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The corridor opened into a wider chamber where makeshift living quarters had been constructed. A dozen or so humans moved about, none meeting my eyes.

When had he had a chance to regroup like this? Hammond must have spent the past months gathering scattered loyalists or desperate survivors clinging to his authority.

Salvaged console screens flickered with data I couldn’t read from this distance. Armed guards patrolled, their expressions a mix of suspicion and disgust as they watched me pass. Hammond’s propaganda at work—marked women seen as contaminated, as traitors.

In one corner, I glimpsed what looked like a medical station—or perhaps a laboratory. Instruments I recognized from the Seraphyne had been repurposed alongside cruder implements.

A cold dread settled in my stomach, remembering what Hammond had done to Claire. What was he attempting now?

We turned down another corridor, this one sloping downward. The temperature dropped noticeably, and the air grew damper. The smell of mold and stagnant water joined the sharp tang of ozone.

My boots scraped against ancient stone, worn smooth by centuries of use and then abandoned.

“Watch your step, marked trash.” One guard sneered, shoving me forward as the corridor narrowed. “Wouldn’t want you to fall and crack that pretty head. Hammond wants you intact. For now.”

The casual threat hung in the air. I focused on maintaining my balance, on observing, analyzing. The structure was older here, less modified by Hammond’s people.

The stone walls were lined with patterns that made my markings react more strongly—geometric designs that seemed to pulse with a faint energy, visible only at certain angles. Power conduits, perhaps? Or something more fundamental to the ruins themselves?

A makeshift cell block came into view. Three cells, separated by salvaged plating bolted together to form walls, with ancient stone for the back. Basic containment, but effective.

Each cell was secured with a crude electronic lock system. Hammond’s specialty—functional but unrefined.

A guard punched a code into the lock of the furthest cell—0-4-7-1, I noted automatically—and the door swung open. Another hard shove sent me sprawling onto the cold stone floor, the impact jarring through my already aching shoulder.

The restraints on my wrists were removed with rough efficiency, but not before one guard twisted my arm unnecessarily, a small vindictive gesture.

“Enjoy your new roommate,” the guard said with a smirk. “Maybe you two can swap cosmetic tips. Silver and gold, quite the fashion statement.”

As I pushed myself up, I caught sight of him through the dim light—Nyxari. Big, powerful, even slumped against the far wall.

Blue skin with faint burn scars tracing golden lines. Those lifelines looked wrong somehow, erratic in their flow, like a malfunctioning circuit. He was injured, badly from the looks of it.

He lifted his head slowly, revealing eyes the color of molten gold. No recognition, no relief at seeing another prisoner—just raw hostility.

His muscular tail lay limp against the floor, not even a twitch of acknowledgment. From what I’d observed of Eastern Settlement Nyxari, that stillness was unnatural. Their tails were usually expressive, in constant motion. Whatever Hammond had done to him had taken a severe toll.

The door slammed shut behind me with a metallic clang that echoed through the small space. The lock engaged with an electric whine.

“Just so you know,” one guard called through the small observation slot, “the blue one doesn’t talk. Not that you’d understand him anyway without your little translator toy.”

The slot closed with a sharp snap, and the sound of receding footsteps filled the corridor.

I leaned back against the cold wall, taking stock of my situation. Captured. Imprisoned. Miles from the Eastern Settlement. No way to send a warning about what Hammond was doing.

And my only potential ally looked like he’d rather kill me than help me.

I studied the Nyxari more carefully. His skin was a deeper blue than most I’d seen in the Eastern Settlement, reminiscent of the twilight sky just after the larger sun set.

His hair, though matted with what looked like dried blood, was a striking reddish-blonde, copper and gold interwoven,pulled back in intricate braids that had partly come undone. Tribal markings were etched into the spinal plates visible above his tattered clothing—geometric patterns I didn’t recognize from the Eastern Nyxari.

Different clan? Different settlement entirely? The western mountains supposedly had other Nyxari enclaves, isolated and reclusive. Could he be from one of those?

His breathing was shallow but steady, his massive chest rising and falling in a rhythm that told me he was conscious but conserving energy. A warrior’s discipline.

The burns along his lifelines looked methodical, targeted at specific junction points where the golden patterns connected. Hammond had been experimenting, trying to understand the lifelines, perhaps trying to extract information or energy.

I needed to establish some kind of communication. We were both Hammond’s prisoners; we should be allies by default. But the raw hostility in those golden eyes told me it wouldn’t be that simple.