Her face is pale in the violet light, eyes shining with that terrible combination of awe and resolve. She does not look at the glowing corridor; she is looking at me.
“It thinks I am safer alone,” she says quietly. “Without… variables.”
My hearts stutter and my breath hitches. Every instinct screams no. Protect her. Keep her safe.
“You are safest with me,” I say, the words torn straight from instinct.
She swallows. “I know.”
The hum falters. Just a fraction, and the pressure eases. The ship seems to be recalculating.
Lia steps forward until her chest brushes my back. The space between my wings is particularly sensitive, and I cannot suppress a shiver that races along my spine. Her voice is low, steady, and meant for me alone.
“If it sees you as a threat, then fighting it will not change that. But neither will letting it take me away.”
I close my eyes for a single breath. Control. Focus. Protect.
I shift—not away from the branching corridor, but not toward it either. I angle my body so I block it while still allowing Lia to remain beside me. A compromise. The ship hesitates. The light wavers.
Then—slowly—the glow along the right-hand corridor dims, retracting like a tide pulled back from shore. The forward path brightens again, steady and neutral. The hum settles. Agreement—or concession. I exhale through my teeth sharply.
“I… really hate this place,” Tomas says, slumping against the wall.
“No one asked,” I mutter.
Lia’s hand slides to my forearm—light, grounding.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
I do not answer. If I speak now, something reckless will come out.
The ship resumes its steady guidance, the corridor ahead opening wider as we move. Whatever test it just ran, we passed it together—but I am not fooled. This was not its final attempt. This vessel may not be hostile, but it is protective.
And anything that believes it must protect Lia from me is something I will eventually have to break—or teach the difference between a weapon and a shield.
17
RAKKH
We move forward. Deeper. And the ship watches every step. Learning.
The corridor widens into a chamber that was never meant for movement; it is clearly intended to be another waiting room.
The ceiling arches low, ribbed with structural bands that curve inward like a protective cage. The walls are smooth and unbroken except for shallow grooves that spiral inward, converging on a circular platform at the center of the room. The light pools richer and steadier, casting long shadows that cling to the floor like reluctant creatures.
The ship is slowing us—not by force, but by design.
I step onto the platform first. The metal depresses slightly under my weight, then stabilizes, adjusting to my mass. Lia follows, her boots barely disturbing the surface. Tomas hesitates at the threshold until Travnyk gives him a gentle nudge between the shoulder blades.
“Move,” Travnyk murmurs. “This chamber is not hostile.”
“Everything about this place feels hostile,” Tomas mutters—but he obeys.
The moment all four of us are inside, the chamber quietly seals behind us. The corridor we came from does not vanish; it remains visible through a membrane. Something in the air shifts. The pressure equalizes. The hum drops to a lower register. My claws flex. Lia tilts her head, listening.
“It’s… quieter,” she whispers.
“Yes,” Travnyk agrees. “This space buffers external stimulus. It would seem to be meant to stabilize those inside.”
