Tomas exhales, long and shuddering. Color returns to his face by degrees.
“Oh,” he says weakly. “That’s… better. That’s a lot better.”
The corridor ahead opens another fraction, revealing a wider space beyond—walls smoother, seams tighter, the air noticeably clearer.
Containment. Not a destination—but a threshold.
“It can compensate,” Travnyk murmurs. “If it understands the need.”
Rakkh looks down at me, eyes molten. “You should not have to do that.”
“I know,” I say. “But if I don’t, it won’t realize there’s a problem.”
The ship hums again—subtly altered, retuned. It’s not approval or disapproval, but it is an adjustment.
We move forward slowly, Travnyk carrying Tomas now without comment or strain. Tomas’s head lolls briefly against his shoulder before he straightens, embarrassed.
“Sorry,” he mutters.
“Do not apologize,” Travnyk says flatly. “Survive.”
As we cross into the wider chamber, I feel it again—that pressure behind my eyes, that sense of systems aligning. The ship is operating and every adjustment it makes costs something.
Outside, beyond layers of metal and sand, that cost is bleeding into the desert—into the roots, the water tables, the creatures that don’t know to leave.
Here, inside, Tomas is the warning. I have the sinking feeling that he won’t be the last.
The chamber beyond the corridor isn’t large—but it feels deliberate in a way that makes my skin prickle. It doesn’t seem to be a junction or a staging room. This space was meant to hold something.
The floor curves gently downward toward a shallow basin at the center, its surface smooth and dark, almost glassy. The walls rise in a continuous arc, uninterrupted except for fine seams that radiate outward like fractures frozen mid-spread. Pale lines of light trace those seams—not bright, not aggressive—steady and constant.
The air here is cleaner, but it smells faintly metallic, like sterile instruments and cold stone. There isn’t a hint of dust, or rot, and definitely no desert sand. Tomas inhales cautiously, then again, deeper this time.
“Okay,” he says, surprised. “That… actually feels normal.”
Travnyk nods once. “Environmental compensation zone.”
“For who?” Rakkh asks.
Travnyk’s gaze slides to me. “For her.”
Of course it is.
My stomach churns. Travnyk eases Tomas down against the wall, but he doesn’t step away. Rakkh remains angled protectively, one wing subtly curved to shield us both from the center of the chamber. I can feel his tension through the air, tight and contained.
“This place isn’t dangerous,” I say quietly, trying to be reassuring.
“That does not mean it is safe,” Rakkh replies.
The ship doesn’t react to either of us. That, more than anything, unsettles me. The muscles in my shoulders are so tense it’s making my head throb.
I step toward the basin—not touching, not crossing any obvious boundary, but the light shifts. It’s subtle, adjusting its intensity to follow my movement. It seems less like it’s leading, more like it’s accommodating.
The surface of the basin ripples. It’s not liquid, but also not solid. It’s something in between. I crouch slowly, heart pounding, and peer down. The darkness beneath the surface isn’t empty—it’s layered. Stratified. I can’tseewhat’s below, but I feel pressure, containment, and restraint on some internal way that doesn’t make sense.
“This isn’t a power core,” I murmur.
Travnyk moves closer, careful not to crowd me.
