Question for people reading or reviewing: most of the chapters are about as long as this one, or often even longer, would it be easier if I split them up and published them in parts?

Hey there, TheMythMaster! Rebel here for a short review!

At the first glance, the chapter was hard to read. I will point out the places to improve below.

Firstly, no, binary star systems do not have planets moving around in a figure eight, they orbit the centre of gravity located between the two stars. A figure eight orbit would be highly unstable. So, that's the first sci-fi mistake there. But that's alright, you can edit that later.

I was a bit taken aback when the story started with grandiose sentences but soon devolved into strange bits of description in simple, rather talk-of-the-folk words. I am not sure if this was intended, but it came out a little odd if it indeed were. Then you followed up the run-of-the-mill sentences with more elegant ones, which also came off as... a bit off (with every pun intended). And it stayed elegant for the rest of the chapter. I would suggest you to proofread it and change the rather chatty sentences into simple, elegant ones - or, just write the entire thing in a similar style. Remember, this is just my opinion, and it is totally up to you if you would want to change it or not.

Also, there are several common grammatical mistakes throughout the chapter - like writing 's instead of just plural form with s, it's instead of its, misplacing commas and other punctuation marks.

And the paragraphs overall felt a little too long and too descriptive. The flow of the story was drowned by the long narrative and the story overall felt a bit too complicated. I could not keep up with what happened in the chapter due to the arduous and confusing descriptions. Perhaps you should tone down the voice inside your head that says "MORE WORLDBUILDING BROOOOOO" and elevate the voice that says "This is kinda hard to read, make it more readable".

Well, that's all. I hope my little criticisms weren't too harsh. Your imagination is commendable indeed. But, it just needs a little polishing. Keep writing! :p

P.S.: This review is brought to you by Team Tortoise.

Good Morning/Afternoon/Evening/Night(whichever one it is in your part of the world),

Hi! I'm Kate and I'm here to leave a quick review!!

First Impression

This was quite an intriguing chapter one. We have ourselves quite the interesting duo, and most specifically Aster here. He seems to be starting his arc in quite a low point of his life and with quite a lot of growing to be doing character wise too.

Anyway let's get right to: Kate's Line by Line Reactions;

Beyond your own vision, and a million stars away, there lies a galaxy. Beautiful, vibrant and full of life. Cultures abound in every form and people are of all types good and bad. There is Cartha, an incredible civilization, full of learning and technology, on the waning edge of its golden years while its glory days are over the Carthians o their home planet Rantov are gay and proud, living in there ancient cities and revelling in their rolling hills. Across the way as the asteroid flies one mya find Frescar better known as the twin star system because rather than revolving around a single sun the planets abound in a sort of figure eight—but, you probably guessed that by the name. Its people are perhaps a little buisier, less important to the history books and scholars, but a reputable name in trade and diplomacy. Then there are far off places, a long journey from any nice towns, like Tarkus, that haunting planet, shrouded in mystery behind it’s thick atmosphere. Other places too many to name abound as well small or big with peoples primitive or majestic. Yes, it is an incredible land. However, it is threatened, threatened by a malicious, maurading force. An evil beyond redemption that seeks to destroy and envelope. One in particular, called Alzan. But, we are getting ahead of ourselves.

This story really starts with Aster. It starts, quite suddenly and out of knowhere as most adventures do, on Rantov, just as Aster stumbled down a small staircase. He shielded his eyes against the harsh sun that came across the green sea into the harbour. From his short, swept back hair, down a sharp nose and beyond his smart jacket to hardy polished boots Aster imbued strength.

Behind him, his ship simmered down as he strode from it. It was sleek, as most Carthian designs are. With a single blue stripe that went from a somewhat duck billed nose, down by small delta canard, underneath the cockpit from which he’d just descended, over the sharp delta of the rear where wings melded into fuselage, and ended at either side of the three engine openings in the back, was all that disrupted the unblemished white that reflected Cartha’s near constant sunbeams. Beyond it, and the pebbled shore of the jetty upon which the airfield lay, was Rantov’s bay, and then the harbour and marketplace which, from such a distance appeared as only a smattering of yellow, cobalt, and orange stripped tents; and then, Rantov, in all it’s glory rose.

But, Aster hadn’t time to gaze upon it now. His expression was annoyed as he stalked across the white bricks to a small pavilion on a nearby verdant knoll, which stood in peaceful contrast to his mood. He took the steps up it two at a time and at a great desk, with intricate legs that mirrored the pillars nearby, another met his fierce gaze with equal contempt.

General Magnus wasn’t happy. He was short, for a Carthian, but thick shoulders and, more importantly, a burly attitude tested by experience more than made up for that, and he towered over others if in spirit alone. Today, his square chin was the top of a tower of frustration.

“Captain.” He began.

“General.” Aster replied, nodding.

Magnus sighed, and gave Aster a sidelong glance, before scanning the airfield, as for a reason or distraction he hadn’t considered but finding none, returning to Aster he simply sighed again and threw up his hands, well stained with ink from the letter writing Aster’s arrive was interrupting.“You know what I’m going to say. I see little point repeating myself.” The General stated at last.

“Sir, I don’t think you fully understand the issue. The wing you’ve given me–” But, the General cut into Aster’s dispute.

“Is in all respects a good and capable one.” Magnus gestured to the growing collection of ships coming alongside Aster’s. They were identical, and came in low over the water before pitching up near the runway’s start, and descending rapidly onto it. “Captain, smart connection may get you such a rank with ease, but to ascend further you will have to start learning to treat them as partners—or at least pawns—rather than utensils.”

Taking great annoyance at this, that matched the General’s Aster was dismissed. A well trodden path that rode the ridge of the first grassy mounds before the shore, up and down, all the way back to the city was often used—and probably created—by the captains, and lesser pilots of Cartha. He found much wanted if not enjoyed sanctuary in the lack of them that he met as he headed home.

No doubt, Magnus was right about his family, though Aster liked to think otherwise. He had worked hard and by all accounts could have been promoted as he was without any background in politics. But, he wasn’t so prideful to be entirely blind, and no doubt the stresses, strains, and dangerous edges that he pushed himself to were just that: What he pushed himself to in perhaps a misguided attempt at righting the ship of validity that his connections had skewed.

Nothing he did, no matter how hard he worked, the same problem persisted and he grew weary of it. Growing weary was not something he aspired to do. His skill, and ability were well improved and borne out, but rather than repairing the damage, they only seemed to stretch the gap both symbolically, and literally as evidenced by his earlier arrival, between him and those under his command.

But soon, these thoughts were drowned out by the hum, chatter and cries of Rantov that broke the air as he neared the harbour he had grown up around. For, despite this, he required the same mental focus every time he entered its mazes and masses simply to keep his destination and sense of direction aligned, and to avoid slipping on, stepping into, or otherwise messing up anything and anyone.

Upon rolling hills, the ancient city of the Carthians rested. Tall and straight it’s white pillars stood, upon yet stronger foundations built centuries before. Some buildings were new—the senate hall; and The New East Quarter for example—others, are older than the city. The dockyards, around Asser’s split the horn of which underlies the airfield, a thin bay, where the ocean juts deep into city’s centre, and quay’s have stood strong for generations; farther up there is the palace, sprawled in an H shape with many further gardens creeping around down the hill it rests upon, brilliantly reflecting the morning light that comes right up Asser’s split upon the palace crown. All of it—old or new—upon foundations of great stone placed by the first Carthians, hard as granite and white as the sun, no one knows now how they did it, long ago when the first king laid out the kingdom he knew he would not live to see finished. This is Rantov. This, is the heart of Cartha.

Once around the corner of the taller buildings, and into the more open plaza’s ahead of the steps leading to the palace, it was not difficult to keep his destination in view.

The only hill for miles, to rival the palatial city centre, stands a quarter of a league to the east. Stairs have been chiselled painstakingly into the ancient foundations where needed, as buildings have risen around it. And from the top, in a small terraced porch of a grand old villa, there is a splendid view of the sea, just beyond the palace. The family that resides in this house have lived there since a long gone descendent built it from marble he quarried himself, back when the hill was mostly grass except for the square of solid white foundation laid ong ago. Why there were foundations there and yet no house is unknown. Those who live in that old quarter say the hill is actually a great burial mound, wherein the first king was lain, and hence the block was no foundation, but a tombstone. The Hill certainly has a certain regality about it that is undeniable. And the owners of the House are rightfully glad, and proud to work to be worthy of the stance. This house is a home. It is Aster’s home, of all his years.

And, as he mounted its steps, he hoped to meet his, surely hurried, but loving mother along the way. For what little comfort, her smile might bring him in passing. Each worn block that brought him ever higher above even the tallest pillared apartments in the city he could have taken with his eyes sealed shut, and his ears covered—although that is hyperbole and off course he didn’t do that. Alas, Harriet, Aster’s mother, and mayor of the easy courter must have been at that palace.

At the top, before the courtyard of The House, Aster paused to catch his breath, and, covering his eyes again, gazed at the sun. Now, with his long walk before the city's liveliness and finally the stair’s endless toil to chip away at his anger, his expression was solemn. A gulls floated like kites on the wind far out at sea and he breathed, relaxing his brow. How ever, did one fix what was—to all appearances—not broken? He thought. Yet, only a moment later, another sight arrested his focus. Two sharp whinged dots that came down across the setting sun.

Cursing, his frustration renewed by fear and contempt as well as the fact that he’d have to retrace his steps so immediately, he turned back and flew off.

Not a footstep missed, or a momentary breath caught, Aster arrived speeding over the airfield. He crossed it without slowing, and leaped into his ship, the engine still warm, started in a moment and his taxi was for all practical purposes his takeoff, as he took the shining arrow to the air. Being still at the airfield when he left, his wing was already airborne, and at once he begrudged them for the insurrection, and in self resentment at not arriving sooner himself, pondered berating them for the uselessness of getting into the air early only to circle around waiting for orders—his orders he supposed. There was also a small part of him that appreciated both the respect, and loyal duty this showed and fortunately it was strong enough to keep him silent at least until he’d pulled level and ahead of them in the brilliant blue sky.

The Sparkan fighters were patchy, red, bulky, barrel-headed things, with engines forced to be twice as loud and productive as necessary only to carry the uninspired bulk of drag, weight, and explosives that made it up. Small by comparison to Carthian fighters, they were hard to see till they got close, and usually approached from above what clouds there may be, and then swooped down backlit by the sun, as the terrible low pitched whine of their hulking engines grew abruptly louder and the ash filled black smoke that came from them billowed over Cartha’s verdant hills and crystal lagoons. What happened next was a horrible death which spared one from the other destruction. Here, Aster noted three, which were just howling down across the sun.

Six and Eight—Dio and a new recruit whose name escaped him—were his best flyers, he sent them to intercept the red harbingers head on, knowing they might have a chance at turning around and catching up afterward. Meanwhile, the rest he set to a long delta formation which would wheel around like a flock of swans, before giving chase from above. He had another duty. And, as the pumping black trails grew longer, Aster turned aside, far ahead and made for the city. Over his shoulder he heard a few great bangs, and pops, as his interceptors tried to nail a few hits without colliding with the crimson barbarians themselves.

Reaching the city in barely a moment, he slowed down, and took to the west side, yanking hard astern the ships yoke and slowing himself while turning around just past a long pillared construction below.

The Library had been badly damaged in the last attack. For barbarians who supposedly went for the first thing in sight, they were awfully good at picking the most precious things to lay their first sights upon. A thin veil of wood frames, interlaced with ladders and boards, and crawling with people miniscule from Aster’s perspective, enveloped one end of the long hall-like building. Behind this, or at the less damaged end where (fortunately) the most ancient, and sophisticated of manuscripts were kept—pieces describing times as early as the first Carthians trek across the stars, or the lost genius of their engineers—the side was an endless repeating pattern of marble pillars, with artistic flowing capitals upon each of which were engraved unique scenes that Aster has spent much time committing to memory.

With a gristled edge to its tone as it grew closer, Aster heard the potent bustling of two of the raiders, and prepared to engage. His wing hadn’t done well it seemed, and out of the two of them only one of he monstrous machines was bleeding a fraction more dark smoke than its comrade. As they made directly for the library, and came low to fire down upon it, Aster met them from above. This caused his wing who were trailing the queries some great disruptions, but he didn’t notice as he sped after the undamaged one.

It brought him around the twin hills of the city twice, in a long figure eight as it rained as much fire as it could with Aster dogging it’s every move.

Soon, however, the droning din of quick but muffled airflow around him was interrupted by another eruption. Passing low above the palace to undercut any attempt to rain fire upon it, he spotted flames, in the distance as small as sparks, peppering the library. And, again, Aster witnessed helplessly a fountain of flame lit the dusty interior and spread white hot ruin throughout. The golden licks that poured out around the pillars was only a glimpse of the white furnace within. Even as he perspired to bring his craft—once a graceful servant, yet now a seemingly unwieldy tool in his hand—closer, faster, he understood that all had been done.

The library was gone. The last library.

His talk of only a few minutes earlier with the General, however hazy and eclipsed by the more recent catastrophe, weighed on his mind enough, and he greeted his wing, as defeated as he, with silent nods instead of the scolding they might have expected. Reproaches, certainly materialised quickly, in swirling numbers without order or structure and for any and every move one of them had or had not made that may have changed the outcome. But, as they returned his silence, Aster was quieted also by the depth of the loss, and some embarrassment sharpened by the approaching General.

In an act of unusual insolence, he brushed past the General, whose acute features were similarly pulled by an invisible force downward. And yet another person went without reprimand that evening as the General only paused and let him go.

There was a sharp wind, that one could only catch and hear from the top of The Hill, upon the veranda above the dinning room of The House. Came, not from the sea, as the breezes (or often—as we shall see—storms) which berated the merchants on the waterfront. It came rather from the foothills, and the mounds, and other grassy slopes that were blocked by the grasslands surrounding Rantov for many miles, but which came in only a little hugging the sea to stretch around to the airfield. It began, as swirls in the valleys, and came up and whistled through the sharp rocky crags at the top of the tallest knolls, where the smooth turf was pierced by the underlaying earth. And then, reaching the grasslands it swept far and faster than the birds over them, slowly rising in either the sun of morning or midday, or the heat, so imbued upon the grass which afterwards wafts up from it. And thus, it sweeps suddenly, and most often in the evenings, over the citie’s roofs and terraces. Sometimes, when the senate is not bickering loudly, and neither is the crowds, one can hear it from high points in the palace, but, it is best felt, whipping over The Hill. It often seemed to beckon Aster, but he knew not from whence its voice came, and dared not find out. Yet still, he would go often to the rooftop and listen, and feel it’s swiftness.

There he was now. And after the day’s events, he endeavoured to follow.

The next day, he stood amidst the blackened shell that was once the library. Pillars, lay fallen about, all were cracked and only a few retained, in smatterings and scratches, some semblance of their white colour. The roof was mostly collapsed, and inside, the walls were similarly cracked, fire-stained, and in some places fallen about. Only the hardy, ancient foundations remained completely intact, no doubt if the walls weren’t as old and stubborn they too would lie like the pillars.A woman, surveyed it silently. She had long hair, tied with elegant lacing, and topped by a thin, crown of intricate goldwork. Her face was long and straight, strong and imposing, reflecting an inner age beyond her physical youth. Aster approached the door which flooded brilliant morning light into the otherwise shadowed interior, and lit the ashes and dust floating throughout. She turned and met his somber gaze, allowing him entry.

Hastily, he approached, and gave a curt bow, released at her nod.

“Do not blame yourself.” She said.

“It is hard not to. But, that is not why I’m here.” He replied.

“Aster,” She said, meaningfully, “The senate will never approve it.”“Are you not the Sovereign?” He replied earnestly, “Have you no power over them? We need help.”

“I understand how you must feel—I feel it far greater. But, they are reticent.”

“As always.” Aster huffed.

“—And, more powerful than you seem to think.”

“They are only advisors.”

“They are senators, and they hold more sway with the people than you think.”

Groaning Aster continued.

“Have some heart. What about Reveaux? Bartalion perhaps? They will come if we ask them.”The Sovereign grinned sardonically. “They ought to at least.” But closing her eyes, and pondering, she answered. “So be it, but a messenger will have trouble out there. The Sparkans are united now, they hold more influence than ever and the senate is not the only people unwilling to be bold.”

“I will personally go.” Aster replied heartily.

The Sovereign considered this.“You would like to certainly.”

“What do you mean?”

“Without your wing of course.”Aster sighed.

“Please, understand, I do this for Cartha.”

The Sovereign nodded.“And for yourself.” As he opened his mouth to reply, she added: “That is not a bad thing, cousin.”

That evening, with the senate placated, he left, taking to the air and flitting away on the wind, until the orange twi-lit sky swallowed him and he was lost to the stars. He would never see Rantov the same again.