The ship hums low and steady. The symbol pulses once, and a thin line of light extends downward, resolving into something unmistakable: a timeline.
Markers appear along it—faint at first, then sharpening into clarity.
Dates.
Not Zmaj cycles. Not stellar rotations.
Human timekeeping.
My knees almost give out. Rakkh’s hand closes around my arm instantly, firm and grounding, holding me upright without pulling me back.
“You are not alone,” he murmurs.
I nod, though my throat is too tight for words.
The timeline scrolls, slow and deliberate, then stops at a single marker. The panel brightens there, isolating a block of data. Not a memory overlay. Not an impression.
A file.
The label resolves in crisp, angular text.
ARCHITECT OVERSIGHT LOG – PRIMARY
The word Architect hits me like a physical blow.
“This isn’t a commander,” I whisper. “Not a pilot. This is the one who decided how the system thinks.”
Rakkh’s grip tightens fractionally. “You are saying this ship was taught.”
“Yes,” I say. “Guided.”
The file remains closed.
Waiting.
The ship doesn’t push. It doesn’t flood my senses or force connection. It offers and defers.
This is a choice.
My pulse roars in my ears as I lift my hand, hesitating inches from the panel. Every instinct screams that once I open this, there’s no unknowing it. Whatever is inside will rewrite everything we think we understand about Tajss. About the Devastation.
Rakkh leans closer, his forehead nearly brushing my temple, his voice low and fierce with restraint.
“If this harms you, we stop.”
I glance back at him. His molten eyes are locked on me, not the panel.
“It already has,” I say softly. “Just not in the way you mean.”
I turn back and place my palm against the surface. The system accepts it instantly. The grid dissolves. Static snaps once, twice—then stabilizes.
A room appears.
Angular. Enclosed. Clean.
And standing at its center—I cannot breathe.
The figure on the screen is human.
