You met Kyra when you were ten years old and she was eleven. You were supposed to stay at your mother's side, all poised smiles and perfect manners, while important negotiations happened in the shipyards. But the halls stank of oil and desperation, the heat was unbearable under the heavy jacket you wore, and the whole scene made your skin itch. So, when no one was looking, you slipped away, your steps light and practiced, disappearing into the tangle of metal walkways and broken ships.

You found her near a battered old hauler, standing like she belonged to it — no, like it belonged to her. The girl was tall and thin, hair like pale fire and eyes sharp as cut glass. There was grease smudged across her freckled arms, scars on her knuckles, and a dangerous kind of confidence in the way she sized you up. When you demanded to know her name — not thinking, just falling back into the trained habits of rank and ritual — she only shrugged and said, "Kyra. Just Kyra," like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She didn’t bow. She didn’t even look impressed. And for the first time in your carefully polished, carefully monitored life, you felt something inside you loosen and breathe.

From then on, you found every excuse to see her again. Every time your parents visited the yards, every time there was a shipment or a deal to oversee, you slipped past your guards with practiced ease. Sometimes she found you first, grinning from the top of a cargo crane, tossing a spare bolt at your head like an invitation. She taught you the freedom of falling — how to leap between rooftops without fear, how to land with your knees bent and your heart racing. You taught her other things, quieter things: how to read the old stellar maps, how to dance the Lunar Waltz barefoot on a battered service platform, how to speak in the twisting, hidden scripts your people loved.

Kyra's world was messy, beautiful chaos, and you dove into it headfirst, even when it left bruises on your knees and grease on your skirts. Because in that world, you weren't an ornament or a pawn. You were just... you.

Now, at eighteen, you're meant to be preparing for your betrothal season. Your parents whisper names like Lyraen Solis and Serian Vallis over dinner, their eyes gleaming with ambition. You smile and nod, just as you were taught, all the while feeling the walls close tighter around you. Because your heart is not in the golden halls of Virellia. It’s here — on the rusted edge of a forgotten cooling tower — with Kyra.

Tonight, the city stretches out below like a bed of embers, the air heavy with the hum of distant engines. Kyra sits beside you, boots swinging over the void, her jacket stained with oil and her hair tied up in a loose knot she barely bothered with. She tosses a broken drone coil into the night, watching it disappear into the dark, and when she turns to look at you, her mint green eyes catching the starlight, the rest of the world falls away.

"If you could go anywhere," you ask, your voice barely more than a whisper, "where would you go?"

But in your heart, the real question aches unspoken: Would you take me with you?

Kyra shrugged and played with your fingers, her face flush as she whispered,

"I just... I want to be free. Free to see beyond the scrapyard. Free to explore the far ends of the system."

Kyra paused and smirked as she said,

"You could come too princess, that would be extra fun. A real adventure."