Page 10

T he human slept fitfully across the cell.

Zara. Her name still felt strange in my thoughts, a personal acknowledgment resisted.

Names held power in Shadow Canyon tradition; sharing one extended trust. Yet watching the silver patterns pulse gently beneath her skin with her dreams, I couldn’t deny the heresy: these markings weren’t the abomination our teachings described.

They were older, something my ancestors perhaps misunderstood or misrepresented.

Dim emergency light cast shadows across her sleeping form. Tension remained—a slight furrow between her brows, the set of her jaw. She slept like a warrior expecting attack.

My attention shifted to the two translator stones hidden behind the loose rock.

Their presence changed everything—communication possible where only crude gestures and impressions existed before.

A dangerous advantage. Knowledge shared, the Elders taught, was often the first step toward catastrophe. Yet circumstances demanded adaptation.

I crushed mineral nodules between my palms, the crunch a welcome distraction. Jagged edges dug into my skin, releasing potent oils—a necessary pain. The sharp scent, like Arenix’s northern fields after rain, filled the cell, acrid and cleansing.

The minerals came from deep caverns beneath Shadow Canyon, collected by Elders during sacred pilgrimages.

I had carried a small pouch, hidden where Hammond’s men wouldn’t look.

Generations of my people developed survival techniques; the Shadow Canyon Clan preserved ancient knowledge.

I crushed the last of my hidden minerals between my palms, aware that once used, this resource couldn’t be replaced in captivity.

The rare compounds were traditionally used by the scouts of my clan to evade the guardian automatons that still patrolled the ancient ruins—remnants of technology from before the Great Division.

One application would have to be enough. This paste, crafted from rare minerals and specific plant saps, would mask our scent from both the automatons’ sensors and Hammond’s cruder detection systems.

Precise timing was crucial. Crush too quickly, the masking compounds wouldn’t release. Too slowly, volatile elements evaporated. My hands moved with practiced skill, learned as a child watching guardians prepare for patrols.

My lifelines tingled. Failing my clan. Not just by capture, but by my growing tolerance of the marked human.

Solstice teachings were absolute: The marked outsider brings destruction.

Silver lines open pathways to chaos. Prophecies warned the ancients’ dangerous patterns would reawaken, sealed chambers open, slumbering power stir.

Yet destruction already surrounded us, wrought by Hammond, not Zara.

She stirred, roused by the pungent aroma or sensing my discomfort through our unwanted bond. Her eyes snapped open—full alertness. No slow transition, but instant readiness.

“What are you making?” she asked, voice husky.

I retrieved one translator stone. With the crystal between us, my response could be understood. “Masking paste. It conceals from electronic sensors and biological detection.”

Interest sparked in her eyes, that analytical mind shifting into gear. She moved closer, examining the crushed minerals, the extracted sap, the developing mixture. “You made this from materials in our cell?” Surprise and respect mingled in her tone.

“Hammond’s guards were careless inspecting the materials I requested for my injuries.” I indicated the pile of seemingly random stones and plant fibers. “They see only rocks, not resources.” The native plants grew even in harsh environments, their sap containing binding agents.

She studied my work, her scent—human, with an underlying note connected to her markings—mingling with the paste’s sharp aroma. “That’s why you asked for those specific items,” she observed, a small, appreciative smile curving her lips. “Clever.”

I ignored the unfamiliar warmth her approval generated. Focus was essential. “An ancient technique,” I said, continuing. “The paste disrupts scent recognition and electronic detection patterns.”

“How does it work against sensors?” Precise, technical—the engineer seeking principles.

“Trace minerals absorb specific detection wavelengths.” I lifted the paste, showing its consistency. “Properly prepared, it creates a field bending detection waves around the wearer.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “Similar to stealth coating on reconnaissance drones.”

“The principle predates your technology,” I noted, pride in my clan’s knowledge surfacing. “My ancestors understood wave manipulation long before your species left its home planet.”

I added the sap, combining them with circular motions. The mixture thickened, powder to paste, deep blue to translucent blue-gray—drying clear on skin.

“We apply this before entering the vents again,” I said, testing the consistency. “Full coverage is required.”

Her markings pulsed, responding to my proximity or the escape plan.

In the dim light, they seemed almost to reach toward me, responding to my lifelines in ways defying my understanding.

I found it hard to look away. They followed her body’s contours, a landscape of light and connection.

Not an abomination, but adaptive, responsive, complexly beautiful.

Dangerous thoughts, contradicting teachings. Yet my own eyes challenged those teachings.

“Show me our route again,” I said, redirecting to the dirt-floor map. Tactical discussion was safer territory.

Zara knelt beside me, close enough to feel her heat.

It wasn’t just tension anymore. It was possibility.

And I hated how badly I wanted to see where it might lead.

Humans ran warmer, metabolisms faster. I heard her steady heartbeat, slightly elevated but controlled—a body prepared for action.

“The command center is likely here,” she indicated a junction.

“Based on energy signatures and communication patterns. Access might allow a diversion large enough to reach the eastern exit.”

Faint scars marked her hands, forearms—remnants of the crash, newer marks from Hammond. She’d survived both, emerging determined, not despairing. Another quality reluctantly admired.

“Beyond lies wilderness,” I added, sketching the terrain glimpsed during capture. “Three kilometers of unstable ground to the ravine. Increased geothermal activity—steam vents, sinkholes.” The unstable, rocky ground, sulfurous vents, adapted predators—my clan had mapped much of this region.

“Nothing compared to Hammond’s hospitality,” she replied dryly, grim warrior humor.

I appreciated her resilience, her levity. Perhaps humans and Nyxari weren’t so different. Another dangerous thought challenging core beliefs.

The paste reached optimal consistency. Practical need superseded philosophical discomfort. “We must apply this now,” I said. “The next patrol passes in thirty minutes. Time for it to dry.”

She nodded, rolling up sleeves. Silver markings shimmered. “How do we do this?”

“I will assist you, then you assist me.” I moved closer, aware of the necessary intimacy. My hands could easily encircle her wrists—a reminder to be careful with her more fragile physiology. “It must cover all exposed skin.”

Her eyes widened slightly, but she gave a brisk nod.

“Practical necessity. Let’s get it over with.

” Dismissive words, but a slight flush rose on her cheeks—human response to discomfort or anticipation.

I hadn’t been taught to notice the faint freckles across her nose, or how her eyes changed color with emotion.

I dipped fingers into the paste, the blue-on-pale contrast stark as I carefully applied it to her arms. The bond hummed, unsettling but hard to resist—an insistent current demanding acknowledgment.

My hands dwarfed her forearms. Her muscles tensed, then relaxed as I maintained a clinical approach.

Her pulse jumped beneath my fingers—fear? Discomfort? Something else?

The markings responded differently, warming, brightening beneath the paste, patterns shifting subtly, following my fingers as if seeking connection. “Your markings,” I observed. “They respond to contact.”

She shivered beneath my fingertips, silver lines pulsing in perfect synchrony with my lifelines. In that mirrored glow, I realized the universe had painted matching constellations across our skin so we’d never lose each other in the dark.

“They seem to respond specifically to you,” she admitted reluctantly. “The bond, I think.”

The bond. Unchosen, yet growing despite resistance. Among Nyxari, lifebonds were sacred, celebrated—but only between Nyxari. Connection with a human, especially marked, violated every teaching.

I paused, meeting her gaze. The admission cost her—tightness around her eyes, slight lift of her chin. Pride and vulnerability warred. She was as uncomfortable as I, yet practical enough to acknowledge it.

“The bond may serve our escape,” I said finally, resuming. True, yet incomplete—a tactical observation avoiding deeper implications. “If it allows sensing location or status.”

She held still as I applied paste to her face, careful around eyes and mouth. This proximity, once unthinkable, felt... less alien than it should.

“Is that how it works for your people? Like a tracking system?” Careful probing at forbidden knowledge.

“More complex,” I admitted, searching for words for things known only from teachings. “For true lifemates, awareness beyond physical senses. Emotions, intentions... sometimes thoughts, in moments of great intensity.” Profound bonds created unity, strengthened both while maintaining identity.

My tail flicked once—betraying discomfort. Sacred knowledge, not for outsiders. Yet was she still merely an outsider?

“Is that what scares you?” she asked quietly, gaze sharp. “That I might access your thoughts?”

Closer to truth than I wished. The vulnerability—not just shared knowledge, but deeper intimacy. To be truly known... compelling, terrifying. My hands stilled. “What scares me,” I said carefully, “is I was sent to protect my people from the very thing I now participate in.”

Her expression sobered. “I didn’t ask for these markings either, Ravik.”

My name on her lips sent an unexpected ripple through my lifelines. Few humans spoke my true name. Another small bridge, another crack in the wall of separation.

I finished applying paste to her neck, then handed her the mixture. My own discomfort was greater than expected. Among Nyxari, such contact was rare outside family or ceremony.

Her smaller hands worked efficiently. Hesitant at first, then more confident. The sensation... not unpleasant. Precise fingers, even coverage, minimal contact respecting unstated boundaries.

When her fingers traced my lifelines, they brightened despite my suppression. Golden patterns reached toward her touch, momentary connections sending warmth cascading through me. Involuntary betrayal by the forming bond.

“So they react to me too,” she observed, voice carefully neutral.

“Yes.” No point denying the visible.

She worked silently—arms, face, exposed chest where clothing tore during capture. The air charged with unsaid things. The paste dried quickly, invisible but effective.

“Should last six hours,” I explained, retreating to technical safety. “After that, structure breaks down, especially near vent energy fields.”

She nodded, wiping residue from her hands. “More than enough time.”

“Tomorrow,” I said, moving back, reestablishing distance. “First phase. You access the command center via vents. I create a diversion near the water reclamation unit.” Sound plan, leveraging strengths, accounting for limitations. Yet risk remained.

“And if something goes wrong?” she asked, practical, not fearful.

My tail twitched. “Then we improvise.”

A small, genuine smile touched her lips. “Starting to think there might be more to you than duty and scowls, Shadow Canyon.”

The casual clan reference triggered another ripple. Few outsiders knew clan designations, fewer used them familiarly. She continued to surprise, challenge preconceptions.

I maintained neutrality, suppressing complex emotions. Guardian training demanded impassivity. This closeness, cooperation—necessary for survival. Nothing more. Yet as lifelines pulsed gently with her proximity, was I lying to myself? The connection defied simple classification.

She settled onto her mat, movements betraying fatigue. Human bodies needed more rest. Bruises from capture still visible.

“Rest,” I said, the word gentler than intended. “I will maintain watch.”

Surprise flickered across her features. “Wake me in four hours. You need rest too.”

I nodded, though I wouldn’t disturb her. Meditation served better than sleep for my healing. I’d maintain vigilance.

She paused. “We should hide the stones again. Too valuable to risk.”

I retrieved the crystals, returning them to their hiding place. The translators changed our interaction, allowed deeper communication. A tool, like the paste. Yet also a symbol of unexpected cooperation.

As she drifted toward sleep, her markings pulsed gently, silver patterns flowing like water. In the quiet, defenses lowered, I acknowledged a heresy: the markings on the newcomers weren’t our enemy. Perhaps they never had been.