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Some doors were meant to stay closed. Some powers were meant to remain dormant. My clan had sacrificed for generations to ensure it.

I would not be the one to fail, even if it cost my life.

The human female continued moving about the cell, examining every aspect of our prison. Her efficiency spoke of training. Military, perhaps.

Her build was lean but strong, muscles defined by survival rather than display. Dark hair pulled back from her face, revealing more silver markings at her temple, trailing down her neck to disappear beneath her clothing. How far did they extend? Did they follow the same patterns as lifelines, converging at key energy junctions? Another question I had no right to consider.

The legends said the markings were a corruption, a foreign intrusion into Arenix’s natural order. But older texts, the ones only the clan Elders and designated guardians like myself were permitted to read, told a different story.

They spoke of the Time Before, when silver and gold existed together, when the barriers between worlds were thinner. Before the Great Division tore apart the harmonies, before the fall into darkness.

I had seen such connections forming at the Eastern Settlement—the strange, almost ceremonial way the marked humans and Eastern Nyxari would touch, their energies visibly merging, creating patterns that both disturbed and fascinated me.

In my reports to the Elders, I had detailed these interactions, warned of their potential danger. And yet, watching from the shadows, I had noted no catastrophes, no awakenings of ancient systems. Was it possible the teachings were incomplete?

No. Such thoughts were dangerous. Blasphemous, even. The teachings were clear. The silver markings were a threat. The humans who bore them doubly so.

The resonance between silver and gold had nearly destroyed Arenix once before. It could not be permitted again.

The human female approached me suddenly, something in her hand. A canteen. Water. She spoke again, her tone soft, gesturing between the canteen and me.

Offering to share. I averted my eyes, refusing to acknowledge the gesture. Accept nothing from the marked one. That teaching was clear.

She set the water down within my reach and backed away, returning to her examination of the cell. The gesture confused me. Why share limited resources with an enemy?

Was it a trick? A way to establish false trust? Or something else, something more complex?

My throat burned with thirst. The pain from the experiments had left me severely dehydrated. Four sessions of having my energy drained by the corrupted shard, with minimal water provided afterward.

My body craved moisture desperately. But accepting the water meant acknowledging the human, establishing some form of connection, however minimal.

The teachings were absolute. The marked strangers were dangerous. Corrupted. The enemy of all we had sworn to protect. Yet here one was, offering water to a dying Nyxari.

The contradiction disturbed me.

The human female wasn’t actively threatening. She seemed as much Hammond’s victim as I was.

Yet her markings—those silver patterns beneath her skin—represented a threat beyond her understanding. Beyond her control.

She moved to the door again, watching through the observation slot. Her posture was alert, analytical. Gathering information. Planning. Surviving.

In another context, I might have respected such discipline.

The sound of approaching footsteps in the corridor drew her attention. She glanced back at me, at the untouched water canteen, and gestured urgently.

Her expression conveyed her meaning clearly enough. A warning. The guards were coming.

My thirst finally overcame my resistance. With painful slowness, I reached for the water, my hand shaking with weakness. The cool liquid eased the burning in my throat.

A simple mercy, one I didn’t have any right to accept, yet could not refuse in my current state.

Her eyes met mine as I drank, and for a moment, there was something like understanding between us. Not trust—never that—but recognition of our shared circumstance.

Both prisoners. Both subjects of Hammond’s cruelty. Both fighting to survive.

The cell door opened abruptly. Guards with stun batons entered, their postures aggressive, anticipating resistance. One barked a command, pointing at me, their meaning clear even without words.

I knew what that meant. Another session. More pain. More violation of my lifelines. More energy drained to feed Hammond’s corrupted shard.