She does not argue. That, too, feels wrong. Lia questions everything. She pushes. She insists—but now she is stepping closer instead? Close enough that her breath warms the hollow beneath my jaw.
The chamber responds instantly.
The violet glow brightens along the perimeter, not around me—but around her. The light arcs outward like a boundary, subtle but unmistakable. It forms a perimeter around Lia.
“It is isolating variables,” Travnyk says, watching with narrowed eyes.
Tomas lets out a thin, hysterical sound. “That’s… that’s not good, right?”
“No,” Travnyk agrees calmly. “It is very efficient.”
I curl my claws as the recessed ring at the platform’s center deepens another inch. A column of light rises—not a beam, not solid—but a denser shimmer that hums at a frequency I feel in my teeth.
The ship is preparing to interface.
I step in front of Lia. The light brushes my back and recoils, but not violently. More as if touching me is… undesirable. The hum shifts—tightening, recalibrating.
“Do not try to go around me,” I snarl.
The ship does not respond. It does not need to. The light bends. It curves, skirting my wings, threading toward Lia’s shoulder like water seeking the lowest point. She stiffens.
“Rakkh—”
I move. I slam my clawed hand into the platform between us and the light, anchoring myself, forcing my body into its path. The vibration surges through my arm, up my shoulder, rattling my bones. Pain flares—sharp, electric. The light fractures, stuttering. The hum spikes.
“Warrior—do not antagonize—” Travnyk warns, taking a sharp breath.
“I will do worse than antagonize,” I growl.
Lia grabs my arm. “Stop—please?—”
Her touch is the only reason I do not tear the platform apart.
The ship pauses. It does not retreat, but it pauses. As if reassessing.
I feel it then—something I did not expect. Not hostility, but confusion.
The hum wavers, losing its perfect rhythm. The light dims slightly, retreating back toward the column. Lia exhales shakily.
“It doesn’t understand why you’re in the way.”
“Then it is a fool,” I snap.
“No,” she says softly. “It’s… old.”
The word lands heavier than any threat, as if I am supposed to understand that ancient machines do not adapt quickly. Or maybe it is that old war systems do not question assumptions; they execute.
The ship hums again—lower now, slower—cycling through something deeper than a scan. The grooves along the walls pulsein patterns that feel less like circuitry and more like memory replaying itself.
I feel it like pressure behind my eyes. A battlefield. Not Tajss. Stars burning cold and distant. Metal screaming under fire. Loss. Rage.
A singular directive carved so deeply into the ship’s systems it has outlived everything else.
Protect the designated lineage.
Eliminate hostile combatants.
My vision clears abruptly.
