Stelaryn’s world was a stark contrast to the luxuries of Harmony’s palace life. Xanthea, his home planet, was a place of deep divides—a world where towering cities, alive with a vibrant, pulsing light, rose high above the squalor of the common districts. Here, the elite lived in skyscrapers that glowed in soft hues of indigo and emerald, bathing their luxurious lives in a gentle radiance that spoke of prosperity and privilege. But on the outskirts, where Stelaryn and the other commoners lived, the air was thick with smoke and the acrid scent of machinery. The only glow came from sputtering streetlamps, casting dim, flickering light across cracked pathways and worn-down buildings.

Xanthea’s capital city, Daelion, was a paradox in motion. From a distance, the glittering towers gleamed with technological marvels, their sleek designs promising a utopian future. But up close, the truth of the city was revealed in every cracked sidewalk, every rundown alleyway. The rich soared above in their floating palaces, disconnected from the grinding poverty below, where life was a constant struggle for survival. Stelaryn knew this world well. It was the one he had been born into, and no amount of yearning for something more would change that simple fact.

Each day, Stelaryn walked through the crowded market district, a bustling chaos of voices and hurried steps, his heart weighted by the suffering he saw in every corner. Vendors shouted over one another, desperate to sell what little they had, their voices hoarse from hours of work. The aroma of fried food mixed with the bitter smell of burning fuel, a scent that clung to his clothes long after he left the market. Children darted between the stalls, their faces smudged with dirt, eyes wide and hollow from hunger. Stelaryn felt the weight of their gazes as he passed; they looked at him with a mixture of hope and resentment, as if he might be the one to change something, anything.

The market was a cacophony of desperation. It wasn’t unusual to see fights break out over the smallest scraps of food or water. Life here was a constant balancing act between survival and despair. People lived in the moment, because the future seemed like a luxury they couldn’t afford. And yet, amidst the squalor, there was a quiet sense of pride. The people of Xanthea were resilient, bound by a shared struggle and a deep-seated belief that things could one day be different. But that hope seemed distant, a far-off dream they had been chasing for too long.

Stelaryn’s own attire was simple—a faded blue tunic and worn trousers, both patched in several places. Like most commoners, he owned little, a stark reminder of the scarcity that marked every part of life here. Yet even as he moved through the crowded streets, he carried himself with a quiet determination, his sharp eyes taking in every detail, every injustice. His family had once lived in the elite districts, but after his father’s fall from grace and the loss of their wealth, they had been forced to move to the outskirts. It was here that Stelaryn had learned the true cost of wealth and power. He had watched as the ruling class abandoned the people they were meant to serve, their backs turned to the ones who had once helped build their empire.

The Xanthean elite, he knew, saw their planet as a realm of prosperity, a testament to their control and power. But here, in the districts they rarely visited, the commoners bore the burden of that wealth, their labor lining the pockets of those who lived high above. Stelaryn had always felt the sting of this divide, and as he grew older, the injustice of it all began to weigh more heavily on his heart. He would walk the streets with his head held high, but inside, he was filled with rage—rage at the system, at the betrayal of the elite, at the hollow promises of peace that seemed to ring in the air with each passing day.

The recent peace treaty was supposed to bring a new era—a time of unity and recovery. But Stelaryn could see it for what it was: a flimsy bandage over a festering wound. The elite had signed their names to a document, declaring peace, but nothing had changed. The rich were still rich, and the poor were still poor. The treaty meant nothing to the people who lived here, in the shadow of the towering skyscrapers that reached toward the sky, like reminders of all that had been taken from them.

For the common people, nothing had changed. The elite still controlled the resources, hoarding them while others scraped by on rations. He heard murmurs among the vendors, whispers of discontent, the same despair painted on every face he passed. The “peace” felt hollow, an agreement written for appearances, far removed from the reality of their lives. The promises of prosperity had never been fulfilled, and now they were nothing more than empty words.

As he walked through the market, his heart heavy with frustration, Stelaryn noticed a commotion by a vendor’s stall. A young Xanthean child—a boy, small and thin with wide, pleading eyes—had been caught trying to steal a piece of bread. An enforcer, dressed in dark armor that glinted under the dim light, loomed over him, hand raised, poised to strike. Stelaryn could see the terror in the boy’s face, a fear he himself had once known all too well. It was a fear that spoke of hunger, of desperation, of living in a world that valued nothing but power and wealth.

Without a second thought, Stelaryn pushed his way forward, his pulse quickening. He had seen this too many times before—punishments doled out by the enforcers, a cruel reminder of the unbalanced system that kept the poor in their place. His breath quickened, and a surge of adrenaline filled his veins as he stepped between the child and the enforcer, his expression hard, his eyes fixed on the enforcer’s sneering face. The crowd around them hushed, a tension settling over the street as they watched the scene unfold.

The enforcer’s lip curled in disdain. “Careful, Stelaryn,” he said, his voice low and mocking. “You don’t want to end up in the cells.” His tone dripped with contempt, a reminder of the ever-present power that the elite held over the commoners. He took a threatening step forward, raising his hand to strike.

Stelaryn’s jaw tightened, but he held his ground, his voice steady and unwavering. “If peace is truly what you want,” he said, each word deliberate, “you’d do well to stop treating us as if we’re beneath you.”

The enforcer glared, clearly weighing the consequences of pressing the issue. After a tense moment, he took a step back, casting one last withering look at Stelaryn before turning away, leaving the child unharmed. The crowd exhaled collectively, their murmurs rising in a soft wave. Stelaryn felt a rush of relief as the enforcer disappeared into the crowd, but he knew that he had taken a risk, one that would not go unnoticed.

The child looked up at him, his eyes wide with gratitude and surprise. Stelaryn crouched down, his expression softening. “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice gentler now.

The boy nodded, clutching the piece of bread as if it were a priceless treasure. Stelaryn reached into his pocket and handed him a small coin, barely enough for another meal, but it was all he had. “Go,” he said softly. “Get something to eat.”

The boy hesitated, then flashed a quick, grateful smile before darting off into the crowd, disappearing among the other children who watched from the shadows. The weight of the moment lingered in the air, a brief flicker of something resembling hope, as if for a moment, the world had righted itself.

As Stelaryn stood up, a murmur rippled through the onlookers, some of them nodding in quiet approval, others casting worried glances his way. He had put himself in danger, openly defying an enforcer of the elite, yet he felt a surge of exhilaration, a thrill of defiance. For the first time, he had done something, however small, to stand up for his people. It was a small victory, but it ignited something within him—a flame he could no longer ignore.

As he continued his walk home, Stelaryn’s mind raced with possibilities. He knew that his people’s suffering wouldn’t end with a single act of defiance, nor would it be solved by the meaningless treaty crafted by the elite. If change was to come, it would have to be from within, from the people themselves. Stelaryn’s quiet nature had kept him an observer until now, but something within him was shifting, growing stronger.

He thought about the child’s face, the look of fear that had turned into hope, if only for a brief moment. He thought of the countless others like him, struggling under the weight of a system designed to keep them in place, their voices silenced, their futures stolen. Stelaryn’s heart hardened with a new resolve; he would not stay silent any longer.

The sun dipped low on the horizon as he made his way back through the narrow, winding streets, the light casting long shadows that stretched across the ground like dark fingers. He felt the eyes of others on him, a mix of curiosity and apprehension, as if sensing the shift within him. They were waiting, hoping, just as he had been, for someone to act.

By the time he reached his modest dwelling, Stelaryn’s path was clear. He knew it would be dangerous, and he knew he would be risking everything, but he also knew that he could no longer ignore the injustice around him. If the treaty would not bring change, then perhaps it was time for the people to bring it themselves.

As he looked up at the distant glow of the elite’s city, Stelaryn felt his resentment harden into something sharper, something determined. He didn’t have power or wealth, but he had a voice, and he would use it. For the child at the market, for his people, and for all who had suffered under the weight of the elite’s rule, Stelaryn vowed to find a way to make a difference, no matter the cost.

Next Chapter: Kael’s Introduction