27. Nyra #2
I round a corner into a crumbling maintenance corridor just as a heavy percussion shakes the hull.
The tremor rips a primary coolant line right off the bulkhead.
A venting steam pipe bursts straight into my path.
I dive to dodge it, but the scalding mist catches my shoulder, the skin there instantly turning raw and blistering through my torn sleeve.
The force of the ship lurching throws me hard against the wall.
A deep, heavy ache blossoms along my jaw where my face slams into the stone-like plating.
I bite down a scream, blinking stars out of my vision.
Scrapes line my arms, but I force myself to roll back to my feet.
The pain is sharp, a white-hot needle, but I barely register it. My focus is entirely on the bridge.
I stumble into a narrow access tunnel, my breathing coming in ragged, shallow gasps.
The air here is thinner, the life support struggling to maintain pressure while the ship reroutes power to the weapons and shields.
I place my hand against the wall, and for a heartbeat, I feel the metal breathe.
It’s an extension of Draevik’s will, and right now, that will is fracturing.
The mark on my chest acts as a conduit, actively feeding raw data from his consciousness into mine as the distance between us closes.
Foreign images flicker across my vision—vast icy nebulae, the hush of a stasis chamber, the crushing pressure of a thousand years alone.
A younger Draevik materializes in my mind, his skin unmarred, his eyes bright with a different kind of fire.
He is a conqueror, a leader, a man who once held the stars in his palm. And then, the darkness.
He stands on the bridge of this same ship, surrounded by others of his kind—tall, armored, burning with the same light.
A fleet stretches behind them through the viewport, hundreds of ships, an empire's worth of war made manifest. And then the moment ends.
The instruction flows into him, heavy and immovable, lodging in his chest. Retreat.
Stasis. Preservation of the command lineage.
He steps into the pod. The gel rises around him. His eyes—those burning eyes—stay open until the very last second, staring at the ceiling of the chamber while the cold takes him. He watched himself be buried alive with his eyes open. The long sleep unfolding. Time becoming a betrayal.
The vision fractures, and I’m gasping in a maintenance tunnel, tears streaming down my face without permission.
Gasping, I lean my forehead against the cool metal to ground myself against the history the mark feeds me. I squeeze my eyes shut to force the visions away. I am real.
Shoving myself away from the wall, I keep moving until the tunnel opens into a wider service corridor, revealing the first signs of the ship's internal defenses.
The corridor turrets track my movement with a whine, their barrels following my stride.
As I pass beneath them, the targeting lights flicker from red to amber, then a soft, flaring violet.
They recognize me as a component. A vital part of this ancient, lethal ecosystem. It’s terrifying, and yet, it’s the first time I’ve ever felt truly essential for the very survival of another soul.
I reach a vertical ladder and begin to climb, my muscles screaming from the effort.
Every rung feels like a mile. The heat is becoming unbearable now; the violet glow is so intense it’s hard to see.
The bridge is just above me. I can hear the sounds of the struggle—the roar of Draevik’s power, the mechanical screeching of the ship’s systems, and the heavy, visceral thud of a heart that beats in sync with mine.
I pull myself onto the upper deck, and the sheer scale of the chaos hits me.
The air is alive with static, and my hair is standing on end.
The bridge doors are fused shut, glazed with the heat of the energy being channeled through them.
I can feel Draevik across it, a towering inferno of rage and desperation.
He’s losing himself. The monster is winning.
"Draevik!" I scream as I throw my shoulder against the heated door. The pain transforms into a dull roar, but I don't care. "Draevik, listen to me!"
The mark is wide open, a raw nerve laid bare. His mind proves to be a storm.
I scramble to my feet, my dark hair falling out of its knot and sticking to my sweat-drenched skin. I glance down at my hands—calloused and scarred, the hands of a survivor. They are the only tools I have left.
Stretching my mind into the void, I search for the warm thread of the mark.
It’s frayed, tremoring with a resonance that hurts to touch.
I grab onto it with everything I am. I become it.
I pour every memory of the last few days into that thread—the way his hand felt on mine, the scent of the reclamation chamber, the weight of his gaze when he looked at me.
Stay, I project into the void. Stay with me.
The energy in the corridor shifts. The light dims for a heartbeat, flickering like a dying candle. The door to the bridge groans, the metal cooling just enough to crack open.
Wedging my fingers into the scorching gap, I ignore the blistering heat and pull. I pull until my muscles ache, until the gap is wide enough for me to squeeze through.
The air outside the bridge doors is thick, heavy with a charge that makes the small hairs on my arms stand straight up.
Every breath feels like swallowing hot lead, the scent of melting alloy and ancient dust clogging my throat.
I lean my back against the shuddering bulkhead, the metal trembling with a violence that mirrors the tempest inside my own chest. I’ve lived my whole life running from storms, but this is the first time I’ve walked directly into the eye of one.
My hands are slick with sweat. The solitude I have carried for a lifetime has finally ignited, filling me with a fierce, burning need for change.
I focus on the bridge doors again. They are massive, scarred by time and the recent surge of energy that fused them shut.
The vivid indigo leaking through the seams is so bright it leaves streaks of purple in my vision.
I can feel him—distant, immense—a towering, ash-colored shadow drowning in a sea of his own fire.
He’s scared. The great Commander, the man who woke up and demanded the stars, is terrified of the monster he’s becoming.
Choosing him is about the future. It’s about the look in his eyes when the fire fades and the way the ship feels when we’re both at the helm.
My trembling fingers extend to brush the heated surface of the door. The mark blares in response, a surge of warmth that spreads through my arm and settles in my heart. The tether is taut, pulling me forward with a force that’s impossible to resist.
"I'm here, Draevik," I murmur, unfaltering against the mechanical chaos and the roar of the ship's engines. "I'm staying."
I seize the lip of the fused metal, my muscles coiling with a strength I was unaware I possessed. I'm ready to fight. I'm ready to be the grounding wire for his storm. I’m ready to choose us.
I think only of the man behind this door and the life we’re going to take back from the dark.
I’m coming for you, Draevik. Hold on. Just hold on.