When they arrive on their machine, landing near the Crescent, General Feran appears unnerved. He tugs at the royal armor around his neck. There’s something strange about this one, he tells Jules. And when they reach the dust of the purple hills, stepping out of their transport, Jules asks him to elaborate.

“Well, Princess, it’s just that our technology was unable to identify their spacecraft.”

Jules hums in response. Four palace guards, donned in thick, purple armor, march in place surrounding the pair. Their heavy shoes beating footprints into the lavender-gray sand.

“It’s not from Derin, or any of the other Galactic warrior planets.” Feran steps into pace beside her, but this is always a challenge. Jules is several feet taller than her General, taking in larger strides and leaving Feran to scramble after with the translating device sinking in his short arms.

“They may not be looking for war, then?” Jules says. Her staff, iolite in color and decorated with gems, guides her forward.

He stutters as they near the spacecraft. Under the purple sky, it’s white in color, with a stream of smoke leaving what appears to be the engine. “We, uh, well, we might not know that for certain--”

“Well, then.” Jules adjusts the staff in her hand. “I guess we’ll find out.”

He rushes after her, his armor clinking against his body. “We must take precaution, Princess!” He gasps for air and when one of the guards slows to support him, he brushes her off to say, “We don’t know what they are or what they’re capable of!”

This is routine for their planet, Aster, as it remains one of the few forms of life for lightyears to come. More often than not, the foreign metal ships are of galactic travelers, star searchers, or famished creatures of space looking for refuge, refuel or recharge.

Sometimes they may even be of wandering souls lost in space.

“Guards, surround Princess Jules!” Feran says, out of breath and shaking, the device nearly slipping from his hands. “We must pro—”

But then, something happens. The doors of the spacecraft burst open and something emerges.

The Asterian guards step forward in defense. But to their surprise, the being doesn’t attack. It wanders forward, swaying in its place, and suddenly collapses to the ground. Jules steps forward but hesitates when two more beings rush outside, kneeling beside the first body. They don't seem to notice the Princess, or a frantic Feran, or four palace guards wielding broad iolite swords.

“One of them is injured,” Jules says, stepping forward. She is close enough to see their outerwear, white and billowy and swollen with air. She decides that they resemble much of their moon which sits above them in the stars. “General, notify the King. We are to extend our resources to them.”

“Princess, we cannot--”

“Crisa,” Jules gestures to the guard on her right, “if you would please accompany me.”

When they close the proximity between them and the alien creatures, the two who had been kneeling scramble to stand. Their eyes, which appear smaller than Jules', are colored and wet and blinking with fear, and this is when the Princess realizes “You’re human.”

“You can speak our tongue?!” one of them says. “Please,” they gesture down to their companion, who has since remained unmoving. “We don’t want to hurt you; we just need some h-help--”

“Princess!” Feran approaches her, frustrated, spewing Asterian as he looks between the creatures in the sand and Jules standing above them. “We mustn't, we cannot share our resources with humans.” The translating device slips from his hands. “You know of them. You know of the stories the Elders have told us.” Jules lifts a hand to silence him.

“Yes, they are human,” Jules says in Asterian. “And, yes, every creature has stories written of them. But it is for me and the Asterian Counsel to decide the fate of our visitors.” She takes a gentle step closer and kneels down to observe the one laid against the ground. She notices a spatter of blood around the human’s mouth. “Their blood is red.”

One of them begins to plead. “Please, if you could just--”

But Feran surges forward, shifting his tongue to match their own. “You have no right to speak to Princess Jules--”

“Feran!” Jules says, slamming her staff into the sand before his feet. His nervous green fingers tremble with shock and frustration. He starts tugging at the clothing around his neck again. “Take the wounded one with Miven. Tell Healer Riva a healing room must be prepared. Jona and Crisa will see to it that the rest of them arrive at the Palace safely.”

“But Princess--”

“That was an order, General.”

When Feran reluctantly departs, Jules and Crisa escort the other two into their transport. And Crisa asks in their tongue, “How many of you are there?”

“There used to be thousands, but we’ve dwindled down to just a few.”

The transport continues through the dusty sand. Above, Aster’s moon casts a glow on the planet.

And Jules offers them a reassuring smile, something Asterians are not greatly accustomed to. She had read years before in the book of the Elders that humans have a preference for positive facial features. She had read a number of other things also, but decided they would be brought up at a later time.

“You will be safe in Aster for some time. Your machine is foreign, but our technologists will see to it that your spacecraft be salvaged for your return home.”

“Home?” one of them says slowly. There is something uncertain about their voice.

“Are you not of planet Earth?” Jules asks.

The humans share a glance as Crisa looks behind them to where their spacecraft lays near the Crescent. Their engine still smoking.

“There hasn’t been life on our Earth for a thousand years now.”