The Sword Station wasn’t built so much as mined—cut from an asteroid, reinforced with steel, and hung in orbit like a dare. It was a private venture, far from Earth’s bureaucracy, where men like Michael Blades gambled everything for a stake in the Belt’s future.
But then came the Altair. Sleek, official, and very much out of place, the warship carried with it the quiet weight of Earth’s authority. Its commander spoke in courtesies, but there was steel behind the smile. Lieutenant Ziska, more reserved, watched everything—especially Blades.
Blades knew a test when he saw one. The Belt wasn’t lawless, but it wasn’t Earth either—and Sword Station wasn’t going to bow to protocol just because someone arrived with a badge and a battleship. The line between diplomacy and takeover had never been so thin.
If there was going to be a new order out here, Blades meant to have a hand in writing it.