The Way of the Circle

Denova’s mornings weren’t like other worlds. There was no gentle rise of warmth or comforting birdsong. No serene sunrise over misty hills. Just ash-choked winds that came early and stayed late—gusts that carried the ghosts of war across scarred plateaus and cratered valleys. Before dawn, the sky smoldered—rust-colored and raw, as if still bleeding from the wars of the past.

In the hollow silence, broken only by the creak of bent durasteel and the wind threading through fallen bunkers, Jev Va’sal knelt in the dust.

He held still, every motion controlled. The vibro-axe in his grasp buzzed faintly, its weight like an old scar—heavy, but part of him. The head of the weapon—sharpened and reinforced for both power and precision—scraped against the cracked ground as he began to carve. Sparks danced from the friction. Small, fading arcs of blue energy hissed against the ash.

He was drawing a circle.

Not a perfect one. Not by hand. But whole. Complete. An unbroken loop in a broken world.

Thin wisps of smoke curled behind the blade, as if the ground itself whispered stories long buried. The scent of scorched mineral rose faintly. The trenches around him twisted like the fossilized veins of something long dead—once Republic strongholds, now nothing more than hollow scars from Denova’s darkest hours. Beyond them, half-buried turrets and rust-streaked cargo crates whispered of failed defenses, of men and women who had tried to hold this place and failed.

Jev did not mourn them. He did not glorify them either. They were simply part of the story. A layer of the world that had bled before his own boots ever touched its dust.

And that was why the circle mattered.

It was the beginning.

It was the boundary.

It was the first step toward something that didn’t yet exist.

His armor whispered as he stood, the soft rasp of beskar shifting against padded underlayers, the faint chime of forged steel brushing forged purpose. Black as starless night, his armor absorbed the light with a subtle, non-reflective finish. Lines of cobalt blue coursed across the plating—like veins of purpose winding through the void. A single yellow-orange stripe was painted down the left side from helm to shin. It was not a decoration. It marked him—not for glory, but for what he survived: the fire, the past, the weight of remembrance.

He gripped the axe firmly as the wind tugged at the yellow-orange cape draped from his left shoulder—a flicker of fire against the cold hush of the ruined landscape. The circle lay complete at his feet. Silent, he watched as the wind traced its edge. The shape had no beginning, no end.

Only space.

Footsteps approached from behind. Steady. Even. Familiar.

“You always start with the circle,” came a voice—calm, dry, and precise.

Jev didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. That voice had stood with him in silence, in fire, in failure. It was more than familiar—it was trusted. It was Cin Vhetin.

Cin stepped forward. His dark olive armor, weathered by time and violence, bore burnt red markings like battle tattoos across his shoulders and forearms. A single white bandolier crossed his chest, echoed in cloth wrappings around his waist and left shin—practical, worn, almost ceremonial. A yellow belt circled his waist, catching the light with a muted glint. The scratches and scarring across his armor told no lies. They were stories—lived, not spoken.

His presence was calm. Analytical. Grounded.

“You know,” Cin said, stepping closer, “there are algorithms that can render perfect circles in zero-point energy fields.”

Jev finally turned to face him. “But none of them make you feel anything.”

Cin shrugged, a hint of a grin in his voice. “Fair enough.”

They stood together now, two silhouettes against a blood-red sky. The wind tugged at their capes, their armor, their past.

Jev looked down at the circle again. “This is where it begins.”

“What does?”

“Everything.”

Cin glanced around at the ruins. “We’re a long way from everything.”

“Exactly.”

The wind blew harder then. A distant rumble echoed from the east, where baradium pits still fumed beneath layers of black glass. The world had burned, and cooled, and cracked again. Over and over.

But here—in this circle—they would define something new.

“We build it together,” Jev said. “Not a creed. Not a code. A place. A method.”

“A forge.”

Jev nodded. “A forge of identity.”

They looked at each other. No ceremony. No salute. Just an understanding.

The circle was drawn.

The line between past and possible had been made.

And tomorrow would rise from it.