Rarely amidst the vast void of the cosmos, there lay planets, not clung to stars like many others, adrift in the stellar cold of space.

And among those rarities, even more seldom. There is life.

Darkness roams the cold as brothers in arms, the light of distant stars laugh while their glow dare not touch the planet. A home of night, a home of cold, a home of outcasts.

Massive ruins of ships turned to closed shelters, beckoning what warmth there was among those who remained there, small sections of bioluminescent dirt let the smallest of light breathe in the perpetual night.

As light is scarce, light becomes coveted, no matter how little lay bare.

Glowing dirt is covered, hidden safe from the night. But only making it darker.

Blood soaks into the metal of the ruins, runs down it to meet the earth, feeding what hides beneath. As the light that lies hidden grows from the envy of others.

The planet roams the void, as eternal night lay deeper than oceans, light humbling itself, waiting to strike.