1. Ariana

CHAPTER 1

ARIANA

I clutch the bag of groceries to my chest, feeling the weight of my dwindling credits as I navigate the crumbling streets of Armstrong. The once-bustling marketplace now stands in eerie silence, buildings leaning like exhausted sentinels. The scent of dust and decay mingles with the faint aroma of something burnt—probably the last vestiges of someone's meager meal.

"Hey, Ariana," a voice calls from a darkened alley.

I turn to see Max, a wiry man with a permanent scowl etched into his face. He’s one of the profiteers who have taken over since the aid programs pulled out.

"Max." I nod, keeping my voice steady.

"Got anything good in there?" He points to my bag with a leer.

"Just enough for three days," I say, gripping the bag tighter. "Barely worth mentioning."

Max snorts. "Better than most. You know where to find me if you need more."

"I'll pass," I reply, already walking away.

His laughter follows me down the street, mingling with the distant sounds of construction and the occasional burst of static from malfunctioning holo-ads. My heart pounds in my chest, more from anger than fear. These vultures have no shame, preying on those of us who can’t afford to leave this forsaken place.

I pass by a group of children playing in the rubble, their laughter a stark contrast to the bleak surroundings. One of them looks up and waves at me.

"Hi, miss!" she calls out, her voice bright and hopeful.

"Hi there!" I manage a smile. "Stay safe, okay?"

The little girl nods vigorously before returning to her game. It isn't fair. She should have a safe place to run, learn, and play to her heart's content. I wonder if her parents know she's making toys out of sharp, metallic rubble.

I wonder if her parents are even alive.

I keep walking, my steps quickening as I near home. I pass by what remains of a once vibrant shopping center. Now it's nothing but bent metal beams and a smoldering hole in the ground. The bombs may have stopped dropping, but the consequences remain.

I notice the shadows of a few people digging fruitlessly through the rubble. Whether they're searching for canned food or scrap to sell, they're out of luck. Anything worth anything is long gone from this planet.

Inside, I set the bag down on the worn kitchen table and take a deep breath. The air smells faintly of mildew and old wood, but it's familiar—a reminder that I'm still here, still surviving.

I pull out the scant groceries: a loaf of bread that’s already going stale, a couple of bruised vegetables, and a small package of protein cubes—barely enough to stretch three days if I'm careful.

I set the bruised vegetables on the counter and start chopping. The knife feels heavy in my hand, the rhythm of the blade against the board oddly soothing. As I work, my eyes wander to the stack of bills lying next to the sink. Rent, electricity, water—they’re all there, staring at me like a judge passing a sentence.

"Figures," I mutter, slicing a wilted carrot into thin rounds. "It’s like they multiply when I’m not looking."

I toss the carrots into a pot with some water and switch on the burner. The faint blue flame flickers uncertainly, much like my hope of ever catching up on these payments. I shake my head and focus on the task at hand. A makeshift soup will have to do.

While waiting for the water to boil, I grab one of the protein cubes and bite into it before tossing it in. It tastes like cardboard and sadness, but it's sustenance.

"Yum," I say dryly to myself.

I glance at the clock on the wall—a relic from better times when it actually kept good time. Now it's more of a rough estimate. Just enough time to eat before heading to work.

Work. The word feels both promising and daunting. Valen’s party tonight could be my saving grace, but it’s hard to reconcile with the world outside my window. Parties, in this desolate place? The rich must live in a bubble of their own creation.

"What kind of person throws a party while people are starving?"

The thought nags at me as I sip my soup—thin broth with floating vegetable bits that do little to ease my hunger or my worries.

The job’s good money, though. More than enough to keep me afloat for another month if I play my cards right.

"Just get through tonight," I tell myself, lifting the spoon to my lips again. "Smile, be polite, don’t break anything."

As I finish up my meager meal, I catch sight of myself in the cracked mirror hanging by the door. My hair's in its usual waves but needs taming, and there are dark circles under my eyes that no amount of rest seems to erase.

"You’ve got this," I whisper to my reflection before heading out.

Stepping into the street, I pull my shawl tighter around me against the chill evening air. The sun's setting behind a horizon littered with skeletal remains of buildings, casting long shadows that seem almost sentient.

The walk to Valen’s place isn't far, but every step feels heavy with anticipation and doubt. By the time I reach his estate—a stark contrast to everything around it—I’m almost too stunned by its opulence to move.

Two guards stand at attention by the gate. They eye me suspiciously as I approach.

"I’m here for work," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

One of them checks a list and nods reluctantly before letting me through.

Inside, everything is polished surfaces and muted luxury—an alien world compared to mine. Valen himself stands near a grand staircase, talking quietly with someone important-looking.

Our eyes meet briefly across the room. His intense green gaze holds mine for just a second too long before he turns back to his conversation.

The butler appears almost immediately, ushering me with brisk efficiency toward the servant's quarters. The stark contrast between the opulent halls and the narrow, dimly lit corridor we traverse makes me feel like I’m crossing into another world.

"Quickly now," he says, barely sparing me a glance. "You’re expected on the floor in five minutes."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and follow him into a small room filled with uniforms. He hands me one—a plain black dress with a white apron—and points to a partition for privacy.

I change quickly, feeling the rough fabric against my skin, and tie the apron around my waist. As I step out, he thrusts a tray of drinks into my hands.

"Serve these to the guests in the main hall," he instructs. "And remember, you're invisible."

Invisible. Right. I give a quick nod and head out, balancing the tray as I weave through the crowd. The clinking of glasses and murmur of conversations fill the air, punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter.

As I move through the sea of finely dressed guests, snippets of their conversations catch my ear.

"—no one really knows where Valen’s wealth comes from," one woman says, her voice dripping with curiosity.

"Rumor has it he made his fortune during the Centuries War," another guest replies. "Selling weapons to both sides."

A man scoffs. "War profiteering? Please. He's probably just an accomplished con man."

"Well, if we're to know where his money came from, one would think you would start with where he comes from himself."

The words intrigue me, making my gaze drift toward Valen every chance I get. He's magnetic, standing there with an air of command that makes it impossible to look away for long.

His dark hair, golden skin, and twin horns make him stand out, even without the imposing yet somehow relaxed posture he exudes. Each stolen glance only fuels my curiosity about this enigmatic kilgari man.

Balancing the tray with one hand, I manage to offer drinks to a group of guests while keeping an ear on their conversation.

"—you'd think someone would have uncovered his secrets by now," one says.

"Secrets or not," another adds, "he's undeniably captivating."

I couldn’t agree more. Every time our eyes meet—even briefly—I feel a pull that’s hard to explain. It's more than just physical attraction; there's something deeper that I can’t quite put my finger on.

Navigating through the crowd becomes second nature as I listen and observe. Valen’s presence looms large over the gathering, his green eyes flicking across the room like he’s always calculating something.

"You think he's dangerous?" a woman whispers to her companion as she takes a drink from my tray.

"Dangerous?" The man chuckles softly. "Perhaps. But who isn't in these times?"

I move on before they notice me lingering too long, my mind racing with questions about Valen’s past and his mysterious wealth. The more I hear, the more I want to know about him.

He catches me looking again, and this time he doesn’t look away immediately. There’s an intensity in his gaze that sends a shiver down my spine—equal parts allure and warning.

I return to serving drinks but can't shake the feeling that there's much more to Valen than meets the eye. The mystery surrounding him only makes him more magnetic, drawing me in despite myself.

As I pass by another group of guests speculating about Valen’s origins—some suggesting he might be involved in something even darker—I realize just how much I've become captivated by this enigmatic kilgari man.

The night wears on, but my curiosity only grows stronger with each passing minute spent in his presence. Who is Valen really? And why do I feel this undeniable pull toward him?