The air in Lenard’s workshop, thick with the smell of ozone and old metal, seemed to grow heavier. Vernon stood rigid, the weight of his dead name and his dead world pressing on his shoulders. He watched Lenard’s fingers fly over a holoscreen, pulling up lists of local registry data.

“The problem,” Lenard said, not looking up, “is connection. If you two are traveling as a pair, a random pairing draws eyes. A mercenary and a stray youth? That gets reported. A mercenary and his nephew, or his cousin… that’s a story people accept without a second thought.” He tapped the screen. “I have a few viable blanks here. But they need a logical, familial link to him.” He jerked a thumb toward Marius.

Marius, who had been staring at a dusty shelf of components, slowly turned. His face was grim. “He’s right. And the hunt isn’t some general sweep. The Laurien agents on Artanis weren’t just cleansing the planet. They had protocols to find your father. If they had those, then they have a target profile for the heir, too.” He fixed his eyes on Vernon. “Your face is a liability.”

Vernon felt a chill. “What do you mean?”

“You are your mother’s son,” Marius said, his voice low. “Those cheekbones, that slight build. That… ambiguity. In the coreworlds, among the noble houses, it’s a known signature. The son of Duke Arturus Freides and a Sylvan Reach noblewoman? Intelligence bulletins will have that description. A young man with girlish features matching it will be flagged at every port. You can’t remain a man and stay hidden. Not as you are.”

The logic was a cage, its bars closing in. Vernon’s skin prickled with a cold sweat. “So what are you suggesting?” he whispered.

Marius didn’t answer immediately. His gaze drifted to the plastisteel crate where Lenard kept the bioscan bracelets. A memory surfaced, tightening his jaw. “Lenard. The bracelets I gave you for safekeeping. After my last tour. From my sister’s family. Do you still have them?”

Lenard paused, then bent down to the crate. He sifted through the foam-lined compartments. “I never wiped them. Sentimental fool.” He pulled one out, its surface slightly duller. “Kerigan. Lauren Kerigan.”

Marius took the bracelet as if it were made of glass. His thumb brushed the etched name. “My niece. She was lost when the Scythe Raiders hit my homeworld. Years ago.” He looked at Vernon, his expression etched with a pained apology. “You take hers. You become Lauren Kerigan. It gives us a reason to be together. It buries the Freides heir under an entire other life, one with a documented death and no one left to contradict it.” He swallowed hard. “I am… truly sorry to even suggest this.”

Lenard snatched the bracelet back and plugged it into his console. The holoscreen populated with data. “Lauren Kerigan. Female. Twenty-one standard years. Five-foot-nine. Slim build, busty features.” He scrolled, nodding. “Registered citizen of the Cradle Dominion, status: deceased (presumed). Genetic and skeletal profile is intact. It’s a clean, closed file.”

Twenty-one. A woman. The words echoed in the hollow space inside Vernon. He thought of the flames consuming his home, the absolute silence in his mother’s chambers. Anonymity was a shield. This was the strongest one they could offer.

He hesitated. His entire being recoiled at the idea. But Marius’s words rang true—his own face was a weapon against him. “You have a point,” Vernon said, the admission bitter on his tongue. “I… agree. But how? I can’t just pretend.”

Lenard swiveled in his chair. “The disguise. You have a choice. I can do surgical reconstruction. Subtle, permanent alterations. Or I can craft you a prosthetic overlay. Non-permanent, but it requires maintenance. It’s a second skin, fitted to you, with bio-fibers to simulate the correct… topography.”

Marius stepped closer. “You don’t have to do this, Vernon. If the idea is abhorrent to you, we find another way. A riskier way.”

Abhorrent. The word didn’t quite fit. It was terrifying. It was a severance. But he saw the black ships in his mind’s eye. “I’ll take the non-permanent way,” Vernon said, his voice firmer than he felt. “The prosthetics. Not surgery.”

A flicker of professional respect crossed Lenard’s face. “Good. Faster. Reversible. Smarter.” He was up in an instant, moving to a cluttered bench. He pulled out cases of pigment gels, sheets of polymer-base, and tools that glinted under the harsh work lights. “This will take a few hours. You’ll need to be still.”

Vernon looked at Marius, who gave a single, grave nod. It was the only blessing he would get. Vernon sat on the stool Lenard indicated, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. He was saying goodbye to Vernon, not just in name, but in the very shape the world would see. He was about to put on a costume woven from a dead girl’s life, to avoid sharing her fate.

“Begin,” Vernon said, closing his eyes.

Lenard’s hands, clinical and precise, went to work. The first layer was cool and pliable against his jaw. Vernon held onto one thought, a single, burning ember in the dark: this was not surrender. It was a different kind of armor. And he would have to learn how to wear it.