The lantern buzzed and spit against its casing, a thin stutter of light breaking the shadows across the canvas walls. The tent smelled of dust, sweat, and faint oil, all of it pressed down into something tight, suffocating.
Horn's stare sat on her like weight. Not her eyes—never her eyes. He tracked her throat, her chest, the proof of her breath. Every swallow, every rise and fall of her ribs seemed to fuel the storm behind his teeth.
Thall stood in between, rigid, feet planted as though the earth itself held him upright. His shoulders squared, his gaze fixed ahead, but she could feel the tension in him. He wasn't protecting her out of trust—he was buying seconds before something broke.
Ronan had slid down the canvas wall, knees pulled to his chest. His hands dug into his hair, clawing like he could rip the confusion out by force. Words leaked from his mouth, half-formed and broken, muttered prayers or curses that dissolved before they reached the air.
Qiri stayed at Niri's shoulder. So close that their sleeves brushed when the wind shifted through the canvas seams. Not touching. Not speaking. Just there.
Niri hadn't moved since the word left her mouth. Human.
Her whole body had locked on it. Not even her lungs wanted to move afterward.
Lu'Ka's voice finally broke through. Calm, steady, carrying an edge that cut the room smaller.
"This doesn't leave this tent. Not to the professors. Not to the cadets. Not to the Grounx. No one."
The silence that followed had teeth. It scraped bone.
Horn's jaw worked like it might crack. "They should know who they're sleeping beside."
"And if they do," Lu'Ka said, voice lower, sharper, "they'll drag her out and put a bolt through her skull. They'll sleep easier for one night. And we all die under a ship that doesn't blink."
Niri flinched at his words, but they were true. Too true.
Horn's nostrils flared. His growl came deep. "She's human."
"She's Niri," Qiri cut in, fast, flat, and without hesitation.
The name hit her like a hand to the chest. Niri. Not Human. Just Niri. She wanted to hold on to that, but Horn's stare burned it to ash.
Ronan's head lifted at last. His eyes were wet, glassy, red at the rims. "You knew? All this time?"
"It doesn't matter," Qiri said.
His face twisted. A jagged laugh ripped out of him—too high, too loud. His arms shot wide like a drunk blessing the sky.
"O heil the great Gateborn! Our very own human, come to—"
"Ronan!" Qiri's voice cracked through him like a whip.
But before he could finish—before the weight of her own name could crush her—another sound broke through.
Niri laughed.
It tore out of her raw, sharp, and ugly. A sound she didn't plan. A sound that shouldn't exist here.
The room froze around her.
Horn blinked, once.
Thall faltered, just half a step.
Even Lu'Ka tilted his head, faint surprise flickering in the cracks of his calm mask.
Qiri snapped toward her. "Niri—"
But she couldn't stop. The laughter came jagged, broken, tumbling out in gasps. Not joy. Not madness. Just release.
Horn's growl cut the air like a blade. "What is this? You mocking us?"
Her breath dragged ragged. She swiped at her face, still shaking with the edge of it. "No. Not mocking. Just—if you're all going to hang me anyway, at least let me laugh at his stupidity first."
Ronan's cheeks flushed. He looked small, curled up at the base of the wall. "I was joking…"
Qiri's boot slammed into his shin. Hard. "Idiot."
He hissed, clutching his leg, but said nothing more.
Lu'Ka's mouth twitched. Not a smile—closer to a fault line opening in stone.
Horn didn't move. Didn't breathe. His stare stayed locked, heavy, hunting.
Niri's body tightened again. Every part of her screamed to be ready. For his boots to move. For his fists to rise. For Thall to step aside.
And then—
The lantern flickered once.
The shadows in the tent didn't just shift. They bent. Pulled inward, folding around a point in the center of the floor.
Something coalesced there. Not light. Not shadow. A shape.
A figure.
Human.
Everyone froze.
It stood tall, spectral but solid, its frame drawn in cold luminescence. The glow was wrong—neither warm nor alive. The eyes were pale fire, scanning, searing through each of them.
When it spoke, the canvas itself seemed to tighten.
"Greetings, Niri."
The voice was deep. Commanding. A soldier's voice, not made to comfort.
"I am General Alexander Wilson. Commander of the Sentinel-class battleship."
The name hit like a blunt strike. Niri's breath clipped. She felt the ground under her boots and nothing else—no smell, no sweat, no tent—just the voice pinning her in place.
"What… what's going on?" The words scraped out raw.
The General's eyes—cold fire—fixed only on her. "You were not meant to be interrupted. We were not to interfere with your mission."
"Mission?" Her chest jerked. She took a small step forward and felt Qiri's sleeve brush hers. "What mission? What am I? Why can't I remember anything?"
"Your questions cannot be answered. They remain classified."
"Classified?" Heat flushed up her throat. Her hands curled tight enough to hurt. "To me?"
"We did not anticipate this excavation," he said, tone unshaken. "Someone disturbed our sleep. You are in danger because of it. That was not the design. You will be compensated."
Compensated. The word rang stupid in her skull, like a coin dropped on stone. She wanted to throw it back at him. She wanted to scream until his calm broke. She did neither. She stood there shaking and swallowing air that wouldn't fill her lungs.
No one moved around her.
Thall's shoulders stayed square, but sweat ran from his hairline in a thin line along his temple.
Ronan's mouth hung open; nothing came out.
Qiri's fingers hovered near Niri's shoulder, trembling, up and down like they couldn't decide whether to hold or not.
Horn's breath came audible—harsh pulls through bared teeth.
He snapped forward a step. "You—"
The General turned his head and the temperature in the tent seemed to drop.
In perfect, crisp Grounx, he thundered, "Do not do something you will regret, Mr. Horn."
Silence slammed down. The lantern's buzz died into a thin whine. Horn froze mid-step, rage stalled in his throat.
Niri heard her own voice before she decided to speak. "Please. No more fighting. They're cadets. They aren't a threat."
The General's gaze slid over them—Horn, Thall, Ronan, Qiri, Lu'Ka—then returned to her face. "That is why they are still alive." He didn't blink. "The threat has already been eliminated."
Her skin went cold. "What will you do now?"
"We leave. Hide. Sleep again." The words were simple, final. Then, after a beat: "But I will speak to everyone present before we depart."
The glow around him sharpened, drawing hard edges out of light. When he spoke again it was in Galactic Common, each syllable clean, stamped to the air.
"I am General Alexander Wilson. Commander of the 23rd Group. Captain of the human Sentinel-class battleship."
His gaze cut to Horn first. "Mr. Horn. Your hatred is reasonable." Horn's jaw flexed; the sound of grinding teeth. "But truth belongs to you as well. Read this. You will understand why your fleet and the Grounx legions were eliminated."
A slender rod—metallic, thin, spined with faint blue seams—appeared in the General's palm and fell with solid weight into Horn's hand. The sound it made against Horn's skin was too real for a ghost.
Horn looked down at it like it might explode. He didn't drop it. His knuckles blanched around the grip.
The General turned. "Mr. Ronan."
Ronan straightened against the canvas, hands half-raised as if to show he wasn't armed, wasn't anything, just a body. His lips trembled. No sound.
"I like your attitude," the General said, a humorless curve at the corner of his mouth. "Foolish. Loyal. Good for Niri."
Ronan let out a thin, breathless laugh that wasn't a laugh at all. "This is—this is impossible…"
The General ignored him and faced Thall. "Mr. Thall."
Thall didn't answer, didn't nod. He stood there like a wall.
"I anticipated rage," the General continued. "You chose restraint. You kept your own in check. That is the weight I require in a band leader."
A tiny shift ran through Thall's shoulders, not pride—not agreement—just a change. He said nothing.
The General stepped closer to Qiri. The glow rolled near enough that Niri could see tremors in Qiri's hands. She didn't step back.
"Miss Qiri." His voice fell low—private. Niri still heard it; the tent was too small not to. "Do not fear."
Qiri's throat bobbed.
"Watch over Niri," he said, softer. "You will not regret it."
Qiri barely nodded. A single, tight dip of her head, like anything more would break her.
Then the General faced the last one. "Professor Lu'Ka."
Lu'Ka met the glow without a flinch. "General."
"A wise professor," the General said, and something like respect, thin but real, edged his tone. "Always searching for the answer."
"And is this it?" Lu'Ka asked.
The General's eyes brightened, pale fire flaring. The final words carved neat and cold.
"We remain."
The light broke.
The figure collapsed in on itself—lines unthreading, glow shedding into a fine, vanishing ash. The lantern coughed back to its usual dirty yellow. Canvas, dust, bodies, breath.
The General was gone.
For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of people remembering how to breathe.
Niri didn't move. Her knees felt wrong, like something had rewired them backward. She stared at the space where he'd stood and tried to swallow the taste in her mouth—metal, old air, something like burned sugar.
Horn was first to shift. He looked at the rod lying heavy in his palm and then at Niri as if the metal were a chain from her hand to his. He didn't speak. He slid the rod into the belt loop at his hip and covered it with his palm like hiding it would make it less real.
Ronan wiped both hands down his face and left streaks of dust on his cheeks. "He—he spoke. He—" He laughed once, breath hitching. "Okay. Sure. I saw a human ghost give Horn homework."
"Shut up," Horn growled without looking at him.
Qiri finally set her hand on Niri's arm. It was small and shaking and warm. "Breathe," she whispered.
Niri did. It hit shallow. She tried again. "He said… 'we remain.'"
Lu'Ka was already moving, controlled purpose in every step. He went to the tent's flap, checked outside—one careful glance—then sealed it again. "No one leaves yet.
Then, outside—just minutes after the specter vanished—everything changed.
A low hum built in the earth, rising from beneath their boots. The ground vibrated. A colossal, thunderous pulse roared overhead as the engines of the Sentinel-class ship ignited. The sky cracked open in light and sound.
And then it was gone.
Vanished. No ripple. No trace. Just silence where something too large to understand had been.
Outside the tent, cheers rose across the excavation camp. Relief like a pressure valve blown open. Cadets cried out, laughed, shouted to each other across open channels. Communication rigs flared back to life, systems online again.
The professors were already flooding back to the data consoles, voices rising in a dozen languages, orders overlapping.
But inside the tent—no one moved.
They weren't ready to follow yet.
They had seen something no one else had.