Elijah was the bravest of Richard’s knights—steadfast in battle and faithful in heart.
When the Lord shattered the Holy Star, a fragment fell before him and slid across the stone until it burst into flame.
The fire burned bright, then vanished, and in its place lay a sword of breathtaking beauty—a golden hilt set with jewels, and a blade alive with veins of living fire.
Elijah bowed low and reached for the sword. As his hands touched it, he felt a power stirring within.
The fire seemed to speak to him, calling from the depths of his spirit: Take me, and none shall stand against you.
Strength rose in him, fierce and consuming, and Elijah thought, With this power, I cannot be defeated.
He left the throne room quickly, the sword hidden beneath his cloak. Alone, he drew it forth, and light poured over him.
“With this sword,” he declared, “I am invincible.”
Then a voice echoed in the hall: “Temptation burns bright, doesn’t it?”
Elijah turned and saw the Emperor before him—Richard, his lord and king. The sight struck him to the ground.
“My lord,” Elijah cried, “forgive me. I have been consumed by pride.”
Richard’s voice was calm, yet filled with sorrow. “Fire does not kneel,” he said. “It burns master and foe alike.”
Elijah dropped the sword and bowed low, trembling.
But Richard said, “You have not failed, Elijah. Fire tests all who bear it. Take Callaeous to Tullivor, and there you and your descendants shall guard it until the Chosen One returns.”
As he spoke, his form began to fade, but his words lingered—etched forever in Elijah’s heart.
Elijah remained kneeling as the light of his lord dimmed, the fire’s glow still trembling in his hands.
–from The Holy Scriptures, Second Testament, Book of Elijah, Chapter Eleven
“And so the flame was hidden from the world, until the stars themselves remembered its name…” - Princess Isira of Atlantium
Chapter III
Callaeous Found
The command center's lights pulsed crimson as alarms flared.
“Denl’o betrayed me,” the Blood Prince snarled.
Guar could not fathom his advisor’s treachery. Denl’o had never shown ambition beyond duty — never the kind to sabotage his prince’s ship or seek the Sword of Fire for himself.
Guar rose from the throne at the center of his flagship’s command bridge, the metal beneath his boots vibrated with restrained power, echoing his rage.
“As of now,” he declared, his voice carrying across the chamber, “Chief Advisor Denl’o is branded a traitor to the kingdom.”
The words tasted bitter. Denl’o had served faithfully for years. I treated him well. The Sword of Fire tempts many—but I never believed he would hear its call.
“Captain,” Guar barked, breaking the silence. “Damage report.”
Captain Oat’ha hurried forward — short, broad, his armor still scarred from past victories—loyal, unlike his fallen predecessor. The Corian officer stopped at the base of the dais and snapped to attention.
“The damage is extensive, sire,” he reported, producing a datapad. A holographic core flickered above his pad, its fractures glowing like veins of broken glass. “Denl’o’s sabotage was thorough. Repair crews are working at maximum speed. I expect a full assessment shortly.”
Denl’o’s sabotage.
The phrase hung in the air like acrid smoke. Guar felt the sting of betrayal clawing at his chest. Betrayal burns deeper than flame, he thought, and no engineer can repair what loyalty destroys.
“Your Highness!” a communications officer called. “The King requests your presence.”
Of course he does, Guar thought. The old man always sensed the precise moment to remind me who commands whom.
Electric-blue energy spiraled before the command dais, forming into the towering image of the King — his father — his glare sharp as plasma fire.
“Why have you not returned?” the King demanded.
Guar dropped to one knee. “Apologies, my King. We’ve encountered…minor complications with the drive core, sire.”
The hologram crackled as the King’s fury grew. “I do not want excuses. Bring my ship home immediately.” He paused, his voice lowering into a warning growl. “Do not let the Empire discover you until—”
“Incoming vessel!” another bridge officer interrupted.
The King’s image darkened with rage. “Guar! See what you’ve done? You’d better handle—”
He severed the channel with a flick of his gauntleted hand, the old man’s voice dissolving into static.
Guar straightened, every ember of humiliation turning instantly to rage.
He turned sharply. “Identify that ship.”
“Empire cruiser, sire.”
Guar’s lips curled into a snarl. “Battle stations!”
Alarms wailed; Oat’ha’s commands snapped through the chaos.
“Raise shields!”
“Energize all batteries! Launch fighter drones!”
Guar stood tall before the forward viewport as the stars beyond flared into the light of approaching engines. At last, he thought. Now we shall test the Empire’s mettle.
Captain Gerric Noah sat in the command chair. The hum of the bridge resonated beneath his boots as he stared into the endless sea of stars.
Recently promoted, he felt command settle on his shoulders — heavy, yet exhilarating. This was his first mission as captain of an Empire cruiser, and the honor filled him with quiet pride.
For millennia the Empire’s peace endured through its fleets and the vigilance of its officers. Now Gerric finally wore their mantle — to serve, to protect, to prove himself worthy.
Just hours ago he had deployed a squadron of Paladins to New Tullivor. Now he hunted a vessel that had fled the starport — the trail still warm, the void silent.
That changed when his tactical officer called out, “Contact, sir! Heading one-four-eight mark zero-six-zero!”
Finally. Gerric straightened. He rose slightly in his chair, pulse quickening. “Helm, adjust course. Ahead three-quarters.”
The deck vibrated as the cruiser accelerated. Moments later a glimmer pierced the dark — a lone spark against the stars.
“Magnify,” Gerric ordered.
The viewport expanded the image, revealing a monolithic vessel — golden-hued, its hull gleaming like a forged idol, bristling with weapon arrays.
That was not the ship that blasted out of New Tullivor. Gerric’s pulse quickened. “Hail them.”
The comm officer’s fingers flew over the console. Static hissed through the speakers. “No response, sir.”
He frowned, rubbing his chin. The design was ancient — ceremonial even — yet radiated power beyond any Imperial craft. His crew was well-trained, but they had never faced a situation like this.
“Call General Quarters,” His tone cut cleanly through the bridge as red lights pulsed along the bulkheads. The hum of readiness filled the bridge.
“Contact Command,” he added. “Advise them of the situation. See if any other fleet vessels are nearby.”
“Yessir.” The comm officer turned back to his console. Seconds later the officer’s face drained of color. “All communications are being jammed.”
“What?” He shot from his chair, the word cracking through the air.
“Captain!” the tactical officer cried. “Incoming fighter drones!”
“Battle stations!” Gerric barked. “Activate drone countermeasures!”
The cruiser trembled as power surged through its systems. The deck thrummed beneath their boots.
“We’re outgunned,” Gerric muttered under his breath. “Helm, evasive pattern delta. Get us clear!”
Engines flared white as the cruiser veered sharply. Dozens of drones swarmed in pursuit, spitting streaks of plasma. Their fire splashed harmlessly against the shields — at first.
“Countermeasures engaged,” reported the executive officer. “We’re scoring hits, but shields are down to sixty percent.”
The bridge pulsed with warning lights. Gerric’s hands clenched around the armrests. He trusted his crew. But this was no skirmish — this was war.
“Helm, report!” he demanded.
The pilot’s fingers blurred across the console. “Hyperdrive charging — ten seconds to warp!”
Let’s hope we have ten seconds, Gerric thought.
A low rumble echoed across the hull. Then — a blinding flash.
The golden dreadnought fired.
“Incoming!” shouted the executive officer. “Brace for impact!”
“Evasive port!” Gerric yelled, but the maneuver came too late.
The energy bolt struck dead center. The cruiser lurched violently. Sparks cascaded from the ceiling. Consoles burst into flame. The bridge filled with smoke and chaos. The heat rolled over him like a wave; alarms screamed in crimson bursts.
“Report!” Gerric coughed through the haze.
“Shields are gone!” someone cried.
“Hyperdrive offline!” another shouted.
Gerric turned to his first officer. Their eyes met — both men understanding, without words, that there was no escape. He straightened, the weight of command pressing down like gravity itself.
Guar leaned forward in his throne, crimson eyes alight with satisfaction as the shattered Imperial cruiser shimmered across the viewscreen. The impact from his ship’s main cannon still rippled through the ether like distant thunder.
“Their shields are down,” an officer reported.
Guar smiled — slow, deliberate. The Paranac torpedo had proven its legend true — a relic reborn through his engineers’ genius. Its power pleased him.
Yet, something else gnawed at him. The Empire ship had not fought back — not with the fury he expected. His gauntleted fingers drummed against the armrest as he wondered…Have they grown soft? Has peace made them blind to war?
As if in answer, a streak of blue light flared across the void. The cruiser fired.
Guar’s amusement returned. He rose from his throne, voice sharp as a drawn blade.
“I want that ship shredded.”
The bridge trembled as batteries roared to life. The void erupted in the fury of the Blood Prince’s vengeance.
This, Guar thought as the enemy’s defenses began to crumble, will be fun.
“I need options,” Captain Gerric barked. His voice cut through the haze of smoke and sparking consoles. The bridge stank of ozone and burning circuitry.
And quickly, he thought grimly, or we’re dead.
“Captain,” the tactical officer called out, “I just ran a deep scan on their ship.”
Gerric turned sharply. “Report.”
“Their hyperdrive is damaged, sir.”
Gerric froze for half a second. We didn’t do that, he realized. Which meant the enemy was vulnerable.
“Concentrate fire on their engines,” he ordered. “If we can cripple their propulsion, we might stand a chance.”
He rose from his command chair, stepping behind the helmsman. The bridge trembled as the cruiser’s guns fired another volley into the void.
“Helm,” Gerric said, gripping the back of the pilot’s seat, “see if you can swing us behind them.”
“Yessir!” the helmsman replied, hands flying over the controls.
The deck bucked as the cruiser swung to flank the golden dreadnought. Gerric could feel his heartbeat in his throat, the hum of the engines resonating through his bones.
“This may be the only way we can get out of this,” he murmured — more to himself than to anyone else.
Outside the viewport, streaks of plasma fire crossed the black. The Empire’s cruiser, battered but not broken, angled through the storm of fire for one last desperate strike.
The void became a cathedral of fire — each blast a hymn, each flare a dying prayer.
Guar grinned as his ship’s weapons tore into the enemy vessel. The void beyond his viewport bloomed with color — arcs of plasma fire and shattering light painting the darkness. A violent, magnificent ballet, and he savored every note of destruction.
“Captain, the enemy vessel is attempting to move in behind us,” a bridge officer reported.
“Counter their maneuver,” the captain replied, his tone cool, controlled.
The smaller ship thinks it can outfly us, Guar mused, amusement tugging at his lips. But my dreadnought is no beast — it is a god of war.
He leaned forward, watching the Imperial cruiser try to dance around his ship’s flanks. His helmsman moved with precision, matching the enemy’s movements until the opposing vessel remained fixed squarely in the viewport.
“Captain!” another officer called. “They’re focusing their fire on our engines!”
Guar’s expression darkened. “They must have discovered Denl’o’s sabotage,” he muttered.
Then, louder — his voice slicing through the air like a blade — “Blast them out of the void!”
Outside, the dreadnought’s batteries ignited in unison, unleashing a storm of fire that swallowed the stars.
He watched impassively as flame consumed steel, the reflected light flickering like old prayers on cathedral glass.
Captain Gerric Noah — once proud of his new command — could only watch as his ship died around him.
The bridge burned. Consoles spat sparks. Smoke choked the air — thick with ozone and despair.
He sank into his command chair, sweat and ash streaking his face. Pressing the comm control on the armrest, he called out hoarsely, “Engineering, report! What’s left of us?”
A burst of static answered before a weary voice broke through. “Not much, Captain. We might have auxiliary power in a few minutes.”
“We don’t have a few minutes,” Gerric replied, his voice calm, almost eerily so. He turned toward his communications officer. “Signal our surrender.”
The officer nodded solemnly. Fingers trembled over the controls as he tried to raise the enemy vessel. Seconds passed. Then he turned, eyes hollow.
“No response, sir.”
Gerric exhaled, long and heavy. “Whoever they are… they’re giving no quarter.”
He straightened in his chair. “Abandon ship.”
The words hung in the smoke before anyone moved—then the comm officer relayed the command, voice cracking over the intercom: “All hands, abandon ship! Proceed to your assigned escape craft immediately!”
Gerric rose to his feet. Through the smoke, he saw his first officer directing crewmen toward the escape corridors. The man turned as Gerric approached.
“It was a good run, Stan,” Gerric said with a faint, grim smile. “A brief one… but good.”
The first officer straightened and saluted. “It was an honor, Captain.”
Gerric returned the nod. “Go. Save yourself — someone must remember.”
As his friend vanished down the corridor, Gerric crossed the bridge to the helm. Sitting behind the blackened console, he steadied his hands on the controls. Through the viewport he watched the escape shuttles rise — and die, one by one, in fire.
Grief gripped him like a vice. His crew — his responsibility — was being slaughtered before his eyes.
That grief hardened into something else.
Rage.
Gerric rerouted what little power remained, channeling the last of the ship’s energy to the thrusters and forward batteries. The dying cruiser’s engines flared, straining against the void.
“For my crew,” he growled through clenched teeth. “For the Empire.”
He locked the course directly into the heart of the enemy dreadnought — and drove his ship forward.
As he hurled the ship toward the golden leviathan, he thought of the stars he would never see again.
Victory was at hand. The Imperial cruiser drifted in ruin — its defiance extinguished.
He had refused their plea for surrender. Mercy was weakness — a luxury of the unscarred.
On the main viewport, streaks of plasma still danced across the darkness. Among them, Guar noticed faint specks breaking away from the dying vessel.
Escape craft.
He exhaled once, steadying the storm in his chest. “Destroy those shuttles.”
Captain Oat’ha relayed the order, and moments later the dreadnought’s batteries unleashed their wrath. Drone squadrons swooped in, cutting through the fleeing vessels...like hawks through drifting ash. One by one, the escape pods flared and vanished.
Guar watched, expression unreadable, then allowed himself a slow smile
“No one will know we were here.” No one... but me, he thought — and the fire.
“Captain!” an officer called out. “The enemy vessel is on a collision course!”
Guar’s eyes narrowed. “A final act of desperation,” he said with grim amusement. He turned to his captain. “End it.”
“All batteries, full power! Ready the primary weapon!” Oat’ha commanded.
The dreadnought shuddered as its guns roared. Bolts of white fire hammered the oncoming ship, peeling it open plate by plate. Still it advanced — blazing, broken, relentless.
For a fleeting moment, Guar almost admired the captain’s resolve. Almost.
The cruiser surged closer — then erupted into a searing sphere of white-hot plasma.
Guar squinted against the glare flooding the bridge. When the light faded, only silence and drifting debris remained.
He turned to Oat’ha. His voice was calm again, the battle already ash in his mind. “Can we go after Denl’o now?”
The captain straightened. “Yes, sire. Engineering reports the hyperdrive is fully restored.”
“Then proceed,” Guar commanded.
As his captain barked orders, Guar settled into his throne. The deckplates thrummed beneath his boots as power built within the ship’s core. The stars stretched into streams of light across the viewport — and the dreadnought leapt into the void.
Denl’o will learn to regret his treachery, Guar thought, eyes gleaming.
The hunt had begun.
“Secure from jump,” Captain Oat’ha ordered. “Augur the region — locate Denl’o.”
The dreadnought’s engines hummed as it stabilized from hyperspace. Ion residue still ghosted across the hull from the jump. Stars shimmered back into focus — a lonely system surrounding a single blue sun. No planets. No stations. Nothing but silence.
A waystation between stars, Guar thought. The perfect place to hide.
He rose from his throne and approached the central viewport, hands clasped behind his back. The light of the blue star cast his crimson armor in cold reflection.
“He’s here,” he growled. His fury had not cooled since Denl’o’s betrayal. The hunt was all that kept the fire steady within him. “We just need to find him.”
As if answering his anger, the tactical officer called out, “Contact — bearing zero-four-two by two-two-three!”
Captain Oat’ha studied his console. “Confirmed. A freighter.”
He squinted at the readings again, brow furrowing. “It appears derelict. Minimal power signatures… but it’s not the ship Denl’o stole.”
Guar turned sharply. “We’re here. Investigate.”
Oat’ha straightened, voice brisk. “Helm, take us to the target. Flank speed.”
The dreadnought surged forward. As it closed the distance, the freighter came into view — drifting, wounded. Then, faint and shadowed, another vessel emerged attached to it. Two carcasses in orbit, caught in the blue sun’s pallid light.
“There,” Guar said, a cruel smile forming. “Denl’o’s ship.”
He turned toward his captain. “Ready my shuttle.”
The freighter corridor Guar stepped into from his docked shuttle was dimly lit, its walls stained and deckplates dulled by age. Dust motes drifted in the shuttle’s beam, painting the passage in ghostly gold.
The ship breathed no air, no sound—only Denl’o’s handiwork remained.
He motioned for his troopers to move forward. Their armored boots thudded dully across the deck.
“My Prince,” one of them said, visor glowing with scanner readouts, “I’m auguring only one life pulse aboard. It’s faint.”
“Where?” Guar asked.
“Main cargo bay. Two decks down.”
They descended through narrow hatches until the corridor opened into a cavernous hold. Crates and containers lined the walls like tombstones, casting long shadows beneath the dim emergency lights. Each shadow seemed to shift as they passed, as if the ship itself watched them.
“Search,” Guar ordered.
The troopers fanned out. After a few moments, one called out, “Over here!”
Guar strode across the bay — and there, lying motionless among the cargo, was Denl’o.
The traitor.
His half brother.
“Is he dead?” Guar demanded.
A trooper knelt and scanned the body. “No, my Prince. But his life pulse barely registers.”
Guar dismissed the soldier and knelt beside the man who had once been his confidant — and blood.
He studied Denl’o’s face — pale, streaked with grime and regret. Despite the rage that burned, an old ache stirred — the ghost of a brotherhood never named.
“Why, brother?” he whispered. “We shared the same father’s blood, the same purpose. Why betray me?”
For a heartbeat, Guar saw not the traitor but the boy who once trained beside him, laughing in the sparring rings beneath twin suns.
No answer came. Only the hiss of distant air leaking through the fractured hull.
Guar stood, eyes hardening. He clapped once, sharp and echoing. Two troopers rushed forward.
“Take him back to the ship,” Guar commanded. “Use the stolen freighter — and throw him in the brig.”
The soldiers obeyed, lifting Denl’o’s limp body. As they carried him away, Guar turned to follow — then stopped.
A whisper touched his thoughts. Soft. Familiar. Like a voice long dead. A warmth pricked at his temples, a pulse beneath the silence.
He turned, scanning the bay. Between two crates, something glimmered faintly — gold and red.
He approached slowly, drawn by an unseen pull. Reaching down, his hand brushed against metal — warm, alive. He gripped the jeweled hilt and drew it from its resting place.
A sword — golden, encrusted with rubies. The blade pulsed with fiery veins. The heat licked up his arm like liquid sunlight.
Callaeous.
Guar’s breath caught. The Sword of Fire.
He raised it high, and light filled the bay — fierce, pure, terrible. It’s real, he thought. And it’s mine.
Power surged through him like liquid flame, setting his blood alight. Strength, intoxicating and immense, coursed through every nerve.
The fire turned inward, clawing through muscle and bone.
Guar cried out, collapsing to the deck, the sword clattering beside him.
As darkness closed around him, he heard a voice — soft and maternal, drifting from somewhere beyond the veil.
“Worthy… my son.”
And the fire answered.
Next in the Quest for the Star Anthology…
GUARDIANS OF PEACE
Across the ruins of New Tullivor, a mystery awakens. A Paladin squadron tracks a stolen freighter into the silent dark—unaware that something ancient, armored, and impossibly powerful waits aboard.
As their hunt takes them beyond the edge of known space, a single spark will ignite a storm of prophecy, fire, and blood… and the Empire will learn that not all guardians serve the Light.
© 2026 Michael J. Barnes
Quest for the Star and all associated characters, locations, organizations, and story elements are the intellectual property of Michael J. Barnes. All rights reserved.
No portion of this work may be reproduced or distributed without permission from the author.