A corner of his mouth lifts, not in humor, but in something fierce and unyielding.
“Then it will have to learn,” he says, “that removing me will not earn your compliance.”
My heart stutters. I look at his hand, still holding mine. At the scars along his wrist. At the steady warmth of him, real and present and choosing me even now. The ship hums again. It’s not louder, but feels closer.
I realize then that this is the moment—the quiet before something irreversible happens. Maddy made her choice centuries ago, alone and desperate, coding hope into metal and time. Now the ship is offering me that choice. All this data shethrust into the future, hoping against hope to save the Tajss she, impossibly, knew.
And Rakkh… Rakkh is standing beside me like this moment between us is inevitable. That no matter what, it was always going to come down to this. To us. Here, in this moment, with the weight of choices laid on my shoulders.
“I need to see the rest,” I say. “The command core. Navigation. Launch authority—whatever passes for a bridge on this ship.”
Travnyk inclines his head. “Then this chamber is not the end.”
“No,” I agree. “It was understanding.”
The ship isn’t asking anymore. It’s proceeding.
The lights along the far wall brighten—not into a path, but into a soft alignment that feels like doors unlocking in sequence. Rakkh’s grip tightens once, just once.
“Then we must move,” he says.
I nod, because the next step won’t just decide the fate of the ship. It will decide the future of Tajss—the future of us. I swallow hard and blink rapidly, clearing my sight.
“Yes,” I say, taking a step ahead and willing the ship to show me what is next.
25
LIA
The path doesn’t light up all at once. It happens in stages. Segments of the floor brighten in measured intervals, not urging speed, just confirming direction. The ship isn’t shepherding me anymore. It’s executing—using me as the key, not the target. That’s a major difference from what’s come before.
Rakkh stays close enough that his shoulder brushes mine when the corridor narrows. Close. Steady. Intentional. Every step matches mine; his pace adjusts without comment, as if we’ve been walking like this forever.
It does something strange to my chest.
We pass through a series of chambers that feel administrative. Not operational. Storage alcoves. Blank panels. Rooms with no scars of battle—only order. The walls are smoother and less reactive. There are no more pressure changes, no corrective responses. The ship conserves effort, routing us through what remains intact.
“Minimal defensive architecture,” Travnyk murmurs. “This area was never meant to repel intrusion.”
“No,” I say softly. “It was meant for those who were trusted.”
That earns me a look from Tomas, sharp and uneasy.
“You’re saying whoever built this didn’t expect to be attacked from inside.”
“Yes.”
The implication settles like dust. The path ends at a sealed aperture— not grown shut, not fused. Just closed. A door in the most literal sense. A flat plane. Defined edges. Human geometry. I stop.
Rakkh stops with me, his presence a steady line at my side. I feel his attention not on the door, but on me. He’s reading me the way he does when the world tilts and he decides whether to intervene or wait.
“This is it,” I say.
He nods once. “I will not touch it.”
I glance at him. “I didn’t ask you not to.”
“I know,” he replies quietly. “But I am saying it anyway.”
