THE ORDER OF THE VEILED BLADE

Beneath Nova Palermo’s volcanic haze in 3075, Luca Santoro, a hard-edged mechanic, wants nothing to do with the stars—until his uncle, Don Vito Santoro, unveils his birthright as the bastard son of Matteo, fallen Grandmaster of the Order of the Veiled Blade. When Admiral Kael Drayce torches the Santoro tower, seizing Vito and vowing genocide, Luca wields the Obsidian Scythe—a living relic of the Aetherions, its voice a seductive lure to power and ruin. Joined by rogue smuggler Mira Jax, disillusioned medic Lia Varran, and devout Sister Elena, Luca sparks a rebellion, awakening the Ecliptic Forge’s crystal-fueled dragon-ships to defy the Solarian Dominion’s tyranny.

The fight is merciless. Cousin Cassian’s knife in the back, Lady Zara Velar’s power plays, and the Scythe’s intoxicating visions of dominion test Luca’s soul. Liberation comes at a price—Elena’s death, Cassian’s last-second atonement, and Vito’s gut-wrenching admission: he sold Matteo out to Kael. Matteo’s own creation—a mind-sync weapon—became the Dominion’s chains, and Luca shatters them, triggering the Forge’s cataclysmic overload. Kael’s fleet burns in a supernova blaze, and the Dominion crumbles.

From the wreckage, Luca spurns the Ecliptic Throne, entombing the Scythe and forming the Council of Ashes—a tenuous pact of Houses and Order remnants. Years later, weathered but resolute, he mentors a new generation on a reborn Nova Palermo, finding solace with Lia while Mira hunts Dominion stragglers. But tranquility fractures when Mira’s desperate signal crackles through: the Crystal Lords—echoes of the Forge’s fury—rise from the nebula. With the Scythe’s light reigniting in his hands, Luca braces for an endless battle, its song a rallying cry to a galaxy forever on the edge of chaos.

THE AIR ON NOVA PALERMO was a bitter stew of sulfur and rust, coating Luca Santoro’s throat as he wrestled with a hover-freighter’s guts. Sparks spat from his plasma torch, flaring orange across the undercity garage’s gloom. The engine groaned—a beast on its last legs—and Luca muttered a curse, wiping sweat from his brow with a grease-black forearm. At twenty-five, he was wiry, hands hardened by years of resurrecting machines others had abandoned. His dark hair hung over eyes too green for this ash-drowned pit, a flicker of something alive amid the decay.

The undercity festered beneath Nova Palermo’s spires, a tangle of rusted pipes and flickering holo-ads, volcanic heat seeping through cracked stone. Starships rumbled overhead, their shadows taunting a sky the sun couldn’t pierce. Luca didn’t dream of the towers’ neon glow or the stars beyond. Dreams were a luxury, and down here, you survived on scraps.

“Luca!” A shout sliced through the machinery’s hum—sharp, impatient. He ignored it, probing the freighter’s fuel line. A shadow loomed at the garage’s edge: Tomaso, his uncle’s enforcer, a slab of a man in a long coat, scars crisscrossing his face like a map of bad choices. Two others flanked him, silent muscle.

“Vito wants you,” Tomaso said, his voice flat, though a tremor hid beneath it—fear, maybe. “Now.”

Luca kept his eyes on the engine. “Tell Don Vito I’m busy. This wreck’s due at the docks by dawn.”

Tomaso’s boots crunched glass as he closed in. “Not a request, kid. Move, or I carry you.”

Luca set the torch down, slow and deliberate, and stood, meeting Tomaso’s gaze. The enforcer towered over him, but Luca knew size didn’t win fights—timing did. He didn’t want this one, though. Not with Vito’s name hanging heavy. “Fine,” he said, snagging his oil-stained jacket. “But if this crate fails, you’re explaining it.”

Tomaso’s face stayed stone. No smirk, no quip. That alone set Luca’s nerves on edge.