Cadet Jeremy Ryan raised the tankard of Klingon bloodwine, his hazel eyes narrowing at the swirling, viscous liquid. His nostrils were assaulted by the aroma wafting up at them, making his eyes water. He and several other cadets were aboard the IKS Buruk en route to the Starfleet Academy Annex on Mellstoxx III to complete their final year.

The room thrummed with the guttural cheers of Klingon warriors pounding fists on the central metal table in the mess hall. “Drink, Ryan!” bellowed one particularly boisterous Klingon named K’atraj, her ridges furrowed in expectation.

Around Jeremy, his fellow cadets exchanged uneasy glances. Renn Tanara, his closest friend and ally, looked torn between horror and amusement. “You don’t have to prove anything,” she mouthed with a smirk.

Jeremy clenched the dented metal tankard tighter, trying to convince himself this was just another adventure. His mantra echoed in his mind: “What’s life without a little risk? How bad could it be?” His stomach churned in anticipation, but there was no turning back now.

He tipped the tankard back dramatically, throwing his head back to swallow the demon liquid.

The giant gulp seared his throat like a phaser blast set to maximum, like swallowing a plasma grenade mid-detonation. His tongue recoiled, assaulted by an unholy cocktail of molten metal, fermented tar, and…was that plasma coolant? His throat clenched in protest, but he forced it down, desperate not to show weakness.

As the foul venomous concoction burned its way into his chest, a fleeting thought crossed his mind: “This is how I die. Death by Klingon hospitality. At least it’ll look good in my service record.” Another wave hit, bitter and rancid, like old gym socks dipped in vinegar and gasoline. His eyes watered uncontrollably, blurring the hulking shapes of the Klingons around him.

“Don’t collapse. Don’t vomit,” he repeated to himself as his pulse pounded in his ears. His eyes bulged as a choking sound escaped his lips.

Jeremy slammed the tankard down with more force than intended, his hands trembling, coughing violently as tears streamed down his flushed red cheeks. The Klingons roared with laughter, slapping their thighs and shouting praises to Kahless for the human’s bravery… or stupidity.

“It burns with…with honor,” he croaked, his voice betraying his internal struggle not to pass out. “Good!” exclaimed K’atraj, grinning fiercely as she slapped Jeremy on the back, nearly toppling him off his stool. “You have the spirit of a warrior!”

“Still alive over there?” Renn asked, leaning in with a smirk.

Jeremy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his trademark smile, albeit strained, surfacing as he took a few shallow breaths. “Never better,” he rasped, his vocal cords sounding like they’d just been through a baryon sweep.

The room erupted into a raucous rendition of a Klingon drinking song. Jeremy found himself thrust into a makeshift conga line of warriors and cadets, the latter trying desperately to keep up with the guttural lyrics.

By the time the song ended, Jeremy’s head was spinning, not just from the bloodwine, but from the overwhelming sense of camaraderie. The fiery concoction still churned in his stomach, but for a fleeting moment, he felt connected to the room’s raw, unfiltered energy.

As the celebration wound down, Renn nudged him. “You’ve earned their respect, but next time, maybe stick to synthale.”

Jeremy chuckled, his chestnut hair damp with sweat. “No promises.”

He glanced around, noticing the approving nods of Klingon warriors who moments ago had mocked him. In their eyes, he wasn’t just another Starfleet cadet; he was a fellow adventurer, foolish perhaps, but unafraid.

And as he sat back down, letting the buzz of the bloodwine settle, Jeremy decided that poor life choices were sometimes worth toasting to.

The hum of the station’s ventilation systems filled the silence as Jorath sat in his modest office, the PADD in his hand forgotten. The room was immaculate, like most things he touched: a small shrine to serenity amid the chaos of Starbase 39 Sierra’s operations. His small black-topped desk was adorned with an intricately carved crystal from Delta IV, his homeworld. Its gentle blue glow casting faint patterns of light on the walls of the Psychological Services Office of Starbase 39 Sierra. To others, it was just nic-nac, to him it was a connection to home, a piece of his home.

“Computer, time?”

“The time is 18:37 hours.”

She’s late…

Minutes passed.  Jorath had learned patience over the years. Patience with himself, with others, and with time itself. It was a lesson he had mastered early and served him well in his role. He couldn’t rush this. The work he did required gentleness, the kind that allowed people to open up in their own time.

The door chimed. His posture straightened immediately, and he released a slow breath, letting his calm fall into place.

“Enter.”

The doors hissed open to reveal Ensign Thelev, an Andorian officer whose pale, green-tinted skin spoke of her mixed Andorian heritage. Her antennae hung low, twitching faintly with tension. Her steps were hesitant, a sign that whatever burden she carried was weighing heavy on her.

Jorath rose to greet her, offering a small comforting smile. “Good evening, Ensign Thelev.”

She nodded, but her eyes avoided him, and she lowered herself into the chair across from him. Her shoulders slumped as if the weight of her emotions bore down on her with every step. Jorath did not speak immediately. He had learned that silence often gave the troubled soul a space to begin.

The room was still for a long moment. Jorath waited. Thelev’s hesitation spoke volumes.

Finally, her voice, barely a whisper, broke the silence. “I failed… on the away team. I froze. I thought I was better than that.”

Jorath didn’t rush to speak. He let her words hang in the air between them. He understood the weight of failure all too well.

Their weight becomes yours, a voice in his memory whispered. It was his mother’s voice—gentle but warning. Do not drown in it.

“Better than what?” he asked gently, his voice a soft nudge to help her focus.

She blinked, surprised by the question. “Than being afraid. Than letting my team down.”

Jorath’s gaze softened as he leaned forward slightly. “And yet here you are, facing it now.”

Thelev’s brow furrowed in confusion, and Jorath continued, his voice calm but firm. “Your fear. Your shame. You brought it here, and you are willing to share it. That is not failure.”

For the first time since entering the room, Thelev met his eyes. His eyes, a mesmerizing gold flecked green-teal, shimmered like the surface of a shimmering sea, impossibly serene. Thelev was drawn into them, an unspoken invitation to connect, to understand, to feel. The tension in her posture eased, ever so slightly, as if his words had created a crack in the wall of her emotions. Her antennae twitched, and her expression softened. Perhaps she hadn’t expected to find any peace in this space, but it was there… if only for a moment.

Jorath smiled, a quiet understanding gesture. “You are not alone in this, Ensign. We all stumble at times. What matters is that you stand up again.”

She nodded slowly as if coming to terms with something unsaid. Jorath watched her for a long moment, sensing the weight of the emotions that still clung to her. The burden of her failure had not vanished, but it had found a place to rest, no longer overwhelming her.

Their session lasted almost an hour. Jorath was able to delve deep into her feelings and assuage her shame and guilt for the time being. She would need more. More time, more compassion, and more exploration of what makes her Thelev.

She stood to leave, the silent gratitude between them evident. As she reached the door, Jorath’s stood and his voice stopped her.

“I’m here, whenever you need to talk Ensign.”

She glanced back, her expression softer now, and with a nod in quiet thanks, she exited.

The door closed behind her, but Jorath remained standing, his thoughts drifting to other times, other faces. The weight of others was something he had carried long before this post, before Starfleet. Deltans did not have the luxury of emotional distance. Their empathy was as much a gift as a burden, and from a young age, Jorath had been taught to balance his emotions with those of others. Love, connection, and understanding were not just ideals, they were the essence of life.

But with that connection came responsibility. Every emotion felt, every sorrow shared, became his to carry, just as much as the one who felt it. He could not simply observe; he had to live it.

His mind wandered back to a memory from Delta IV, one that he had carried with him for years, a memory that still left a scar in his soul.

When Jorath was fourteen, his understanding of balance was tested. A Betazoid delegation had arrived on Delta IV for a cultural exchange, an opportunity to meet with another telepathic race. Among them was a boy, Kelam, close to Jorath’s age. Eager to learn and connect, Jorath was paired with him during the visit.

Kelam was unlike anyone Jorath had known. While his family’s minds were calm and composed, Kelam’s was a storm, chaotic and unruly, a maelstrom of fears and thoughts Jorath could barely comprehend. At first, Jorath believed he could help, could bring some semblance of order to the madness. He spent hours trying to soothe Kelam, to untangle the confusion that clouded his mind. They became inseparable. For a time, it seemed to work. They became close, more than friends, two halves of something greater, something unspoken.

But as time passed, Kelam’s emotions began to twist into something darker. Jealousy flared when Jorath sought moments of solitude, or when he spent time with others. It wasn’t just a fleeting emotion; it was a constant, irrational anger and sadness, a weight that Jorath couldn’t bear to carry. Despite his best efforts, the storm within Kelam raged on, and Jorath struggled to keep his balance.

Then, one morning, Jorath woke to terrible news from his parents. Kelam had taken his own life during the night, overwhelmed by the darkness inside him, unable to find peace.

Jorath’s heart had broken, and with it, he had made a vow to himself. He would never let someone carry such a weight alone again. But the experience had changed him. He learned that, while he could share the burden of others, he could never fully carry it.

That lesson had stayed with him throughout his life, even as he joined Starfleet. His Oath of Celibacy, often misunderstood by offworlders, was not just about physical restraint. It was a promise to protect himself and others, to ensure that he never lost himself in the emotions of others again.

Jorath was pulled from his memories by the soft chime of his terminal. His transfer orders had arrived. Though he had known this day was coming for the past few weeks, it still carried a certain weight. Starbase 39 Sierra had been a good assignment. It had allowed him to grow, practice the delicate art of emotional balance, and support those in need.

Now, he would be moving on. The USS Vallejo awaited him. A California-Class cruiser. A new crew, a new chapter. It was both a challenge and an opportunity, one that would stretch him in ways he couldn’t yet imagine.

Veytan,

I’m sorry it’s been so long since I last wrote to you, to be honest, it’s been pretty hectic these past few months. I hope you’ll read this with an open heart, I’d hate to think you were as mad at me as Mother is. You are the one who taught me to think for myself after all.

Tonight we finally got a little downtime. Humans call this New Year’s Eve, a celebration of one year ending and another beginning. Although like most human traditions it is a bit silly, this one I can kind of get behind. They use it as an opportunity to reflect, set intentions for the next year, and toast to what was and what is to come.

I’m sure you’ve heard through Mother’s network that I have been assigned to a Federation starship. I enjoyed my time at Starbase Bravo, but I feel like serving aboard a ship is my true calling. It’s certainly far removed from the gilded corridors of our complex on Coridan, but it definitely suits me better. You know I never felt at home… now I actually do. I’m serving aboard the USS Vallejo, it’s an older ship so it keeps me busy, but I really love it.

So, a lot of the crew have been preparing for tonight’s celebrations all week. Humans love to make lists of grandiose goals and resolutions that they will undertake in the following year. I’ve been told they mostly abandon them within a few months.  Dante, our ship’s chef, prepared a dessert to suit as many species as possible, a Rigellian spice soufflé. He proudly assured me it would have just enough bite to satisfy an Orion palate, but when I tasted it, I could tell he’d dulled the spices for the humans. I teased him about it, and he promised to make me authentic Lia’hur Shal’kurra the next time we can get fresh Xiqai onboard.

Most of the crew were drinking synthale, lucky for me I was able to secure a crate of Mandisa before I came onboard The Vallejo. I find myself torn between participating fully and watching from the fringes, a sensation that I imagine you know all too well. I’ve made friends here, REAL friends, not people looking to curry favor with our Mother and our House. There are no scheming whispers, no veiled threats, and luckily no assassination attempts.

There is one person in particular I think you’d like, Renn Tanara, our conn officer. She’s a Bajoran, and she’s become something of a partner in crime for me. I introduced her to Mandisa tonight. Well, I tried to. She was curious when she saw me sipping it instead of the synthehol everyone else was drinking. I told her it was an Orion delicacy, reserved for special occasions, and offered her a sip.

Veytan, I’ll never forget the look on her face. She took the tiniest sip, barely enough to coat her tongue, and immediately turned a shade of red brighter than the bussard collector. She coughed, her eyes watered, and she started fanning her mouth as though that would extinguish the fire. I warned her it wasn’t for the faint of heart. She waved me off and swore she could still feel her taste buds “vibrating.” I teased her and told her she was lucky I didn’t bring out the Kreel’va from my personal stash.

But this ship and my crewmates have really become my refuge. I enjoy my work, and there is always plenty of it. The Vallejo’s warp matrix is a bit temperamental. Valis, our Chief Engineer, says it’s “adequate,” but I’ve spent more hours than I care to admit adjusting the harmonic coils to keep the engine humming. Here, I’m judged by my abilities, not by our House’s name. Sometimes I admit I miss the comforts of home, not the posturing or displays of wealth and prestige, but the warm nights on the balcony, or walking the streets of Harkoria together. When we would sit and talk for hours. When we were brother and sister and not pawns in the Mother’s designs.

I’m sure she’s fully disowned me by now, her silence to my attempts at communicating speaks louder than any words can. Tell her I still carry our name with pride, not as a chain, but as a reminder of where I come from. I wonder if you might consider stepping out from under her shadow too one day. If you do, I will be here for you in any way you might need.

The chronometer is ticking closer to midnight, so I should go back to the celebration. At the change of day, the humans raise glasses, toast and embrace each other, making wishes for the future. Mine will be simple, that you find your own stars to follow, as I have.

Forever your sister,
Nalara

The shuttle’s engines groaned under the strain of the damaged impulse engine. Lt. Commander Arjun Mehta gripped the controls tighter, the cold chill of the ice moon outside pressing in on all sides of the damaged craft. He glanced at the medical bay display beside him, providing readouts of the aft compartment where Dr. Pell lay unconscious.

“We’re almost there,” Mehta whispered, trying to calm his nerves. It was supposed to be a routine survey mission, but the attack came out of nowhere. Sensors had not shown any alien life that should have been a threat to the survey party. Lt. Sitok was killed instantly, luckily Mehta was able to reach Dr. Pell and get her stabilized in the shuttle. Unfortunately, their attacker had time to damage the shuttle to a point where he could not make escape velocity. Now they were barreling back down to the surface, unable to contact the Thunderchild for rescue…

“Hold on, Pell,” he added, his voice barely above a whisper.

The shuttle lurched violently, throwing him forward. His head slammed against the control panel. He barely had time to register the impact before the shuttle hit the icy surface with a sickening crunch, the world spinning into blackness.

__________

Mehta slowly regained consciousness, the buzz of a damaged console and the muffled roar of the wind outside snapping his mind to attention. His head throbbed, but his body was unscathed, adrenaline pumping through his veins, spurring him to action. The crash had been rough, but it seemed the shuttle had at least been brought down in one piece. He quickly unstrapped himself and moved to check on Dr. Pell.

Her medical console blinked with a faint pulse of life, though her vitals were weak. She was unconscious, a nasty gash on her forehead where the impact had thrown her forward.

“Not good,” he muttered, quickly scanning her injuries with a few taps on the medical tricorder. There was no time for hesitation. If she went into shock, it would be a death sentence. He only had a basic understanding of Tellarite physiology, hopefully he could stabilize her again.

He grabbed the medkit from the rear compartment, applying pressure to her head wound. The shuttle was immobilized, but the temperature outside was quickly dropping to dangerously low levels. He needed to get them somewhere sheltered and figure out a way to call for help. He quickly used the dermal regenerator to treat the head wound, then began to scan her other injuries.

The autosutures in her abdomen were still intact, and her internal bleeding was under control. Dr. Pell’s secondary stomach pouch was still punctured and the trauma to her liver and kidneys was far beyond his ability to triage. He had to get a signal to the Thunderchild for rescue. He was confident Dr. Vichyon would be able to patch up his assistant CMO without much trouble, but time was not on their side.

__________

It took hours before Mehta could manage to assemble a makeshift gurney and drag Dr. Pell out of the wrecked shuttle. The wind howled, tiny pellets of hail and snowflakes stinging his exposed skin. The shuttle had crashed near the foot of a jagged ridge, a desolate expanse of ice and rock stretching out for miles. Mehta’s breath came in visible puffs of white steam as he trudged through the snow, dragging Pell behind him, further burdened by the pack of emergency supplies and communication components he was able to salvage. Luckily Dr. Pell was on the smaller size, even for a Tellarite. The journey ahead would be hard enough, but he couldn’t imagine how difficult it would have been had Nurse J’Tok been on this survey mission instead of Pell.

Still, he had no illusions… they were stranded. Their only hope was an emergency beacon. But with the shuttle’s comms array fried, there was no way to contact the Thunderchild. They had to wait for a rescue team. If one even came.

After an agonizing trek that seemed to take hours, he found a small cave-like structure, half-buried in ice and snow. It would have to do. He needed to stop and rest regardless, giving the muscles in his legs burning from the strain of their trek time to recover. He dragged Pell inside, setting her down gently on the cold rocky ground.

The cave was bitterly cold, but it offered shelter. Mehta took a moment to catch his breath. Taking off his gloves from the emergency stores to rub the small exposed areas of his face stinging with ice crystals. Pell was wrapped in all the emergency blankets on board, so Mehta utilized his turban to wrap around his head and face to combat the cold. Outside, a storm was intensifying. It would be only a matter of time before the cold made it impossible to survive without shelter.

Mehta started a small fire with the flare kit. He could hear the winds picking up, and howling across the icy wasteland. It was a maddening sound as if the moon itself were alive and angry.

__________

The next few hours passed in a blur. Mehta kept checking Dr. Pell’s condition, her pulse was still weak but steady. He used the ice and snow to build up a wall at the entrance of the small cave he was hoping would keep them alive until they could be rescued. He couldn’t risk venturing out into the storm for too long, so returning to the shuttle to search for more functioning components was not an option. He sat on the hard cold ground weighing his options…

And then the howling began. 

Mehta froze, his heart pounding. It was not the wind. There was something else out there. He assumed it was the same type of creature that attacked them during their initial survey. 

A deep, guttural growl echoed through the cave entrance. Mehta moved cautiously, peering out. Through the swirling snow, he saw the silhouette of a large creature moving toward the cave. Its glowing eyes reflected off the snow, fixed on him.

Without thinking, Mehta quickly backed into the cave and grabbed a nearby rock. The team’s phasers were left at the site of the initial attack, he wished he had one in the emergency supplies. He scanned the area for anything that could be usedas a weapon. The creature’s growl became more distinct, and the snow beneath its massive weight cracked and crunched with every step.

The first attack happened so quickly, that they were not able to get a good look at the creature that attacked them. He only saw that it was massive, had razor-sharp claws and teeth, and moved faster than a beast that large had any right to do. As the beast paced outside the cave entrance Mehta got an impression of just how massive the creature was, its shadow reflecting on the piled-up snow wall. The wall offered some protection from the elements, but it would do nothing against the creature.

The creature lunged toward the cave entrance, its claws slashing at the air, its roar shaking the walls of the narrow cavern. Mehta darted to the side, narrowly avoiding its strike. He hurled the rock with all his strength, but the creature barely flinched. It was too focused on its prey. It stood panting, its wide tooth-filled maw dripping with saliva. It had six narrow eyes, three on each side of its massive blood-colored skull.

He had to get the beast away from Pell, away from their shelter. He needed room to maneuver. He knew he couldn’t outrun the creature, but he might be able to find a crevice to hide in, hoping it would lose interest in its prey.

But that would leave Pell defenseless. He would not sacrifice another Starfleet officer’s life to save his own. He knew close combat was a terrible idea, but he did have his kirpan, the small blade his constant companion, if he could just get in close enough. 

Mehta backed into the shadows, calculating his next move. The only advantage he had was his ability to move quickly and unpredictably. As the creature reared back to strike again, Mehta used the narrowness of the cave to his advantage. He moved, ducking low, and grabbed another larger rock, throwing it directly at the creature’s head.

The creature stumbled back, stunned by the impact, growling and spraying the small cave in terrible-smelling saliva. This was his chance.

Mehta rushed forward, grabbing his blade from under his survival coat and uniform jacket. With a swift motion, he thrust the curved tip toward the creature’s crimson-scaled underbelly. Mehta was sprayed in a torrent of warm golden blood, glowing in a strange bioluminescence, sticky and viscous as he rolled as far away from the beast as he could. 

It let out a terrifying screech, its eyes wild with pain, before collapsing to the ground with a heavy thud.

He laid still, covered in the foul-smelling blood of his foe, contemplating his next move. The howl of the wind outside the cave was the only sound other than the pounding of his heartbeat assaulting his eardrums from within. The beast made no sound and didn’t move. He decided to take a chance and investigate closer.

Mehta stood over the creature, panting heavily, his chest rising and falling with the effort. The threat was neutralized, but the damage had been done. His clothes were soaked in sweat and glowing amber gore, and the adrenaline was wearingoff. He staggered back to Dr. Pell’s side, making sure she was still stable.

The most important thing, however, was the creature’s glowing blood… a faint light in the dark. It gave off heat, radiating a small amount of warmth that could be used to preserve their survival. He could rebuild that wall of ice and snow at the mouth of the cave. The massive body of the beast might be able to keep them warm enough to survive for a time.

__________

He wasn’t quite sure when, but eventually, he passed out from exhaustion. As he started to come to he heard the telltale sound of shuttle engines.

The rescue party from the Thunderchild had arrived.

The forge thundered like a fighter in combat, fire licking the thick iron walls, the air heavy with the smell of red-hot metal and perspiration. Davok, Son of Varek, stood at the anvil, hammer in his hand, his old muscles shaking with effort. He was old, his body worn from years of labor, but his mind remained sharp. His house, a small one, had never been noted for political influence. They were not skilled generals, nor commanders of fleets. They were smiths. The Empire’s finest. Their house, based on the planet Morska, was as old as the Empire itself.

And now he had been summoned by the Chancellor himself.

Toral’s envoy had arrived in full regalia, chest thrust forward, voice dripping with the arrogance of youth. The Chancellor desired a Kur’leth, a work of art and destruction, a sword fit for his reign as chancellor. Davok had accepted the challenge without hesitation. Not out of loyalty to Toral. No, that hot-headed pup was leading the Empire to ruin. But Davok had never refused a commission. That was not in him. He had forged Bat’leths, Mek’leths, and other blades for Chancellors, for men of legend, for men who had paid to be remembered. Some used their swords well… honorably. Others, not so.

His son, Morak, had been overjoyed by the request.

“A ceremonial blade for the Chancellor!” Morak had smiled, his broad shoulders shaking with excitement. “Our house will be remembered to eternity, Father! This is our greatest accomplishment.”

Davok had only nodded with a grumble in his aged throat.

Now, alone in the forge, he touched the unfinished Kur’leth. The sword was nearly perfect. Nearly.

He had spent days meditating before he went to work, considering the implications. Toral’s path would be to shame, to undermine the Empire… constant war for nothing. Fighting was to be done against men who were worthy of regard, not fought for the sake of ambition. A warrior’s strength was measured by the honor and skill of his foe. Toral yearned for conquest, not glory. His leadership would bring ruin to the Empire. He had seen such men in power before. By Kahless, how many more dishonorable leaders can the Empire endure?

And so, Davok had made up his mind. A small act of defiance maybe, but one that brought a small grin to his old haggard face.

The Kur’leth glowed in the firelight, its point sharp as a razor, its balance perfect. It was, on the surface of things, a work of beauty. Made for battle, with intricate inlay designs of varying precious metals that reflected light in brilliant patterns. A sword to be sung about in halls across the Empire. But within its very heart, within the thousand layers of folded metal, were faults. Faults so tiny, so subtle, that only the greatest of smiths would ever notice them.

And when it mattered most, that day Toral used this sword in real battle, this sword would let him down.

He had given everything to it. His joints ached, and he wheezed with every breath, but the task was accomplished. He lifted the sword for the final time, the wrinkles on his old palms outlining the shape of the metal.

He indulged himself in a small smile.

The next day, his son discovered him leaning over the anvil, his lifeless hands still grasping the blade. The forge was still, the fire burned low, and the finest Klingon bladesmith of his generation lay dead.

Morak grieved, but he understood his duty.

He carried his father’s final masterpiece to the Chancellor at the Great Hall with honor. Before the assembled nobles, sycophants, and warriors, he knelt and presented the Kur’leth.

Chancellor Toral raised it, its blade flashing like lightning, its beauty unimpeachable. He grinned, drunk on his own legend.

“A sword fit for the Chancellor of the Klingon Empire!” Toral declared.

The warriors roared in applause.

Morak grinned, proud to serve the Empire, proud of his father’s legacy, never to know the vengeance that lay in the steel.

High above them, in Sto’Vo’Kor, Davok, Son of Varek, smiled as he watched and waited.