He angles slightly instead, positioning himself so his body blocks part of the containment column from my line of sight without cutting me off from it completely. It’s subtle. Intentional. A compromise between protection and permission.
Travnyk notices. He always notices.
“You are modifying your stance,” Travnyk says mildly. “That is new.”
Surprisingly, to me at least, Rakkh doesn’t bristle or deny it.
“She does not require isolation in order to think.”
Travnyk’s heavy brows lift a fraction. Tomas, who has been sitting quietly with his head tipped back against the wall, cracks one eye open.
“Oh,” he mutters. “We’re at that stage now.”
Rakkh ignores him, but heat creeps into my cheeks anyway.
“I can still think,” I say, because apparently my mouth has decided this is the moment to betray me.
Rakkh’s gaze flicks down to me, brief and assessing, then back to Travnyk.
“I know.”
The words settle into me differently than they would have from anyone else. They don’t sound like condescending permission, but trust. Travnyk studies us both for a long moment, then gives a low grunt.
“Very well. Then we proceed with shared parameters.”
“I don’t know what that means, but I don’t like how official it sounds,” Tomas snorts weakly.
“It means,” Travnyk says, “that the ship is no longer responding solely to Lia. It is responding to the configuration around her.”
My stomach tightens. “Is that… good?”
“It is adaptive. Which means it is no longer operating on a single-variable model,” Travnyk says, tilting his head.
Rakkh’s tail flicks once, quick and sharp. He grumbles before speaking.
“Explain.”
“It means,” Travnyk continues, “that your continued proximity is now part of its calculations. You are no longer an obstacle. You are a factor.”
That shouldn’t feel like relief, but it sure does.
I glance up at Rakkh. He doesn’t look at me, but his hand shifts—close enough that the backs of his claws brush my knuckles. The contact is accidental only in the way breathing is accidental—inevitable.
The ship hums lower, uncertain. I draw a slow breath.
“Then it’s not going to stop.”
“No,” Travnyk agrees. “It has moved from diagnosis to mitigation.”
Tomas straightens a little. “Mitigation of what?”
I turn back toward the containment column, dread coiling low and heavy in my gut.
“The damage it’s causing.”
The words feel heavier now that they are spoken aloud.
“The desert,” Tomas says quietly.
