Return From Exile

Chapter 1

Garen ascended the porch steps, each creak beneath his weight slicing through the stillness that had settled over the clearing. The towering Otay trees dominated the landscape, their thick trunks and deep red leaves casting long shadows. At the edge of his vision, the setting sun flickered through the branches, its light momentarily sharpening. For a moment, the leaves seemed aflame, fooling the eye before fading as night began to creep across the sky.

A sharp gust swept through the trees, carrying the damp scent of earth and decay. The chill seeped through his clothes, turning his breath into mist. The air felt thick, laden with secrets buried deep in the soil. Maybe time had concealed them, or perhaps it had simply drained the will to uncover what had been lost.

He took a swig from his flask, the cool liquid soothing his dry throat. His clothes, damp with sweat and evening dew, clung to his skin, worn and patched.

His gaze shifted to the chimney, where thin wisps of smoke rose and vanished into the darkening sky. The pale smoke signaled the fire was low but steady. He kept it burning these days, preparing for Chiex's harshest season. Every sunset reminded him that the days were growing shorter, the cold creeping in with each passing evening, as brutal as ever. There would be no snow, but Chiex's chill bit deeper than most, it seeped into the bones.

A decade on Chiex had stripped him down, year by year, scraping away the urgency and noise that had once filled his life. Now, he often lost himself in the peace, sitting for hours, listening to the distant trickle of a stream, the sway of trees, and the rustle of unseen creatures stalking the forest. Silence had replaced the chaos, though it had come with a cost. It always did. How could it not? Yet, with that silence came a clarity he hadn't known in years.

War had taken its toll on everyone, and Garen knew all too well how it had taken its toll on him.

Life in the wilderness was nothing like it had been in the Seven Worlds, where silence was a rarity, something to be sought out. In the crowded cities, such stillness was unimaginable. But on Chiex, that quiet had become something Garen had learned to appreciate. The nearest settlement was the Camerian outpost, Calio Landing—the only real sign of civilization on this remote world. The small spaceport saw the occasional trade vessel or passenger ship, though their arrivals were more of a hope than a certainty.

Still, he didn't live in complete isolation, though he often let people believe otherwise. It wasn't entirely a lie—he was alone most of the time. Just not always.

Building the cabin had been a battle—not just against the land, but against himself. Chiex's terrain was unforgiving, yet somehow, he had survived.

He hadn't abandoned technology entirely, that was never the intention. It had its uses, and he didn't shy away from it, but he employed it sparingly. Still, there was something raw, almost primal, about relying on the land. Every log he chopped, every crop he harvested, reminded him that this life, however difficult, was one he had earned with his own hands.

He had never planned to stay—not really. Chiex had been meant as a retreat, a brief escape from the relentless demands of Rhyus, the capital of the Seven Worlds, and the things he'd chosen to leave behind. But over time, the thought of leaving faded, drifting away like a memory he no longer needed. He'd be lying if he said the thought of returning to civilization had never crossed his mind—he'd considered it more than once. But each time, he chose to stay. Chiex wasn't exile anymore; it was a choice. One he had made.

Yet even knowing that didn't always make the solitude easier to bear.

His gaze swept the clearing, taking in the small patch of land that had become his. Stacks of firewood lined the cabin, and neat rows of his garden stretched nearby. At the far edge, his mud-caked off-road vehicle sat idle, a jumble of salvaged parts, weathered but functional. Beyond it, the narrow path disappeared into the dense woods.