“This chamber is stable. I suggest we rest before making the final decision,” I say.
Rakkh doesn’t take his eyes off the walls.
“And if it changes its mind?”
“Then we adapt,” Travnyk replies calmly. “As we have been.”
He settles next to Tomas with his back to the wall in a posture that manages to be both relaxed and alert. Tomas rubs his temples.
“I hate ships,” he mutters. “I hate deserts. I hate ancient war tech.”
“Duly noted,” I say.
When the others are occupied, Rakkh finally looks fully at me. Not scanning. Not guarding. Just looking—and the weight of it makes my chest ache.
“You did not hesitate,” he says quietly. “When it mattered.”
“I was terrified,” I admit.
“Yes,” he says. “And you chose anyway.”
I swallow. “So did you.”
Something shifts in his expression then. Something deep and dangerous and tender all at once. He reaches up slowly, giving me time to pull away if I want to, and brushes his knuckles along my jaw. The touch is careful, reverent, as if he’s memorizing the reality of me instead of the idea.
“I choose you because of my choice,” he says, “not because the ship demands it. Not because the war echoes say I should.”
My breath catches. The words sink straight into me, bypassing logic, bypassing fear.
“I don’t know where this ends,” I whisper.
“I do,” he replies without hesitation. “With you alive.”
It’s not a promise of forever. Not a declaration carved in stone. It’s better. It’s truth.
The ship hums, quiet and subdued, as if it is listening but no longer intruding. The column remains dormant. The lights do not advance. For the first time since we entered, nothing is being asked of me.
And in that fragile stillness, wrapped in the warmth of a Zmaj warrior who has chosen restraint over dominance and trust over force, I let myself believe something dangerous and hopeful all at once:
That whatever this ship was built to protect…it didn’t account for love.
And that might be the one variable that changes everything.
23
LIA
Tomas looks worse.
His hands have developed a tremor that wasn’t there when we lay down. A soft, wet cough comes and goes, the kind that tries to pretend it’s nothing until it steals the air behind it. His eyes are too bright, his skin faintly damp.
Rest didn’t fix him. It only slowed the slide.
“We need to move,” I say, and my voice comes out steadier than my stomach.
Rakkh is already rising, his motion smooth and immediate, like he never truly stopped being ready. Travnyk pushes to his feet without complaint, and Tomas—Tomas drags in a breath and forces himself upright, as if he can bully his body into cooperation.
The moment I stand, the ship responds.
