“Something ahead,” he says. “Not creature. Not plant. Not natural.”
“My metal shard,” I whisper. “The alloy…”
Tomas swallows hard. “What alloy?”
I pull the shard from my pocket. Moonlight hits it and it gleams—smooth, curved, seamless.
“Not human,” I say. “Not Zmaj. Definitely not Urr’ki.”
Travnyk makes a low sound. “Ancient?”
“No,” I breathe. “Engineered.”
Rakkh’s gaze snaps to mine, pupils narrowing. Recognition. And fear. Real fear.
“Then we may be walking toward something older than your crash,” he murmurs. “Older than the Devastation.”
“And not from this world,” I add.
Tomas sinks to his knees.
“Oh gods,” he whispers. “We are not dealing with Tajss at all, are we?”
The dune behind us shifts slow and deliberate. Rakkh steps in front of me instantly, tail coiling forward.
“No,” he says, voice a razor’s edge.
“Could it be… Invaders?” Tomas asks, his voice quavering.
The dune shifts again—slow, steady, and deliberate. Rakkh’s tail sweeps in front of me, a living barrier, claws flexing into the sand. Travnyk stiffens beside Tomas, tusks gleaming, nostrils flaring. The air is tight, like the desert is holding its breath.
“It might well be Invaders,” Rakkh says.
Tomas goes pale. “Then we turn back. Now. Right now.”
His voice cracks, high and terrified. I do not blame him. My heartbeat thrashes so hard it hurts, but turning back is not an option. The poison is spreading. The plants and animals are dying, and our people are next. We need food. We need the ecosystem, rough as it is, or we will not last.
“No,” I breathe. “We cannot.”
Tomas swings toward me, eyes wide and frantic.
“Are you insane? Lia—if this is Perixian tech?—”
“We do not know that yet,” I counter.
“Who else could it be?” Tomas snaps. “It is not us. It is not Zmaj. It is not Urr’ki. That leaves?—”
“Enough,” Rakkh cuts in, voice sharp as flint.
Tomas clamps his mouth shut but continues trembling, hands fisted at his sides. Travnyk exhales slowly, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
“If we turn back now, the sickness spreads unchecked. We lose everything,” Travnyk says.
“Or,” Tomas says, “we die before we can warn anyone.”
I want to say he is wrong. I want to promise we are safe. But the truth is neither of us knows. My fingers tighten around the metal shard in my pocket. Smooth. Cold. Wrong.
“We keep going,” I say.
