The silence after Varkos's death was absolute.
Paragon stood over the body, his hands still curled in the memory of violence. The Draathari flagship's bridge was a ruin-consoles sparking, the air thick with the scent of ozone and blood. The crew, battered and terrified, pressed themselves against the walls, not daring to move or even breathe too loudly. They had seen what he had done. They had seen what he could do.
He turned to them, his eyes burning with the cold, distant light of distant stars. The Draathari soldiers flinched as one, weapons clattering to the deck. Paragon didn't need to speak. He simply looked at them, and in that look was a command that transcended language, culture, and even species. It was the look of a god returned from war, a force of nature who had torn apart their champion, their hope, and their last line of defense with his bare hands.
"Get me home," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.
It was enough. The Draathari snapped into action, scrambling over the broken bodies of their officers and the shattered remains of the bridge. Orders were barked, systems rebooted, and within moments, the flagship's battered engines rumbled to life. Paragon watched them work, the fear in their eyes as tangible as the blood on his hands. They would obey. They would do anything he asked, because to disobey was to die.
He left the bridge without another word, passing through corridors lined with soldiers who shrank away from him, averting their eyes. He felt their terror like a physical force, pressing in on him from all sides. It was a strange, almost intoxicating power-the knowledge that he could end any of them with a thought, that his will was now law aboard this ship.
He made his way to the captain's quarters, the door sliding open at his approach. The room was opulent by Draathari standards-polished metal, dark wood, and a panoramic viewport that looked out over the ruined fleet. Paragon crossed the room and lowered himself into the captain's chair, the leather creaking beneath his weight.
For the first time in years, he allowed himself to relax. He closed his eyes and let out a slow, shuddering breath, as though a cramp that had twisted his soul for three long years was finally easing. The tension that had held him rigid, the constant readiness for violence, the endless anticipation of the next attack-it all began to melt away, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion.
He was going home.
The thought echoed through him, strange and unfamiliar. Home. The word felt foreign on his tongue, as though it belonged to another life, another man. He had been so long away, so long at war, that he had almost forgotten what it meant. But now, with the Draathari fleet at his command and the path clear before him, he could almost believe it was real.
He watched the stars drift past the viewport, the debris of battle trailing in their wake. The fleet was a shadow of its former self-ships gutted and burning, hulls pitted and scarred by the violence of the last hours. But it was enough. It would get him home.
He let his mind drift, memories rising unbidden to the surface. He remembered the day he had left Halcyon, the sunlit towers gleaming in the morning light, the faces of those he loved etched with hope and fear. He remembered the promises he had made-to return, to protect, to never forget who he was. He remembered the battles, the losses, the endless nights spent staring into the void, wondering if he would ever see home again.
And now, at last, he was going back.
He felt the ship jump to FTL, the stars smearing into lines of light. The sensation was familiar, almost comforting-a reminder that, for all his power, he was still bound by the laws of physics, still a traveler in a universe that cared nothing for his pain or his triumphs.
He let himself sink deeper into the chair, his body finally surrendering to exhaustion. He could feel the damage-the broken bones, the torn muscles, the wounds that still bled beneath his skin. But even as he catalogued the injuries, he felt his power working, knitting flesh and bone, sealing wounds, restoring him to something like wholeness.
He drifted in and out of sleep, dreams flickering behind his eyelids. He saw Halcyon as it had been-bright and alive, the air filled with laughter and music. He saw himself as a younger man, full of hope and ambition, unscarred by war. He saw the faces of those he had lost-friends, lovers, comrades-each one a ghost that lingered at the edges of his memory.
He woke to the soft chime of the ship's computer, the voice of a Draathari officer trembling over the intercom. "We are approaching Halcyon, sir. Entering planetary atmosphere in three minutes."
Paragon sat up, rolling his shoulders. The pain was still there, but it was distant now, a memory rather than a reality. He stood and crossed to the viewport, watching as the blue-green curve of Halcyon filled the screen. The planet was beautiful-clouds swirling over emerald continents, oceans glittering in the sunlight. It looked unchanged, untouched by the years of war and absence.
He felt a strange tightness in his chest, a mix of relief and anxiety. He was home, but he was not the man who had left. He wondered if anyone would recognize him, if anyone would care.
The ship shuddered as it entered the atmosphere, the hull glowing with the heat of reentry. Paragon watched as the clouds parted, revealing the familiar spires of Halcyon's capital city. The towers rose like fingers toward the sky, their surfaces gleaming in the morning light. He could see the landing platform, the crowds gathered below, the banners fluttering in the wind.
He closed his eyes, listening. He could hear everything-the hum of the engines, the whispered prayers of the crew, the distant cheers and cries of the people below. It was overwhelming, a chorus of voices that threatened to drown him. But he focused, filtering out the noise until only the most important sounds remained-the heartbeat of the city, the pulse of life that had endured in his absence.
The ship touched down with a gentle thud, the engines winding down. Paragon stood for a moment, gathering himself. He smoothed his uniform, straightened his shoulders, and strode from the captain's quarters, his footsteps echoing in the silent corridors.
The Draathari crew parted before him, heads bowed, eyes averted. They knew better than to meet his gaze. He passed through the airlock and onto the landing platform, the sunlight warm on his face.
He paused at the edge, looking out over the city. It was just as he remembered-a maze of glass and steel, alive with movement and sound. He could see the tower where he had lived, the place where his journey had begun. It seemed impossibly distant, a relic of another life.
He walked through the city in silence, the crowds parting before him. No one dared to speak, but he heard their whispers-fear, awe, hope. He ignored them, his focus fixed on the tower.
He entered the building, the doors sliding open at his approach. The lobby was empty, the air thick with anticipation. He rode the elevator to the top floor, the familiar hum of the machinery soothing in its predictability.
The doors opened onto the penthouse, the room bathed in golden light. Paragon stepped inside, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. He crossed to the window, looking out over the city he had fought so hard to protect.
He sat in his old chair, the leather cool against his skin. He closed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath, as though releasing the last of the tension that had held him captive for so long.
For a moment, he allowed himself to believe that nothing had changed-that he was the same man who had left, that the world was still whole, that the pain and loss were just bad dreams.
He listened to the city-the distant hum of traffic, the laughter of children, the steady rhythm of life. It was all still there, waiting for him.
He opened his eyes, looking out over Halcyon. The sun was rising, painting the towers in gold and crimson. The city was alive, and so was he.
He resumed his position as though three years hadn't gone by, as though he had never left. The world turned, and Paragon turned with it-scarred, changed, but unbroken.
He was home.