I exhale slowly. Rakkh doesn’t move.
He stays planted in front of me, wings folded tight but ready, his body angled just enough to block the center of the chamber while still leaving me room to breathe. I feel the tension coiled through him like a drawn bowstring, but it’s not panic—it’s control. The kind that has to hurt to maintain, but he doesn’t let that show.
The light changes again.
Not the cold blue-white from before. This time it warms—violet deepening toward something softer, duskier. The grooves along the walls pulse once, then again—slower now, like a measuredheartbeat instead of a warning. The ship isn’t deciding anymore. It already has.
A narrow band of light blooms along the floor at the edge of the platform. It doesn’t flare or flash. It simply appears, extending forward into the chamber ahead with quiet certainty. A path. My stomach tightens.
“This wasn’t here before,” Tomas whispers.
“No,” Travnyk agrees. “It was not.”
The hum shifts, barely perceptible, and I feel it before I understand why—my pulse stutters, then steadies, syncing with the vibration under my boots like my body has been slotted into a rhythm it recognizes.
I don’t like how natural it feels.
The band of light pulses once. Not in alarm or demand, more an expectation.
Rakkh glances back at me over his shoulder, eyes sharp, searching my face for signs I don’t know how to name. Fear, maybe. Or worse—agreement.
“Don’t move,” he says quietly.
“I know, you keep reminding me,” I whisper back.
But the truth is, I am already moving inside. Not physically, but… it’s hard to explain—the way the ship presses at the edges of my awareness without touching it directly. Like I’m standing in shallow water where the tide is lapping just close enough to make your skin prickle.
I take a careful step—not forward, just sideways, adjusting my stance.
The light responds immediately, shifting to stay aligned with me. Rakkh stiffens.
“I didn’t mean—” I start.
The hum deepens, then settles again. The light holds steady. Travnyk watches the exchange with narrowed eyes.
“It is no longer reacting to proximity,” he murmurs. “It is tracking priority.”
“That’s comforting,” Tomas mutters weakly.
“It is efficient,” Travnyk replies.
I swallow, trying to force the lump in my throat to ease.
The corridor ahead opens a fraction wider, the metal flowing back in a smooth, organic motion that makes my skin crawl. No grinding. No sound of force. Just matter yielding because the ship has decided it should.
The air beyond smells different—cooler, cleaner, faintly metallic, in a way that reminds me of sterile instruments and sealed labs rather than engines or weapons.
My palms itch. I curl my fingers into fists, grounding myself in the feel of my own skin.
“This isn’t a command center,” I say, surprising myself with the certainty of my voice. “It’s… transitional.”
Rakkh’s head turns sharply. “How do you know?”
I hesitate. Because the answer isn’t something I know so much as something I feel.
“It’s not trying to give me control,” I say slowly. “It’s… moving me through steps.”
The ship hums, almost approvingly. Rakkh bares his teeth—not at me, but at the walls.
