Chapter 16 Rakkh
RAKKH
Ishift closer to Lia without meaning to, angling my body so she cannot be reached without coming through me. She is warm beside my ribs, the scent of her fear and determination tangled together—sharp, clean, and alive.
I should not want her scent. I should not catalog it like treasure, but I do.
The ship’s grooves pulse faintly along the wall. Spirals and segmented lines that look like breathing until you look too long—then they resemble circuitry. A living map. The light changes. Not brighter—colder. The violet edges toward blue-white, and the hum rises a fraction in pitch.
My instincts scream. The structure is not calming; it is waking.
The hum changes.
Not louder—denser. The vibration tightens, like a muscle drawing inward, and the air presses against my chest, as if the structure has decided we are worth holding onto rather than expelling.
The grooves along the wall pulse. Once. Twice. Then they begin to sequence.
Clicks echo through the chamber—dry, measured sounds, like joints locking into place far below us. Nothing about this sounds random or frantic. It looks and feels purposeful.
The ship is no longer reacting; it is executing.
The clicks repeat—closer. The floor vibrates beneath my feet, a subtle tremor that crawls up my leg bones and settles in my spine.
Tomas makes a thin sound behind us. “I don’t like that. I really don’t like that.”
“No one does,” I snarl without looking at him.
Travnyk tilts his head, listening. His stillness sharpens, the way it does before violence.
“I think it has shifted from containment to assessment,” Travnyk says.
I curl my hands into fists, my claws digging into my palms.
“Assessment of what?” I ask.
Travnyk’s gaze flicks—not to me—but to Lia. “Of priorities.”
As if on command, the ship answers him.
The violet light drains from the walls in a smooth withdrawal, leaving the chamber dim and shadowed behind us. Then a narrow band of illumination blooms along the floor—thin, precise—extending away and down the corridor. Forward. Not an alarm or a display of threat—just a route.
Lia inhales sharply. I feel the sound in my ribs before I truly hear it. Her pulse jumps, quick and light, and the hum beneath us shifts to match it again, like a drum aligning to a faster rhythm. I do not like how quickly the structure responds to her.
“Do not move,” I tell her, low and firm.
“I wasn’t—” she begins, then stops, because we both know that she was.
Behind us, Tomas takes a half-step back, boots scraping metal. The sound echoes too loudly in the chamber. The ship reacts instantly.
The light snaps bright along the wall beside Tomas—not blinding, not violent—but sharp enough to make him flinch. A pressure wave follows, localized and precise. Tomas staggers, gasping, and drops to one knee as if the air itself has thickened around him.
He grasps his throat, but does not scream because he cannot. The pressure lifts a heartbeat later, leaving him heaving and pale, his palms flat on the floor.
“Enough,” I snarl, pivoting and wings flaring wide.
The ship hums once. Travnyk steps forward just enough to place himself between Tomas and the wall.
“Non-lethal correction,” he murmurs. “It discourages unpredictable movement.”
“It will not touch him again,” I growl.
The hum deepens, then settles. Agreement—or something close enough to it. Lia turns, crouching beside Tomas without hesitation. She presses her hand to his shoulder, steady and grounding.
“Breathe. Slow. It did not hurt you,” she says.
Her voice is calm and controlled. The kind of tone that she would use with children.
Our children.
I shut that idea down. This is not the time or the place, but my dragon rumbles and indistinct images fill my head. A future, with her. A family that is ours.
The ship does not react to her movement this time. That fact burns in me. I track the corridor ahead. The narrow band of light pulses once, patient. Waiting.
A second set of clicks echoes deeper within the structure—answering the first, like a call returned. Something ahead unlocks. Not behind us. Never behind us. I shift closer to Lia as she rises, placing my body half a step ahead of hers.
“This thing is not offering,” I murmur. “It is directing.”
She nods, eyes fixed on the glowing path. “I know.”
“Let me go first,” I say.
Her lips part—reflexive protest—but she stops herself. Instead, she nods. Once. Small. Resolute. Travnyk watches the exchange with narrowed eyes.
“It has accepted proximity,” he says. “You are… tolerated.”
I bare my teeth. “I do not require its permission.”
“No,” Travnyk agrees. “But it requires yours.”
That gives me pause.
The band of light along the floor widens slightly, extending until it reaches the edge of the chamber where we stand. The air ahead feels different—cooler, drier, charged with something that prickles across my scales.
The alcove behind Lia hums faintly, the recess dim now, as if temporarily deprioritized. This is not about the tool. This is about movement. I plant my feet.
“If this is a trap—” I say, but Lia cuts me off.
“It already had us trapped,” Lia says quietly. “This is… something else.”
She steps closer to me—not past me. Her shoulder brushes my ribs, deliberate, grounding. I feel the warmth of her through my scales, steady and real. The ship hums again, softer this time. Almost approving. I do not like that either.
Another scrape echoes through the hull—farther away now. The beasts outside have lost interest or lost access. Either way, the pressure on the chamber eases by a fraction. The corridor ahead brightens. Travnyk exhales slowly.
“It is opening an internal buffer route,” he says. “Away from the hull. Away from external threat.”
“Toward what?” Tomas croaks, still shaking.
Travnyk’s gaze returns to Lia. “Toward purpose.”
I snort. “That is not an answer.”
“It is the only one it has,” Travnyk replies.
The light pulses again, more insistent. I lower my head, letting my horns angle forward, wings shifting just enough to shield Lia as we move.
“Stay behind me,” I tell her. “No matter what it shows you.”
Her fingers brush my forearm—light, grateful, and oh so tempting. “I will.”
I step onto the illuminated path. The metal beneath my feet warms slightly—not heat, not really. It seems to be recognition. The hum adjusts again, recalibrating around my mass, my movement. The ship does not stop us. It guides.
As we move deeper, away from the sealed corridor and into the structure’s chosen route, one truth seems to be clear.
This vessel is not waking because it wants to speak.
It is waking because it believes the war that led to the Devastation never ended.
And it has finally found something worth defending again.
Which means testing whether I am worthy of standing beside her.
The corridor narrows as we follow the ship’s chosen path.
Not abruptly. Gradually. The walls curve inward with the slow inevitability of stone worn by water, grown rather than built. The light along the floor remains steady—violet edged with pale blue—guiding without urgency, but without options or choice.
I do not like paths that assume compliance.
My wings scrape softly along the metal as I move despite keeping them folded tight to avoid brushing Lia or Tomas. The structure adjusts around my size—subtle flexes in the walls, minute shifts in pressure—like it is learning how much space I require.
I suppress a growl. I do not consent to being learned.
Lia walks close behind me. Too close for safety. Too far for comfort. I feel the heat of her through my back, hear her breath when the hum dips low enough to allow it. Her pulse remains fast but steady. Focused.
She is afraid, but she is choosing anyway. That is brave but also a dangerous combination.
The corridor slopes downward, then levels out. The air cools slightly, drier than the outer chambers. The scent changes too—less dust, less rot now. Something faint and sterile under it, like old stone and cold metal.
Travnyk murmurs behind us, “This section was sealed for a long time.”
“How do you know?” Tomas whispers.
“The ship stopped listening to the surface,” Travnyk replies. “This path is inward. Toward core systems.”
“Define ‘core,’” I ask, giving him a sharp look.
Travnyk inclines his head, looking thoughtful as he seems to debate how to answer.
“I think it must be the… memory. Where the command logic it operates on is, and therefore the fail safes.”
Lia inhales quickly but quietly. I feel it like a knife between my ribs. The quickening of her heart, the subtle scent of her sweat. The increase in her pulse.
The floor trembles—barely—but enough that Tomas stumbles again. I catch him by the collar before he falls, shoving him upright with more force than necessary, than I intend.
“Stay on your feet,” I growl. “If you fall, the ship will correct you again.”
His eyes widen. He nods quickly, lips pressed white.
The light ahead brightens as we approach a junction. Three branching corridors, each marked by faint lines in the metal floor. Only one glows. The others remain dark. Dormant, dead, or simply not meant for us.
The hum deepens as we reach the threshold. The vibration runs through my claws, up my legs, settling behind my sternum in a way that makes my scales prickle.
The ship pauses—actually pauses. The light dims to an almost dark, then pulses once. Twice. Then it shifts—splitting. One narrow band continues forward. Another branches sharply to the right. Lia stops short behind me.
“It… changed,” she says, with a tone of wonder in her voice.
I turn my head slightly. “It is testing.”
Travnyk steps up beside Tomas, eyes narrowed. “No, I think it is optimizing.”
“For what?” Tomas croaks.
Travnyk looks around, studying the walls, the ceiling, then at last the floor. Finally he shrugs as he shakes his head.
“For separation.”
Before I can respond, the light along the right-hand corridor brightens—warmer, more saturated. Violet without the blue-white edge. The hum subtly retunes, matching Lia’s pulse again, louder than before.
The ship wants her there—and if Travnyk is right, it wants her alone.
My body reacts before my thoughts catch up. I step sideways, blocking the branching corridor completely, wings flaring just enough to fill the space.
“No,” I say.
The hum spikes, but it is not an alarm—this is more… disagreement.
The light flicker intensifies. Pressure builds against my chest, not enough to force me back—but enough to test whether it can. Lia’s hand presses between my shoulder blades, firm.
“Rakkh.”
“Stay behind me,” I snap, not looking at her.
“I am behind you,” she says—and there is no fear in her voice. Only certainty. “That is why I am asking you to listen.”
I grit my teeth. The ship pulses again, the right-hand path glowing brighter, the forward path dimming. A choice. A forced one. Anger is a rumbling sandstorm in my belly. My hands clench into fists as muscles tense.
Travnyk steps closer, cautiously. He looks around me, still studying, still trying to understand.
“It is attempting to isolate its priority asset,” he says.
Asset. I bare my teeth as my tail twitches.
“She is not an object,” I say, voice low.
“No,” Travnyk agrees. “She is a condition.”
The pressure increases—still subtle, still controlled. The ship is not trying to crush me. It is trying to convince me. I turn my head just enough to look at Lia.
Her face is pale in the violet light, eyes shining with that terrible combination of awe and resolve. She does not look at the glowing corridor; she is looking at me.
“It thinks I am safer alone,” she says quietly. “Without… variables.”
My hearts stutter and my breath hitches. Every instinct screams no. Protect her. Keep her safe.
“You are safest with me,” I say, the words torn straight from instinct.
She swallows. “I know.”
The hum falters. Just a fraction, and the pressure eases. The ship seems to be recalculating.
Lia steps forward until her chest brushes my back. The space between my wings is particularly sensitive, and I cannot suppress a shiver that races along my spine. Her voice is low, steady, and meant for me alone.
“If it sees you as a threat, then fighting it will not change that. But neither will letting it take me away.”
I close my eyes for a single breath. Control. Focus. Protect.
I shift—not away from the branching corridor, but not toward it either. I angle my body so I block it while still allowing Lia to remain beside me. A compromise. The ship hesitates. The light wavers.
Then—slowly—the glow along the right-hand corridor dims, retracting like a tide pulled back from shore. The forward path brightens again, steady and neutral. The hum settles. Agreement—or concession. I exhale through my teeth sharply.
“I… really hate this place,” Tomas says, slumping against the wall.
“No one asked,” I mutter.
Lia’s hand slides to my forearm—light, grounding.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
I do not answer. If I speak now, something reckless will come out.
The ship resumes its steady guidance, the corridor ahead opening wider as we move. Whatever test it just ran, we passed it together—but I am not fooled. This was not its final attempt. This vessel may not be hostile, but it is protective.
And anything that believes it must protect Lia from me is something I will eventually have to break—or teach the difference between a weapon and a shield.