7. Nyra
NYRA
Warm and recurring, the mark shivers once, waking me before I even open my eyes.
It thumps once, warm and recurring. I lie in the dark, press my palm against it, clench my jaw, and wait for the second wave—the deeper throb behind my sternum, a second heartbeat I never agreed to carry.
It comes. Of course it comes. I curl my fingers against the glyph and hate that the warmth of it is the first thing I reach for every morning.
After several days trapped in these Sector Seven suites, I've learned that Virex Prime’s quiet is actually a low-hertz wave, a digital purr that hammers through the soles of my new boots.
I spent the first night mapping every square inch of the bedroom, tracing the seams with my fingertips and trying to wedge my nails into the door seal until they bled.
I have the ragged edges to prove it. The ship simply hummed at me, a condescending undulation that felt like a pat on the head.
The vessel seemed to watch with amusement at such primitive attempts at sabotage.
I wake on what feels like the fourth or fifth day—it’s hard to tell when the artificial light cycles are the only thing marking time—and roll off the sleeping dais.
My skin feels tight, held in constant alertness by the ship’s resonance.
A dull, lingering warmth sits at my chest, a physical anchor that ties me to the very bulkheads.
The door has been opening for me since that first full day Draevik left me here.
My initial thoughts leaned toward a glitch, some small error in the massive alien's security protocols. I spent the first few outings trembling, waiting for the alarm to scream or for the ship to vent the atmosphere to scrub me out like a virus. But the air stays thick and the halls stay silent. I’ve used every hour since to push further, mapping the layout and testing how far this invisible leash actually stretches.
Approaching the door with more confidence, I let my hand hover inches from the seam. The door hisses open immediately.
My heartbeat turns wild and unsteady, refusing any pattern.
Even after a few days of this, the sight of the open corridor sends a jolt of adrenaline through me.
I still expect to see the heavy, obsidian form of the alien standing there to block my path.
I only learned his name after an hour of hovering near a terminal, watching the interface stutter and recover, while the information slid into understanding before I consciously parsed it.
It was the same strange clarity I experienced when I first laid eyes on him—a sudden, jarring understanding of things I should have no way of knowing.
Draevik Rhyx. The name carries a weight that feels like lead in my stomach.
Soft, inviting violet light bathes the corridor outside. It looks like an artery, trembling with a life force that feels entirely too aware of my presence.
"Still ignoring me?" I murmur to the ceiling.
The deck plating beneath my boots ripples, a shimmer of light following the shift of my weight.
The ship primarily communicates through these physical reactions.
It’s alive, and it’s leaning toward me, inviting me into its veins.
It’s a terrifying thought—that a dreadnought this size has a mind of its own, and it’s currently defying the giant who claims to own it.
I step over the threshold. The air in the hallway is cooler than the suite, carrying a sharp metallic tang.
I keep my back to the wall, sliding along the surface as I navigate the paths I’ve spent the last few days committing to memory.
I’ve spent my life navigating the guts of dying freighters, stripping copper and dodging rogue security bots, but this is different.
This ship feels like a predator holding its breath, watching me with a million invisible eyes.
I turn a corner into the primary transport spine.
The scale of the place makes my head swim—vaulted ribs of dark metal stretching up into shadows so deep they seem to swallow the light.
I find that as I walk, panels of light flicker on just before my foot falls, then fade to black the moment I pass.
The ship is tracking me, guiding me, and shielding me all at once.
"You're a fast learner, aren't you, Ship?" I trace my fingers along a drumming conduit. The surface warms under my palm, an unvarying heat that feels almost eager. It’s a bizarre sensation, having a dreadnought react to my touch and acknowledge the name I've given it. Draevik resides in a sanctum near my suite—I’ve seen him emerge from the heavy doors just down the junction—yet here I am, wandering his halls while he’s likely busy staring at his precious archives. If he thinks he has me caged, he’s in for a rude awakening.
I decide to test the leash again, following the mental map I’ve meticulously built.
I head left, toward the area I first saw when I was brought aboard—the ship’s core.
I recollect the way the energy gathered there, thick enough to taste.
I yearn to see the engines. If I can find the power source, I can find the kill switch.
I only make it twenty paces before the violet lights turn a sharp, warning crimson.
The air grows heavy, a compressed wall of static pushing against my chest. Worse, the mark on my collarbone begins to burn with an alarming, rapid-fire stutter.
It feels like an implanted panic attack—a chaotic, unspooling anxiety bleeding directly into my veins from whoever is connected to this tether.
The weight makes my lungs struggle for every breath.
"Okay, okay," I grit out, backing away. The lights immediately soften back to purple. The frantic buzzing against my sternum eases into a dull ache, and the pressure lifts. "I get it. No engines for the human."
I take a different route to the upper decks and reach massive double doors etched with swirling geometry like a map of an unfamiliar galaxy. My hand reaches for the seam, desperate to see what’s behind it. Maybe it's a hangar. Maybe it's a shortcut to the Harrow.
The metal is scorching. A fierce, radiating heat surges through me, igniting a violent response deep within.
I gasp, stumbling back, my hand flying to the silk covering the brand.
The sensation is an overwhelming tether, a physical pull that makes my knees buckle.
It feels as if a wire yanks from inside my sternum, dragging me back toward Sector Seven.
"Fine!" The shout tears through my chest and fractures as it hits the air, stumbling into a high, thin rasp. "I get it! Stay in my lane!"
The heat recedes, leaving a dull, echoing ache behind.
The message is clear: the ship is giving me a leash, but it’s the one defining the length.
It’s acting on its own authority, granting me just enough room to breathe while keeping me far away from anything that matters.
Gold plating attempts to disguise the wider bars of my cage.
I spend the next several hours pushing every boundary I can find. Eventually, I discover a storage alcove full of crates of shimmering alloy, a secondary mess hall, and a viewport that looks out over the Veln Expanse.
Out there, the Harrow sits clamped to the warship's lower hull in a docking cradle I did not authorize. Her autopilot should have pulled her back days ago—I programmed the kill switch myself—which means Virex Prime reached out and grabbed her at some point while I was locked in my suite. My ship sticks to this thing like a barnacle on a whale’s belly, and no one asks my permission.
Seeing her makes my chest ache. She is small and battered.
The sole thing in this entire quadrant that belongs to me, and she looks like a toy clamped to the underside of a god.
I smush my forehead against the glass, tracing the outline of my ship. "I'm coming for you," I promise. "Just hang on."
The deck emits a subsonic, vibrating note, almost as if the ship were acknowledging my vow.
I spend time watching the shadows move across the hull of the Harrow, mapping the docking clamps and the proximity sensors.
I need a plan. I need a tool. Most importantly, I need Draevik to stop looking at me like I’m an unsolved puzzle.
By the time the ship’s internal lights begin to dim, signaling the end of the cycle, I head back to my suite.
I’m exhausted, my muscles aching from the tension of the exploration, but my mind is racing.
I have data now. I know the ship is responsive to me, even if it’s only in small, glitchy ways.
And I know Draevik thinks I’m still locked behind a stasis field.
I settle on the lip of the dais, clenching my hands, and wait for the door to hiss open.
I already know it is him. The air in the room suddenly feels twice as heavy, charged with that strange, static tension that follows him like a storm front.
It’s a cold, sharp energy that makes goosebumps appear.
I remain seated, watching as the giant stalks inside.
He carries the usual tray—a slab of grey-white protein and a canister of water.
He looks like a statue carved from the heart of a dead star, all sharp plates and glowing light.
Every movement he makes is deliberate, precise, and entirely too intense.
"You're late." The accusation strikes the far wall and bounces back, a cold, repetitive chime that fills the silence.
I stand up, smoothing out the charcoal silk of my tunic.
"What happened? Did you have to spend an extra hour polishing your ego?
Or did you finally realize that staring at old maps won't tell you how to get rid of me? "
He remains silent. He simply crosses the room with that smooth, predatory grace and sets the tray on the small table. His eyes flick to mine for a millisecond, cold and analytical, before he turns to leave. He treats me like a chore, a necessary interruption in his grand design.