The universe is cold. Not just in the way you feel on a winter night, but in a way that seeps into your bones and makes you wonder if you'll ever be warm again. Paragon had never felt it so acutely as now, hurling himself through the black between worlds, the Draathari homeworld shrinking behind him, a fading bruise on the tapestry of stars.
He didn't have a ship. He didn't want one. There was a time he might have preferred the comfort of metal walls and humming engines, the illusion of safety, but after what he'd done, he felt he deserved the raw honesty of the void. He wanted to feel every ache, every scrape of cosmic dust, every reminder that he was still alive and still capable of suffering.
At first, the vacuum was agony. His lungs screamed for air that wasn't there, his skin prickled and burned, and his blood felt thick and sluggish, as if it wanted to freeze in his veins. But Paragon was built for more than endurance. He was built to adapt. He felt his body shift, deep inside-lungs sealing off, skin toughening, blood changing its chemistry, heart slowing to a patient, deliberate rhythm. The pain faded, replaced by a numb clarity. He could see the stars with impossible sharpness, feel the faintest warmth from distant suns, sense the radiation washing over him like a cold tide.
He drifted for a while, letting his momentum carry him, arms at his sides, cape trailing behind like a ragged banner. There was no sound, not even the whisper of his own breath. Just the steady thud of his heart, slow and powerful, echoing in the silence.
He tried not to think about what he'd left behind. But memory is a stubborn thing. The old Dreathiri's face haunted him, her eyes blazing with hate and sorrow, her voice as sharp as broken glass: "You want pity? You want forgiveness? You'll get nothing from us, butcher!" He remembered the slap, the crack of bone, the way her body fell. He remembered the chaos that followed, the screams, the blood, the way the city seemed to collapse beneath his rage. He remembered how easy it was-too easy-to lose himself in violence.
He wondered, not for the first time, if he was becoming the thing he'd always fought against.
The Draathari fleet was ahead, a line of fire and steel stretched across the void. Even from here, he could see the glint of their hulls, the flicker of engines, the faint blue haze of their shields. There were thousands of ships, moving with the precision of a single mind, all pointed toward Halcyon. His home. The place he'd sworn to protect, even if it meant damning himself.
He pushed himself forward, muscles tightening, body streamlining for speed. With every kilometer, he felt his body shifting further-bones reinforcing, muscles compacting, skin growing denser, nerves dulling to the cold and the sting of cosmic rays. He didn't need to breathe. He didn't need to rest. He was becoming what the moment demanded: a weapon, honed by guilt and necessity.
Time blurred. He lost track of how long he'd been flying-minutes, hours, maybe more. The only measure was the shrinking distance between him and the fleet, the growing hum of their sensors brushing against his mind. He could feel them noticing him, could almost taste the fear and anticipation rippling through their ranks.
The first wave of fighters broke away from the fleet, engines flaring, weapons primed. Paragon didn't slow. He let them come, let the challenge settle in his bones. Plasma bolts lanced through the darkness, searing past him, close enough to feel the heat. His skin hardened, adapting to the energy, nerves registering the impact as little more than a distant ache. He spun and twisted, weaving between the blasts, closing the distance with every heartbeat.
A missile exploded nearby, the shockwave tossing him end over end. He righted himself, muscles flexing, orientation returning in a blink. He crashed through the lead fighter, tearing a hole in its hull with his bare hands, sending it spinning away in a trail of debris. He landed on the hull of a warship, boots digging furrows in the metal, the impact vibrating through the ship's superstructure.
He could see the crew through the viewports, their faces pale and wide-eyed. He tore open a hatch, the vacuum sucking Draathari into the void. He moved through the corridors like a storm, disabling weapons, tearing through bulkheads, leaving chaos in his wake. He was relentless, methodical, unstoppable.
He leapt from the crippled warship, crossing the gap to the flagship in a single, impossible bound. The flagship was a monster-twice the size of anything else in the fleet, bristling with guns and armored like a fortress. Its hull was etched with the sigils of vengeance and royalty, a floating cathedral of war.
He landed hard, the shock ringing through the ship. He paused, letting himself feel the enormity of what was to come. He could sense the champion inside-a presence like gravity, a promise of violence and reckoning.
He ripped open the main hangar doors, metal shrieking in protest. Inside, Draathari soldiers formed ranks, weapons raised. None fired. They watched him with a mixture of hatred and awe, parting to form a corridor down the center of the hangar.
At the far end, the champion waited.
He was immense, even among his kind, clad in black and gold armor that seemed to drink in the light. His warhammer rested easily in his hands, the head of it big enough to shatter stone. His eyes were cold, ancient, burning with a purpose Paragon recognized all too well.
Paragon stepped forward, boots ringing on the deck, cape trailing behind him. He could feel his body still shifting, still adapting, readying itself for the fight. He let the silence stretch, the tension thickening in the air.
The champion spoke first, his voice deep and resonant, echoing off the metal walls. "I expected you to come in a ship. I thought you'd bring more destruction, more fire. I see now you prefer to deliver it with your own hands."
Paragon's lips tightened. "I'm not here to destroy. Not anymore."
A faint, humorless smile flickered across the champion's face. "You say that, yet the blood of my people is still fresh on you. The storm you left behind will be remembered for generations."
Paragon looked away, jaw clenched. "I didn't want it to happen like that. I lost control."
The champion's eyes narrowed. "We all lose control. The difference is what we do after. You come here, alone, after slaughtering my world, and expect what? Mercy? Understanding?"
"No," Paragon said quietly. "Not mercy. Not forgiveness. Just an end."
The champion's grip tightened on his warhammer. "You speak of endings. But for us, this is only the beginning. You've given my people a new story-one of vengeance, one of wrath. You've made yourself the villain in every child's nightmare."
Paragon met his gaze, unflinching. "If that's what it takes to make you stop, then so be it. I'm tired of running from what I am."
The champion's eyes remained hard, but his voice dropped, almost reflective. "You know, I wasn't born here. My blood isn't royal by birth. I come from a world the galaxy calls a pirate planet. A place of traders, scavengers, and thieves, orbiting the edge of every law. Eighteen hundred years ago, when I was no more then an infant, my ancestors came here, not for conquest, but for trade. Back then, we brought rhodium-more than any world had ever seen. We traded in good faith, built fortunes together. But then the trade stopped. Walls went up. Your kind looked at us and saw only pirates and threats."
He paused, the memory flickering in his eyes. "Our leaders came here, seeking your king and prince, hoping to speak peace. But they found only defenses-cannons, fleets, soldiers. So my world brought their own. It should have been negotiation. Instead, it was slaughter. My people were crushed. And my king and prince-the ones who wanted peace-were killed in the crossfire."
A silence fell, heavy with old wounds.
Paragon's voice was low. "History is a graveyard of good intentions."
The champion nodded. "And now, here we are. You, the new villain. Me, the son of a pirate planet, raised by the ones who survived. Tell me your name-not your title. The name."
Paragon hesitated, then straightened. "My name is Paragon."
The champion's lips curled in a cold, predatory smile. "Paragon. A word that once meant 'model of virtue' in your tongue, yes? In mine, it means something else. In my world, Paragon means 'dead man.'"
The words hung in the air, heavy as the warhammer between them.
Paragon nodded, accepting the weight of the title. "Then let's see if your world is right."
The champion's eyes blazed. "My name is Varkos, son of the first king. Remember it when you fall."
They stood, two titans poised on the edge of war, the fate of worlds balanced between them.
And in that moment, the silence was not empty, but charged with the promise of everything that was about to be broken.