#solarians

"BRYCIAN." The name escaped Atlas Moonlight's lips in a hoarse, breathless whisper—sharp as a blade drawn in the dark. His amethyst eyes snapped open, wild and searching, the shadows of sleep retreating in a rush of cold awareness. His chest heaved with every breath, heart pounding beneath skin slick with sweat. As he shot upright in bed, muscles coiled and trembling like drawn wires, a faint glow pulsed over his sternum: a fine-lined sunburst nested into a crescent moon. The tattoo throbbed softly, almost alive, echoing the remnants of the dream—or the warning—it had just etched into his bones.

Sunlight filtered in through the narrow slit of a window above his bed, spilling across the stone walls of his quarters. The beams of light traced along the hard lines of his bare chest and the chiseled ridges of his arms, highlighting the sheen of sweat clinging to his skin. The light was soft, almost delicate—but it offered no comfort.

It was the same dream.

Again.

The field of moonflowers. Endless and silver, stretching beyond the horizon, swaying in a breeze that whispered but never touched. The petals shimmered like stardust under a sky too vast, too quiet. The air was thick with stillness, a kind of sacred hush that pressed in around him every time he returned.

And then he would appear—Brycian.

Always at a distance. Always turned slightly away, as if Atlas had arrived too late to catch the fullness of his gaze. The edges of his presence were soft, like a memory remembered in fragments. His smile—fragile and fleeting—held something that shattered Atlas a little more each time. And those eyes... eclipse-gold—molten gold irises ringed with shadow. Vast. Knowing. Endless.

Atlas always reached for him. And Brycian always slipped away.

Gone. Like smoke in the wind.

A sharp breath tore through Atlas's lungs. He scrubbed a trembling hand down his face, his fingers dragging through the sweat-mussed strands of his dark brown hair. The tremor betrayed what his expression never would—the storm that raged quietly beneath the surface. He clenched his jaw, trying to shove the dream back into the shadows, but it refused to go. It never did.

This wasn't just a dream. Not anymore. Not after so many nights. It had become something else. A message. A memory. Or perhaps... a curse.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, the cold stone floor biting against the soles of his feet. Reaching toward the nightstand carved from sunstone, he found the object that had become his sanctuary—his journal. A worn, leather-bound tome, the color of midnight, soft from years of use. Its surface was etched with delicate Lunarian glyphs—ancient symbols of remembrance, concealment, and spiritual anchoring.

This was where he kept the parts of himself he never allowed others to see. The truths too fragile to speak aloud. The ghosts he hadn't yet faced.

He opened it slowly, turning past pages filled with tactical diagrams, coded messages, and entries scrawled in the messy rush of wartime confessions. Finally, he found a clean page. The quiet that settled around him now was different. Thicker. Expectant. Like the dream had followed him here, waiting to be named.

Atlas picked up his ink pen, its tip hovering for a heartbeat before he began to write. His usually precise hand wavered at first, but the words came anyway—inevitable.

I saw him again tonight. Brycian. The field of moonflowers is the same—always the same. But I...I feel different each time. As if something inside me is unraveling. Or remembering.

He paused. The ink gleamed on the page beneath the blinding light of the endless sun. His hand trembled again, and he gritted his teeth before pushing forward.

There's something in his eyes. Something I can't shake. Not fear. Not sorrow. Something deeper. Like he knows me. Like he's waiting for me to remember.

The final line came slowly, tugged from somewhere deep, buried beneath years of silence.

why does it feel like a memory instead of a dream?

He set the pen down, watching the ink glisten and settle. The question lingered in the air, unanswered—echoing between the stone walls and the beating of his heart.

And as he sat there in the stillness, eyes glassy and unfocused before he rose from his bed with the weight of the dream still lingering like a phantom pressed against his back.

The cool air of his quarters whispered across his bare skin, urging him into motion. The sunlight of Solis Prime bled through the curtain edges, gold across the stone floor. Morning had come, though it felt more like the continuation of a restless night.

He stepped toward the obsidian wardrobe and pulled open its doors with a practiced hand, revealing his Lunarian attire—formal and battle-ready, sharp as the man who wore it.

He dressed in silence.

His uniform was a striking ensemble of matte black and vivid, angular purple paneling that slashed across his chest, arms, and legs like the marks of some ancient celestial code. Over his heart was the symbol of his heritage: a stylized crescent moon, polished to a dull silver gleam, inset with tiny etchings that shimmered faintly under the shifting light. The same symbol sat at the center of the silver belt cinched around his waist, a mirror to the one above—elegant, unmistakable.

He tugged on his gloves—black with purple accents tracing the knuckles and the backs of the hands. The fingers were exposed, a traditional Lunarian style, made for both precision and connection to energy conduits during battle. They flexed snugly into place as he adjusted the fit, methodical and focused.

At last, he swept on his cloak—a long, flowing garment with a high, structured collar and a hood that draped down his back like a veil of shadow. The fabric moved with a weightless grace, silent in its passing, as if stitched from woven

Atlas paused at the threshold of his room, casting one last glance across his quarters—sparse, disciplined, cold. He exhaled through his nose, collected, composed. The door hissed open with a smooth, mechanical glide.

He took two steps into the corridor before—

"Good morning, Moonlight."

Atlas halted. The voice was unmistakable—low, dry, and laced with smirking familiarity.

Leaning against the wall with casual arrogance stood Ryn, his oldest friend and most formidable thorn. Arms crossed, one leg kicked up behind him against the wall, Ryn looked every inch the Lunarian warrior he was: tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in layered black combat armor carved with silver-veined runes of strategy and command. His shoulder guards were sharp, his gauntlets dented from past skirmishes, and yet his stance suggested he had not a care in the world.

Amethyst-violet eyes sparkled with mirth. "You look like you just woke up from a particularly romantic nightmare. Something... floral, perhaps?"

Atlas blinked slowly, his expression unreadable save for the faint twitch at the corner of his jaw. "Ryn."

Flat. Cold. Precisely what Ryn was aiming for.

"Always a pleasure," Ryn replied, uncrossing his arms and pushing off the wall with a fluid, almost theatrical ease. "You're tense. Let me guess—the moonflowers again? And our elusive heartthrob with the galaxy eyes?"

Atlas exhaled through his nose, sharp and slow. "You have too much time on your hands."

"And you don't have enough humor in yours," Ryn said with mock offense. "You know, balance and all that. Lunarian values."

They began walking side by side, moving through the corridor like twin shadows—one rigid, one fluid. The air between them was easy, despite the constant poking. Ryn had a gift for scraping at Atlas's walls without ever truly threatening them.

"You've been dreaming about him again," Ryn said, not asking—stating.

Atlas didn't answer, but his silence was loud enough.

Ryn's smile softened, just barely. "You know... you could talk to someone. Someone who doesn't spend all their time antagonizing you."

Atlas turned his head slightly. "Then I'll keep it to myself."

Ryn barked a laugh. "Fair enough."

For a moment, there was quiet. The corridor opened into a hall of glass where distant moons shimmered outside, stars scattered like spilled diamonds across the void.

Then Ryn's voice dropped a note, more serious beneath the sarcasm. "Whatever this is, Atlas... we'll figure it out. Like we always do."

Atlas looked straight ahead, his posture relaxing by a margin. He gave a small nod. "I know."

Ryn smirked, his sharp wit returning like a drawn dagger. "Good. Now hurry up, the council's waiting—and I'm already late because I was busy being dramatic in the hallway."

Atlas side-eyed him. "You live for theatrics.”

"Absolutely," Ryn grinned. "Someone has to keep this place from turning into a temple of silence and brooding."

"Then you're doing a terrible job."

"And yet," Ryn said, lifting a hand with a flourish, "you haven't stabbed me yet. So clearly, I'm doing something right."

Atlas didn't answer. But the ghost of a smile tugged at the edge of his lips.

Together, they continued down the hall—one cloaked in moonlit shadows, the other in silver-edged mischief—ready to face whatever the day would bring.

ATLAS AND RYN moved with purpose through the stone corridors of the Rebellion stronghold, the walls around them lit by the soft glow of blue flamed torches hung among the rock. Every step echoed with quiet urgency, their dark boots striking the polished floor with rhythmic precision. This part of the stronghold, reserved for war councils and strategic summits, bore the weight of generations—walls etched with the names of fallen warriors and faded banners that had once flown proudly over Lunarian cities now reduced to ruin.

They approached the Council Hall's grand entrance—a pair of towering obsidian doors inlaid with lavender purple. As the doors hissed open, the sight within was nothing short of commanding.

At the head of the circular chamber stood Artemis Verya.

Leader of the Lunar Rebellion.

General. Icon. Survivor.

She was the kind of presence that bent a room toward her without needing to speak a word. But it was her eyes that stilled Atlas as he and Ryn entered.

A piercing violet—bright, unflinching, and as commanding as the voice that often followed them. They burned with clarity, the kind that could silence a room or ignite an army. Her expression was fierce, etched with the lines of hard-earned leadership, of sleepless nights and impossible decisions. There was no softness in her stance—only conviction. Strength. A leader who didn't direct from safety or strategy tables, but from the bloodied front lines.

She turned her gaze toward the two as they entered, and the air seemed to shift. The conversation in the chamber fell quiet, the other rebel officers instinctively moving aside as Artemis locked eyes with Atlas, then Ryn.

"Moonlight. Ryn," she said, her voice a low command wrapped in velvet steel. "You're just in time."

Her eyes narrowed slightly, not in judgment—but in calculated assessment. Always reading the room. Always preparing.

Atlas bowed his head in greeting. Ryn offered a short nod and a smirk, already feeling the tension crackling like energy in the air.

The war council was about to begin. And with Artemis Verya at its head, there would be no wasted words, no half-measures. Only action. Only resolve.

And if the fire in her eyes was any indication... it would be a day of reckoning.

The council chamber was steeped in a heavy hush as the meeting began, broken only by the soft hum of energy conduits running beneath the floor—faint pulses of lunar light that lit the room from below in gentle blues and silvers. The council's circular table glowed faintly at its edges, illuminating the etched Lunarian glyphs carved into its obsidian surface. Around it sat the Rebellion's sector leaders—commanders, tacticians, and warriors who had fought, bled, and lost in the name of Lunaria's freedom.

Artemis stood at the head of the table, her imposing figure radiating silent authority. With a single motion of her gloved hand, she activated the central projection disc. A detailed holographic map bloomed to life above the table, displaying the divided territories: war-torn cities, refugee strongholds, pockets of allied cells hidden in the outer rings, and—most notably—Solarian-controlled sectors marked in blazing gold.

The meeting began with reports.

One by one, the sector leaders stood and delivered their updates. Each voice, though calm, carried the weight of sleepless nights and hardened resolve.

General Nyra from the Eastern Front recounted a raid on a Solarian outpost that resulted in the liberation of several captured Lunarian civilians. The mission had been a success, though casualties on their side reminded them of the thin line they walked every time they struck.

Commander Veth, representing the Northern Skirmish Line, had less hopeful news. His team had been ambushed en route to a hidden supply cache. A Solarian scout squad had anticipated their movement, resulting in a brutal firefight that cost them half a unit and forced them to abandon vital resources.

Another leader, Talen from the Outer Colonies, reported a victory—small, but meaningful. A covert operation to sabotage a Solarian power relay had crippled communications in a mining sector, buying the Rebellion a few precious days of silence from enemy surveillance. But even his success came with a caveat: more drones. More eyes. More pressure.

As the voices continued, a pattern emerged—flashes of triumph buried in a mountain of hardship. It was undeniable: King Helios's forces were tightening their grip. His soldiers were better equipped, bolstered by a growing arsenal of solar-forged weaponry and reinforced by advanced technology the Lunarians could only dream of replicating. The contrast in resources was vast, and it was beginning to show in the battlefields.

Despite their fierce resolve, the Rebellion was outgunned, outnumbered, and slowly being cornered.

Whispers began to spread across the room—words of concern, uncertainty, the kind that could easily fracture morale if left unchecked.

Then Artemis moved.

She stepped forward, slow and deliberate, allowing her presence to settle like a storm brewing on the horizon. The violet of her eyes sharpened as she looked around the table, her voice cutting clean through the murmurs like a blade of polished steel.

"Yes," she began, "Helios's forces are strong. He commands fleets forged from our destroyed cities, weapons crafted with stolen magic, and soldiers who follow him out of fear—not loyalty. That is the truth. We will not deny it."

Her eyes swept across each face, pinning them in place.

"But let me remind you—so are we."

The room stilled. Her words hung in the air like thunder just before the strike.

"Every breath we take in defiance is strength. Every life we protect, every system we sabotage, every Solarian patrol we force into retreat—that is strength. We may not have his machines, his sunfire weapons, or his golden walls. But what we do have—what he will never have—is purpose."

She walked slowly around the table now, each step deliberate, the long folds of her cloak whispering behind her.

"We fight not to dominate, not to enslave, not to burn the world for the sake of power. We fight to reclaim our home. We fight for the ones who can't. We fight because we must."

Her voice dropped to a quiet, powerful tone. "I know it's hard. I know you're tired. But if any of you are thinking of giving up... look around this room. Look into the faces of those still standing beside you."

She paused, letting the silence speak.

"This Rebellion isn't just a military effort. It's the heartbeat of a people who refuse to vanish. As long as that heartbeat continues, Helios has not won."

She turned back to the table, her eyes landing on Atlas for a beat longer than the others, then to Ryn.

"Remember why you're here. And remember who we are."

The chamber remained silent for a long moment after her words, the weight of them anchoring in every corner of the room. Then, slowly, the heads of the sector leaders began to nod—first in agreement, then in renewed determination.

They might be outmatched.

But they were not broken.

And under Artemis Verya's command, they would not be.

When the final glyphs on the council table dimmed and the shimmering holographic map receded into darkness, Artemis raised her hand, signaling the end of the meeting.

"The council is adjourned," she declared firmly, her voice still resonating with quiet strength.

Chairs scraped gently against the polished obsidian floor as the sector leaders began to disperse, murmuring amongst themselves in subdued tones. Atlas turned away from the council table, his expression composed as always, his cloak swaying behind him with every purposeful step.

Ryn was at his side instantly, practically bouncing with the smug energy of someone who had waited far too long for the chance to be inappropriate.

"So," Ryn began, adjusting the gauntlet on his wrist with exaggerated nonchalance. "Now that all the doom and gloom is over—seriously, when was the last time you got laid?"

Atlas didn't look at him. "Not now."

"That long, huh?"

Atlas sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as they strode down the corridor. "Ryn."

"Come on," Ryn pressed with a wicked smirk. "You're brooding more than usual. You've got that I've been dreaming of an emotionally unavailable space prince look in your eye. I'm just saying—maybe you need a distraction that doesn't involve tactical maps or prophetic dreams."

"I'm going to kill you," Atlas muttered flatly”

"Oh please, I'd haunt you. And I'd still be asking you about your nonexistent sex life."

Before Atlas could formulate a proper retort—or a shove into the nearest wall—a commanding voice rang out behind them.

"Atlas. Ryn."

The two stopped mid-stride.

Artemis's voice cut through the air like moonlight through fog—calm, measured, and yet entirely impossible to ignore. The way she said their names was precise, not harsh, but threaded with unmistakable purpose.

Atlas turned first, cloak fluttering at his heels as he faced her. Ryn followed, folding his arms and raising an eyebrow with faux innocence, though a hint of curiosity danced in his eyes.

Artemis stood near the council table still, her long hair catching the ambient lunar glow, her violet eyes focused sharply on them. Her expression was unreadable, somewhere between grave and contemplative.

"I need a word with both of you," she said, not as a request—but as an order wrapped in velvet.

Ryn leaned slightly toward Atlas and whispered out of the corner of his mouth, "See? This is what happens when you don't have sex. The universe steps in."

Atlas elbowed him hard in the ribs. "Shut up." Then he turned back to Artemis, nodding once. "Of course, Commander."

The teasing left Ryn's face as they approached her, replaced by something quieter, more alert. The way Artemis was watching them... it wasn't casual.