Return from Exile

Chapter 1

Garen ascended the porch steps, each creak beneath his weight slicing through the stillness that had settled over the clearing. The towering Otay trees dominated the landscape, their thick trunks and deep red leaves casting long shadows. At the edge of his vision, the setting sun flickered through the branches, its light momentarily sharpening. For a moment, the leaves seemed aflame, fooling the eye before fading as night began to creep across the sky.

A sharp gust swept through the trees, carrying the damp scent of earth and decay. The chill seeped through his clothes, turning his breath into mist. The air felt thick, laden with secrets buried deep in the soil. Maybe time had concealed them, or perhaps it had simply drained the will to uncover what had been lost.

He took a swig from his flask, the cool liquid soothing his dry throat. His clothes, damp with sweat and evening dew, clung to his skin, worn and patched.

His gaze shifted to the chimney, where thin wisps of smoke rose and vanished into the darkening sky. The pale smoke signaled the fire was low but steady. He kept it burning these days, preparing for Chiex’s harshest season. Every sunset reminded him that the days were growing shorter, the cold creeping in with each passing evening, as brutal as ever. There would be no snow, but Chiex’s chill bit deeper than most, it seeped into the bones.

A decade on Chiex had stripped him down, year by year, scraping away the urgency and noise that had once filled his life. Now, he often lost himself in the peace, sitting for hours, listening to the distant trickle of a stream, the sway of trees, and the rustle of unseen creatures stalking the forest. Silence had replaced the chaos, though it had come with a cost. It always did. How could it not? Yet, with that silence came a clarity he hadn’t known in years.

War had taken its toll on everyone, and Garen knew all too well how it had taken its toll on him.

Life in the wilderness was nothing like it had been in the Seven Worlds, where silence was a rarity, something to be sought out. In the crowded cities, such stillness was unimaginable. But on Chiex, that quiet had become something Garen had learned to appreciate. The nearest settlement was the Camerian outpost, Calio Landing—the only real sign of civilization on this remote world. The small spaceport saw the occasional trade vessel or passenger ship, though their arrivals were more of a hope than a certainty.

Still, he didn’t live in complete isolation, though he often let people believe otherwise. It wasn’t entirely a lie—he was alone most of the time. Just not always.

Building the cabin had been a battle—not just against the land, but against himself. Chiex’s terrain was unforgiving, yet somehow, he had survived.

He hadn’t abandoned technology entirely, that was never the intention. It had its uses, and he didn’t shy away from it, but he employed it sparingly. Still, there was something raw, almost primal, about relying on the land. Every log he chopped, every crop he harvested, reminded him that this life, however difficult, was one he had earned with his own hands.

He had never planned to stay—not really. Chiex had been meant as a retreat, a brief escape from the relentless demands of Rhyus, the capital of the Seven Worlds, and the things he’d chosen to leave behind. But over time, the thought of leaving faded, drifting away like a memory he no longer needed. He’d be lying if he said the thought of returning to civilization had never crossed his mind—he’d considered it more than once. But each time, he chose to stay. Chiex wasn’t exile anymore; it was a choice. One he had made.

Yet even knowing that didn’t always make the solitude easier to bear.

His gaze swept the clearing, taking in the small patch of land that had become his. Stacks of firewood lined the cabin, and neat rows of his garden stretched nearby. At the far edge, his mud-caked off-road vehicle sat idle, a jumble of salvaged parts, weathered but functional. Beyond it, the narrow path disappeared into the dense woods.

He glanced at the woodpile. Almost done. A small wave of relief washed over him. The work was hard, but each task brought its own reward, even if the satisfaction was short. There’s always more to do, always something else waiting. He had chopped enough wood for the winter—he hoped. But on Chiex, nothing was ever certain.

He sank into the worn porch chair, its cushion long since flattened. The evening pressed in—cold, quiet—broken only by the rustle of branches and the occasional distant calls of unseen creatures. Most were familiar to Garen, though even after all this time, there were still some he couldn’t easily identify.

As he lingered, night fell, shadows stretching across the clearing. Stars blinked into the sky. Garen’s rough, calloused hands rested on his knees as he listened. The wind, once a gentle whisper, carried something unusual tonight—heavier, more deliberate. His eyes flicked toward the treeline, narrowing. Something often lurked out there in the depths of the forest—the snap of a broken branch betraying its presence—but tonight felt different, a feeling he couldn’t quite place. What’s out there this time? A Yorbel? He shook his head, pushing the thought aside.

He glanced up, tracing the familiar constellations. The twin moons hung overhead. one full, the other a pale crescent, bathing the clearing in soft silver light. His gaze settled on a distant star, holding it for a moment.

"Rhyus," he murmured.

He lingered on the star before moving on to name the others nearby, a habit he'd picked up over the years. Only on this remote world could he stargaze without the glow of city lights dimming the view. The cool breeze grew stronger, stirring the trees, rustling the leaves, and biting more sharply at his skin.

He wasn’t in a rush to head inside, but the cold forced him. His sweat had dried, and his breath formed pale clouds in the crisp air. With a sigh, Garen rose from his chair, his knees protesting after sitting for hours, following a long day on his feet.

He descended the porch steps, grabbed an armful of chopped wood, and climbed back up, nudging the door open with his foot. The hinges creaked softly. Inside, the cabin was dark, save for the dim glow of dying embers in the hearth. Setting the wood down, Garen split fresh kindling and added some dried moss he had been collecting, tossing it in with a few larger logs. Within moments, flames sprang to life, spreading warmth through the small room. He stretched his hands toward the fire, the crackling wood filling the silence.

The cabin was small and simple, built for him and him alone. Visitors were rare, and none were ever invited. He told himself he preferred it that way, though sometimes, I’m not so sure. As the cold season approached, those feelings always intensified. He still ventured outside, but rarely strayed far from the cabin during the planet’s harshest months. His desires shifted with the seasons, when warmer weather returned, so did his restlessness. But the feeling always fades, doesn’t it? When the weather was kinder, he could focus on other interests. The discontent that crept in during the colder months would eventually fade, just like it always did. But for now, the coldest days had yet to begin.

Books lay scattered around the room, some so old they threatened to fall apart. In one corner, a blinking communications console pulsed steadily, cobbled together from mismatched parts. Klamarez had called it a "good model," but Garen suspected that was more optimism than truth. Still, it worked—most of the time. Tools hung on the walls: a bow, a quiver of arrows, a fishing rod, and a carved wooden falcata mounted nearby. Like everything here, they served their purpose. The small kitchen was tucked beside a cluttered work desk, while a fur-draped bed lay across from the hearth, with an old chest at its foot. It was a cozy little cabin made for one.

After a quick shower, Garen changed into clean clothes, though they were still worn and frayed. The water, heated by a fire in a drum beneath the hearth, a complicated contraption that, surprisingly, worked, was enough to refresh him. He settled back into his chair, picked up a book, and activated a lantern.

The book, an account of an ancient civilization long lost to history, was far from his first read-through. It blurred the line between myth and reality. Garen believed in those legends. There was evidence if you knew where to look within the galaxy. And Garen knew where to look, at least in a sense, but that barely narrowed it down. Most would dismiss such tales, he thought. But he had his own theories and ideas about the matter. If nothing else, it was something to ponder and pass the time.

He had barely turned a page when a soft beep broke the silence. The communications console flickered to life, and Garen sighed, setting the book aside. He crossed the room and pressed the answer button.

"Go ahead," he said, his tone flat.

Static crackled in response. A faint, garbled voice fought through the interference. Garen frowned. Only a handful of people ever contacted him, and only one would do so this late.

"Klamarez?" he muttered, irritation growing as static swallowed the reply. He adjusted the controls, but it was useless. Not tonight, he thought with a groan. I’m really not in the mood.

"If that’s you, Klamarez, I’ll stop by tomorrow," he muttered, his voice rough. He switched the console off.

Too late for this, Garen thought, glaring at the device. I need to get it fixed. He had never liked the console, but Klamarez had insisted—“for emergencies,” he’d said. Garen wasn’t convinced it was necessary.

He crossed the room and pulled a half-filled bottle of Camerian whisky from the shelf. The sharp scent hit him as he popped the top, almost overpowering. The smell briefly filled the room before fading. As he poured, the amber liquid swirled in the glass, a faint vapor rising before settling. The burn was familiar, harsh. Camerian whisky wasn’t exactly made for humans, but out here, choices were limited. He’d learned to tolerate it. Besides, it was the only thing from Calio Landing that didn’t turn his stomach.

Sinking back into his chair, Garen took a small sip, then set the glass down beside him. Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, occasionally gusting stronger. He picked up his book again, the whisky warming him as the fire crackled softly. A few chapters blurred by before his eyes grew heavy. The fire had dimmed but still held strong, keeping the cabin warm.

He often drifted off like this—book in hand, the hearth’s fading heat warding off the cold.

Outside, the wind howled briefly, then fell silent. Garen slipped into a deeper sleep, only to be pulled awake by an unfamiliar sound. It wasn’t the usual rustle of wildlife—this was something else. He was used to the night sounds: the distant howl of predators, the soft thud of hooves passing by. Those, he’d learned to ignore. They weren’t threats, not from inside the cabin. They passed, and any damage could be dealt with in the morning.

But this sound was different.

His eyes snapped open, heart pounding. Voices—he could hear voices. Camerian? he wondered. No. The cadence was off. He listened more intently, then realized: Human? Human voices. That was more alarming.

Garen slid the drawer open beside him, the wood scraping louder than expected. He winced at the noise. Meant to fix that, he thought, his fingers curling around the grip of his fusion-powered blaster, worn and marked with scratches and notches. He powered it up, the low hum of activation offering a small measure of comfort—but not enough.

Staying still, he tilted his head, straining to hear better. The fire crackled, momentarily pulling his attention. He glanced at it, irritation flickering in his eyes, as if scolding the flames for the distraction.

He refocused, trying to discern the intruders' intent. The cabin door was sturdy—built to withstand the elements and wildlife—but it wasn’t made for this. Whatever this is.

As he listened, he made out three distinct voices, low and muffled, carried through the night air. Too close. Could be more. Garen’s thoughts sharpened. I could be surrounded. Why now? It didn’t matter—they were here.

Footsteps creaked on the porch steps. Someone was climbing them.

Garen’s breath stilled as the words drifted through the night air.

"This is where General Garen Rivers lives?"

The voice, low and hushed, was clear enough for Garen to catch. His grip on the blaster remained steady. His mind ran through possibilities, none of them good. Slowly, deliberately, he adjusted his position, angling himself toward the door without making a sound.

Stay calm. Wait. He strained to hear more, trying to gauge their numbers, their intent.

He remained still, not yet ready to confirm his presence.