Fenn sits in a tent, one of many now made permanent by the Imperial occupation of his homeworld. The sight of it disgusts him—a proud people reduced to surrendering their land to the so-called new galactic order. His jaw tightens as the thought churns in his mind, bitter and relentless.

His instincts prickle at the faint movement outside the tent’s entryway. His men are stationed in the airspace or along the perimeter—whoever this is, they’re uninvited.

“I’d think twice before trying something you’ll regret,” he calls, his voice calm but edged with warning as his hand slips beneath the table, bringing a blaster to bear with practiced ease.