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P ain was a familiar cloak, draped heavy across my senses. The lingering agony from the human’s crude shard experiments pulsed along my lifelines, a discordant rhythm beneath the steady hum of the failing ruins Hammond used as his den.

My capture remained a source of sharp shame—ambushed while fulfilling my clan’s sacred duty. Failure. Dishonor.

I shifted position slightly, my back against the cold stone wall. Each movement sent fresh waves of agony through my damaged lifelines.

The golden patterns beneath my skin, once vibrant with the energy of my ancestors, now flickered erratically, dim in places where the human’s probes had disrupted their natural flow. Four sessions under Hammond’s instruments had left me weakened, my strength leached away like water into sand.

My capture was an unexpected conclusion to what should have been a simple observation mission. For weeks, I had watched the mixed settlement from the ridgelines—studying the Eastern Nyxari who had betrayed our ways by forming bonds with the marked humans.

I had seen the golden lifelines of my own kind intertwining with silver markings during their rituals, witnessed the sharing of knowledge that should have remained protected.

From concealed positions, I had listened to Nyxari conversations, heard their justifications for this dangerous alliance, their talk of a human leader called “Hammond” who had broken away, threatening both species.

My mission was nearly complete, my report for the Shadow Canyon Elders almost prepared, when I detected the energy disturbance near the western boundary. I should have returned directly to my clan, but curiosity—always my weakness—led me to investigate.

And so I found myself ambushed, my lifelines disrupted by technology I had never imagined, dragged before the very human the Eastern Nyxari had spoken of with such fear.

During the first days of captivity, he had used a translator stone, demanding information about my clan, about the ruins we protected. I had revealed nothing, but his questions had revealed much—his name, his obsessions, his dangerous ignorance of powers he sought to control.

The air in this makeshift cell carried the stale scent of human occupation—sweat, metal, chemical compounds foreign to Arenix. The stone itself felt wrong, its natural resonance disrupted by the salvaged technology bolted carelessly to its surface.

These ruins were sacred once. Places of power and knowledge. Now desecrated by human ignorance.

Then the cell door shrieked open, jerking me back to the present. The guards threw her inside. Human. Female. And Marked.

The silver patterns were visible on her skin as she landed hard on the stone floor. My lifelines contracted as if burned anew. A deep, instinctive rejection surged through my body.

Prejudice, deep and ingrained by generations of Shadow Canyon warnings, rose within me. An outsider. Bearing the dangerous resonance. Here, near ruins my clan had guarded for centuries against this very contamination.

The prophecies echoed in my mind, ancient words passed down through generations of my clan. The Marked Outsider... awaken slumbering power... unleash sleeping chaos. The silver key will turn the golden lock, and ancient doors will open once more.

She was an embodiment of the danger I was sworn to prevent. Her presence here felt like a violation of everything I had sworn to protect.

I turned my face to the wall, pulling my weakened body further into the shadows, conserving what little strength remained. The movement sent fresh waves of pain through my damaged lifelines.

Every junction point where the golden patterns intersected felt raw, as though acid had been poured directly into my essence.

The cold stone against my skin provided minimal relief. My tail lay limp beside me, too weak even for the instinctive movements that would normally express my agitation.

The Shadow Canyon warriors prided themselves on control, on discipline, but this stillness was not by choice—it was evidence of my weakened state.

The human female was examining the cell now, her movements purposeful despite her recent rough handling. She moved with the caution of a trained fighter, assessing her surroundings, looking for weaknesses, for opportunities.

Not just a marked human then, but a warrior of some kind. More dangerous.

The silver markings on her arms caught the dim light when she moved. Even from across the cell, I could sense the wrongness of them—not natural, not pure like true lifelines, but something artificial.

Dangerous. Created during the humans’ arrival, when their exploding ship interacted with Arenix’s energy field. A corruption of the natural order, a mockery of the true lifelines my people had carried since the beginning.

My mind returned to the experiments, to Hammond’s cold eyes studying my reactions as he connected the corrupted shard to my lifeline junctions. He would speak through the translator stone sometimes, his voice distorted by the device, asking questions I refused to answer.

Other times, the device remained silent, and he would communicate with his assistant in their own language—meaningless sounds whose intent I could still discern from their expressions, the way they gestured toward my lifelines, the eager tension in their postures.

What did they seek? Knowledge? Power? Access to systems best left dormant? The ancient Nexus chambers contained technologies that even my ancestors had feared.

Technologies that had torn apart Arenix’s delicate balance during the Great Division, leaving scars in the planetary energy field that persisted to this day. Technologies that could do worse, if awakened improperly.

Through half-closed eyes, I studied the human female more carefully. She moved to the door, examining its construction, then the ceiling junction, clearly looking for weaknesses.

Her markings reacted subtly as she neared certain parts of the cell, responding to the dormant energies in the stone itself.

I had seen similar reactions in the Eastern Settlement, watching from hidden positions as marked women interacted with ancient structures, their silver patterns responding to Arenix’s energy field, to ancient technology, to our lifelines.

The air in the cell carried her scent—human sweat, wilderness, and something else, something that made my lifelines contract defensively. An energy signature similar to what had damaged them.

Was she part of Hammond’s experiments? Another tool to be used against me?

She turned suddenly, as if sensing my scrutiny. Our eyes met briefly before I looked away. Hers were an unusual color, grey, like clouds.

Too perceptive, those eyes. Too knowing.

She spoke, her voice a meaningless flow of human sounds. Without the translator stone, I could not understand her words, though her tone and gestures suggested a question, perhaps concern.

I kept my gaze fixed on the wall. Communication was impossible, unthinkable. She represented the failure of my mission, the potential catalyst for catastrophe.

Let her fend for herself. My duty remained: guard the secrets, contain the threat, even from within this cage. Even if the threat now shared my confinement.

My tail remained utterly still against the cold floor, betraying none of the turmoil within. The muscle memory of countless training sessions in the mountain temple urged me to move, to fight, to escape—but my body could not respond.

All I could do was endure. And wait. And keep the marked outsider at bay.

For if the old texts were true, her silver markings and my golden lifelines must never fully resonate. The consequences would reach far beyond this cell, beyond Hammond’s crude experiments.

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.

I lacked the strength to resist, even if resistance would have been tactically sound.

As they dragged me to my feet, I caught the human female’s expression. Concern? Calculation? Both, perhaps.

She was assessing my condition, measuring the damage. Planning something. What, I couldn’t guess, nor did I have the luxury of considering it further as the guards forced me through the door.

The last thing I saw before they took me away was her face, those grey eyes watching, analyzing. Not hostile, not exactly, but intensely focused.

Dangerous in a way Hammond’s casual cruelty was not. Hammond I understood from our translated exchanges—he was simply greedy, grasping for power he could never comprehend.

But the marked female? She was something else entirely.

Something unpredictable. And as they dragged me down the corridor toward another session of agony, I found myself uncertain which represented the greater threat—Hammond’s crude experiments or the marked human who had looked at me with something almost like compassion.

Both, in their own ways, could unlock doors best left closed. Both could awaken powers that had nearly destroyed Arenix once before.

As a Shadow Canyon guardian, my duty was clear. Protect the ancient secrets. Prevent the resonance between silver and gold. Ensure the Nexus remained dormant.

Even as a prisoner, even as Hammond’s unwilling experiment, that duty remained.

I would endure whatever torment awaited me in the laboratory. I would safeguard the knowledge I carried. And I would resist any connection with the marked human, no matter how seemingly innocent.

The Elders had taught us that sometimes, the most dangerous threats came wearing the face of compassion.