I squeezed my eyes shut.
That wasn't fair.
"Logically," I muttered to the empty room, "the existence of extraterrestrial life has always been statistically probable."
But gods aren't?
The thought irritated me enough that I pushed myself upright. If I wasn't going to sleep, I might as well do something productive. I grabbed my palmtop; the emperor had assured me that this was the newest and most improved model, making me think of a new cell phone version that used to come out every year and to which I'd always very much looked forward. Never again, I noted sadly. At least not on Earth.
Arkhevari.
The word alone came with layers of classification tags:mythological, unverified, legendary. Ancient Pandraxian texts referenced the Arkhevari the way humans once spoke of lost cities, half warning, half wishful thinking. Not long after I input the inquiry, I was surrounded by what I'd come to think of asscreens—that wasn't the right word, but it was the closest my brain could manage. Thesescreensweren't attached to anything. No frames, no emitters, no visible source. They simply existed, suspended in the air around me as if space itself had decidedto cooperate. I could open one the way I'd open a tab on a computer, slide it aside, and layer another behind it. Only, instead of stacking on a monitor, they occupiedvolume.
Depth.
I could step between them.
They hovered at different distances, adjusting subtly as I moved, never colliding, never drifting. The interfaces responded to thought as much as motion.
Which should not have been possible. No projection field I knew of could maintain coherence without an anchor. No holographic system could behave like this without massive energy expenditure or observable distortion. And yet the air remained calm, unwarped, no heat bleed, no radiation spike, no measurable force holding them in place. They challenged everything I understood about physics and quantum mechanics. Not because they were flashy or advanced, but because they werecasual. As if the rules I'd spent my life learning simply… didn't apply here.
As before, I reached out, still half-expecting my hand to pass through nothing. Instead, the surface resisted, softly. Responsive. Like pushing against the boundary of a thought rather than a solid object. If I wanted to, I could change whatever was on thescreen, like on anormaltouch monitor. I exhaled slowly. Whatever the Pandraxians were doing, it wasn't just technology. It was a different relationship with space itself.
I forced myself to start reading about the Arkhevari: war gods. Balance keepers. Children of light and shadow.
I rolled my eyes.
That word again.
Gods.
And yet…
The data didn't read like pure fiction. Too many consistent references across cultures that had never interacted. Too manyshared descriptors. Too many warnings. I set the palmtop aside with a frustrated sigh. This was pointless. My brain was chasing its own tail, looping between attraction and skepticism, curiosity and denial. I needed to move.
On Earth, whenever my thoughts grew too loud, I ran. Or lifted. Or did anything that reminded me I had a body too, not just a brain. Sitting for hours, days, years bent over equations had taught me the hard way that neglecting one for the other was a mistake. I put on a pair of shoes and stood.
"Fine," I told the empty room. "Walk it is."
The corridors were quiet at this hour, lights dimmed to a softer glow, the hum of the station a constant, reassuring presence. To maintain a more planetary feel, the ship adjusted todayandnight, calculating the length of each by departure origin and destination as well as the needs of each species aboard. It allowed for a smoother transition. I hadn't been here that long, but I'd yet to experiencejetlagon any journey. I breathed deeper as I moved, and slowly my muscles loosened, thoughts untangled.
This was better.
I could see Dravok for what he was: a variable. A dangerous one. Whether I liked it or not, my universe had just acquired a new constant. A dark suspicion that this walk wouldn't be enough accompanied me the whole way. But it was a start.
At least until I sawhim. I didn't mean to find him. I wasn't even looking for him. The corridor curved gently, opening into one of the ship's larger observation bays, the kind designed to remind its occupants just how small even empires were. I slowed when I saw him standing there, motionless before the wide viewport, hands clasped behind his back, gaze fixed on the star-flecked dark beyond.
Dravok.
For a moment, I considered turning around. He hadn't noticed me yet. His posture was closed, inward, the sharp edge of him dulled by thought. Whatever lived behind that arrogance—memory, certainty, burden—had drawn him far enough inward that the rest of the universe might as well not exist.
I should leave him alone.
I even took half a step back.
But then that pull returned. Not sudden. Not violent. Just… inevitable. Like inertia asserting itself after indecision. My feet moved without thought, and the distance between us closed before my mind could finish arguing. He stiffened. I saw it in his reflection—the subtle tension through his shoulders, the way his head tilted a fraction. Then his eyes lifted, locking onto mine via his reflection in the glass. Fine, I thought stubbornly. I'm not happy about this either.
His gaze was dark—darker than the Abyss itself—but beneath it, I caught glimpses of amber, tiny sparks like light trapped behind smoked glass, restless, contained only by effort. The thought that followed was absurd, and I almost laughed at myself:
