Ruvick cleared his throat, the rough sound scraping the quiet. An introspective glint sparked deep in his watery-blue eyes as he leaned forward on the smooth driftwood staff, his weight settling onto it. The firelight carved his weathered face into stark lines and hollows. His gaze drifted past the flickering embers, out towards the dark sea beyond the courtyard''s edge, as if pulling memories from the salt spray itself.


    "Might as well spin a yarn," he began again, his voice dropping lower, drawing the remaining villagers—Anna, Miriam, Horik, Kassia, Tolvar, a few others huddled on crates and benches—closer. The wind sighed low around the huts, carrying the distant pulse of the waves. "Somethin'' to chew on after... today." He poked the embers with his staff tip; sparks flared bright orange against the gathering dark, then winked out. "Ever hear tell of Earth? Old Earth—way back, you understand—before the sky routes, before the twenty-first century even clocked over?"


    A ripple of curiosity stirred the small group. Heads turned towards Ruvick, faces illuminated patchy by the dying fire. Anna shifted on her rickety stool, the cold metal of the wrench in her lap a stark contrast to the fire''s faint warmth. She met Miriam''s gaze across the flickering light—shared history, yes, but the raw edge of the day''s fight lent the old tales a different, sharper bite. Horik, arms still crossed but posture less rigid, watched Ruvick, his storm-gray eyes narrowed, listening intently.


    "What was it like?" Anna asked, the question softer now, the earlier anger muted by fatigue and Ruvick''s sudden shift in tone.


    Ruvick hooked both arms over his staff, settling into the telling. "Found this... thing," he said, tapping a finger against his temple. "A data-journal, they called it. Took me near a year out in the Ash Barrens, coaxing its guts back to life with spare wires and luck." He stared into the embers again. "What lit up on that cracked screen... stuck with me."


    He paused, letting the waves'' heavy rhythm fill the silence. "Earth wasn''t one place, not like we think. It was fractured. Cut up into plots they called ''countries.'' Dozens of ''em. Different flags—scraps of colored cloth they''d kill for—different leaders, different rules." He shook his head slowly, the movement barely disturbing his wind-tangled white hair. "And they fought. Gods, how they fought."


    His voice dropped lower, becoming a rough murmur edged with something like disbelief. "Not like scrapping over salvage, mind. Not like today''s raw knuckles." His gaze flickered brief towards Horik''s bruised jaw, then away. "This was... organized hatred. Whole armies marching under those different flags. Young men, younger than Milo even, sent off with metal sticks spitting fire, told the patch of dirt under the other fella''s boot was worth dying for."


    An uneasy quiet settled deeper. The older woman in the shawl pulled it tighter, her lips pressed thin. Tolvar grunted low, shifting his weight on the crate, the sound loud.


    "The journal showed one war," Ruvick continued, his voice gaining a grim momentum, "sounded like... ''World War Two,'' it called itself. Spanned years. Crossed oceans fiercer than ours. It wasn''t just soldiers, see? They had... flying machines. Not graceful like ours—clunky metal things, roaring beasts that rained fire from the sky." He jabbed his staff tip towards the embers again. "Imagine Frontier City, the farmland domes... just gone. Turned to ash and dust in minutes."


    "Flatten cities?" the woman murmured again, louder this time, her voice hushed but carrying. "With... flying machines?"


    "Worse," Ruvick said, his gaze sweeping over their firelit faces. "They built... bombs. Not pipe charges. These were... sun fragments. Packed tight. One single drop could swallow a city whole. Vaporize stone, steel, people. Leave only shadows burned onto walls." He clenched his free hand, knuckles showing white against his worn trousers. "The journal had pictures. Flickering, damaged, but you saw it. Buildings crumpled like dry leaves. Fields charred black for miles. Nothing left but scorched earth and... silence."


    Anna''s breath caught in her throat. The wrench felt impossibly heavy in her lap. Flatten cities... shadows... Her mind recoiled from the image, the scale unimaginable. Cloudchaser''s burning wreck felt suddenly small, a personal grief dwarfed by this vision of mass annihilation.


    "How... how could they live like that?" Kassia whispered from the shadows near the wall, her usual sharp edge blunted by the horror in Ruvick''s voice.


    "That''s the knot of it," Ruvick said, rubbing his temple slow. "They fought over resources, sure—oil, metal veins, same shiny rocks we dig for. But it was more... Ideas. Beliefs. Who got to say how things should be run. One leader, charismatic maybe, stirred up hatred for folks across a line on a map, called ''em vermin, less than human. Made it easy to pull the trigger, drop the bomb. People followed. Cheered it, even." His gaze held a deep sadness. "That''s the poison, see? Believing your way''s the only way. Believing the ''other'' deserves nothing."


    He looked pointedly around the small circle, his gaze lingering on Horik, then Tolvar, then Anna. "Sound familiar? Today... that shove over spilled seeds... the spear... the fists... It starts small. A spark of ''us'' versus ''them.'' Then it grows."


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    Miriam nodded slowly, her face pale in the firelight. "The history lessons mention the ''Great Wars,'' but... never like that. Never the... shadows."


    "They nearly wiped themselves clean off that planet," Ruvick went on, his voice a low growl now. "Millions dead. Cities rubble. Fields poisoned for years. Scars so deep... they lingered. Even when they finally banded together under one banner—the Federation we barely remember—that old fracture, that memory of turning on each other... it lingered." He leaned forward, the firelight catching the intensity in his eyes. "They learned unity the hard way. Almost too late. Learned it ''cause the voids between stars, the storms like Betelgeuse... those don''t care what flag you fly. They swallow everyone."


    A younger villager near the edge spoke, voice firm despite the story''s weight. "So today... we can''t let it stand. That split?"


    Ruvick''s sad smile returned, weary but resolute. "Right, lad. Took ''em centuries, near extinction, to grasp it. Grudges don''t feed bellies. Fixing nets does. Sharing the purifier does." He looked directly at Anna, then Horik. "Today was a stumble towards that old, dark road Earth walked. We pull back now. We choose fixing, not breaking. It''s the only way Archeon survives."


    Anna''s throat felt raw. The image of shadows burned onto walls lingered, cold and stark against the memory of Cloudchaser''s vibrant hull. She looked at Horik''s bruised face, saw the hardness ease slightly, replaced by a flicker of something else—shared unease, perhaps. She looked at Tolvar, arms still crossed but gaze now fixed on the dying embers, his jaw working slowly. The wrench in her lap felt less like a weapon, more like a tool again—heavy, solid, meant for building.


    "Keeps us from breakin''," she repeated her earlier words, the murmur louder this time, carrying a different weight, a rough acknowledgment forged in the firelight and the echo of Earth''s devastating past.


    The burn barrel crackled, embers collapsing inward with a soft sigh. The wind moaned low, carrying the scent of salt and the distant, steady rhythm of the waves, washing over the small group huddled in the fragile glow, bound by a story of ruin and the quiet resolve to choose a different path.


    The murmur of the courtyard faded behind Anna. Gravel crunched under her boots on the path winding toward the plateau''s shadow. The air cooled as she walked away from the burn barrel''s dwindling warmth, carrying the sharp tang of sea salt and damp earth. Lantern light from the huts became isolated pools against the growing dark. Above, the sky deepened, faint auroral streaks shimmering green against indigo. Wind sighed low around the cliff base, pulling at her torn jacket sleeve.


    She reached the workshop—a squat shed, corrugated tin roof a dull silhouette against the night sky. The sea''s steady murmur pulsed louder here, a rhythmic whisper against the stone. She paused, her hand resting on the rough wood of the doorframe. Inside, dark shapes, stillness. She pushed the door. Hinges groaned loud in the quiet. Cold, stale air pushed out, thick with the sharp bite of old oil, the musty scent of leather sealant, a faint metallic char.


    She stepped inside. Let the door swing mostly shut behind her, the latch clicking soft. A single lantern hung from a beam, casting long, jittering shadows across cluttered benches. Wrenches lay scattered beside bolts; half-finished gears gleamed dully. Light caught on dust motes swirling slow in the still air.


    Her boots scuffed the packed earth floor. She walked to the main workbench, the wood scarred and stained. Her satchel landed on the surface with a rough thud, leather creaking. She lowered herself onto the stool beside it. The movement pulled sharp beneath the bandages on her side; breath hissed quiet between her teeth. Her hand, the one wrapped in cloth, throbbed—a low, steady pulse against the bandage.


    She sat hunched for a moment, gaze fixed on the patterns dust made on the benchtop. Ruvick''s voice echoed faint— Countries... flatten cities... fixing or breakin''... The firelight flickered behind her closed eyelids—Horik''s bruised jaw, the fisherman''s wild swing, blood bright on stone. Her own hands—clenched tight, knuckles white. Her jaw tightened now; a muscle jumped near her temple.


    Her fingers moved, brushing the satchel''s worn flap. Hesitated. Lifted the flap. Tools shifted inside—a soft clink of metal. Her hand nudged past them, touched cool, faceted edges. She drew out the meltdown crystal. Held it cupped in her palm. The lantern light struck its surface, scattered into faint glints of amber and blue. Its weight felt solid, dense. She turned it slow. Etchings caught the light—faint lines, patterns she couldn''t decipher. Starline... map... showed Horik... The thought, sharp, unbidden. Her fingers tightened, cool facets pressing into her skin.


    Her other hand fumbled at her belt, pulled free the crinkled notepad. Its worn cover slapped soft onto the bench. She flipped it open. Graphite lines jumped under the lantern light—the jagged sketch she''d made near the graveyard. Arcs, nodes, smudged question marks. Bridge to Earth... Dad''s excited voice, wind whipping his hair... gone. Replaced by Rennon''s snarl... the crystal ripped away... The memory hit, a cold wave washing through her chest. Her breath caught.


    She grabbed the pencil stub lying beside the pad. Graphite scraped harsh against paper. She drew a thick, jagged line across the sketch, tearing the paper slightly. Another line, slashing through a cluster of nodes. Her hand trembled, the pencil point digging deep. Not with them. The thought pulsed hot, immediate. Not after this. The pencil snapped, the point flying off into the shadows. She stared at the broken lead on the page. Her breathing came faster, shallow pulls against the bandages.


    The purifier... Horik testing the valve... Elara''s steady hands... Ruvick''s warning... clashing images... Unity holds us... Dad''s voice again, softer this time. Her fist, still holding the pencil stub, uncurled slowly. Graphite dust coated her fingertips. She brushed them against her trousers, leaving a dark smear.


    Outside, faint sounds drifted up from Horik''s camp perched higher on the plateau edge. A low voice, indistinct. A sharp retort from another, words lost to the wind. Anna froze. Her head lifted slightly, tilted towards the closed workshop door. She strained to hear over the wind''s low moan and the rhythmic crash of waves far below. Silence returned, broken only by the elements. Her body remained tense, listening. The crystal lay heavy in her other hand, its surface cool against her skin, reflecting the lantern''s unsteady flame. Shadows stretched long across the dusty floor. Her gaze stayed fixed on the door, waiting.