The swirling blue and green mists of Aldara never looked so inviting than when Draco had been away for a time. No matter how much he loved exploring, seeing new sights and adding new planets to his list of places traveled, there was nothing quite like looking out the large bay windows of his shuttle and seeing
home.
It had been that way his whole life, really. Nothing was better than coming home after a long day, whether that meant to his parents’ arms or to the place they lived itself.

In the broad sense, home meant Aldara, but more specifically, it meant the people who lived there as well. The people he loved the most.

“We’ll be landing in about six hours, sir,” said one of the crewmen, saluting him with a small grin. Everyone who traveled with him knew how he felt about coming home.

“Very good,” Draco replied.

“The king has requested your immediate presence as soon as we get in,” one of the others said, reading off of a screen. “He’s very pleased.”

Draco snorted, leaning back in his seat from where he’d almost had his nose pressed against the glass of the window to take in the sight of their slow descent. “He should be,” he said. “We got what we were looking for, after all. Another for the collection.”

“Only one more after this, right?”

“Of course there’s only one more,” chimed in one of the others. “Don’t ask stupid questions.”

Draco left them to it, looking out at the vast expanse of space and losing himself in his thoughts. It would be amazing to be back home. Of course there would be all the pomp and circumstance first, before he could relax. Whenever he came back with something fantastic, especially something as fantastic as one of the Cillidan Artifacts, Plintos, king of their clan, would always have a celebration. Since he was, in fact, returning with the second of the three Cillidan Artifacts, Draco knew that there would be quite a lot of celebration to be had.

For whatever reason, Plintos was determined to have all three artifacts in his possession, and Draco was getting him one step closer to that goal.

Landing was smooth as it always was, and where Draco would have liked to take some time to clean up and rest before being received by his king, he knew better than to keep Plintos waiting. The two of them had grown up together, but the king’s temper was legendary among all who were in his service.

He smiled and nodded at the people who called out to him as he got off the shuttle, taking a moment to breath the cool air of his home planet in deeply and enjoy having his feet on the ground.

The shuttle bay was just outside of the marketplace, and Draco could hear the sounds of people going about their business before the end of the work day. The chatter filled his ears and his heart, and he squared his shoulders, letting the long weeks of travel and search roll off of him as he strode forward, the bag containing his finds slung over one shoulder.

His shuttle was fine in the capable hands of his crew, and the palace loomed ahead, gleaming all white and green in the dying light of early evening. Draco knew he’d find the king in his tower, as usual, waiting for him with bated breath, but still he kept his pace leisurely, strolling through the market with a smile and a greeting on his lips for everyone who stopped to greet him.

“Back again, I see,” said Canna, an old woman from the Daebtheri clan who had been around longer than Draco had been alive. She wasn’t one of their kind, but she was a fixed presence in the market and was as kind as she was sharp.

“As always,” Draco replied with a smile for her. “How have things been here?”

She grinned at him, showing her sharp teeth. “The same. The king grew impatient waiting. You should have seen him stalking through the market like some feline beast, all restless energy.” She cackled lowly and rustled in a basket for a moment before pulling out a thick pastry and handing it to him. “It’ll be ages before you get dinner if you’ve got what I think you’ve got in that bag there.”

“Thank you, Canna,” Draco said, inclining his head in the traditional show of respect. She was right, of course. While there would be celebration that night, and the cooks of the palace were no doubt already preparing some feast in honor of him, Plintos would keep him in the tower for ages before they could get to it.

So he was grateful for the pastry and knew that it would be delicious. The Daebtheri did wonderful things with meat and spices and were well known all over Aldara for being excellent cooks.

Draco bit into the pastry as he kept walking, closing his eyes and savoring the flaky crust and the pop and heat of roasted meat and peppers on his tongue.

Delicious as it was, it didn’t last him long, and he was licking his fingers when he reached the stairs of the palace, hewn out of the pure white stone that was everywhere to be found on Aldara.

It was a familiar path, and he took the stairs with light feet, pausing every so often to acknowledge the inclined heads of the guards who were posted on either side.

“The king is,” began one of the guards.

“In his tower,” finished Draco. “Where he always is when I get back.”

They chuckled at that and pulled open the doors for him. Once inside, it was easy to see the preparations for that night’s feast. People rushed to and fro, and the entire entry way was a hive of activity. He dodged cooks and servants as he headed for the spiral staircase that would take him to the king’s tower, the tallest point in the palace.

It was the place where Plintos kept all his treasures. Where he stored the things that Draco had brought back for him and the things that had been left to him by his father before him. It was a room that spoke of times and cultures past, and for some reason the young king was obsessed with being there.

He was standing, facing the only window in the tower room, when Draco entered, his posture straight and perfect as usual. People often joked that Plintos was born to be a king, while Draco was born to wander and find, and that no one had ever fulfilled their destinies quite like the pair of them had.

Draco didn’t know about that. Half of the reason he went out to look for things was because he was told to by his king, but he liked the exploring, and it made the homecoming all the better.

He cleared his throat and smiled, waiting for Plintos to acknowledge him.

“And so the champion returns,” Plintos said, turning and giving him a warm look.

“And with gifts,” Draco replied, laughing and stepping forward to embrace his king. The two of them had grown up together, as close as brothers. When Draco’s parents had died in a mining accident, leaving their young son orphaned and alone, Plintos’ parents, the king and queen of their clan, had taken him in. Kind hearted and benevolent, they’d refused to let a friend of their son starve or be forced to live in an orphanage. They’d seen potential in him, and so they’d raised him alongside their son, giving him opportunities he wouldn’t have had otherwise.

Draco had never stopped being grateful to them, and he served his king, who was as good as his brother, with dedication and unwavering loyalty.

The two of them certainly didn’t
look
like brothers though. Where the king was pale and slight, all straight posture and crystal clear green eyes that marked him as a member of the royal family, Draco was much taller and more tan. He wasn’t heavily muscular, but he was in good shape, his dark hair kept short and his eyes a reddish brown that he’d inherited from his mother. There was a trace of the Daebtheri in him, as evidenced by his strength and the line of shiny scales that went down his back from nape of neck to tailbone, in the same color as his eyes.

In other places, it would have marked him as less than, but here it was just another thing that made him different. Leothian was a haven for all the races and clans that called Aldara home, as long as they were loyal to their king and didn’t make trouble.

It had been a good hundred years of peace for them, and Draco was always impressed by how determined Plintos was to keep that peace.

So he embraced his king and friend, even though he was tired and wanted nothing more than his bed and a hot meal.

“Well?” Plintos said when he stepped back. “Show me.”

“I have to admit,” Draco said as he pulled the bag from his shoulder and pulled out the results of his searching. “I was expecting something a bit...more.” He dropped the bag, and in his hand was a sheath.

It was clearly old, coated in rust and grime from years of being buried on a distant planet. But it was done in the same style as the hilt and pommel he’d found just a few years earlier, so it was clear that they went together.

The sheath was made from a bright gold metal that would clearly shine brilliantly once it was cleaned up and polished. Embedded in it were bright stones in a dark purple color, the smallest about the size of a grain of rice and the largest about half the size of an egg.

What made it stand out from any other sheath of its make was the power that radiated from it. Neither of them knew if everyone could feel the power, and they certainly weren’t going to let everyone in so they could find out, but to the two of them, both of the Cillidan Artifacts in their possession practically pulsed with a warm power that they could feel to their bones.

Plintos’ face was lit up as he studied it, one hand hovering over the sheath as if he were afraid to really touch it. “It’s in excellent condition,” he murmured. “For having been practically buried for hundreds of years.”

Draco nodded. “True. I’m beginning to wonder if they don’t have some sort of power that keeps them from rusting to ruin or something like that. The hilt was the same.”

Plintos hummed, clearly distracted by examining the sheath. “Yes, that’s a strong theory. Unfortunately, the time when we had people who could really read the power in these artifacts is long past. Even my father didn’t have one in his court.”

“And your father wasn’t really interested in the items,” Draco said.

“Right. And more the pity, really. If he’d made some headway in finding them when he was king, then we could have all three by now.”

Draco frowned at his friend’s sharp tone. He never heard him speak ill of his father, and for the hundredth time since this whole thing had started, he wondered just why this was so important. It wasn’t as if they needed to have the items for any real reason other than to say that one of the more priceless treasures of the galaxy was in their possession, but he’d never known his friend to care about things like that. At least not to this degree. He was obsessed with collecting old treasures of forgotten times, but nothing compared to his zeal for having all the Cillidan Artifacts in his possession.

“Well,” Draco said calmly. “We’re two thirds of the way there now. There’s only one more, and it shouldn’t be that hard to find.”

“The blade is the most important part of the trio, though.” Plintos pointed out. “And it’s like to be the only piece not covered in gold and studded with jewels.”

“You raise a valid point.”

There was a long moment of silence where Plintos stared down at the sheath, unmoving. He had still yet to touch it, even though his fingers were practically quivering where they hovered over the metal.

“Put it there,” Plintos said finally, pointing to the shelf where the first item was propped up. “I’ll have people look into the best way to restore it later. For now, it’s time to celebrate properly. Our champion has returned home.”

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