ninjaofnaps

[ninjaofnaps]

Chapter 4 of Through the Star Field for You is live!

Read on AO3 →

Ash touches down in Akila expecting a dusty errand. What she gets instead: 🤠 A hostage standoff 💔 A daddy issues showdown 🔥 A gang shootout 🌌 An artifact-induced collapse (romantic tension intensifies) …and maybe a little emotional whiplash.

Sam Coe is funny, heroic, and far too soft on our girl, whether he wants to be or not. Ash is sharp, brave, and definitely not catching feelings. Nope. Not even a little. Certainly not while bantering in bars, surviving shootouts, and accidentally winning over his daughter. 👀

If you like:

slow burn space cowboys

Starfield canon woven into deep emotional ties

a strong female lead with secrets of her own …you might just love this one.

💫 I update this Starfield fic + my Witcher Eskel romance fic every weekend 📚 Reblogs help so much and make my space nerd heart happy

Chapter 4-Akila Landing & Family Baggage

The dusty skyline of Akila stretched below them like a faded painting—bone-dry hills, golden light flaring off rooftops, and the spired silhouette of Freestar Collective flags flapping over the gates. It reminded her of Texas in some weird way. The Frontier’s landing gear hissed as the ship settled into the pad with a muted clang. 

Ash braced herself as the hull adjusted to atmospheric pressure. Her shoulder bumped against Sam’s in the cockpit, but neither moved away. The silence between them was almost comfortable now. Almost. 

Sam cleared his throat. “Hey… about what you heard earlier.” His voice was low, worn smooth around the edges. “That comms call with Lillian. I didn’t mean for you to… well, hear that.” 

Ash tilted her head. “Sam, your ex-wife called you a ‘wandering dust-licker with a martyr complex.’ Pretty sure I wasn’t supposed to hear that either, but here we are.” 

He grimaced. “Yeah. That’s her being… generous.” 

“I’ve heard worse,” she said lightly, though there was no mockery in her tone. 

Sam gave her a sidelong glance, watching her profile as she stared out the viewport. “Still. You didn’t sign up for domestic baggage.” 

Ash shrugged. “Everyone’s got baggage. Yours just happen to yell over open comms.” 

He barked out a laugh, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “You’re not wrong.” 

She offered him a half-smile, then nodded toward the city below. “So. This is your hometown?” 

He leaned forward, elbow propped on the console as if the view required commentary. “Akila City. Home of well-made guns and self-righteous politics. And me, apparently.” 

Ash narrowed her eyes. “Wait. Walter said you're some sort of celebrity here or something?” 

He grimaced again, like it physically pained him to talk about. “Solomon Coe was my great-grandfather. He's the Founder of the Freestar Collective. Bit of a legend around here. They built statues and everything. Real heroic rebel stuff.” 

Ash blinked. “Sooo... you’re basically space cowboy royalty?” 

He scoffed. “More like a walking PR problem. Local celebrity with a bad attitude.” 

“You ever get mobbed by admirers at the market?” she teased. “Or wake up to find someone’s named their pet Ashta after you?” 

Sam chuckled, leaning back in his seat. “You’d be surprised. Got asked to sign a bra once. Lady was seventy if she was a day.” 

Ash burst out laughing, covering her mouth. “You didn’t.” 

“Oh, I did. Can’t disrespect the elders.” 

Ash was still giggling as she stood, grabbing her gear. The ship’s ramp began to lower with a hiss of steam and metal. 

“Well,” she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder, “if we run into more fangirls, I’ll be sure not to shield you.” 

"Rude." Sam’s grin softened into something warmer, quieter. “Reckon I’m more worried about how you’ll do around all this.” 

Ash met his gaze. “I can handle a crowd, Coe. Besides—you're the one with the groupies.” 

He hesitated a second longer than necessary, then stepped aside to let her go first down the ramp. 

“You lead the way then, hotshot.” 

Ash descended into the wind and sunlight of Akila. 

*** 

Akila City hit Ash like a wall of dust and sun-bleached wood. The air was dry, and the streets were streaked with half-dried mud from last night’s storm—more muck than sand, and more sullen than lively. No animals roamed the paths, no wandering livestock—just a low buzz of tension hanging in the air. 

As they came around the corner past the General Store, she caught sight of the barricades first—crates, barrels, hastily thrown-up steel mesh. Armed lawmen crouched behind cover, weapons drawn, all eyes fixed on the two-story stone face of GalBank. 

“What the hell?” Ash murmured. 

Sam was already moving. He picked out the oldest of the lawman, a grizzled man in a long coat with an iron-set jaw and a faded silver badge. Sam approached, hands visible but confident. 

“Marshal Blake,” Sam called. “What’s going on?” 

The lawman straightened just enough to scowl. “Well, if it ain't Sam Coe. We’ve got ourselves a hostage situation. Don't suppose you came to pick up the badge again?” 

Sam smiled and shook his head. “No, I'm here on Constellation business. How many inside?” Sam asked. 

“Three robbers, heavily armed. Went sideways fast—one of the tellers took a hit to the leg. At least five hostages still breathing. They're holed up behind the main desk.” 

Ash moved closer, eyes scanning the scene. Her voice was even. “You got anyone trying to talk them down?” 

Marshal Blake looked her over, unimpressed. “Lady, I don’t know who you are, but we’ve got trained men on this. Last thing I need is a civilian making it worse.” 

Sam stepped in, but Ash raised a hand—cool, calm. “I’m with Constellation,” she said. “Name’s Ash. I’ve talked people out of worse. You send in a squad with rifles, someone’s going to die. Let me try first. I'm sure you know Constellation's reputation.” 

Blake squinted at her. “You trained for negotiations?” 

“No,” she admitted. “But I’ve been in hostage situations before.” 

Sam was watching her now, head tilted, something unreadable in his expression. 

“You walk in there and they panic, it’s on you,” Blake warned. 

“Understood.” 

“No weapons. Open comms only.” 

Ash handed over her pistol without hesitation. “Deal.” 

She turned to Sam, gave him a look that said trust me, even if she wasn’t entirely sure she trusted herself. 

“You sure?” he asked quietly. 

She nodded. “They need someone calm. And we need in that bank.” 

He gave her a crooked, not-at-all-comfortable smile. “Don’t get shot.” 

Ash crouched beside the bank where the comm box was attached, just outside the doors. She opened the comms, which was already crackling with the sound of angry, nervous breathing on the other end. 

“This is Ash with Constellation,” she said, voice low and even. “The Marshall said you wanted someone not on the Rangers' payroll. I’m here to help you walk out of this alive.” 

Then a voice snarled back. “We didn’t mean to shoot him, alright? He reached for the damn alarm!” 

“Okay,” Ash said gently. “So let’s not make it worse.” 

“He’s alive, isn’t he? He’s breathing!” 

“Good. That means you still have a shot at walking out without blood on your hands.” 

Another voice chimed in, younger, shakier. “We didn’t come here to kill anyone.” 

Ash’s tone didn’t waver. “Then don’t. You’ve got a window right now to de-escalate. Nobody else is hurt, and if you cooperate, that makes a difference.” 

“They’re gonna throw us in a cell either way.” 

“Probably,” Ash said honestly. “But a short sentence is better than a body count. You cooperate now, you’ve got a case for leniency. Judges look at stuff like that.” 

No response. 

She pressed her advantage. “Be real with me—how many hostage takers have you heard of getting out with a ship full of credits and not getting shot in the back?” 

A long pause. 

“You’ve got no clean escape. This isn’t a movie. It’s three of you and a room full of scared people in there and itchy trigger fingers out here. You push it, people die—and then the only thing you’ll get is a bullet or a longer sentence.” 

The static shifted. Then: “If we come out now, they won’t shoot us?” 

Ash turned to Blake, who gave a curt nod. “They’ll hold fire,” she confirmed into the mic. “Hands up. No sudden moves.” 

A beat. 

“Alright,” the voice muttered. “We’re coming.” 

Two minutes later, the doors creaked open. Three sweaty, dust-streaked figures shuffled out, hands raised. One was crying. The others looked more numb than angry. 

The marshals swarmed in behind them. The hostages were rushed out, mostly unharmed. The whole street exhaled. 

Ash's legs felt weirdly loose now, like the adrenaline was only just catching up. 

Marshal Blake gave her a look of grudging respect. “Not bad, Constellation.” 

Ash shrugged. “They needed an outside perspective and someone to be real with them.” 

Sam walked up beside her, expression soft. 

“Didn’t even raise your voice,” he said, admiration clear in his tone. 

Ash looked over at him, a flicker of mischief behind her exhaustion. “See? I can keep my cool.” 

He smiled a little warmer than necessary. “I noticed.” 

The sounds of the city started to return around them—boots on wood, murmurs rising. But for a moment, Ash just stood there, grounded in the stillness, with Sam beside her and the sun finally breaking through the clouds overhead. 

*** 

The hostage situation was over, but the adrenaline still lingered like smoke. Across the square from GalBank, an outdoor bar had reopened its counter—rough wood tables shaded by rusted tin awnings, the smell of fried something hanging on the breeze. 

Ash nursed a local lager, the bottle sweating in her hand. Sam sat across from her, boots propped on the edge of her chair like it was second nature, one arm hooked over the backrest. 

“Well,” he said, tipping his bottle toward her, “you made quite the impression back there.” 

Ash arched a brow. “You mean I didn’t get shot. High bar.” 

“Nah. I mean you talked down three twitchy kids with automatic rifles and didn’t even break a sweat.” 

She smirked. “That you saw.” 

He laughed, low and warm. “Fair. Still—Marshal Blake hasn’t stopped grumbling about how you made him look bad. That’s basically a medal in Akila.” 

Ash glanced around after yet another local said hi to Sam. “Everyone here seems to know you.” 

Sam shrugged. “Small town. Big Coe legacy.” 

“You ever get tired of being recognized?” 

He took a long sip, eyes scanning the rooftops like they held old memories. “Used to love it. Then I started getting into trouble—bar fights, midnight races, one very unfortunate incident with a crate of stolen spice and a goat. The shine wore off.” 

Ash laughed into her drink. “Please tell me the goat survived.” 

“Thrived. Lived better than I did for a while.” 

They lapsed into a companionable silence, broken only by the lazy clink of bottles and the distant buzz of post-crisis cleanup. Eventually, a lawman gave the all-clear nod from the bank’s front steps. 

Sam stood, downing the rest of his drink. “Ready?” 

“Lead the way, your majesty,” Ash said, sweeping an arm with mock reverence. 

Inside GalBank, the tension had drained. Dust floated in shafts of afternoon light. The vault lay open now—rows of old safes humming quietly. 

They each held a key, matching it against the lock numbers on the doors. 

“Used to come down here as a kid,” Sam said absently, testing another door. “Hide from my dad. Pretend I was on a treasure hunt.” 

Ash glanced at him. “Did you ever find anything?” 

He gave her a sidelong look. “Yeah. Trouble. Every time.” 

Her key slid into a lock at the far end. It clicked. 

Inside: a single folded note, old and worn, the ink still sharp. 

Ash read it once, then again. Her expression shifted. 

“Sam,” she called, voice soft but clear. “Over here.” 

He joined her, taking the note from her hands. As he read, his face hardened—shoulders going taut, jaw clenching like it hurt. 

“I know where this leads,” he said quietly. 

Ash studied him. “Who’s Jacob?” 

Grimacing, he said, "Not important." 

"Um, well, he took the maps and left a note saying to come get them from him in person. I'd say you two have history and id say it's not great. I have a right to know what I'm walking into." 

Sam hesitated. Then, with visible reluctance: “My father.” 

Ash blinked. “The one who left the note?” 

“Yeah.” 

“You didn’t want me to know.” 

“No,” he admitted. “Don’t want anyone to know about our bad blood. Especially not you.” 

Ash leaned a hip against the vault wall, watching him. “You think I’d judge you for daddy issues? Try growing up on a dig site surrounded by spiders the size of your face and a dad more obsessed with relics than raising his daughter.” 

He looked at her, and something in his posture softened. A smile tugged at the edge of his mouth, genuine and a little helpless. 

“You ever gonna stop surprising me?” he asked. 

Ash tilted her head. “Someone has to keep you on your toes lest the 'celebrity' go to your head.” 

He laughed. 

The moment stretched between them—quiet, charged, just long enough for both of them to feel the shift. 

Then Sam folded the note, tucking it into his pocket. “Come on. If we’re going to face Jacob Coe, we might as well do it before I change my mind.” 

Ash fell into step beside him, her shoulder brushing his. 

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m good at translating grumpy old men.” 

He gave a wry smile. “Then you’re about to meet the final boss.” 

They left the vault together. 

*** 

The house was nicer than Ash expected—polished sandstone walls, dark paneled windows, a real wood door with inlaid brass. It sat a few blocks up from the main square, tucked behind a trimmed hedge and a privacy gate that seemed more decorative than defensive. 

Sam stared at it with the same expression one might reserve for a hangover or a loaded weapon. 

“You good?” Ash asked, stepping beside him. 

He didn’t answer at first. Just reached up and knocked. 

Moments later, the door swung open. A tall man filled the threshold—silver hair swept back, sun-lined face, arms folded like he was born disappointed. His gaze landed on Sam and narrowed. 

“Well,” Jacob Coe said. “Didn’t expect you to come knocking like a goddamn vagabond.” 

Sam’s jaw ticked. “Nice to see you too, Dad.” 

“You’ve got two minutes,” Jacob said, turning without invitation and walking back inside. 

Ash followed Sam in, noting the clean lines and expensive furniture. Everything looked curated. Cold. 

“You got the note,” Jacob said flatly, not turning around. 

Sam stepped forward. “What the hell were you thinking? Leaving a message like that—dragging strangers into our crap?” 

Jacob rounded on him. “You think I want strangers poking into this mess? Maybe if you’d answered one of my calls or brought my granddaughter by—” 

Sam’s voice rose. “Oh, I’m sorry. Was I supposed to call to argue with you? Because that's all we ever do. And if you think I'm bringing my daughter here to get twisted up by you like you did me, you've got another thing coming!” 

Jacob barked a bitter laugh. “I only want what was best for her!” 

“Like hell you did—” 

“Enough,” Ash said, firmly but not loudly. She stepped between them and touched Sam’s arm, grounding him with a light pressure. He flinched at first, then slowly exhaled. 

“Mr. Coe,” she said, meeting Jacob’s eyes. “We’re not here for a family reunion. We’re here for the maps.” 

He crossed his arms. “And why should I hand them over to the both of you?” 

“Because we’ll keep showing up until we get them,” Ash replied, calm as still water. “And because dragging this out just gives both of you more chances to say something you’ll regret.” 

Jacob didn’t speak, but his eyes sharpened. Listening. 

Ash pressed on. “You hand over the maps, we leave. You get your house back. Your peace and quiet. You get to be the bigger man. And maybe, someday, if things start to shift… it goes a long way toward showing Sam you’re capable of giving instead of pushing.” 

A flicker passed across Jacob’s expression—too fast to pin down. Regret, maybe. Guilt. Something human. 

“And Cora,” Ash added, softer now. “You want to see her again? Bridges only build one direction at a time.” 

Silence stretched. The old man sighed, then walked to a locked drawer near his desk. He retrieved a thin black leather folder and slid it across the table toward Sam. 

“That’s everything I had. Coordinates, notes. Take it.” 

Sam looked stunned for half a breath, then scooped it up. “Thank you,” he said, clipped but not cruel. 

Ash turned to follow him out. 

At the door, Sam paused, then turned back. “You didn’t make it easy. But… thanks.” 

Jacob gave a short nod. “Don’t make it worse.” 

Outside, the sun had slipped lower, casting long shadows over the clay-brick street. They walked a few paces in silence. 

Then Sam reached out and gave her hand a quick squeeze. 

“That was... embarrassing. But you were good in there,” he said. “Better than I deserved.” 

Ash squeezed back. “Don’t get used to it.” 

He smirked. 

She winked. 

And they walked on. 

*** 

The descent into the valley came with a hush that raised the hairs on Ash’s arms. Even the wind had gone still. The outpost sat low, tucked between two broken ridges like it was hiding from the sky. A few prefab buildings leaned at odd angles, reinforced with rusted scaffolding and slats of scavenged metal. Ash counted two turrets—one on the far ridge, another mounted high above a solar array. 

“Shaw’s gang,” Sam said, voice barely audible. “They hole up here between jobs.” 

Ash dropped to one knee and raised her new rifle, the one they'd bought together this morning with her signing bonus. “Cozy.” 

He crouched beside her. “Not sure cozy’s the word I'd use. You ever take down an automated turret?” 

"Nope," she murmured. “First time for everything.” 

Sam gave her a sidelong look. “Right. Academic with a body count.” 

She shrugged. “I’ll take the left ridge. Cover me?” 

His grin was grim and quick. “Always.” 

She moved fast and low, navigating the rocky incline with practiced grace. The scope found her target—first the snipers patrolling the rooftops, then the turret’s exposed energy core. She timed the shot between its idle rotations. One hit. Sparks. Smoke. It sputtered out like a dying breath. 

Sam moved when she did—sweeping in from the opposite side as gunfire cracked in the air. A hail of bullets tore into the path where she’d just stood. Ash dropped behind a low wall and returned fire, taking out the second turret with a clean double-tap. 

A gang member rushed her from the flank—she picked up her pistol and fired with one hand without hesitation. The old sidearm Sam had given her kicked harder than she expected, but the outlaw dropped. 

Sam vaulted a crumbling platform, tackled another fighter mid-swing, and elbowed him in the gut hard enough to knock the wind out of him. He dispatched the last one with a sweep and a shot to the thigh. 

They swept through the camp, picking up ammo and provisions along the way, until every last outlaw lay unmoving. 

Ash met him near the entrance to the cave, breath still quick, adrenaline still hot. 

“Clear,” he said, spinning the chamber of his pistol to check rounds. 

She raised a brow. “Is this like a normal day in Akila city, shootouts and family feuds?” 

“Only the good ones,” he shot back, running a hand through his dust-streaked hair, then re-situating his hat. 

Ash holstered the pistol and looked past him, toward the gaping dark mouth of the cave. 

“Let’s see what was worth bleeding over.” 

Sam nodded, falling into step beside her. 

They crossed the threshold together. 

*** 

The silence in the cave felt oppressive. 

Ash moved ahead of Sam, her boots scuffing softly against the stone. The deeper they went, the more the walls seemed to narrow and smooth—unnaturally so, like something had shaped them on purpose. Not tools. Not hands. 

The light came first—soft, flickering, like starlight caught in water. 

Then the hum. 

Subtle, melodic. A vibration that settled into her bones, her teeth, her lungs. 

Sam stopped beside her, his breath catching as the artifact came into view. It sat at the heart of the cave, nestled in a cradle of stone—glowing faintly, its surface shifting like liquid metal and glass. 

He didn’t move. “Ain't that a thing of beauty?” 

Ash stepped closer. Her fingers tingled. Her head buzzed—not pain, but… recognition. 

Sam's voice came quiet. “You get the honors.” 

She turned to him, hesitating. 

“You sure?” 

He nodded, though his throat worked like it cost him something. “Go ahead.” 

Ash approached. 

Each step felt heavier than the last, like gravity knew what she was about to do. The air thickened. She stretched out her hand— 

—And the moment her skin touched the surface, the world fell away. 

Music. 

Not just sound, but color. Meaning. A symphony of stars echoing through her skull. 

Light. 

A burst behind her eyes, ancient and blinding. She wasn’t just in the cave—she was everywhere. Orbiting distant moons. Walking through dust storms on Mars. Lying on a rooftop under a double sunset with a man whose face she couldn't fully see. 

Memory. 

Not hers. Fractured glimpses of other versions of her. Other lives. Other choices. 

And Sam. 

Again and again—reaching for her. 

She opened her mouth to scream, but there was no breath to give it shape. 

Then... nothing. 

*** 

The glow faded. 

Ash’s body slumped to the stone like a marionette with its strings cut—hard and graceless, her limbs splayed, her chest barely rising. 

Sam caught her before her head struck the ground. 

“Hey,” he said, panic fraying his voice as he dropped to his knees. “Ash—Ash, come on.” 

She was too still. Too pale. 

He cupped the back of her neck, easing her onto his lap, his thumb brushing gently along her temple. Dust clung to her lashes. Her skin felt clammy under the cavern’s cool air. 

“Ash,” he whispered, softer this time. “You gotta wake up.” 

No response. Just that eerie, cavernous silence. The kind that made you feel like the world was holding its breath. 

Then—her lashes fluttered. 

“Was…” Her voice cracked, rough and low. “Was that your idea of a first kiss? Sleeping Beauty... whatnot.” 

Sam barked out a laugh, all breath and relief. “Wasn’t gonna say it, but you do make a damn dramatic damsel.” 

Ash blinked up at him, trying to focus. “Did I pass out?” 

“Right after touching the glowy death rock. Yeah.” His voice wavered on the last word. “Don’t ever do that again.” 

“I think I saw the whole damn universe,” she muttered. 

He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his hand lingering on her cheek. 

“You scared me,” he said quietly. “One second you were there—and the next…” 

Ash’s brow furrowed. “You were calling me.” 

“Damn right I was.” 

She swallowed hard. “I didn’t think I was coming back.” 

Sam’s jaw flexed. “Yeah, well… you did. And you’re not alone.” 

They looked at each other and, for a second, neither reached for a joke or a mask. Just two people reeling in the aftermath of something vast and unexplainable. 

Ash reached up, touching his wrist lightly. “You okay?” 

“Hell no,” he said, but he smiled. “But you’re awake. So I’ll live.” 

A silence stretched—not empty, but full. 

Then, gently, he helped her sit up, keeping a steady hand at her back. 

Ash glanced toward the artifact, its light now a dull. 

“I don’t know what it did to me,” she said. “But it felt… familiar.” 

Sam nodded, his fingers brushing down her arm as if grounding her. “Whatever it was, we’ll figure it out.” 

Together hung between them—unsaid, but thick in the space. 

She didn’t pull away. 

And he didn’t let go. 

*** 

Ash and Sam stepped into the fading light, the air sharp after the cave’s dense stillness. The sky was blushed gold, clouds tinged rose, and the surrounding ridges cast long shadows across the ravine. Ash’s breath still hitched a little—residual from the vision, from the moment she nearly didn’t wake. 

Sam stayed close, not touching, but near enough that she could feel the heat off him. 

Then the shout came. 

“Well, hell,” a woman’s voice rang out, smooth and vicious. “Look what crawled out with the treasure.” 

Ash’s head snapped toward the mouth of the ravine. There, flanked by at least half a dozen gang members, stood a tall woman with short-cropped hair, a long coat, and a rifle slung casually across her shoulder. Shaw. 

Sam muttered, “Figures.” 

Ash raised both hands slowly, palms out. “Let’s not turn this into something messy.” 

Shaw snorted. “Darlin’, this was messy the moment you stepped on our turf. Whatever you found in that cave belongs to me.” 

“It was never yours,” Ash said evenly. 

“Doesn't really matter what you think.” 

Ash glanced at the men surrounding Shaw—tired, edgy. Not quite itching for blood, but primed. She pitched her voice low, calm. “You fire on us now, it ends ugly. The kind of ugly that gets remembered. But if you walk away, no one needs to know you were even here.” 

Shaw raised a brow. “You tryin’ to talk me down?” 

“I talked down three twitchy robbers this morning before I’d had coffee,” Ash said. “You really wanna test my win streak?” 

Shaw smiled—slow and dangerous. “Got a mouth on you.” 

“She’s got more than that,” Sam said coolly. “Walk away, Shaw.” 

"Well well, Sam Coe. Akila's prodigal son returns." Her and the men behind her laughed. 

The two groups stared each other down. 

And then the ground shook. 

A scream tore through the silence—a shrill, ear-splitting roar—and out of the brush behind Shaw’s gang came the first Ashta, all scales and claws and primal fury. 

“Shit!” Shaw barked, spinning around just as the creature pounced. 

Everything exploded at once. 

Ash dropped into a crouch and pulled her pistol. Sam was already firing, cutting down an Ashta bounding from the ridgeline. 

Chaos reigned. 

One of Shaw’s men was dragged off screaming. Another shot blindly into the trees. 

Ash darted forward, grabbing Shaw’s arm and yanking her out of the path of a charging Ashta, before shooting it between the eyes. “Get to cover!” 

Shaw shoved her off with a growl, but retreated behind a rock outcrop. “We’re square,” she shouted. “We’re damn square!” 

Sam and Ash moved as one—back to back, dodging claws, firing in short bursts, covering each other like instinct. 

The fight ended as fast as it began. 

Five Ashta lay dead. The rest scattered into the underbrush, leaving blood and churned dirt in their wake. 

When the dust settled, Shaw and her remaining crew were already backing off—bloodied, but alive. 

Shaw gave Ash one last look—not a glare, not quite. Something closer to appraisal. 

“Next time,” she said, voice rough. “I won’t be so polite.” 

Ash gave a half-smile. “Next time, maybe you bring better back up.” 

"I did. You already killed them." Shaw barked a short, humorless laugh, then disappeared into the trees with her crew limping behind her. 

Ash let out a long breath and looked at Sam. 

“Just once,” she said, “I’d like a quiet walk out of a cave.” 

Sam smiled, blood-splattered and winded. “Then you probably picked the wrong job.” 

They stood in the silence that followed—alone now, and alive. 

And for the first time in hours, the sky above them felt wide again. 

*** 

The hum of the ship was softer now—less engine, more heartbeat. 

Ash stood at the galley counter, her damp hair wrapped in a towel, steam still clinging faintly to her skin. Clean, finally. The grit of the cave, the smoke from the fight, the copper tang of blood—they’d all been rinsed away. 

She’d stowed her gear, changed into something loose and soft. Now she sat cross-legged on the common room floor, a datapad balanced between her and Cora, who was already giggling at a story involving a clumsy robot and a very opinionated cat. 

“—just then the cat hit the override switch with its tail,” Ash read, eyebrows raised dramatically, “and the whole cargo bay went whooooosh into vacuum.” 

Cora snorted with laughter. “That cat is so me.” 

Ash nudged her with a foot. “You launching cargo bays out the airlock on weekends?” 

“Maybe,” the girl said smugly. "Don't tell dad." 

"I won't if you won't," Ash replied with a wink. 

Sam leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, just… watching. There was a softness in his face that hadn’t been there when they left Akila—a quiet, unguarded quality that flickered to life when he found the two of them like this. 

Ash looked up, caught him looking, and tilted her head. 

“You staring, cowboy?” 

He pushed off the frame and wandered over. “Just appreciatin’ the view.” 

Cora rolled her eyes. “Ugh. Adults. Gross.” 

Ash laughed. “You’re not wrong.” 

He gave Cora’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Alright, bug. Time for you to finish your homework. Don't think I didn't notice the assignment you skipped.” 

Cora mock-groaned but handed over the datapad. “Fine. But that essay is so boring.” 

“It still has to be finished,” Sam shot back. 

“Dictator,” she muttered, padding toward the aft hallway. 

When she was gone, Ash stood, stretching her arms overhead. “She’s quick,” she said. “Reminds me of someone.” 

Sam arched a brow. “Careful. I might take that as a compliment.” 

“Take it how you like,” Ash said, brushing past him toward the cockpit. 

A beat. 

“You ever flown this bird?” he asked. 

“Not really,” she admitted. “Only a brief lesson from Sarah. It was mostly me watching her tap buttons while lecturing me about patience.” 

He stepped behind her as she dropped into the pilot’s chair. The stars stretched out in lazy arcs across the viewport. “Then it’s time for a real lesson.” 

"Lets start off with steering." He reached around her, fingers tapping commands on the dash. His arm brushed her shoulder, then settled casually along the back of the chair—close enough that she felt the warmth of him, smelled the lingering trace of soap and something woodsy. 

Ash adjusted her grip on the controls, acutely aware of how near he was. 

“You smell good,” she said, not looking at him. 

A pause. 

Then his grin, slow and amused, beside her ear: “Don’t go distractin’ your instructor now.” 

“Sorry,” she murmured. “Can’t help it. I’m very responsive to olfactory cues.” 

“Big words,” he teased. “You tryin’ to flirt or pass a science exam?” 

“Little column A, little column B.” 

He didn’t move away. Instead, he shifted just slightly to guide her hands over the flight stick, his breath warm on her neck as he murmured course adjustments. Together, they guided the Frontier into a wide, graceful arc around Akila’s outer orbit. 

Stars spilled across the glass. The world fell away behind them. 

For a few minutes, it was just the hush of space and the quiet tension between them—something steady and building, like the stretch before gravity lets go. 

“You’re a natural,” Sam said softly. “Flyin’ like it’s in your blood.” 

Ash didn’t answer right away. 

She just looked out at the stars, wondering—maybe it was. 

And beside her, Sam stayed where he was, close but not pressing, his presence a steady tether in the blackest sea. 

*** 

Sam hadn’t moved far. He leaned against the console, arms crossed, content to watch. 

“You sure you haven’t flown this thing before?” he asked. 

Ash smiled faintly. “What, and ruin my reputation as an amateur?” 

“Serious question,” he said, stepping forward. “You fly like you’ve done it a hundred times.” 

Ash’s fingers hovered over the throttle. She stared out the viewport, brows furrowed just slightly. 

“Feels like I have,” she said quietly. 

Before he could answer, the comms snapped to life—Sarah’s voice, sharp and urgent, filling the cabin. 

“Sam, Ash. We’ve got a situation. Message just came in—Barrett may be trouble. We need you both back at the Lodge ASAP.” 

Ash jolted upright. The atmosphere shifted in a breath—warmth replaced by alert tension. 

Sam stepped toward the console, already checking their course. “What kind of trouble?” he asked. 

“No details yet,” Sarah replied. “But it’s urgent.” 

The comms cut. 

Ash’s fingers were already moving, flipping switches, plotting coordinates. Sam hesitated only a second—then stepped back and nodded. 

“Take us in.” 

She looked at him, surprised. “You’re sure?” 

“You’ve got this,” he said. “Fly us home.” 

Ash adjusted the course with practiced ease, guiding the ship into a sharp curve toward orbit exit. The stars shifted, the blue haze of the atmosphere giving way to the shimmer of re-entry. 

Sam watched her from the co-pilot’s chair, pride clear in his expression—but something else, too. Wonder. Maybe even awe. 

“You really fly like it’s second nature.” 

Ash didn’t meet his gaze. Her eyes stayed on the horizon as it rolled into view. 

“It doesn’t make sense,” she murmured. “But… it feels like something I lost. And now it’s coming back.” 

Sam didn’t speak. 

He didn’t need to. 

The ship slipped through the stratosphere, cutting back toward the Lodge and whatever waited for them below. 

*** 

The warmth of The Lodge hit Ash like a balm. 

Worn wood beneath her boots. The low hum of conversation in the next room. Somewhere, someone was playing soft guitar over the speakers. After the sun-scorched firefight and whatever strange current had passed through her body in that cave, this place felt... grounded. Human. 

She’d barely said a word after returning. Just slipped the new artifact into the Armillary, where it joined the others with that now-familiar hum and slow orbit. The second it settled into place, her shoulders slumped—not in defeat, but fatigue. Muscles aching. Fingertips still tingling like she'd been holding onto lightning too long. 

“Hey,” Sarah’s voice cut through the quiet, gentle, observant. “You alright?” 

Ash nodded once. “Fine. Just sore. Long day.” 

Sarah eyed her, unimpressed. “You look like hell.” 

“Thanks.” 

“Hang on.” Sarah disappeared down the hall and returned with a sleek metal tin. “Muscle balm. Lavender, eucalyptus, and something from Neon I’m not allowed to ask questions about. Run a bath. Use a scoop. Twenty minutes—no more, or you’ll see God.” 

Second soak in one day. Worth it. 

Ash cracked a tired smile and accepted it. “Much appreciated.” 

“Seriously. Twenty-one minutes and you’ll start floating.” 

“I’ll set a timer.” 

Across the room, Sam stood near the hearth with Walter, drink in hand, posture relaxed but eyes still sharp. He wasn’t fidgeting exactly—but he hadn’t stopped watching the hallway since Ash disappeared into it. 

“She dropped like a stone,” he said, voice quiet enough not to carry far, but just loud enough for Walter to hear. “Touched the artifact, then just—out.” 

Walter frowned. “Out, like unconscious?” 

Sam nodded once. “Yeah. Not breathing weird or anything. Just… gone. Cold, dead weight. Woke up a minute later, making jokes.” 

Walter glanced toward the Armillary, then back. “You think she saw something?” 

Sam’s thumb ran along the edge of his glass. “Wouldn’t be the first time. But it felt different. Like something hit her, deep.” 

Sarah rejoined them, keeping her voice down. “Noel’ll run a few tests tomorrow. She didn't show any signs of system failure?” 

“Nah,” Sam said, but there was a flicker of something else behind the word. “She just looked… off. Pale. Like whatever it was took more than it gave back.” 

Sarah gave him a knowing look. “You care about her.” 

Sam didn’t flinch. Just took another sip and said, “She’s one of us.” 

Walter didn’t say anything, just raised a brow and offered a faint smile that said he wasn’t buying it—but he respected the game. 

A little while later, Sam knocked lightly on Ash’s door, a steaming cup of tea in his hand. 

He didn’t expect her to answer. Not immediately, anyway. 

So when the door cracked open, and she appeared, towel wrapped around her like a makeshift robe, wet hair curling at her shoulders, he blinked. 

“Hey,” she said, leaning a shoulder to the frame, expression sly. “You stalking me?” 

He held up the cup. “An offering. Thought you might want a post bath tea.” 

Ash smirked. “You bring the good stuff or is this Lodge standard?” 

“Custom blend,” he said. “Mint, cinnamon, pinch of cardamom. Don’t ask me how I know that.” 

She laughed under her breath and took it. Their fingers brushed for a second longer than necessary. 

“You’re full of surprises, Coe.” 

“Don’t go telling anyone,” he said, stepping back. 

Ash leaned against the doorframe, watching him retreat. She took a sip—hot, sweet, grounding. 

He turned once at the end of the hall, caught her eye again. Something unspoken passed between them. 

She closed the door, smile lingering, and let herself sink onto the bed. The ache in her muscles had eased. Her chest still fluttered with whatever residue the artifact left behind. But under it all was a quiet steadiness. 

She fell asleep thinking of Sam’s hands—brushing hair from her face in the cave, holding out tea in the hallway. Steady hands. 

The kind you could hold on to if everything else slipped away. 

[ninjaofnaps]

Chapter 3 of Through the Cats Eye is live:

After three weeks on the road with Geralt, Yen, and Triss, Dyv finally arrives at the keep—and meets Eskel.

This chapter has: ✨ Found family unfolding 🗡️ Twin blades, deadly grace durning a sparring session 🔥 Slow-burn tension with everyone's favorite scarred Witcher 🐺 The moment Dyv and Eskel first really see each other

“She didn’t flinch. Not at the scars. Not at the intelligence in his golden eyes. She saw him—and it didn’t phase her.”

🔗 Read Chapter 3 on AO3 📌 Follow me here for more updates, sneak peeks, and ramblings about writing, Witchers, and reluctant soulmates.

💫 Also writing a Starfield fic! Slow burn x Sam Coe with reincarnation angst, memory loss, and a romance across timelines: → Read Through the Star Field for You (Starfield fic)

Chapter 3—Kaer Morhen

They moved like a unit now. Three weeks on the road had worn the shine off. It was the quiet kind of efficiency that comes when people have trekked together, eaten in silence, and fallen asleep under the same stars enough times to recognize the shapes of each other’s rhythms.

The path north unfurled through thick forests and wet marshlands, then thinned into high meadows and frost-laced cliffs that whispered of snow. The terrain was both punishing and beautiful—no nobles here, no masquerade. Just the creak of saddle leather and the scuff of boots over rock and root.

They slept in inns when they found them, stabling their horses. But more often they slept under open sky, their bedrolls arranged in a circle around the fire like spokes on a wheel. Dyv never took first watch. Not at first.

She always volunteered, but Geralt refused the offer with a glance—just a faint shake of his head. Not unkind, but firm. Eventually, she stopped asking. It took until the end of the first week to stop setting her bedroll slightly apart, just outside the ring of shared warmth. Some nights she sat silently at the edge of the firelight, sharpening her blade while the others talked.

Triss tried in those early days. Light questions, easy ones—What was it like where you are from? Do you miss your friends? How old were you when you took up the sword?

Dyv answered truthfully, but with the tone of someone who’d already counted how many words she’d be willing to spend. Her dry humor poked through gradually. Until she made even Geralt laugh.

Yennefer watched with narrowed eyes, equal parts curiosity and caution. She said little to Dyv those first few days, though her gaze lingered on the dual swords strapped to her back, and the strange, delicate webbing of runes etched into the black plating of her armor.

But it was the sparring that changed things.

It started on a warm evening north of Toussaint, south of Rivia. They were breaking camp when Geralt, glancing at the tight lines in Dyv’s shoulders, remarked dryly, “Do you actually know how to use those swords or are they just for show?” Dyv didn't miss a beat. She looked up, brows raised. “You offering to find out, old man?” And just like that, it became a thing.

That night, they fought.

No practice swords, no padding. Real steel, dulled only by intention. They moved like ghosts around the firelight, fast and brutal and silent save for the clash of blades and the breath forced from lungs. Triss lit a globe of magic light so she could see better. Yennefer watched over the rim of her cup, brow arched.

When they both finally dropped to their asses in the dirt—panting, scraped, and grinning like fools—Triss clapped, delighted.

Yennefer didn’t clap. But she smirked, slow and subtle, and said, “At least now we have some entertainment.”

Dyv laughed then. A short, surprised sound. It faded fast, but not completely.

After that, the nightly sparring became a ritual.

Each evening, after the fire was lit, and before dinner was eaten, Dyv and Geralt stood. No words. Just a nod, a draw of steel, and a clearing made around them. They fought like they were trying to understand each other without speaking. Neither ever won. They always ended the same way: breathless, sweating and walking back to camp shoulder-to-shoulder.

Yennefer always teased them. “If you kill each other,” she warned one night, “I’ll bring you both back just to lecture you.”

“Worse than death,” Geralt muttered.

“I heard that,” she replied, eyes glittering.

Triss started casting little illusions to liven things up—duplicate enemies, magical distractions. Dyv handled them with easy precision, never losing her rhythm. She even started tossing dry jokes into the mix.

"Think she feels bad for you? She’s trying to throw me off my game," she muttered after side-stepping one of Triss’s false drowner illusions.

“Maybe she thinks you need more practice.” Geralt replied, ducking her blade.

Yennefer’s laugh cracked sharply through the trees. “Careful, Wolf. She might take out one of your eyes.”

By the second week, Dyv’s bedroll was beside Yennefer’s. They argued sometimes—low voiced philosophical sparring, magic theory, and moral grays—but the fire in their words never left burns. It was flint striking steel. Nothing more.

“You fight like a Witcher,” Yennefer observed one night, after watching Dyv land a particularly sharp blow on Geralt’s ribs, making him grunt.

“You’d know,” Dyv answered. “Witchers seem to be your specialty.”

“Careful, girl,” Yen replied with a smile in her voice.

They didn’t talk about what Dyv had lost. Not directly. But one night, as they sat drying their boots by the fire after trudging through flooded marshlands, she mentioned Tyel. “He was kind,” she said simply. “For someone raised to turn children into weapons.” She didn’t say more. She didn’t need to. The silence that followed was heavy with understanding.

It was Geralt who finally asked, “What would he have thought of all this?”

Dyv poked at the fire. Then nodded.

“He would’ve liked you,” she said. "He always encouraged me to socialize more, but I never did."

And after a pause, softer: “He would’ve liked this.”

***

The wind howled through the pass, tugging at cloaks and reins as they approached the gates. Kaer Morhen loomed with the sun high above it, illuminating stone stacked atop stone, aging, scarred by weather and war. Time had crooked its battlements, and ivy clawed up the outer walls, but it felt far from abandoned. It was the kind of place that endured out of sheer stubbornness.

Geralt rode ahead, leading the way across the narrow bridge that arched over a deep ravine. The hooves of their horses clacked sharply against the stone. Behind him, Triss let out a soft, wistful sigh.

“Home sweet hell,” she murmured.

Yennefer smirked, but her eyes never left the gate.

Dyv didn’t speak. She let her gaze drift across the fortress—the watchtowers; the snow draped courtyard, the arching timber of the old rooflines. It was colder here, the air thinner, and the silence deeper than she was used to. Even the birds seemed to hold their breath near the keep.

They crossed under the main gate just as the sun broke through the clouds, casting light across the old stones.

Vesemir waited near the stables—arms folded, cloak heavy over one shoulder, expression unreadable. A war-hardened sentinel.

From one of the side towers, a figure emerged—tall, broad-shouldered, moving with a deliberate, loose economy of motion. His hair was dark, brushing his collarbone, with a few stubborn strands swept behind his ears. His armor was red and black leather, reinforced with steel-studded pauldrons, and two swords crossed his back—one silver, one steel.

But it was his face that held her.

A deep, jagged scar ran from his jaw, through his upper lip, and across his brow. A brutal reminder of a fight survived rather than won. It should’ve been the first thing to strike her. It wasn’t.

What struck her were his eyes—golden, feline, like Geralt's but sharper in the morning light.

And the way they flicked toward her with quiet attention. Not appraisal. Not judgment.

Just … awareness.

As they dismounted, Vesemir’s sharp gaze scanned the group.

“You took your time,” he said dryly.

“We brought company,” Geralt replied, swinging down from his saddle. “Try not to startle her. She bites.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Vesemir said, but his eyes were already on Dyv.

She slid from her horse without comment, landing lightly. The two swords on her back clinked faintly as she straightened. Her black cloak stirred in the wind, revealing leathers worn smooth at the seams, twin dagger hilts strapped across her thighs.

The older Witcher studied her like one might study a relic—or a warning.

“Name?” Vesemir asked.

“Dyv,” she said simply. “A Ghostblade.”

His brows rose. “We’ll have to unpack that later.”

“We will,” Geralt confirmed. “Just not now.”

Before Vesemir could press, the dark-haired Witcher stepped forward.

“I’ll take her horse,” he said, voice low and calm.

Dyv turned toward him. Her gaze met his—and held.

She didn’t flinch. Not at the scars. Not at the intelligence in his golden eyes. For a breath, neither moved. Then something in her gaze shifted—curiosity, then admiration. Her eyes traced the breadth of his shoulders, the way his forearms flexed beneath the reinforced leather. The corners of her mouth turned up slightly, like she liked what she saw. Her eyes locked with his again, and she handed him the reins.

Eskel felt it, low and subtle. That pause. That look. Not fear, not discomfort—just...

Curiosity and something more mirrored back at him. He wasn't accustomed to it. Most people flinched. Or looked too long. She didn’t. She saw him—and it didn’t phase her.

“Thanks,” she said. “She’s a good mare. Takes after me.” her eyes twinkled.

That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. But close.

“Eskel,” Geralt offered. “My brother in all but blood.”

Eskel nodded. “Welcome to Kaer Morhen.”

As she turned toward Yennefer, who spoke briefly to her, he let his gaze follow—not the way Lambert would, but still. He noticed the way the wind whipped her cloak, giving glimpses of the shape of her beneath all that armor. And the way she carried herself with confidence.

Dyv reached for her bedroll, shifting the weight of her saddlebags off the mare. Eskel reached for those as well, but paused when he saw she still gripped them.

“I can carry them,” she said casually.

He nodded and stepped back, letting her pass. But before he could lead the mare away, Vesemir had come close enough to hear.

“Eskel,” he called, “take the bags to the east wing—guest quarters. And give the lady that new bear-hide rug of yours. That room’s colder than a hag’s kiss.”

Dyv blinked. “That’s a real saying?”

Eskel nodded, face deadpan, as he took the bags from her hands. “Its pretty accurate.”

Face lighting up momentarily, she huffed a surprised laugh and moved toward the keep.

Geralt turned to Vesemir. “I know what you're thinking, but she’s not a threat.”

Vesemir didn’t look convinced. “Neither are bears. Until they are.”

“I’m serious,” Geralt said, his voice lowering. “She’s … not what I expected. I like her.”

The old man studied his face. Then eyed Dyv.

“You trust easy these days?”

“No,” Geralt said. “Which is why it means something.”

Vesemir grunted. “Fine. But if she breaks anything, she’s fixing it.”

Triss raised a brow. “Including Lambert?”

“Especially Lambert,” Yennefer said, striding past with her satchel. “But let's not fix him if she does.”

As if summoned, Lambert burst out of the main hall doors with his usual storm of chaos. “Well, look what the wind dragged in,” he announced, arms wide. “Geralt, Triss, Yen—my favorite people to annoy. And who’s this lovely vision of doom?”

Dyv opened her mouth.

“Don’t answer,” Lambert said, already grinning as he approached, eyeing her from head to toe. “Let me guess. You’re a mage-assassin from another timeline here to judge us with your perfect cheekbones and murderous eyes.”

“She’s not judging,” Yennefer muttered. “She’s cataloguing your weaknesses.”

“There’s too many to catalog.” Ves said, giving him a flat stare.

“I think I might be in love,” Lambert announced. “Where do we keep the guest rooms again?”

“Far from yours,” Triss replied.

Geralt had already taken his horse, and Yennefer’s, and led them toward the stables.

Eskel was by the open gate, removing the saddle on Dyv’s horse with practiced movements.

Geralt stepped beside him, his voice low.

“I know that look,” he grunted.

Eskel glanced over. “Always bringing home strays.”

"You're one to talk. Bring any goats home lately?"

Eskel snorted a laugh.

"She lost her entire realm, but still stands ready to fight in ours."

Eskel looked toward Dyv again, as she walked toward the keep, her back straight, her cloak catching the wind like wings.

There was a tightness in his chest he didn’t care to name. He wasn’t one for stories, or destiny, or noticing the way a stranger’s presence rearranged the quiet in his head—but still.

���She looks dangerous.”

“She is,” Geralt said. “But not to us.”

Eskel hummed low in his throat. “She carries herself like a fighter. Those two swords—she use both?”

“Yes,” Geralt said. “And well.”

Eskel didn’t answer. Just kept working.

When he looked up again, Dyv was trailing behind the others, head tilted toward the wind, her eyes scanning the high towers. His gaze lingered on the long braid down her back, the strength in her stride. There was steel in her spine and a sway in her hips.

He blew out a breath.

“Focus, Eskel.”

And turned back to brush down the horses.

***

The stone halls swallowed her footsteps.

Dyv moved through the fortress with quiet purpose, following the path Vesemir had described, though nothing about it felt familiar. The wind still wormed through the cracks of the high keep, chasing cold drafts across her back. No torches were lit. No fire burned in the hearths she passed. Just the hollow echo of her breath and the creak of ancient timber overhead.

Kaer Morhen didn’t hum like the citadel she once called home. It brooded.

The directions Vesemir had given were short east wing. Last room on the left.

She found it easily enough. The door creaked as she nudged it open and stepped through, forgetting to close it behind her. The room inside was dim, the only light coming from a narrow, half-frosted window cracked open to the wind. No fire. No warmth. Just a wide bed with a bare mattress, a tilting night stand and a small bookshelf pushed into a corner. A few hooks on the wall. No desk. No hearth rug. No sign that anyone had stayed here in years.

It was smaller than her old quarters back home.

But much more empty.

It felt like a holding cell.

She stepped inside and set her backpack on the floor. The echo of it thudding against the stones made her flinch, though she didn’t know why. She stared down at the floorboards for a long moment. Saw not wood, but flickering images of her rooms back home; books and ink, a half-sketched bird left unfinished on her desk. The hum of training bells in the courtyard. Tyel’s quiet voice guiding her breath as she practiced her forms with the swords.

She stood in the center of the room and didn’t move.

Her gaze drifted toward the hearth where a fire might one day live, then to the bed, stiff and stripped of warmth. She didn’t cry. She didn’t shiver. She just … stood. The silence curled around her ribs, pressing against a deep ache.

Her suite in the barracks hadn't been opulent, but it was hers. Space for scrolls and weapons and little comforts. Books she’d read. Sketches she’d made. Meals brought when she worked too long.

Tyel always stopped by to check on her. A cot she hated, but learned to sleep in because it meant she wasn’t in the field chasing the darkness.

She was never truly close with the other Ghostblades, not the way some soldiers bond. She trained with them. Ate near them. Slept in rooms down the hall. But after basics, they pulled her. Gave her a different path. One that meant solo drops into hellscapes with orders to close rifts and kill anything touched by the darkness.

She was their weapon. And she was good at it.

But standing here now, stripped of that role and those walls, she felt the weight of everything she didn’t bring with her. Everything she couldn’t.

A knock.

It startled her—just a soft thump against the doorframe. No sharp rap. Just the sound of a boot bumping wood.

She turned.

Eskel stood there in the frame, careful not to enter without her permission. He carried a massive bear hide rug slung over one shoulder. The other bore her saddle bags, wool blankets, sheets, and a pillow bundled in his arms. She could barely see his face for all of it.

The door hadn’t creaked. His boots hadn’t echoed. He’d moved like silence itself—and clearly seen more than she meant him to.

He stepped in, slow, mindful. Eyes steady on her.

“Didn’t want to startle you,” he said, low-voiced, almost gentle.

She hadn’t heard him approach. The Witcher way, she supposed. Quiet as shadow. His swords and pauldrons were gone. But everything else remained—the battered red and black jacket, laced up pants and muddy boots. His scar caught the light as he tilted his head slightly, watching her.

He nodded toward the pile in his arms. “Thought you might be needing these.”

She blinked, mask sliding into place, hiding the softer parts of her, voice light as she took the saddle bag off his arm.

“You bring all the girls bedding on their first night?”

“Only the ones I think might freeze.” He walked past her, setting the bundle down on the bed. “This room’s colder than the others. No idea why Vesemir chose it.”

She raised a brow. “I must have made a wonderful first impression.”

His mouth twitched. “You definitely made one on Lambert. He's still talking about you downstairs.”

A laugh escaped her, small and real.

The corner of her mouth curled. Her humor came like a shield. “Well, consider this my formal lodging complaint.”

Eskel huffed a laugh and shrugged the rug off his shoulder, letting it fall in a heavy heap at the foot of the bed before spreading it out across the floor.

She raised a brow. “You brought me a whole bear?”

“Just the warm parts.” He glanced up at her to see she was making the bed.

He moved to heap and began shaking out sheets without asking. They worked together for a moment, side by side in the hush. She tucked one corner, he tucked the other. He handed her the pillow without a word, and she set it at the head of the bed with a certain reverence. The way he moved was full of the calm, quiet care of someone used to skittish creatures—someone who knew how to approach without pressing. She wondered if he treated wild horses this way. Or wild beasts. Their fingers brushed once as they smoothed the blanket flat.

“I was gonna sell that,” he said absently, staring at the giant light brown bear skin. “It's from a recent kill.”

She glanced up. “And now?”

He shrugged. “It’s better here.”

Something in her paused, just for a breath. She didn’t thank him—not aloud. But he saw it in the softening of her shoulders, the quiet way she exhaled.

“I can find you a chair,” he offered. “Maybe a desk or a table. If you want somewhere to sit besides the bed. Yennefer said you might be here for a while. Wouldn't hurt to be comfortable if you are.”

She shot him a dazzling smile that almost chased the ghosts from her eyes. “You spoil me, Witcher.”

He wasn’t sure what to say to that. Compliments weren’t something he heard often, especially not from beautiful women wrapped in grief and armor. He felt a subtle heat creeping up his neck and quickly looked around the room.

She smiled and glanced around, too. “Are all your guest rooms this romantic?”

“Not usually. You’re just lucky.”

That earned a chuckle from her, a sound he found warming. Her cheeks still bore the red of cold roads traveled, and he caught the slight shifts in her stance—arms drawn in tight beneath the bravado she wore like armor. There was a shadow clinging to her, something pressing at her thoughts, as if she was hunting for a way to drive off whatever had haunted her mind when he found her standing there.

"Is it warm where you're from?"

She nodded. “Mostly. Got hotter over the years. The worse the rifts got, the warmer it grew. Like the blight had a fever.”

He considered that. “Strange. Usually magic chills the ground.”

“Not this magic,” she said. “It burns, corrupts.”

He gave a small grunt of understanding, then said, “I’ve got spare sleeping furs. If you want them.”

She blinked, caught off guard by the offer. “Really?”

“They’re clean,” he added, amused. “Mostly.”

That pulled a quiet laugh from her. She sat down on the edge of the bed, shaking her head.

“You’re either a very thoughtful host or trying to impress me.”

“Can’t it be both?”

She looked up at him, leaning back on her hands to do so. Her smile grew flirtatious and eyes glittered. “I appreciate your attempts to warm me up.”

Something about the way she looked at him turned the air hot. Quickly, he turned to crouch by the hearth. Without flair or fuss, he stacked kindling from the small pile beside the stone grate. When it was neat and ready, he stood, lifted one hand, and traced the sign of Igni.

A bloom of flame licked across the wood, sudden and alive.

Dyv’s eyes widened slightly, then warmed. She watched him like he’d just done something rare. "Is your magic stronger than Geralt's?"

He scratched the back of his neck, looking away. "A bit, not by much."

"He makes beds, wields magic and warms up strangers. Impressive." Her smile was seductive as she asked, "Any other special skills you want to show me?"

His cheeks flamed, and he realized he needed to get out of her gaze before he did something stupid. “You’ll be warm soon,” he said. “If not, come find me. I’ll bring more furs.” He turned towards the door.

She laughed again. The sound was genuine. It rang pleasantly down the base of his spine. He definitely needed to leave before he made a fool of himself.

Geralt appeared in the door. “You two done playing house?”

Dyv stood quickly, smoothing her tunic. Eskel gave Geralt a look that said he didn't appreciate the cheek.

“You ready to spar?” Geralt asked her.

Her whole face changed—like a window opening. Bright. Present. "Always."

Geralt grinned. "Good."

Eskel watched her. The way her whole body responded. Like the promise of a fight was something she could anchor to.

She hadn’t looked that light since she arrived.

“Give me ten minutes,” she told him. “Need to change out of this travel gear.”

Geralt nodded, then looked to Eskel. “You joining us?”

Eskel had already started edging toward the door, trying to slip out quietly. “Wasn't planning on it.”

“Have something better to do?”

Once past the doorway, Eskel paused. She met his eyes again—that same warm look, the light no longer dull in her eyes.

He gave a short nod. “After I finish up a few chores,” then headed down the hall.

***

Late afternoon sun slanted through the high walls of Kaer Morhen’s training yard, casting long, golden shadows across the earthen floor. The air was crisp, the stone underfoot still cool from morning, and the courtyard had drawn nearly everyone out of hiding.

Vesemir leaned against the far post. Triss stood beside him, arms folded and curious.

Yennefer perched on the wall like a raven, eyes half-lidded over a book she wasn’t reading.

Even Lambert was there, already mouthing off before swords had been drawn.

Geralt stood in the center of the ring, sword in hand, rolling one shoulder loose.

The doors creaked open.

Dyv strode out of the keep dressed in lighter leathers than before—form-fitted, maneuverable, built for movement, not show. Two curved blades crossed her back. She moved like someone who’d been born with a weapon in hand and learned to walk later.

Eskel arrived later, trailing after finishing some half-done task. He paused at the edge of the courtyard, leaning against a pillar near the others, arms folded. His eyes locked on her.

She was different here. Up in the guest room, she’d worn grief like a chain around her neck. But here? She belonged to the ground beneath her feet. She breathed like it was a space she understood.

“You ready, old man?” she asked Geralt, drawing one sword.

Geralt smirked. “You’re going to regret that.”

They began to circle, blades angled, steps feather-light. The ring quieted.

The clash came quick and clean—steel on steel, a test of rhythm. Dyv didn’t fight with brute strength. She moved with deadly grace, sharp as a cut, light on her feet but grounded. Her form was art—measured, refined. Each strike was a phrase. Each pivot, punctuation.

“Better than I expected,” Vesemir muttered.

“Hurry up Geralt, I found a stuffed unicorn in one of the rooms.” Yennefer said. “I want to test its weight.”

Geralt coughed and stumbled on the next step.

Dyv laughed out loud.

Neither landed a decisive blow, but the tempo built. Geralt pressed forward, caught her blade with his, twisted it down. Dyv staggered, not outmatched, just re-calculating.

And then she smiled.

With a deliberate reach, she drew her second sword.

The courtyard stilled.

“Oh, fuck me,” Lambert whispered.

“Oh, great. We are at this part,” Yennefer replied absently. "Its almost over now."

Geralt eyed the blades. “Really?”

Dyv tilted her head, a flash of teeth. “Scared of symmetry?”

She came at him, twin blades singing, fluid and swift. She didn’t wield two weapons. They were extensions of her.

Eskel stood straighter, watching her footwork. Watching the way, she spun low, then rose into a strike. She fought like someone who loved it.

No hesitation. No showboating. Just precision honed in fire.

Of course, she lit up when Geralt asked to spar, Eskel thought. This is home to her. The keep was strange. But this? This was as natural as breathing.

At one point, she turned into a strike, ducked under Geralt’s guard, and her eyes flicked toward Eskel.

She winked.

Eskel blinked, mouth twitching before he could stop it.

A few more strikes—then both stepped back, panting.

“Truce?” Geralt asked, grinning.

“Truce,” Dyv agreed.

She spun both blades once, reversed the grip, and sheathed them in one smooth movement.

The applause was mostly from Triss, though Vesemir gave a short nod of approval. Yennefer clapped exactly once before announcing the mages had better to do than watch children play. She, Triss and Vesemir went into the keep, discussing the mage room they were creating since the mage tower had collapsed years ago.

Lambert whooped. “I’m gonna need a moment. That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen that didn’t end with someone dying.”

“You should try giving your hands a break sometime,” Dyv called back.

Lambert cackled.

She and Geralt stepped aside, both catching their breath.

They dropped to the stone steps near the wall, exchanging a waterskin and a few quiet comments.

Dyv stretched her arms, rolled her shoulders, then looked toward the ring.

Eskel had stepped in.

He drew his blade with practiced ease, facing Lambert with quiet confidence. The usual jeering was there—Lambert mouthing off, circling like he was ten years younger—but Eskel just moved.

Dyv watched, transfixed.

He was slower than Geralt. More deliberate. But there was power in it. Efficiency. Grace in the stillness between moves. He didn’t waste a step. Wasn't flashy. He just moved like a big cat, a predator, grounded, but fast.

She found herself leaning forward, chin in hand, a half smile on her lips.

A big cat. That’s what he was. A jaguar, stalking, slow and quiet until it pounced, pinning its prey.

He caught Lambert’s blade with a sudden shift of his wrist and pivoted. Lambert cursed.

Dyv laughed.

The door to the keep opened again, and Vesemir called for her and Geralt to come help.

She rose, brushing dust from her butt, giving Eskel one last glance over her shoulder. As she passed Lambert, still locked in combat, lost focus for half a second to watch her go.

Eskel swept his legs out from under him with a well-placed strike.

Lambert hit the ground with a grunt.

Eskel didn’t gloat. Just turned his gaze toward the keep doors and was rewarded with Dyv's smile.

***

The keep had long since quieted. The training yard lay still beneath the moonlight, washed silver and soft. A breeze stirred the dead leaves near the gate, but otherwise, all was still.

Eskel stepped out into the cold with a quiet yawn and the habitual weight of evening chores on his shoulders. His breath curled into the night as he descended the stone steps, heading for the stables with quiet purpose. It was a rhythm older than he could remember. Check the latches. Quiet the horses. Lock up the outer gate.

He didn’t expect to see anyone else out.

But there, seated cross-legged on a broken section of wall in the center of the yard, was Dyv.

She was barely a shadow in the dark, still and sharp-edged in the low light, her face tilted skyward. The moon touched her braid. Her blades rested beside her, but her posture was loose—not coiled, not ready. Just… present. Her breath moved in and out with the rhythm of thought, not fight.

Eskel paused at the edge of the steps, one hand on the stone of the wall. Watched her for a moment. She didn’t move. Didn’t look at him. She might’ve sensed him there—someone like her would—but she gave no sign of it. Her gaze remained fixed on the stars.

He considered approaching.

Something about the curve of her back, the stillness of her limbs, made him think she was heavy with something unspoken. Grief maybe. Or memory. Something he understood.

But he didn’t speak. Didn’t step closer.

Instead, he passed her quietly—boots soundless against the stone—and made his way to the stables. The horses greeted him with faint snorts and shifting hooves. He checked water, feed, the gate latch.

When he came back across the yard, she hadn’t moved.

She looked carved from moonlight.

He almost made it past her again when she said his name.

“Eskel.”

A single word. Low. Measured.

He stopped in his tracks, just past her shoulder. Turned halfway.

She didn’t look at him. Just kept her eyes on the stars.

“Thanks… for the space and everything else.”

It was simple. But not small.

He watched her a beat longer, then gave a faint nod she might not have seen.

“Mhm,” he murmured. Quiet agreement. Quiet understanding.

Then he kept walking.

The door to the keep creaked open, spilling a thin wash of firelight across the stone before closing behind him.

And she remained where she was—alone, beneath the stars, wrapped in the silence he’d chosen not to break.

[ninjaofnaps]

Through the Cats Eye - Chapter 2

Secrets rise with the dawn.

As Dyv recounts the fall of her world and the darkness that came through the rifts, Yennefer begins to see the truth in her scars. A crystal call to Ciri confirms what few believed—Dyv is a Ghostblade, a forged weapon from another realm, and the last of her kind.

As the group begins preparing to journey north to Kaer Morhen, old ties stir and new ones begin to take shape. Dyv looks to the sky she doesn’t recognize. Geralt offers quiet company. And the words Tyel left behind begin to echo louder:

"If she’s here, the darkness isn’t far behind."

Chapter 2 – The Rift Between Us

Steam rose from a pot of tea in the center of the table. A plate of cheese and bread sat untouched.

Triss sat between Yen and Dyv, arms folded, gaze distant. mind clearly on the troubling evening. Yennefer sat back in her chair, one boot propped on the rung, fingers drumming her cup. She looked like a queen deciding the fate of a subject. Geralt leaned against the doorway with arms crossed, half-shadowed in the glow of the hearth.

Dyv had loosened her reinforced black leathers, allowing the laces of the shirt underneath to fall open a bit. She'd cleaned the beasts ichor off herself and left her clothes loose afterward. This realm was hotter than she expected. Her vambraces sat on the table next to her, but the knives strapped to her body remained where they were. Her pack rested near the door—close enough to grab if needed. She hadn’t asked where to put it. She hadn’t asked anything at all.

Although her clothes looked more relaxed, her posture did not. She sat like she’d been summoned to a tribunal, not to the table for tea. She sat upright, not stiff, but aware. Like someone who was used to being alert.

Yennefer was the one to speak first.

“How did it start?”

Dyv didn’t blink. “The darkness that stole our realm?”

Yennefer nodded once.

“It started with some disturbances in energy in the land.” She looked down, not at her tea, but past it—like she could still see the memory rising from the table. “We thought it was an imbalance. The kind that happens when you take more from the land than you give back.”

A pause. No tremble in her voice.

“But then land started turning rotten, the animals and living things became wrong. They turned on each other. That's when we discovered the rifts. If a rift opened near a town and wasn't closed quickly, the darkness, the black magic, would infect everything near it. Including villages. The inhabitants turned into dark creatures, like the living dead.”

Triss leaned forward. “The rifts.”

Dyv nodded. “Like tears in fabric between worlds. A tear between our world and the world the darkness inhabited. The first were small. We didn't notice them until it was too late. Then entire cities were getting infected.”

Yennefer’s eyes flicked up. “He said your people were leaving, that they'd lost the land and had to escape. You stayed behind?”

“Tyel stayed to hold the gate open for them,” Dyv said. “I was supposed to go with them. He said my gifts were in closing doors and told me my place was here. To stop the rifts from spreading darkness.”

Geralt tilted his head slightly. “So you didn't volunteer?”

“I'm a Ghostblade, I don't have a choice in my life. I go where Tyel tells me.” A pause and a flicker of something on her face. "Where he told me. His last order was to come here to help you."

Silence settled again.

Yennefer studied her. Not with suspicion—not anymore—but something closer to... recognition. The kind a woman has when she sees another woman shaped by fire and duty instead of choice.

“You’re not lying,” Yennefer said softly.

Dyv met her gaze. “It wouldn't help either one of us if I did.”

Yen smirked.

A half-smile ghosted across Geralt’s mouth. “You’re going to fit right in.” ***

The study smelled faintly of candle wax and dust. Yennefer had cleared the table and pulled the heavy velvet curtain shut. Triss stood nearby with her arms crossed, while Geralt leaned against the far wall, looking like he wanted to be anywhere but there.

The megascope’s crystal hummed to life, flickering as it thrummed to life.

Static a shimmer—then clarity.

Ciri appeared, clothes askew, hair tousled, eyes squinting like she hadn’t quite processed the hour. She blinked once, twice, then muttered, “You realize it’s barely morning where I am.”

Yennefer lifted a brow. “And yet you’re awake.”

“Unfortunately,” Ciri muttered. “I was awake enough to hear this thing sputtering to life.” She rubbed her face, then looked past the crystal. “What’s going on? You only use this thing at absurd hours when someone’s bleeding or dead.”

“Neither,” Geralt said. “Yet.”

Triss stepped into view. “We need to ask you about someone. An elf. Name was Tyel.”

That got her attention.

Ciri straightened, suddenly alert. “Tyel? Gods, I haven’t heard that name in years. Where did you run into him?”

Yennefer’s gaze didn’t waver. “He opened a portal to our world. Sent someone through. Then vanished. Or—died. We’re not sure.”

Ciri exhaled slowly. “Then I guess his realm finally lost the war.” Her tone softened. “That idiot never did know how to stop giving.”

Geralt asked, “You knew him well?”

“Well enough.” Ciri smiled faintly. “He was one of the last few who could walk between realms and not lose their mind in the process. Sharp as hell. Uncommonly kind.”

Yennefer folded her arms. “He sent someone to us. A woman. Goes by Dyv.”

The smile froze on Ciri’s face.

“Dyv?” she repeated, blinking. Then: “Wait—Dyv as in Gláeddyv?”

“She hasn’t given a surname,” Triss said.

“She wouldn’t,” Ciri said. “They don’t have them, not once they’re named. Gláeddyv is her name. Tyel called her Dyv for short.”

Ciri pushed a hand through her hair and muttered something unprintable under her breath. “She’s a Ghostblade.”

Geralt straightened slightly.

“She said she was. I didn't believe her. They’re real?” he asked.

“Very,” Ciri said. “Elite warriors trained from childhood. When a child shows magical potential, the elves of that realm take them in. Some are trained as mages—chaos wielders. But if the child leans more physical—faster reflexes, strength, spatial awareness—they’re shaped into Ghostblades.”

“And the names?” Yennefer asked.

“They’re ceremonial,” Ciri said. “Ritualistic. The moment they’re taken in, their old names are stripped. Dyv’s was likely given to her by Tyel’s circle. It means ‘sword’ in the old tongue.” She paused. “They’re not raised like children. They’re forged like weapons. It's a hard life. Most elves keep their distance from the blades—they don’t get attached. But Tyel was different. He stayed close to her. Closer than I’ve seen any of them with a warrior. She was more human than the others because of it, I think.”

A beat passed. Then Ciri said, quieter “If Dyv is here... she didn’t come lightly. Her and Tyel were inseparable. She’s also not the kind to run.”

Yennefer glanced at Geralt. “She said that too, in so many words.”

“She meant it.” Ciri looked into the crystal again. “Watch her, though. She’s not fragile. But she is carrying more ghosts than most. A little kindness won't be lost on her.”

Geralt nodded once. "You always did have a big heart."

“Thanks, I learned it from someone, probably not you, though.” She said with a grin.

Ciri leaned back, her voice softening. "Tell her I said hello. I doubt she remembers me—we shared a drink when Tyel visited me once. She has a sense of humor once she relaxes."

The crystal began to flicker, signaling a fade.

“Be careful,” Ciri said. “If Tyel sent her, then whatever’s coming... it’s not far behind.”

And then she was gone.

***

The sun was awake, but the sky was still tinted in morning shades when Dyv stepped onto the terrace.

She hadn’t asked where she was allowed to go. Just moved through the house like someone who didn’t expect to stay long. Her cup of tea was nearly cold by the time she sat, forgotten on the stone ledge beside her.

She didn’t look out across the vineyard.

She looked up. At the sky. In the last years of the struggle with the darkness that infected her realm, the sun had been blotted out until the sky was always dark.

After a while, she set one of her swords in her lap. She examined it carefully, like it was precious.

Footsteps padded behind her—soft, but not trying to be silent.

Geralt. She didn’t turn, but he eased into the low chair beside her without a word.

He didn’t have tea. Just a flask he offered without looking.

She took it. The liquor burned, but not badly.

“Don’t get used to that,” he muttered. “Yen rations the good stuff.”

Dyv smiled. Just barely.

“I'll keep that in mind. She's not a woman I'd want to cross.”

He grunted softly beside her. She took it as agreement.

After a while, she said, “He gave me his swords before he opened the portal. I didn't have time to appreciate the gift.”

Geralt glanced at her. “Tyel?”

“Yes. He was my mentor and my friend.”

She ran a finger along the hilt. “He called the pair of blades Shadewalkers. Because of how they were forged of the magic between worlds.”

Geralt nodded. “Fitting.”

They sat with that for a while.

The sun crept higher. The chill thinned.

“There's no going home, only forward,” she said eventually.

Geralt didn’t try to answer.

Didn’t offer reassurance. Or purpose. Or even sympathy.

He just sat there beside her, arms folded, gaze on the sky she didn’t recognize.

She exhaled, slow.

“You’re very good at the whole ‘quiet understanding’ thing.”

He grunted, “I get a lot of practice.”

***

Later that morning, the kitchen was less solemn and more lived-in. Someone—probably the odd steward Barnabas—had cracked a window. The scent of herbs drifted in from the garden.

Triss had claimed the long bench by the hearth, her legs tucked under her. Geralt leaned against the counter, eyes half-lidded like a cat pretending not to eavesdrop. Dyv stood by the window, arms folded, watching the light shift across the vineyards.

Yennefer strode in last, purpose humming around her like a charged field. “We need to leave.”

That got Dyv’s attention.

“Where?” Geralt asked.

"Kaer Morhen" she replied.

He raised his eyebrows.

"Don't give me that look. It makes sense. If the rifts are truly coming, it’s the safest place to study them without someone catching on. We’ll have more time—and less interference," she said archly.

Triss sat up straighter. "There’s still a storehouse of equipment up there. And the old infirmary—if we need it—won’t take much to make all of it usable."

“And if we’re being hunted,” Geralt added, “no one gets in without a fight.”

Yennefer looked at Dyv. “You’ll come.” It wasn’t a question.

Dyv met her gaze. “You're the boss.”

Yen looked rather proud of herself as she said, "Don't forget it." Then she looked at her with a bit of emotion that was hard to place. Not softness. But a kind of inclusion.

“Triss and I can anchor the magic,” Yen said. “We’ll need to calibrate the resonance patterns between worlds. The energy signature from your arrival—it’ll help us locate the unstable points.”

“I’ll lend whatever I can,” Dyv said. “I’ve studied rift closures. My gift lies in closing them. I can handle the rifts without the magic affecting me. But sometimes creatures escape through the rifts before they are closed. ”

“Which is why we need Kaer Morhen.” Geralt’s voice was low. “The Witchers might not love visitors, but they know how to fight what slips through cracks.”

Triss raised a brow. “Think Eskel’s still north?”

Geralt nodded. “He was supposed to overwinter there. Lambert, maybe too.”

“So we're going north,” Dyv said.

All three of them looked at her.

“I’ve seen your Witcher keep. When I was a child.”

Yen’s brow furrowed. “You’ve walked the spheres?”

Dyv gave a faint smile. “More than once. My body doesn’t break when it happens. Like I said, that’s my only real magic. It’s why Tyel kept me close. Why I can close the rifts. ”

Triss and Yen shared a look.

"Well then, this just got more interesting." Yen said.

They made plans over tea.

Rations. Supplies. Timing.

Geralt would handle the horses. Triss would contact the Brotherhood for cover stories—should anyone in town ask about their sudden disappearance. Yen started pulling books from the shelves—sigils, planar fractures, anything that hummed with old language.

Dyv said little, but listened and helped where she could.

When Yennefer handed her a thick leather-bound tome, she accepted it without comment.

She read the title. Concordances of the Spheres.

“I’ve read this,” she said. “But the version from my world.”

Yennefer smiled, just faintly. “Good. Maybe between the two of us, we’ll find something useful.”

[ninjaofnaps]

Chapter two of Through the Cat's Eye will be posted tomorrow! I can't wait for you guys to read it.

[ninjaofnaps]

Through the Star Field for You - Chapter 3

Ash thought getting yanked through time and space was the weird part—until she found herself on a mission with Sarah “I’m not here to make friends” Morgan and space cowboy Sam Coe, who apparently makes coffee art and offers encouragement with a side of charm. Between dodging zealots, bluffing bartenders, deadly firefights, and discovering that her instincts are a little too murdery for someone who used to catalog pottery shards, Ash earns her first real taste of Constellation fieldwork... and a shiny new suit to match. Bonus: Sam gives her a pistol, a compliment, and maybe a reason to blush.

Read now on AO3

Chapter 3 – First Things First

The dining room of The Lodge was bathed in early morning light. Breakfast plates sat mostly untouched, and the only sounds were the occasional clink of ceramic and the low hum of the city stirring awake outside.

Sarah sat at the head of the table, posture crisp, her expression unreadable behind a steaming mug of black tea. She'd styled her flaxen hair in its usual perfect bob, with not a strand out of place, and had her dark red jacket zipped to the collar, polished and prepared. The datapad in her hand blinked with mission specs—already reviewed twice.

Ash, awkward in a slightly oversized utility jacket someone had loaned her, lingered near the sideboard. The sleeves hung past her wrists, and the collar wouldn’t sit right no matter how many times she adjusted it, and it smelled like mothballs. She didn’t feel ready—not really—but she wasn’t about to show that.

“You’re sure you want me along for this? You don't even know if you like me yet.” Ash asked, voice low but steady.

“You’re not liked,” Sarah replied without looking up. “You’re tolerated. There’s a difference.”

Ash blinked. “Wow, don't hold back on my account.”

Sarah finally looked at her, eyes cool and assessing. “You have instincts. You react under pressure. But you’re not trained, you’re not tested and you're not trusted. If you’re coming, you follow orders. Mine.”

Ash met her gaze evenly. “I’m not trying to be a problem.”

“No,” Sarah murmured. “But you are one. For now.”

Before Ash could reply, the sound of boots in the doorway caught her attention. Sam Coe strolled in, easy grin in place, two mugs in hand.

“Morning, ladies,” he drawled. “Hope I’m not interrupting the warm-up act for a duel at dawn.”

He offered one of the mugs to Ash. Foam rippled over the top with what looked suspiciously like a swirl pattern—and maybe a lopsided star.

Ash blinked, then took it. “Coffee with art? You do this for all the new recruits?”

“Only the ones who blow up pirates and make Sarah scowl before breakfast.”

Sarah gave him a withering look. “Are you here to flirt or to offer something useful?”

“Can’t I do both?” Sam grinned.

He leaned a hip on the wall near Ash and sipped from his own mug. “Heard you’re going after that Vanguard lead. Moara, right?”

Sarah nodded once. “Commander Tuala confirmed he went dark last week after recovering a potential artifact. If he still has it, we need to find him—preferably before someone else does.”

Sam turned to Ash. “You get motion sickness?”

She blinked. “Uh, not that I know of.”

“Good. Because The Frontier likes to kick a little when she’s excited.”

Ash gave him a crooked smile. “Don't we all. I’ll try to keep up.”

From the corner, Noel appeared with a small black pouch in her hand. She tossed it gently toward Ash, who caught it with both hands.

“What’s this?”

“Basic medkit. Emergency patch. Protein tablets. And a folded hypo-blade. It’s not much, but it’s more than nothing.”

Ash met her eyes. “Thanks.”

Noel gave a slight nod, then added, “Try not to die. It’d make Sarah grumpy.”

“I’m already grumpy,” Sarah said, rising smoothly from her chair.

"I never would have guessed that," Ash said, making Sam chuckle.

Ash straightened, the nerves twisting in her stomach now tangled with adrenaline. She looked down at the pouch, then back up at the doorway Sarah had already disappeared through. Sam caught her hesitation and nudged her shoulder gently with his own.

“You’ve got this,” he said. “And if you don’t, Sarah’ll yell until you do.”

Ash laughed despite herself and followed.

***

The hum of engines rose around them as the ship powered up. Ash took a seat near the co-pilot console, fingers skimming the edge of the panel. The screens were alive with systems she only half understood—but her heart thudded with the same certainty she felt the first time she held a trowel in the field. Instinct, raw and familiar.

Sarah slid into the pilot seat beside her. With a few precise commands, she keyed in coordinates for Mars’ orbit.

Ash looked out the viewport just as they broke atmosphere, the blue-green curve of the planet falling away behind them.

Space opened in front of her—vast, unknowable—and she didn’t feel lost.

She felt like she was exactly where she was meant to be.

The Frontier’s descent into Mars’s ruddy atmosphere shook the ship—flames dancing across the shields, making the cabin glow like a forge. Ash’s knuckles whitened on the armrest, but she refused to glance away from the view.

“Welcome to Mars,” Sarah said, voice calm over the rumble. "They built Cydonia underground to protect its inhabitants from the harsh Martian environment."

Ash exhaled on cue as the landing gear locked with a shudder. “Good to know.”

The ramp dropped onto the landing pad, and they stepped out into a swirling cloud of dust. Ash’s borrowed boots crunched into the rusty soil. A low wind carried whispers of something... ancient.

Sarah didn’t waste time. “The Broken Spear is this way.” Her gaze flicked to Ash. “Stick close. And follow my lead.”

Inside, it was dim, the air thick with smoke and disappointment.

A few heads turned, then drifted back to their drinks.

Jack smiled at Sarah. “What’ll it be, boss?”

“Bourbon on rocks, whatever’s local,” Sarah said.

Ash stifled a laugh. Always business. She leaned in, glanced at the menu, then said, “I’ll take a Mars Mule. Is it always that quiet?”

Jack glanced her over. “Almost never. But you’re early. Most aren't off their mining shift yet.”

Ash slid onto the stool next to Sarah. Jack set her drink down and paused, eyes narrowing at them.

“I hear Moara’s in orbit somewhere,” Ash said. “You know where he’s headed?”

Jack’s silence was long. Then he met her eyes. “I could tell you, but he's got a real expensive tab.”

"I heard you guys were friends?" she asked, sipping her drink.

He rubbed his short beard. "We are friendly."

"Sounds like you must know each other pretty well if you let him 'run up a tab'."

He just stared at her.

"I mean, he could be hurt out there, without help."

"That ain't my problem. All the more reason to get his tab paid now."

"Actually, it is your problem if he's hurt out there and dies. When you find out, you could have helped... when his other vanguard buddies find out you withheld information that could have saved his life. Man, I'd say you'd definitely have a problem then."

He turned red, then glanced at a guy in a UC Vanguard suit sitting down the way. "Keep it down alright? He's on patrol. Came in complaining about having to head out to "the lady of love."

"Venus?" Sarah chimed in.

"Yeah, you should be able to catch up with him. He didn't head out that long ago."

Sarah slapped a credit stick on the counter and said, "For the tab."

Ash followed her out.

***

The Frontier glided through the void like a shadow, its engines pulsed down to the barest whisper. The metal creaked softly as they approached the battered satellite.

Ash leaned forward in the co-pilot’s chair, watching the satellite loom through the viewport. She kept her voice low, as though the quiet of space demanded reverence. “So we’re just... drifting?”

Sarah’s fingers danced across the console, her face lit by blue readouts. “Grav drive’s on standby. Engines at idle. We’ll slide into their blind spot.”

“No shields?”

“No signature,” Sarah corrected. “It’s the difference between being ignored and being hunted.”

Ash couldn’t argue with that. The plan felt razor-thin—bold in a way that made her nervous and thrilled at the same time. She studied Sarah’s profile for a moment: sharp, self-possessed, her brow furrowed in pure concentration.

“You’ve done this before,” Ash said, not a question.

Sarah allowed the hint of a smile. “Twice. One time we made it. One time, we... made it messily.”

Ash chuckled softly. “You have a gift for comfort.”

“Hang on,” Sarah said. She pressed a few keys, and a long, narrow beam of light extended from their hull toward the station. “I’m accessing Moara’s relay ping. If he left a message, this is where it’ll be.”

A tense silence stretched as data scrolled across the console.

Then, with a faint chirp, the message decrypted.

Sarah exhaled. “He’s heading to the Nova Galactic Staryard near Luna. Injured or his ship is at least, from the sound of it and he needs some parts.”

Sarah was staring at the long-range scanner now, a wrinkle forming between her brows.

Ash followed her gaze—and felt her stomach drop.

Three crimson pips blinked onto the radar display.

Va’ruun Zealots. Sarah had told her about them.

Sarah’s voice dropped an octave. “They’re patrolling further out. We have maybe ninety seconds before they swing close enough to notice us.”

Ash didn’t panic. She watched as Sarah slid into motion—smooth, efficient, no wasted breath.

“What do we do?” she asked.

“We leave,” Sarah said, her fingers already pulling up the next coordinates. “Luna.”

“No evasive maneuvers?” Ash’s voice was tight but controlled.

“We’re not fighting,” Sarah said. “We’re ghosts.”

The grav drive whined under their feet. A rising hum, deep and raw, reverberated in Ash’s bones.

“They’ll see the flare.”

“Let them,” Sarah said. “By the time they blink, we’ll be gone.”

The jump ignited with a twist of sound and light—everything stretching, time bending, stars bending like wire around them.

Ash gripped the seat, heart pounding.

Then it was over.

Silence again.

Ash let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. “That was... clean.”

Sarah’s expression didn’t shift, but her voice softened. “I don’t gamble unless the odds are worth it.”

Ash leaned back in her chair, letting the adrenaline ebb. She looked at Sarah with something closer to awe than amusement. “That was damn impressive.”

Sarah glanced sideways. “You haven’t seen impressive yet.”

***

After they landed near the lunar staryard, they shared a meal in the mess. Sarah’s foot nudged Ash’s under the table.

“How’s your head?” Sarah asked softly.

Ash shrugged, amused. “Still mine and not aching for now.”

Silence hummed. Ash swallowed. “I keep thinking my body knows more than my mind—like the reflexes are handwritten, but the pages are blank.”

Sarah studied her. “During my deployment... I lost a team. I landed on an uninhabited planet alone and had to survive on my own until I could get a rescue. It meant trusting my instincts and muscle memory to make it through. Your instincts may have saved your life on Vectera”

Ash’s voice caught. “I’m sorry about your team.”

Sarah regained composure. “I’m not wanting pity. I’m saying... that strength doesn’t always show up in ways we recognize. Sometimes it's something internal like your instincts, sometimes it's from the people around you.” She looked right at Ash.

A soft crackle lit up the comms.

“Sarah, this is Sam. How’s our mystery girl holding up under your flying?”

Sarah gave Ash a sideways look, lips twitching. “She’s not screaming, if that’s what you mean.”

Ash leaned toward the console. “Barely.”

Sam chuckled on the line. “Good to know you’re still in one piece.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “She’s fine, Sam. And she doesn’t need a chaperone, in case that’s where this is headed.”

“Just checking in,” he said, his grin practically audible. “You know. As a concerned citizen. Who’s invested.”

Sarah arched a brow, clearly amused. “We’ll check in when we’ve got what we came for. Try not to hover too hard in the meantime.” Ash’s cheeks warmed. Sarah teased, “And Sam, stop being charming. I need her to focus. It's something you should try yourself sometime.” Then she disconnected the call and wandered toward the cockpit, muttering about "space cowboys."

***

The docking clamps hissed as The Frontier latched onto the remains of the Nova Galactic Staryard. Beyond the airlock, the vast skeleton of the station hung silent and scarred, orbiting like a ghost above Luna’s cratered face.

Ash was the first through the hatch, boots landing with a hollow thunk on the grated floor. Her pistol was steady in her grip, eyes scanning the corridor ahead.

Sarah stepped in behind her, rifle raised. “Not a good start,” she muttered.

Bodies. At least four. Spacers and Ecliptic—both armed, all dead.

Ash’s stomach turned, but not from nausea. From knowing. From the way, her hands already itched to move, to fight, to survive.

The lights flickered. Somewhere in the distance, a vent groaned open, the sound reverberating through the metal bones of the station.

Sarah crouched beside one of the bodies, inspecting the impact wound at the base of the skull. “Executed. Not a firefight. This was cleanup.”

A rustle behind them. Footsteps.

No time to speak. Sarah swung left; Ash dove right.

The first shot rang out—blaster fire tearing through the stillness. They scattered, ducking into the skeleton of what once had been a breakroom. Ash rolled behind an overturned table, then came up fast, firing twice. One Spacer went down with a gurgle and a snap of armor.

Sarah took the other from above, climbing up to fire down from a stack of crates. She fired down with deadly precision.

An Ecliptic merc rushed from the hall, rifle up.

Two more enemies peeled in from the side, catching Sarah mid-run. One raised his rifle—Ash didn’t hesitate.

Crack. Crack.

The sound echoed in the narrow corridor. The first merc's body bounced back from the impact. The second merc’s body dropped like a rag doll, his weapon clattering beside him.

Sarah spun, eyes wide. Her gaze snapped from the corpse to Ash, still holding her pistol, breath shallow but steady.

“You alright?” Ash asked, voice low.

Sarah stared for a heartbeat too long. Then nodded once. “You’ve got timing.”

Ash tried to play it off, lips twitching. “You’re welcome.”

They moved forward, sweeping from room to room, covering each other’s flanks. Blaster fire lit up the passageways like lightning in a storm—illuminating the dust-choked air.

Ash vaulted over a console, landing hard as she kneed an Ecliptic merc in the gut. He doubled over, and she finished it with a clean shot to the temple.

Sarah cleared the other side, reloading as she ducked into what looked like an abandoned half built ship.

“Over here,” she called.

Ash jogged over, heart pounding. Sarah tapped a blinking terminal that still held power. A log crackled to life. Moara explained where he was, practically inviting the Spacers or Ecliptic to come find him.

The recording ended with a crackle of static.

Ash turned to Sarah. “You believe him?”

Sarah didn’t answer right away. Her jaw was clenched, brow furrowed in thought. Then she nodded.

“You think we’ll be too late?” she asked.

Sarah looked at her and shook her head. “Not if we move fast.”

A long beat passed.

Then, softly, Sarah said, “Thanks. For earlier.”

Ash tried for casual. “I figured I owed you one.”

Sarah’s voice dropped a note lower. “No. You didn’t.”

Ash glanced down. “We should get back to The Frontier. Plug those coordinates in.”

Sarah nodded. “Right behind you.”

Ash walked ahead, every sense still alert—but part of her mind lingered on the look Sarah had given her. Like she’d been seen. Like something was shifting.

Behind her, Sarah followed without hesitation.

***

Moara’s ship drifted, weaponless and scarred. They boarded swiftly. Lights flashed red. Enemies were everywhere in the small ship.

They worked as a team now, seamless. Sarah trusted Ash to have her back and vice versa. Together, they cleared out the ecliptic on board.

The bridge lay ahead, cleared with a kick and gunfire. Moara lay slumped against a console.

He managed a puff of breath. Ash knelt, offering the medkit.

He whispered, voice ragged, “Thanks, hell of a day this turned out to be.”

Ash looked at Sarah, who let the charge explaining they were tracking him on a lead for the artifact they needed. He gladly let them have it in exchange for a few ship parts and the help they'd lent him in clearing out his ship of enemies.

***

The Frontier descended into New Atlantis like a bird returning home, burnished by the afterglow of a long day’s fight. Ash watched the city grow larger through the viewport—silver spirals and green canopies unfolding beneath them, a place that still didn’t feel real. Not yet.

Behind her, Sarah leaned back in the pilot’s seat, arms crossed, but finally relaxed. A faint smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

“That was exhilarating,” she said suddenly, voice low and wry.

Ash turned, surprised. “You sound almost... giddy.”

“I said exhilarating, not pleasant,” Sarah countered primly. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Ash laughed, the tension in her spine finally unwinding. “Still. You didn’t hate it.”

Sarah glanced her way, and for a moment, there was something unguarded in her eyes. “No,” she said. “I didn’t.”

They didn’t speak again until The Frontier touched down on the platform with a soft hiss.

***

The warmth inside the Lodge was a welcome contrast to the metallic tang of blood and engine oil still clinging to Ash’s senses. She stepped into the common room with Sarah flanking her—her borrowed gear scuffed, blood-smeared, and too loose, like a borrowed identity she'd finally earned the right to grow into.

Walter raised his glass as they entered, a grin on his face. “Welcome back, you beautiful troublemakers.”

“Trouble’s subjective,” Ash said, letting herself smile.

Noel, seated cross-legged on the couch, lifted a mug of something steaming. “Subjective or not, you’re all still alive. That’s winning.”

They gathered around the table where beers and snacks had already been laid out—Sam must’ve gotten the message Sarah sent that they’d made it back and told the others. The light through the windows was that golden kind that comes just before dusk, warm and forgiving.

Ash slumped into the nearest chair and accepted a drink, letting the cool glass rest against her temple for a beat before sipping. She looked across the table at Sarah, who sat with legs elegantly crossed, her jacket unzipped, eyes sharp but not distant. For the first time, Ash saw something warmer in her—approval, maybe. Trust.

Sarah raised her glass to her. “Well done today.”

Ash tilted hers in return. “I had a good teacher.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Sarah replied—but the smirk that tugged at her lips said otherwise.

They clinked glasses, and the mood lingered.

The room buzzed with low laughter and post-mission chatter. But after a while, Ash eased out of her chair, murmuring something about needing the restroom. When she returned to her room down the hall, still drying her hands on a towel, she stopped short.

Sam was inside, standing near the bed.

“I didn’t mean to sneak in,” he said with both palms up in mock innocence. “Door was unlocked. Figured I’d drop this off.”

Laid out across her bed was a pristine Constellation suit—her size, long enough for her tall body, but not oversized, sleek and crisp. Ash stepped forward, running her fingers along the embroidered stars set in a blue background of the patch on the breast. The material was smooth, finely woven, clearly new.

She looked at him, eyes wide. “Is this mine?”

“Sure is,” he said, his voice softer now. “Walter noticed how that gear was hanging off you like a deflated parachute. Figured you deserved something made for someone your height and slim size.”

Ash raised a brow. “Are you implying I’m tall?”

“You’re nearly as tall as me,” he said, chuckling. “That’s practically an amazon.”

Ash laughed, shaking her head. “You saying this is a height-based promotion?”

“Nope,” he said, stepping closer. “That’s just the suit. This,”—he held out a slim, well-worn pistol in a leather holster—“is the promotion.”

Ash blinked, then took it. “Is this... yours?”

“It was,” Sam nodded. “I just got a new model. But that one? That one kept me breathing more times than I can count. Thought it might do the same for you now that you’re officially part of the team.”

There was a beat of silence. The kind that settles between two people when something real has been offered.

Ash’s voice was quieter now. “You’re not just giving me a gun. You’re giving me your trust.”

Sam gave a slow shrug, his smile gentler now. “I guess I am.”

Ash met his eyes, something unspoken sparking beneath her ribs. “Careful, Coe. You’re getting sentimental.”

He leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. “Must be the lighting.”

She stepped closer, closing the distance between them just enough. “I should shower,” she said softly, eying him up and down.

“I didn't want to say nuthin' but you kinda stink.”

She burst out laughing. And he watched her like the first time he's seen fireworks, couldn't take his eyes off her.

She turned back to the bed, then glanced back at him. “You sure about this suit? What if I look better in your old jacket?”

Sam’s grin turned rakish. “Depends on what you're wearin' with it.”

Ash laughed again.

With a wink, he tapped the doorframe. “Enjoy the shower, Calder. Leave some hot water for the rest of us.”

Then he was gone, boots fading down the hallway.

***

Back in the dining room, Sam returned just as Walter was pouring a second round.

Sarah didn’t look up when she spoke, her voice even. “I want to help her.”

Sam raised a brow and settled into a chair. “That so?”

Sarah finally looked over, eyes thoughtful. “She doesn’t understand what she is. Not really. She thinks she’s just... lost. But that kind of instinct? That connection to the artifact? You don’t fake that. Not unless you’ve lived something more.”

Sam nodded slowly. “You think she’s connected to them somehow?”

“I think she is,” Sarah replied. “And I think something went wrong for her to end up here.”

Walter folded his arms. “So the question is—can we help her figure it out? And can she help us find more artifacts?”

Sarah didn’t hesitate. “Yes. Because if we don’t. someone else will get their hands on her. And they won’t be as kind.”

Sam leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable. But his voice was sure when he said, “Then we help her.”

Sarah glanced at him. “You already are.”

And in the quiet that followed, the stars blinked into view beyond the windows, silver and endless.

Just like the beginning of something.

***

I've enjoyed reading all the great fanfictions out there from people like @aislingdmdt @eridanidreams @bearlytolerant @spookyspecterino

I'm definitely looking for prompts, so feel free to send any my way.

[ninjaofnaps]

Through the Star Field for You

Chapter 2 – Arrival at the Lodge

The next chapter will drop next week.

✨ Chapter 2 is live! | Arrival at The Lodge

Ash steps into the polished halls of The Lodge—and into the crosshairs of Constellation's curiosity. Suspicion, science, and metaphysics collide as she’s questioned about her origins, her combat instincts, and the artifact that dragged her through time.

But it’s not all interrogation and intensity.

She meets Sam Coe. And Cora.

And something flickers.

“Have you ever met someone and felt like... you knew them already?”

🌠 Read now on AO3 | #StarfieldFanfic #ThroughTheStarfieldForYou #AshCalder #SamCoe #Constellation

The Lodge library hummed with quiet tension. Sarah paced near the long table, the sound of her boots ringing softly against the polished floor. Walter leaned casually in his chair, fingers steepled as he listened. Matteo, as always, remained unreadable—hands folded, gaze distant, as if already weighing the soul of a woman none of them were expecting.

“She’s not from here,” Sarah said flatly, leaning on the railing around the hovering artifacts. “Her scans are clean. No trackers. No implants. Nothing in the records. And the way she looked at the skytrain on the way here? Like she’d seen a dragon.”

"I can run some DNA scans. That should give us some data that might be helpful." Noel said.

Walter raised an eyebrow. “So… not a spy, then?”

“She’s not anything,” Sarah snapped. “Not UC, not Freestar, not Va’ruun. And that combat display on Vectera?” She turned back to face them. “That wasn’t self-defense. That was reflex. Fluid. Efficient. Lethal.”

Matteo finally looked up. “Perhaps the question isn’t who she is, but when.”

Sarah’s jaw clenched. “Don't start with your metaphysics, Matteo. Now is not the time.”

“She marveled at clean air,” Matteo said gently. “At the idea of grav drives. And she didn’t know what the United Colonies were.”

There was a silence. In the distance, footsteps. Sarah glanced toward the door to the garden and sighed. “She asked if she could take a moment outside.”

Walter smirked. “At least she has taste. The garden’s the best part of this place.”

The garden was quiet and cool; the air perfumed by vertical blooms she couldn’t name. Ash walked slowly. Her thoughts circled too fast for her to notice the figures seated at the center table. She paused, looking through the glass of the ceiling, her fingertips brushing the edge of a flowerbed. Her head still ached faintly, but it was nothing compared to the ache in her chest.

The city—New Atlantis—had stunned her. Glass towers spiraling into the clouds, lush canopies above, transportation that hovered and moved with seamless precision. It was all too much. Too beautiful. Too … wrong.

This wasn’t her world.

She turned around, meaning to walk to the other side of the small garden, when she finally saw the two figures. She stopped dead, embarrassment flushing her cheeks.

“Oh—sorry,” she blurted. "I don't know how I missed you two there."

The man stood and smiled. Tall, broad-shouldered, with sandy brown hair and a voice like warm whiskey. “No harm done. You must be our mystery guest.”

A young girl peeked from behind him, holding a plant sample in one hand and eyeing Ash with open curiosity.

“Welcome to The Lodge,” he said, offering a hand and stepping towards her.\

Ash reached out. Ash reached out. The moment their palms touched a flicker of something passed through her—familiar, strange, and gone before she could grasp it. Her heart stuttered. Not fear—something older. Something like déjà vu with more bite to it. His hand was warm. Solid. Her breath caught in her throat, but she covered it with a polite nod. His brow furrowed slightly when their hands touched, like he too had felt it.

“Ash Calder,” she managed. “And you are…?”

“Sam Coe,” he said with a hint of drawl. “Freestar born and bred, sometime pilot, and full-time dad. This is my daughter, Cora.”

The girl gave a proud little nod. “I’m a science officer in training.”

Ash couldn’t help but smile; the girl radiated energy. “A pleasure to meet both of you. Especially someone with such an important title.”

They chatted lightly—Cora telling Ash about the flowers in the greenhouse and what planets they were from. Sam making dry observations about the Lodge’s many personalities. Sam watched Ash closely, his expression open but curious. Almost like he was searching for something.

A sharp voice cut through the air.

“Ash!”

Sarah stood at the garden threshold, arms crossed and eyebrows lifted in exasperation.

Ash gave Sam a look that said she was dreading the talk she was about to have with the other team members and murmured, “Is she always like this?”

He coughed out a laugh and said, "Uh, yeah. You get used to it after a while."

With a sigh, Ash stood a little taller and headed back into the library. As she walked away, she felt the weight of his gaze on her back. It felt strangely familiar.

Ash followed Sarah through the doorway and back into the heart of The Lodge. The brief tranquility of the garden was gone now—replaced by a knot in her gut and the heavy weight of all the unanswered questions waiting inside.

The library was brightly lit and unnervingly silent as all eyes were on her.

Walter remained perched in the same chair as before, fingers still steepled, eyes a little too amused. Matteo had moved to the far side of the room and was fiddling with a pot of tea, his movements slow and meditative. Noel stood near a sleek medical terminal, tapping something out with a stylus.

Sarah gestured toward the nearest seat. “Have a seat, Ms. Calder.”

"Ash. Just call me Ash," she bit out without thinking.

Sarah just arched an eyebrow at her.

Ash sat in one of the chairs at the long table, back straight, legs crossed. The seat was too soft. Or maybe she was just too tense.

“So,” Walter began, “we’re hoping you can fill in some blanks for us.”

“Blanks?” Ash responded. “You and me both.”

She thought she heard him mutter, "I think I like her," but decided she must have misheard him.

Sarah folded her arms. “Let’s start with the basics. You said your name is Ash Calder. You claim to be a United States citizen. What year do you think it is?”

Ash arched a brow. “Still on that, huh? It’s 2025. Or it was. I’m starting to get the impression I’m no longer in Kansas.”

Walter chuckled. Matteo did not.

“And what’s the last thing you remember before waking up on Vectera?” Sarah asked.

Ash hesitated, the words catching in her throat. “I was on a dig outside Madre de Dios, near Tambopata in Peru. We were excavating a newly discovered temple buried beneath the jungle canopy. My team found something. A strange object—metal, humming. I reached for it, and then...”

Her voice faltered.

The door hissed open behind her, and she turned to see Sam stepping into the room with the kind of easy swagger that could only be born of confidence—or exhaustion. Probably both.

He leaned casually against the doorframe. “Hope I’m not late to the grilling.”

“Not at all,” Walter said, gesturing to a seat next to Ash. “Your insight might be useful.”

Sam slid into the chair and gave Ash a small smile. “They treating you alright?”

“So far, no waterboarding,” she said. “We’re still in the polite questioning phase.”

“Then? When you reached for the artifact?” Matteo asked gently.

She shook her head. “Then everything went white. Like the world was being unmade. There were sounds and lights and universes. Like... like something NASA would film only I was flying through them.” Her voice shook. She scrubbed her face, frustration pooling behind her eyelids. There was no explaining it—not in any way that would make sense.

Sam whistled low and said "NASA, wow.

"They haven't been around for about 180 years now." Walter said.

Her head snapped up and she stared at him at a loss for words. Shock written in her face.

Sarah leaned forward, eyes sharp. “You had that in your hand? The artifact?” And pointed to the objects hovering on the other side of the room.

Ash blinked. “Yeah, that.”

“Where exactly did you find it?” Matteo asked.

“In a chamber below the main dig site. We thought it was a burial tomb, but the geometry was... wrong. It wasn’t like anything I’d seen. It felt... alive.”

Matteo nodded slowly, as if that confirmed something he hadn’t said aloud. “And you felt something when you touched it? Not just saw and heard things?”

“Felt like being peeled apart at the atomic level and sewn back together with starlight. So yes. I felt something.”

Walter let out a low whistle. “Well, you’re poetic for someone claiming temporal displacement.”

Ash looked at him dryly. “What would you prefer—a haiku?”

Sarah cleared her throat, clearly not amused. "The fact of the matter is you single handedly wiped out a team of Crimson Fleet. I don't know many archeologists who get trained to fight like that."

Ash raised a brow. “You saying I’m dangerous?”

“I’m saying,” Sarah replied, “you shoot like someone who's been trained to fight.”

"I don't know how to explain it. I've taken women's defense courses. I had some basic training with a marine on how to defend myself and use guns. I've had to go to some dicey areas on digs, and it can be dangerous as a woman. But I don't know how to explain what happened when Barrett put that gun in my hand and sent me out there. It was like I didn't have to think just move. I didn’t even know I could be that fast,” she whispered, voice catching.

As she spoke the dull ache in her head got worse. She closed her eyes for a moment. The room fell away. A flash—

Metal walls painted red. A starship corridor. She was running, breath ragged, reaching. Someone ahead of her—just out of reach. His hand slipped through hers, vanishing in a crackle of golden light.

Ash jerked back into the present with a gasp. The room was too bright, the air too thin. She blinked rapidly and rubbed her temple.

“Headache?” Noel asked, already stepping forward. “Can I scan you?”

Ash nodded once, grateful to focus on anything else. “Yeah. Sure. Go ahead.”

Noel swept a small device near her temples and brows, her expression shifting as she read the results. “Cerebral activity just spiked. Could be trauma response. I’d like to get a full neural scan later.”

Matteo stepped forward. “May I ask... what did you see?”

“I don’t know,” Ash said, which wasn’t entirely true. “A corridor. A starship. Someone... gone.”

Walter leaned back, exhaling thoughtfully. “There’s no record of someone named Ash Calder born in any of the colonies. But the scans you got on the way here shows human genetic patterns pre-space colonization?”

“That’s not possible,” Sarah muttered. “That’s Old Earth. Noel needs to run the scans again once Ash calms down. The equipment on The Frontier is less than ideal. The tests could be off.”

Matteo smiled softly. “Perhaps she comes from further back than we expected.”

"This would be a lot easier if Barrett was here to give his two cents. Why didn't he come with you again?" Walter asked Sarah.

"Oh you know Barrett, he had to stay to clean up the mess he created. The Crimson Fleet were there for him."

Walter chuckled. "Oh Barrett."

"I know, don't get me started on Barrett right now. Having Miss Calder here is enough of a mystery for now."

"Ash. Its Ash. Not Miss Calder." Ash grumbled.

It made Walter smile as he considered her for a moment. Then raised an eyebrow at Sarah. “Field test?”

Sarah gave a reluctant nod. “Let her come with me tomorrow. There’s a UC pilot I need to find—someone who has a lead on the artifact trail. I can get a better feel for her in the field.”

Ash lifted her head. “You’re taking me with you? Just like that?”

“Consider it a probationary assignment,” Sarah said. “You’ll stay under my supervision until we understand what you are.”

Ash smirked. “What I am? You make me sound like a lab experiment.”

“You might be,” Walter muttered, half-joking. “But at least you’re an interesting one.”

Sam stood as the meeting drew to a close. “Field trip, huh? Better pack snacks.” The smirk he gave her made her blood heat up and her stomach dip like she was on a rollercoaster. Which on reflection seemed fitting right now. She rubbed her temple again, trying to ignore the way his smile lingered in her mind. That flicker. That heat.

Ash stood in the doorway of the guest quarters Noel had shown her to, one hand on the frame, the other still pressed to her temple. The neural fog had faded, but the sense of wrongness remained—like her body remembered something her mind refused to. She glanced down the quiet hallway.

Sleep wasn’t going to come. Not yet.

The Lodge was different at night. Quieter, softer. The corridors, which had felt sterile and watchful earlier, now breathed softer. The glow from the lights warmer. Ash followed her instincts, padding barefoot past the gallery hall and back up the staircase. At the top, the deck garden stood slightly ajar.

She stepped into the open air.

The stars above were impossible—too large, too close, too many. The dark was velvet and thick, stitched with pinpricks of light that spun and twirled in soft patterns across the sky. A slow gust stirred the vertical vines climbing the railings, carrying the scent of night blossoms and hydroponic mist.

She took a seat on a low bench and folded her arms over her knees, letting her body curl in around the ache in her chest. Her thoughts were scattered—the flash of that golden light, her name spoken like it wasn’t hers. The pressure was building again. She didn’t want to cry, but she also didn’t want to sit still. She needed something. Anything.

“You okay out here?”

The voice was soft, male. Familiar.

Ash startled slightly, turning toward the figure leaning in the doorway. Sam stepped into view, hands tucked in his jacket pockets.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said.

“You didn’t,” she said, a touch too quickly. “Just... didn’t hear you.”

“I’ve been told I’m good at sneaking up on people. Perks of traveling light.”

She gestured to the sky. “You always come up here at night?”

“Sometimes,” he said, sitting down beside her on the bench. “Helps me think.”

Ash tilted her head. “What about?”

Sam exhaled through his nose. “The usual. The girl. The ship. The ex wife. The artifacts. Why my favorite team is doing so badly this season.”

She laughed at that last part. She realized she was smiling. It felt kinda like the medicine she needed.

They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the quiet hum of the city below, the soft rustle of leaves. When she glanced at him, he wasn’t looking at the stars—he was looking at her.

“I keep thinking,” she said quietly, “that maybe I hit my head harder than I realized. Or maybe this is all just one long hallucination. That I'm still lying in a jungle ravine somewhere, bleeding out.”

Sam gave a half-smile. “I’ve been there. Not the jungle part. But the what the hell is happening to me part.”

She looked over at him, watching the shadows cut soft lines along his jaw. “Have you ever met someone and felt like... like you knew them already? Even though you couldn’t possibly?”

His eyes flicked to hers, sharp and surprised. “Yeah. Once or twice.”

Ash swallowed. “What did you do?”

He leaned back on the bench and looked up. “Mostly? I tried not to screw it up.”

That made her laugh—quiet and real. She leaned her head back to join his gaze. The stars swirled above her like memories she hadn’t earned.

Sam’s voice came again, softer now. “You gonna be alright tomorrow?”

Ash nodded, though she didn’t feel it. “I think so. I’m not sure I have much choice. It feels like the only way through is forward.”

“I’d say that’s not true,” he said. “You could choose to run. Most people would.”

“I’m not most people,” she replied. "Plus I don't even know what kind of money you people use here." The last part was said with a smile to lighten the mood.

He laughed then was quiet for a moment before he replied. “No,” Sam said, almost to himself. “You’re really not.”

They lapsed into silence again, but this one was comfortable. She could feel the warmth of him beside her, not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel seen. Like for the first time since she woke up on Vectera she wasn't totally alone.

Eventually, Sam stood and offered her a hand up. She took it without hesitation.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll walk you back to your room.”

She curled up on the cot, knees pulled to her chest, watching the artificial shadows shift on the ceiling above. Her pulse was still too fast, and her thoughts wouldn’t settle. Every time she blinked, she saw Sam’s eyes—the way they crinkled when he smiled. The warmth in his voice. The steady way he’d offered his hand like it wasn’t even a question.

She was in a whole new universe. She didn’t know what year it was, where her team had gone, or why she could kill without blinking. But somehow that man’s smile was what her brain chose to fixate on?

Pathetic.

She groaned into the pillow, flipping onto her side.

Sleep finally claimed her, pulling her under like a tide she didn’t have the strength to resist.

She floated in a white void, featureless and vast.

No sound. No wind. No heat. Just light. Soft and all-encompassing.

Shapes flickered in the distance—planets collapsing into themselves, stars birthing stars, and threads of light crossing over one another like roots in soil.

Then a man.

She was running, breathless, legs moving in slow motion as if through water. Her hand stretched forward—his form ahead of her, indistinct but radiating warmth.

She screamed his name, but her voice didn’t work here.

He turned just as his body began to disintegrate into golden shards. His hand reached for hers—and they touched.

For an instant, there was everything.

Then he was gone and she woke gasping.

Ash woke up gasping.

Sweat clung to her spine, and her hands were shaking.

She stared at the ceiling, heart pounding like a war drum in her chest.

She didn’t know who he was. She didn’t know what she’d seen.

But she knew one thing for sure.

She had lost him before.

And something in her gut told her: she would not lose him again.

[ninjaofnaps]

Through the Cat's Eye

Chapter 1

📖 Chapter 1 of my Witcher fanfic Through the Cat’s Eye is live!

A canon-divergent, magic-rich fantasy romance featuring portals, monsters, worldwalkers, and a slow-burn love story with Eskel. Updated weekly.

Yennefer feels the first tremor in Toussaint. But what comes through the rift is not what they expect.

AO3 link: Read on AO3

The air over Toussaint had always shimmered—wine-sweet and perfumed, flush with summer magic and vineyard heat. But tonight, it was wrong.

Yennefer of Vengerberg stood at the edge of her and Geralt’s estate, an elegant hand wrapped around the stem of a crystal glass. Her gaze fixed not on the rows of ripening grapes, but on the ground itself.

The soil pulsed.

It was faint, like a heartbeat under stone. But it was there. She didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

A ripple passed through the earth like a breath, making the edge of her hem lift, whispering along the tips of the vines. Behind her, a servant coughed and stepped back into the chateau. He knew better than to interrupt when she was in a mood like this—eyes narrowed, still as a drawn bowstring.

The heartbeat came again.

She turned and strolled toward the vineyard’s edge. Her boots made no sound on the path. Somewhere between the neat rows of vines, a lantern flickered—then went out entirely.

Yennefer stilled. Reached for the threads of chaos beneath the surface of the world.

Something moved in response. Not near. But not far, either.

And then the glass in her hand cracked with a soft pop. A hairline fracture sliced through the stem like a lightning bolt. Yennefer hissed under her breath and let it fall.

She returned to the house and called for Triss Merigold.

The redhead arrived an hour later, swirling through a portal near the stables, where Yennefer had traced runes in salt across the flagstone.

“Another midnight summons,” Triss said, brushing dust from her sleeve. “You know, you could just send a letter if you missed me.”

Yennefer arched a brow. “I don’t miss anyone.”

“Liar.” Triss half smiled.

“I didn’t summon you for banter,” Yen replied, kneeling and pressing her hand into the soil. “You need to feel this.”

Triss’s brows furrowed as she watched Yennefer. Kneeling, she pressed her fingers to the soil. Then blinked.

“What in the name of Melitele…”

The pulse rolled through again—stronger now. Triss’s hand jerked back.

“I told you,” Yennefer said softly. “The ground is pulsing.”

Triss rose slowly, green eyes darkening. “It’s more than that. There’s pressure here. Like something’s trying to tear through it.”

“Exactly,” Yennefer murmured.

They moved in tandem after that, silent and purposeful, slipping through moon-wet grass toward the northern edge of the estate. Yennefer had a grove there—she kept it for solitude, meditation, and the kind of spellwork she didn’t want curious nobles sniffing near.

But now the trees leaned strangely.

And the air?

It shimmered too brightly. Like a heat mirage. Like something was bending the weave of the world.

Triss reached out, touching the ground near a tree. “It’s not just Toussaint, Yen. I’ve heard whispers—Aretuza, Oxenfurt, even Skellige. They’re calling it a surge, but this... this is a bleed.”

Yennefer’s eyes narrowed. “You think something’s leaking through from a parallel world?”

“I think something’s trying to.” Triss shook her head. “This isn’t natural. Not even raw chaos behaves like this.”

Yennefer studied the flickering shimmer in the soil.

Then, with a quick step, she headed back toward the house. “We need to get Geralt.”

The fire had burned low. Geralt sat in one of the deep armchairs near the hearth, boots off, a book open but unread in his lap. The pages blurred. Not from wine or weariness—but from the tension that had been building all night.

The medallion at his throat had buzzed softly for hours. Barely audible. Just enough to keep him alert.

He stood and crossed the main room of the villa, pausing by the window. The estate’s vineyards stretched out beneath the moonlight, rows of silver and shadow. It should have been peaceful.

But the land felt… unsettled.

The ground didn’t move. Not exactly. But something beneath it did.

That’s when Yen burst into the room, followed by Triss—making his eyebrows rise in surprise.

“Something is wrong,” she started.

“I know,” he said, then touched the wolf medallion.

“Come to my grove. I want your thoughts.”

“I thought that was our grove,” he said under his breath.

“We’ll have time for your grumblings later.” Then she turned on her heel and headed back out.

The clearing in the grove was faintly lit—glowing runes crawling along the trees, spiraling into the soil. Some were familiar, but others were not. Angular. Slanted. Inked in the syntax of another world.

“Elven,” he muttered.

Yennefer’s eyes were on the center. “Old Elven. And recent.”

Triss stepped into view. “These weren’t here earlier. We didn’t cast them,” she said.

Geralt frowned. “Then who the hell did?”

Yennefer didn’t reply. She only raised a hand, pulling the others up short. In the center of the grove, a portal burst into life.

And then—he stepped out of it.

The elf materialized from light and smoke, tall and too thin, wrapped in ash-stained leathers. His golden hair hung like a veil, and his eyes held no fear.

“Yennefer of Vengerberg,” he said, his voice as hollow as it was certain.

Yennefer’s tone sharpened. “Identify yourself.”

The elf inclined his head. “I no longer use names. But once, I was called Tyel.”

Geralt studied him—familiar, but not. A creature who moved like a soldier and spoke like a priest.

“A worldwalker,” Triss said. “I thought you were all gone.”

“Almost,” Tyel said. “The rift devours many.”

He moved closer to the edge of the runes. They pulsed under his feet.

“My realm is dying. This one is next.”

Geralt folded his arms. “Is this a threat or a warning?”

“A warning. I have come to offer a warning and help. A darkness has taken over our realm. It threatens yours now. Do not be so slow to react as we were. It starts in energies off, then the portals open for the darkness to infect. Your Ciri is from this world, no? It would be a shame for it to fade as ours has.”

The shimmer in the air thickened. A hum rose from the stones and trees.

“You said you’re offering help. What exactly are you offering?” Triss asked cautiously.

“A blade,” Tyel said. “Forged to hold the line. Trained to close the portals,” he added, almost gently. “She comes with blood in her teeth and flame in her soul. If you work together, you can stop the darkness before it steals your light.”

Yennefer’s face was stone. “And you expect us to just accept this?”

“My people are crossing to a new realm before we are extinct in our own. I will check with you before we cross and send her to you if you wish it. You must decide quickly. I will return with the dawn.”

The ground cracked with a flash. The portal split the air, wild and jagged.

Yen let out a jagged sigh. “Shit.”

The portal reappeared just before dawn—earlier than expected, and far less stable.

It split the air with a sound like tearing silk, snarling at the edges with wild magic that flickered between violet, silver, and void-black.

Geralt was already in the grove and drew his sword immediately. Something wasn’t right.

Yennefer stood at his side, palm crackling with controlled chaos. Triss flanked them, her lips mid-chant, ready to stabilize the weave if things spiraled.

They expected a person—Tyel.

What they got was a thing.

It slammed through the portal—a writhing mass of sinew and oil-slick tendrils, eyes like hollow coals blinking in too many directions. The stench hit them first—rot and ozone—and then it screamed. Not a voice, but a pressure. A wave of sound that clawed at the mind.

Geralt moved. Fast. A clean arc of silver aimed at its throat. The creature surged past him.

Yennefer’s ward absorbed its first strike, but her feet slid in the dirt from the force. Triss’s chant shattered mid-spell. The thing lunged for her with a wet, boneless hiss.

And then—

She dropped through the rift.

Steel flashed before her feet touched the ground.

Dyv landed in a low crouch, a curved sword already arcing. The blade caught the beast mid-lunge, slicing through flesh like buttered parchment. Her other sword sliced a tentacle cleanly off.

The creature shrieked, buckling.

She moved before it could retaliate—a blur of black and burnished metal as she pivoted and drove both blades into its skull.

One heartbeat.

Two.

Then silence.

The beast twitched once, spasmed, and stilled. Smoke rose from its ruined form.

Dyv stood slowly.

Her armor was sleek, black, and form-fitting. Her vambraces gleamed faintly, veins of red flickering along their etched lines. A long scar slashed through one brow, and her hazel eyes gleamed in the soft light of dawn.

She looked at each of them in turn, her breath steady.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then she nodded once. “Nice to meet you,” she said. “I’m Dyv.”

Triss blinked.

Geralt lowered his blade a fraction. “Where’s the elf?”

A shadow of something crossed her face. “Tyel didn’t make it. He was killed getting me through the portal. He said I am to help you stop the darkness from taking over this world.”

Yennefer narrowed her eyes. “And we’re supposed to take your word that you’re the blade we were promised?”

Dyv’s lips curled faintly. She glanced back at the dead monster behind her, then back at Yen, raising her eyebrow.

She sheathed both weapons with a clean, practiced motion.

“I’m the one they sent. Actually, I may be the only one left.”

Triss furrowed her brow. “You mean your people are gone?”

“Yes. Some made it through the portal to the new world. Most, like Tyel, weren’t so lucky. He said I was to protect Ciri’s world. So I’m here.”

Geralt looked at Yen and grunted.

[ninjaofnaps]

Through the Star Field for You

A bit nervous—this was my first fan fic post here! I hope you enjoy it even half as much as I’ve enjoyed reading your beautiful stories.

Update: Hey guys, I'm back! I took a break to work on a romantasy novel, but I’m picking up this WIP again. Chapter updates will drop weekly!

I also posted this on A03

I've enjoyed reading all the great fanfictions out there from people like @aislingdmdt @eridanidreams @bearlytolerant @spookyspecterino

I'm definitely looking for prompts, so feel free to send any my way.

Through the Star Field for You

The blackness gradually faded as she heard indistinct voices, far-off sounding as if from the other end of a tunnel. Where was she? The world was fuzzy as she tried to open her eyes. Oh wow, that was a mistake; her head hurt. Actually, her whole friggin body hurt. Where was she? The voices became intelligible, and Ash closed her eyes again, trying to focus on their words through the pain.

"And this new Dusty was the miner you sent in there?" a lilting English woman's accent.

A stronger female voice clips back, "No, that is not the new Dusty I sent in there. That's what I'm trying to tell you. My Dusty went in, and when we lost communication with him, we went to see what happened and found... her."

There was a pause, like the woman with the accent was trying to understand what had just been said. In the background, Ash heard a faint clicking and beeping of what she thought to be medical equipment. "So let me understand this. You're saying you let a new miner go in there to dig up the priceless artifact Barrett hired you to look for. You left him alone, and when you saw fit to finally check on him, he wasn't there, but she was? Have you found the other miner? Is that Argos suit she's wearing the same one the miner wore? You have to understand how utterly bizarre this sounds, correct?"

A sigh of exasperation from the other woman before, "I know how crazy this sounds; I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen it myself. The new Dusty went in after the thing, "artifact," whatever, that Barrett wanted. We lost comms, went to see what happened, and the Dusty was gone! She was lying there in the Dusty's suit with that odd metal thing in her hand, out cold. So we called Barrett."

"So you lost your miner and could have lost the artifact in the process? Why was a miner in training looking for an item of this value to begin with? Could you be more incompetent? Exactly what kind of outfit are you running here?"

A deep male voice jumps in. "Hey guys, calm down. We'll get answers soon enough. Her vitals are shifting, Sarah. It looks like she's waking up."

Ash blinked and opened her eyes one at a time; her sight was clearer now but still not normal. A man in a spacesuit without a helmet creeps into her vision, "Hey there, sleeping beauty. How ya feelin'?"

"Everything hurts, but I'm alive, I think. Where am I? Who are you?"

The man's face splits into an award-winning smile as he says, "I'm Barrett, and you're on Vectera. Let's start with something simple. What's your name, and how'd you end up on this rock?"

Vectera? Ash, Ash Calder has no idea what country that is and blinks dumbly at him, replying, "I'm a U.S. citizen." The curiosity in his eyes deepened as he pushed for more specifics. "The U.S? I think you really must have bumped your head in there. I think you mean U.C. as in United Colonies?" With a touch of exasperation, Ash responded, "No, I mean U.S., I'm a United States Citizen. I've never heard of the United Colonies. I was in South America on an archeology field project, a new temple discovered underground in Sama, Peru. I assume you're with search and rescue? There must have been a cave-in or something. I remember reaching for an object in the temple when things just went..." Ash trailed off, trying to make sense of the things she remembered, the lights, the sounds, the feeling like she'd been pulled through the universe, but the pain in her head increased the more she tried.

His dark complexion paled a bit as shock registered on his features, and he glanced over in the direction of the female voices she'd heard. With tentative concern lighting his eyes, he turned back to her and asked, "What year is it?" She slowly, painfully sat up and responded, "It's 2025, obviously." Her response met silence. The air hung with a hint of mystery, as if her words had woven an unexpected thread into the room's atmosphere. Using a hand to shade her eyes from the glaring overhead light, she glanced around; Ash noticed 3 people besides Barrett staring at her like she'd grown an extra head. "What?" She asked.

The shorter blonde woman with the English accent spoke, her stern expression softening a bit, "Barrett, have you given her a Med Pack yet? She may actually have taken a blow to the head in there. Let's try that before we ask her any more questions. "

Before applying the Med Pack, he asked if she would be okay with it, explaining that the medicine within the pack would help ease and heal any pain or injuries her body might be experiencing. Hesitant, she weighed her confusion with the current situation against the throbbing ache in her head. Eventually, her body's discomfort won out, a sense of uneasy surrender creeping in. It surprised her that she was willing to trust these people at all; it must be the bizarre circumstances that demanded a level of acceptance from her she wasn't usually willing to give.

In a flash, the Med Pack chased away any lingering pain and fatigue, leaving Ash wondering what exactly was in that little injector and if it was addictive. Feeling better than she had in years, she was torn from her internal thoughts by the stiff blonde woman; she thought Barrett had called her Sarah, who repeated the question about the year. Annoyance flared in Ash to this stupid line of questioning. Just as she began to respond, a sudden commotion erupted outside. The distant sounds of people yelling, a popping that sounded like gunshots, and chaos filled the air. Before worry could take seed in Ash, someone burst into the room shouting in a panicked voice, "Lin, the Crimson Fleet is here!"

Things happened so fast; it was all a blur to Ash. Everyone was racing to put on their helmets and started arming themselves. Ash jolted as a helmet was shoved into her hands; looking up, she saw Barrett giving her a smile that could charm the skin off a snake. Grabbing a pistol and holding it up, he asked, "Know how to use one of these?" She nodded a yes, and his smile grew as he said, "Good. Feel up to a little firefight? Those are pirates out there, and they aren't exactly known for taking prisoners." Pursing her lips, Ash looked at the gun again, then responded, "I've never been one to shy away from danger." "Good," he said, handing her the pistol and an extra clip. She checked to make sure it was locked and loaded before grabbing his arm. She pointed at the helmet and said, "I'll need help with this, though." Laughing, he mumbled something about her definitely not being from this time because even a 5-year-old knows how to get a spacesuit helmet on.

As the airlock door swung open into the dark night of an industrial setting, she stepped out into the heart of chaos. Instinct took over as she ducked into cover, her fingers quickly assessing the grip's texture and the gun's weight. Adrenaline kicked in, and she was in motion in a heartbeat, responding to the threat with an innate fluidity that felt almost meditative. Without thought, she swiftly dispatched three pirates, moving with a practiced killer's precision and skill. Swiftly sliding from one cover and rolling to another, making critical shots as she did. By the time she'd made it halfway across the platform, she managed to pick up a combat knife by sneaking up behind an unwitting pirate, grabbing the knife from his thigh sheath, and using his own weapon against him in a swift, fluid motion that spoke of ruthless efficiency. He was dead before he knew she was there and before his body even hit the ground. The edges blurred for her as she seamlessly incapacitated one adversary after another, dropping spent weapons and picking up new ones as she went. The actions seemed strangely natural, like she'd done this before, been in this exact situation before. Movement and survival overtook her until there was nothing but an eerie silence. In the aftermath, a mix of shock and disgust at the skill she didn't know she possessed overtook her as she stood there, gun in hand. The red-clad bodies of the Crimson Fleet littered the tarmac before her.

The silence was palpable as people came out from their cover, all eyes on her. Ash felt strangely embarrassed as the last of the adrenaline left her body. Barrett and Sarah approached her. The skin near his eyes crinkled in a knowing smile as he glanced at the gun in her hand, then back at her, saying, "Boy, you weren't kidding when you said you could use that. I knew I sensed something special in you when I saw you. And I think we may just be seeing the tip of the iceberg." Sarah looked less thrilled and more cautious than before. "Where did you learn how to do that? Ex-military?" Ash shook her head no. "I... I'm not really sure. I learned self-defense and guns a bit over time. I mean, I travel for work, to remote places as a woman alone. It always seemed smart to know a bit of self-defense." Looking back at the bodies, she said, stumbling over her words, "But... this... I, I didn't know I could do this." A slight tremor started in her hands as she dropped the gun she was holding. "We need to get you somewhere safe before figuring out exactly who or what you are. I say we head back to Constellation and get you some rest and a medical workup before we figure all this out." Numb to the overwhelming situation at hand, you nodded your acquiescence. A brief conversation with Barrett and Sarah followed; the former decided to stay behind and assist Lin, who seemed to be in charge of the mining camp, with the remnants of the pirate attack.

Questioning her reality, Ash followed Sarah to the ship. A starship. Her mind stumbled across the thought as she tried to believe what she was seeing, a fucking starship? Directing her to a cot on board the small ship, Sarah advised her to get some sleep on their short trip. Clumsily removing her helmet and stumbling out of the space suit, she collapsed into the cot, squeezing her eyes shut against the tumbling thoughts. When Ash finally opened her eyes, her breath hitched. Directly above her was a window out into the star field. A swirling mass of galaxies on an endless black highlighted with greys, twinkling whites, strokes of soft blues, and pinks that twirled in an infinite pattern that could only have been crafted by a master artist's hand. She'd only ever seen photos from NASA like this, yet here it was before her, real as could be and more beautiful than she ever imagined. As the soothing darkness of sleep overtook her, the last thoughts drifting through her head were of the frightening and extraordinary reality she had found herself in.