What look?"

  "Same one you had before reprogramming Instructor Voss's teaching drone to speak in rhymes." Link's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Or when you decided to sneak into the restricted archives to find your admission records."

  The memory made Carson wince. That particular adventure had nearly gotten them both expelled. Link had taken partial blame, claiming he'd helped with the security bypass. He hadn't, but he'd stood by Carson anyway.

  "I'm not planning anything," Carson lied, tearing open the nutrient bar's wrapper.

  Link snorted. "Right. And I'm next in line for TITAN directorship." He lowered his voice despite the jammer. "Station security protocols just jumped three levels. There's a sweep happening—quiet but thorough. They're looking for something specific."

  Carson stopped mid-bite. "What kind of something?"

  "Artifacts. Not the junk Bowie sells. Something older." Link pulled out his work tablet, fingers dancing across the screen. "I've got friends in waste management. They overhear things when executives think nobody's listening. TITAN's hunting for objects that match this material composition."

  He turned the tablet toward Carson. The molecular structure displayed looked eerily familiar—similar to crystalline formations Carson had seen in his dreams.

  "Found this in an asteroid fragment yesterday," Link continued. "Set off all kinds of alerts when it hit the scanners. They quarantined the entire load."

  Carson's mouth went dry. "What did they do with it?"

  "That's the weird part. Full containment team. Executive override codes. Whatever it was, it's been moved off-station." Link's expression grew serious. "And here's the thing—the Theists are looking for the same stuff. That's why Prince Royal Pain-in-our-Ass is really here."

  Carson's chest tightened, the phantom warmth flaring again. He wanted to tell Link about his dreams, about the flame and the voice calling him Firekeeper—the same word he'd overheard in the marketplace. But something held him back. Even with Link, some things felt too dangerous to share.

  "There's something else," Link said, shutting down his tablet. "It's about your new friend."

  "Wind?" Carson kept his voice neutral despite the sudden quickening of his pulse.

  "She's asking questions about you. Specific questions. Mining schedules, access permissions, medical history." Link's jaw tightened. "People don't just arrive from Hera without reason, Carson. And they definitely don't fixate on random miners."

  "She helped me when I collapsed," Carson countered, though uncertainty crept through him. Why had Wind been so interested? Why had she appeared in his life just as these strange events began unfolding?

  "Maybe." Link didn't look convinced. "Or maybe she was watching for exactly that reaction. You trust too easily, Carson."

  The irony wasn't lost on him. Carson trusted almost no one—except Link. And now, inexplicably, Wind.

  "Just promise me you'll stay away from the Theists," Link said. "Whatever's happening, it's bigger than us. We keep our heads down, remember? That's how we survive."

  Carson nodded, meeting his friend's worried gaze. "I promise."

  The lie tasted bitter. Carson had never been good at ignoring mysteries, and something about this one felt personal—like it had been waiting for him. But he couldn't drag Link into danger. Not again.

  "I mean it," Link insisted, reading his expression too easily. "No heroics. No investigations. We're miners, not protagonists in some adventure narrative."

  "I know." Carson forced a smile, squeezing Link's shoulder. "Just miners. Nothing special."

  Another lie. The dreams were getting stronger. The voice clearer. And now, with Prince Roman's strange recognition and Link's discovery, Carson couldn't shake the feeling that whatever was happening had already chosen him—whether he wanted it or not.

  Carson ran his fingers over the leather-bound book's cover, his heart quickening at the tangible connection to Earth's past. Real paper. Real leather. Not the synthetic replicas TITAN produced for educational displays, but actual artifacts that had survived humanity's exodus. The shop's back room smelled of preservation chemicals and something indefinably ancient—a scent Carson imagined was history itself.

  "Careful with that one," Bowie murmured from his workbench across the room, where he pretended to inventory small mechanical devices while watching them with barely concealed interest. "Pre-Collapse first edition."

  Carson nodded, easing the cover open with reverent precision. The pages crackled softly beneath his touch. Wind sat beside him on the antique wooden bench—another rarity in a station built from asteroid metal and synthetic composites. Her shoulder nearly touched his as she leaned in to see the faded illustrations.

  "The Ancient Architect Hypothesis," Wind read, her voice low despite their privacy in Bowie's after-hours sanctuary. "I didn't know copies of Amundsen's original text survived."

  Carson glanced at her, surprised. "You've read Amundsen?"

  "Required study on Hera." Wind's fingers hovered over the page without touching it. "Though our version was heavily annotated with Matriarchal commentary."

  "Let me guess—dismissing his theories as patriarchal fantasy?" Carson couldn't keep the edge from his voice. TITAN's educational protocols had similarly dismissed Amundsen as a conspiracy theorist.

  Wind's lips curved slightly. "Actually, quite the opposite. Hera's founders believed Amundsen was closer to the truth than anyone realized. They just disagreed with his conclusions about the Architects' intentions."

  Carson's pulse quickened. He'd never met anyone outside underground knowledge networks who took Amundsen seriously. "What do they teach about the Great Collapse on Hera?"

  Wind hesitated, her eyes meeting his with unexpected intensity. "That it wasn't natural. Or accidental."

  "Neither was Earth's abandonment," Carson said, testing her. "Official TITAN history claims environmental catastrophe, but the timelines don't add up."

  "Because they're fabricated." Wind's voice dropped further. "The evacuation happened too quickly, too efficiently. As if..."

  "As if someone knew it was coming," Carson finished.

  They stared at each other, the shared understanding creating an unexpected intimacy. Carson felt his usual barriers slipping. He turned to the book's center pages, where Amundsen had recreated ancient symbols found in ruins across Earth's oldest civilizations.

  "Look at these," he said, pointing to a series of geometric patterns. "Amundsen believed they represented dimensional gateways. Portals between worlds."

  Wind's breath caught. "We call them Pathways of Light on Hera. Our oldest texts describe them as doorways between stars, created by beings who transcended physical form."

  The symbols resembled the patterns from Carson's dreams—concentric circles surrounding a flame-like center. His fingers trembled slightly as he traced them on the page.

  "Bowie," he called, making a sudden decision. "Do you still have access to the restricted archives? The pre-Collapse database?"

  Bowie looked up, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Might do. Depends what you're after."

  "There's a sub-section on anomalous artifacts recovered during the evacuation," Carson said. "Files that were supposedly corrupted during transfer."

  "Not corrupted," Wind interjected. "Classified. Hera has fragments of those same records. They mention something called the Light Stone."

  Carson's chest tightened at the name, the phantom warmth flaring beneath his sternum. He forced his expression to remain neutral.

  "I might know someone who could get us fifteen minutes in the restricted section," Bowie said carefully. "Tomorrow's maintenance cycle. Security protocols reset at 0400 hours."

  Wind's eyes lit up. "That would be enough time to cross-reference with what I know."

  "It's risky," Carson warned, though excitement coursed through him. "TITAN doesn't take archive violations lightly."

  "Some knowledge is worth the risk," Wind said, her hand briefly touching his. "Don't you think, Carson?"

  The warmth of her fingers lingered on his skin. Carson nodded, his caution warring with a deeper certainty that this path, dangerous as it might be, was somehow meant for him.

  "Tomorrow then," he agreed. "0400 hours."