LIA
The chamber settles into a quiet that isn’t peaceful so much as suspended, like everything is holding still on purpose.
The containment column stands at the center of the room, dark and translucent, threaded with faint internal light that moves too slowly to be liquid and too fluid to be solid. Rings of etched metal encircle it at intervals, each humming with contained pressure—a measured promise that something inside wants out.
Tomas sits with his back against the wall, eyes closed, breathing slow but deliberate, the way someone does when they’re concentrating on not being sick. The air in here is dry and sharp, prickling along my skin like static. Travnyk stands a short distance away, his attention split between Tomas and the containment rings, posture loose but alert. He gives me space without making a show of it, like he’s bracing for the system to flinch.
Rakkh doesn’t move.
He remains close—not in front of me anymore, not shielding me from the column, but close enough that I feel the weight of him through the air. One wing angles behind me when he shifts, not blocking my sight, just… making a boundary. It’s not accidental. He could stand farther away. He’s choosing not to. That realization lands harder than anything the ship has shown me so far.
My hands are shaking, so I curl my fingers into the fabric at my sides, grounding myself in sensation that belongs to me—not to the ancient machine humming beneath the floor. The rings have dimmed to a steady glow, and the column pulses once every few breaths—slow, deliberate—as if it’s waiting for an answer I’m afraid to give.
I don’t trust myself to look at it too long, so I look at Rakkh instead.
He’s watching the chamber, jaw set, eyes narrowed—not in anger, but calculating. The kind that weighs outcomes and consequences, not just threats. His attention flicks to me the moment I shift, like he’s been tracking my presence even while scanning the room.
“You’re pushing yourself,” he says quietly.
Not accusing. Not commanding. Observing.
“I’m okay,” I start, then stop. Lying feels pointless with him. “I mean… I’m still upright.”
His mouth curves just enough to acknowledge the distinction.
“That is not the same thing.”
I huff a weak breath, then sober.
“I didn’t mean to do that back there. With Tomas. I just—if I hadn’t?—”
“I know,” he says.
The simplicity of it steals the rest of my words. He doesn’t ask me to justify myself. Doesn’t ask what it cost. He already understands that there was a cost, and that I paid it without hesitation.
His hand shifts, not touching me, but close—close enough that if I leaned even a fraction, our arms would brush. The awareness of that possibility sends a quiet thrill through me, one that has nothing to do with fear or adrenaline. I shouldn’t be thinking about that now. And yet.
“The ship adjusted because of you,” he continues. “But it did not like doing so.”
“No,” I agree. “It didn’t.”
I glance at Tomas, then back to the containment column, then lower my voice further.
“It doesn’t understand limits. Or care. It just… recalculates.”
Rakkh’s gaze hardens—not at the ship, but at the idea of it.
“Then it will continue to take from you.”
“Yes.” The word tastes bitter on my tongue. “Unless I make it stop.”
Silence stretches between us—not empty, but weighted.
“I do not like the way it manipulates you,” he says finally.
Something in my chest tightens at that.
“It doesn’t understand or intend, I think. It just measures.”
