“I think it has shifted from containment to assessment,” Travnyk says.
I curl my hands into fists, my claws digging into my palms.
“Assessment of what?” I ask.
Travnyk’s gaze flicks—not to me—but to Lia. “Of priorities.”
As if on command, the ship answers him.
The violet light drains from the walls in a smooth withdrawal, leaving the chamber dim and shadowed behind us. Then a narrow band of illumination blooms along the floor—thin, precise—extending away and down the corridor. Forward. Not an alarm or a display of threat—just a route.
Lia inhales sharply. I feel the sound in my ribs before I truly hear it. Her pulse jumps, quick and light, and the hum beneath us shifts to match it again, like a drum aligning to a faster rhythm. I do not like how quickly the structure responds to her.
“Do not move,” I tell her, low and firm.
“I wasn’t—” she begins, then stops, because we both know that she was.
Behind us, Tomas takes a half-step back, boots scraping metal. The sound echoes too loudly in the chamber. The ship reacts instantly.
The light snaps bright along the wall beside Tomas—not blinding, not violent—but sharp enough to make him flinch. A pressure wave follows, localized and precise. Tomas staggers, gasping, and drops to one knee as if the air itself has thickened around him.
He grasps his throat, but does not scream because he cannot. The pressure lifts a heartbeat later, leaving him heaving and pale, his palms flat on the floor.
“Enough,” I snarl, pivoting and wings flaring wide.
The ship hums once. Travnyk steps forward just enough to place himself between Tomas and the wall.
“Non-lethal correction,” he murmurs. “It discourages unpredictable movement.”
“It will not touch him again,” I growl.
The hum deepens, then settles. Agreement—or something close enough to it. Lia turns, crouching beside Tomas withouthesitation. She presses her hand to his shoulder, steady and grounding.
“Breathe. Slow. It did not hurt you,” she says.
Her voice is calm and controlled. The kind of tone that she would use with children.
Our children.
I shut that idea down. This is not the time or the place, but my dragon rumbles and indistinct images fill my head. A future, with her. A family that is ours.
The ship does not react to her movement this time. That fact burns in me. I track the corridor ahead. The narrow band of light pulses once, patient. Waiting.
A second set of clicks echoes deeper within the structure—answering the first, like a call returned. Something ahead unlocks. Not behind us. Never behind us. I shift closer to Lia as she rises, placing my body half a step ahead of hers.
“This thing is not offering,” I murmur. “It is directing.”
She nods, eyes fixed on the glowing path. “I know.”
“Let me go first,” I say.
Her lips part—reflexive protest—but she stops herself. Instead, she nods. Once. Small. Resolute. Travnyk watches the exchange with narrowed eyes.
“It has accepted proximity,” he says. “You are… tolerated.”
I bare my teeth. “I do not require its permission.”
“No,” Travnyk agrees. “But it requires yours.”
