The Wraith moved like a whisper through post-recursion space its thrusters dimmed, its hull light-absorbing, barely a shimmer in the darkness between stars. There were no alerts. No Architects. No battles looming in the next sector.
Just stillness.
It should have felt like peace.
But Elara couldn't sleep.
She sat alone in the observation corridor, curled in a wrap blanket, the starlight faint against her skin. No alarms hummed from the deck. No voices echoed in her mind. And still somewhere deep in her chest something hadn't settled.
"You always get quiet before storms," came a voice behind her.
Aeron.
He didn't ask to sit. He simply lowered beside her, shoulder brushing hers.
Elara's voice was low. "I thought recursion was the storm."
He looked at her for a moment. "What if it was only the wind?"
Back in the command deck, Damien frowned at a flickering signal trace. "That can't be right."
