Mirelle
MirelleI wake with a jerk. The noise is loud and reverberates into my skull, and I recognize it immediately: An Ocretion craft. Terror and adrenaline surge and I jump to my feet, grabbing my dagger and small phaser.
“Father! It worked. They heard the signal. They’re here.” I glance over, and he’s still, his face pale. A trickle of blood is dried at the corner of his mouth. I race to him, touch his wrist, his neck, but he’s cold. So cold, and his chest is motionless.
Oh no. Please, no. Sweet Mother Earth—I’m not ready for this.
“Father.” I whisper it and grab his hand, but there’s not even time to say goodbye.
I race out of the hut and to the lookout ridge, peering up, and there’s the Ocretion craft, hovering, large and black, a sick beetle in the sky.
And here I am. Just me.
