“Lia,” Rakkh says, voice rough. “What are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper, tears stinging hot. “But it seems to understand this. It understands me.”
The ship pulses once. I feel it—not as sound but as a pressure behind my ribs, a heartbeat answering mine. I swallow hard and try to shape my intent the way Calista taught me—focus, analyze, push down panic. Aside the noise. Focus on its purpose.
Protect us.
Not just me.
Us.
The impression from before flashes again behind my eyes—starlight, urgency, a woman’s will like steel.
Hold the line. Protect what comes next.
I don’t know her name, but I feel her purpose like a brand. And I realize, with a clarity that makes me dizzy, that this ship was built to recognize a threat. And in its eyes, Rakkh looks like one.
Because he’s a warrior. Because he’s Zmaj. Because the last time this ship was active, the enemies were something else entirely—something the Zmaj fought, something the Urr’ki feared, something humans only know as old stories.
Perixians. Clones. Invaders.
But he’s not Perixian—why is it doing this? Why is it perceiving him as a threat?
I press harder against the wall and force my mind into a single, sharp thought.
He is not the enemy.
The ship’s hum wavers. The blue-white alarm flickers. The heat from the vent fades a fraction—not gone, but receding.
Rakkh watches me like I’m doing something sacred and dangerous all at once. His hand slides up my arm, not to pull me away this time, but to steady me—gentle, careful, as if he’s afraid he’ll break me with it.
“Lia,” he murmurs, and hearing my name like that makes my heart twist. “Do not?—”
“I have to,” I whisper. “Because if I don’t, it’ll hurt you.”
The words leave me raw. The ship hums again. A tone sequence rolls through the chamber—lower, less alarm, more… recalibration. The vent seam behind Rakkh begins to close, as slow as a blinking eye. It doesn’t fully seal, but enough that the heat stops building.
Tomas collapses against the wall, shaking, his breath loud. Travnyk lowers his head, watching the ship like a living predator he’s finally learned to read.
Rakkh doesn’t relax. Not even a fraction. His gaze stays locked on the vent until the seam smooths completely shut. Then he turns to me.
The violet light paints the planes of his face in shadow and sheen, making him look like something carved from moonstone and war. His hand comes up and cups my cheek—careful, huge, warm. There’s no possession or dominance in his touch. It’s relief so violent it shakes him.
“You put yourself between me and it,” he says, voice hoarse.
I blink fast, trying not to cry like a child. “It was going to?—”
“I know,” he cuts in, and his voice is rougher than anger. “And you still did it.”
My throat closes.
“I don’t want you hurt,” I whisper. The truth feels too big in my mouth. Too exposed. “I can’t?—”
He leans in, forehead nearly touching mine, breath hot against my lips. His hearts beat hard enough that I feel them even here, even though we aren’t pressed together.
“I do not understand this ship,” he murmurs. “But I understand this.”
His thumb drags lightly along my cheekbone, wiping away wetness I didn’t realize had spilled. My body goes tight in a way that has nothing to do with fear.
