The cold shimmer of the asteroid belt stretched endlessly beyond the viewport, each fragment of rock spinning in a silent ballet. The Echofire drifted through them like a phantom, her engines whispering at the lowest thrust, her shields tuned to absorb rather than repel. It was a hunter's stalk, and everyone aboard could feel it.
Arin sat at the tactical console, his fingers hovering over the holographic display. Each ping of the scanner came back muted, distorted. This wasn't the usual signal interference—someone was bending the field deliberately.
"Vakya's resonance is here," Arin said quietly, almost to himself. His voice had a weight to it, like he'd just found the scent of prey. "But it's… altered."
Commander Lyra stepped beside him, her silver hair tied back, eyes scanning the shifting data. "Altered how?"
Arin flicked his wrist, and the display unfolded into a spiraling, fractal pattern. "It's not our tongue anymore. Someone has embedded a counter-language into the resonance. It's designed to reflect back what Vakya tries to read."
Lyra's jaw tightened. "A linguistic firewall."
"Exactly," Arin replied, leaning forward. "But this isn't just a shield. It's speaking back. Whoever made this knows Vakya exists… and they're sending it messages."
Vakya's voice echoed in Arin's mind, warmer than usual, but with an undercurrent of caution. "Be careful, Arin. This tongue is not born of human thought. It is… older."
That one word—older—sent a shiver through him. Vakya had existed since before recorded human history, hidden in fragments, myths, and whispers. For it to call something older meant they were dealing with a presence beyond even its vast memory.
The asteroid field began to glow faintly as the Echofire drifted deeper. The rocks here were veined with luminous crystal, casting shifting patterns of light across the ship's hull. The crew's chatter over comms began to fade, not because of silence, but because something in those lights made their words falter.
Vakya spoke again, its voice now resonating in layered tones, like two voices speaking slightly out of sync. "These lights are script. The asteroids themselves have been carved—millions of years ago. This place is not a natural field. It is… a library."
Lyra blinked, her tactical instincts clashing with curiosity. "A library made of… asteroids?"
"Yes," Arin said, eyes wide. "Every rotation of those rocks aligns with another, creating phrases. And right now, they're reading us."
The realization hit like a shockwave. They weren't just intruding—they were being studied.
Then it happened. One crystal-veined asteroid flared brighter, and the ship's systems went black for half a second. When they returned, the main display was no longer showing tactical readouts—it was showing words. Words in a script neither human nor Vakya had used before.
ARIN OF THE FIRE THAT SPEAKS.THE SILENCE HAS WAITED FOR YOU.
Arin's heartbeat thundered in his ears. "They know my name."
Vakya's tone turned sharp. "They know more than that. They know why you carry me."
Lyra drew her sidearm instinctively, though no enemy stood before them. "We should leave."
Arin shook his head. "If we leave now, we may never find this place again. Whoever they are, they've been watching for a long time."
The viewport dimmed suddenly, and a figure formed out of light—tall, robed in shifting geometry, its "face" a mask of endlessly rearranging symbols. Its voice was not sound, but a ripple in thought, sliding into every crew member's mind simultaneously.
"Child of Vakya. Your kind was never meant to wield the First Tongue. Yet here you are."
Arin swallowed hard. "Who are you?"
"The Archivists," it said. "We guard the language beneath all others. You have come here chasing war, chasing power. But you cannot imagine the cost of speaking what should not be spoken."
The lights in the asteroid belt began to spin faster, phrases blooming and collapsing around them. Arin felt the pull—not physical, but mental—as if each word etched into those stones was a hook sinking into his mind.
Vakya's presence surged, pushing back against it. "They are testing you, Arin. If you fail, they will seal my voice forever."
The Archivist tilted its head, as though curious. "Then speak, wielder. Prove you are worthy of carrying what even the stars fear to utter."
Arin looked down at his hands, trembling. Every word he could choose would shape what happened next—not just here, but across the galaxy.
He exhaled slowly, met the Archivist's unreadable gaze, and began to speak.