The recess dims, withdrawing. In its place, a narrow line of light forms along the floor—clean, deliberate—stretching deeper into the ship than any path we’ve seen so far. It’s an authorization. My pulse kicks hard, and the light brightens in response.
“It’s moving us forward,” I say. “Even without deciding.”
“Because it believes you will,” Rakkh says.
That truth hits harder than any threat. The ship isn’t asking whether I trust it. It’s asking whether I will stop it. And buried beneath the calm logic of its systems, I understand something that makes my hands curl into fists.
This vessel does not need Rakkh removed. It only needs him to not interfere. And if the day comes when my choice and his diverge… the ship has already decided what it will do next.
19
LIA
The ship doesn’t push us forward. It’s the first thing I notice.
After everything—after the tests, the pressure, and the impossible sense of being weighed and measured—it simply… waits. The light along the floor holds steady, neither dimming nor brightening. The walls remain smooth and closed—no new paths unfolding, only the one we’re on. Most importantly, no silent insistence tugging in my head.
It feels deliberate. Like a pause inserted into a process that knows exactly where it’s going.
Rakkh stays half a step in front of me, wings folded tight but ready. He hasn’t relaxed. I don’t think he could, not as long as we’re in the ship. His presence is a constant pressure of its own at my side. Solid, unmoving, a reminder that at least one thing in this place answers to instinct instead of some cold, half-understood logic.
Travnyk stops and lowers himself near the edge of the hall, one knee bent, one hand resting against the floor. His attention isdivided in a way I don’t like—half on the hall, half on us—as if he’s listening to more than one conversation at once.
Rakkh and I stop, waiting for Travnyk, while Tomas paces.
At first, I think it’s just nerves. Tomas has been holding himself together by sheer momentum since we crossed the threshold. Now that the ship isn’t actively doing anything, that momentum has nowhere to go. He rubs his hands together, then wipes them on his pants. He takes a breath, then another, both too shallow.
“You ever notice,” he says finally, his voice trying for light and missing by a mile, “how places like this always feel… stale?”
I glance at him. “Stale how?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. Like the air’s been sitting too long.” He frowns, rubbing at his temple. “Smells… wrong.”
I draw a slow breath through my nose. The air doesn’t smell wrong to me. If anything, it’s cleaner than the corridors nearer the hull. Cooler. Filtered. There’s a faint metallic tang beneath it, but it’s subtle—easy to miss, easier to dismiss. I’ve smelled worse just walking through camp.
“You’re probably dehydrated,” I say, even as unease curls low in my gut. “You haven’t stopped moving since we got inside.”
“Yeah.” He nods too fast. “Yeah, probably.”
He takes another step—and stumbles.
It’s small. Barely noticeable. His boot scrapes the floor, catching where it shouldn’t, and he has to throw out a hand to steady himself against the wall. Rakkh turns instantly.
“Enough,” he growls. “Sit down.”
Tomas opens his mouth, probably to argue, then thinks better of it. He sinks against the curved wall, breathing harder than he should for someone who hasn’t done anything strenuous in the last few minutes. Travnyk’s gaze sharpens as he focuses on Tomas.
“Your equilibrium is compromised,” he says mildly.
“That’s a fancy way of saying I’m dizzy,” Tomas mutters. He presses his palm flat to his chest. “My heart’s racing too. Anyone else feel that?”
I don’t. Neither does Rakkh, if the steady rise and fall of his chest are any indication. Travnyk gives a slow shake of his head.
“No,” Travnyk says. “But you are flushed.”
Tomas snorts weakly. “Great. I’m dying and you’re color-coding it.”
“You are not dying,” Travnyk replies. “But you are reacting.”
