A ship-wide com pulled everyone but Erica from their thoughts.

  "All personnel, relocate to designated safe zones immediately. Failure to comply may result in injury. Designated safe zones include your quarters, the bridge, engineering, or the medbay. Do not remain in open corridors or unsecured areas. Ship-wide reformation in process."

  The Fennecari crew exchanged uneasy glances at the announcement. Liora’s ears flattened in apprehension.

  "What is this insane AI doing?" Liora muttered.

  Velia’s gaze flickered between the shifting walls and the overhead com panel. "I don't know," she murmured, ears twitching, "but I suggest doing what he says."

  Erica leaned back in her chair and gritted her teeth as the ship’s transformation resonated through her body like a deep, shifting tremor. It wasn’t just something she heard or saw—it was something she felt. A crawling, foreign sensation rippled beneath her skin, as though the very fabric of the ship was pressing and grinding against her bones. A dull, aching pressure settled into her joints, radiating outward.

  From an external perspective, the New Horizon’s hull no longer retained its sleek design. The once seamless black egg shape began to elongate, stretching into a long cylindrical form. The hull’s coloration dulled, adopting the muted industrial tones common among freighters. Blobs of material pulled away from the whole, splitting and forming into three massive rotational cargo rings along its length—one at the front, one in the middle, and one near the aft section—giving it the appearance of a dedicated hauler. Antennae, hatches, and sensor arrays extended, aligning with standard merchant vessel designs.

  Her breath hitched as a strange vertigo washed over her, her equilibrium thrown off by the realignment of the vessel around her. The walls seemed to pulse with a phantom heartbeat, a low, thrumming rhythm. She clenched her fists against the armrests, willing herself to ride it out.

  A sudden shift sent a jolt up her spine and caused the hair along her arms and on the back of her neck to stand on end, a brief but nauseating moment where it felt as if her body lagged behind reality itself. The very air around her thickened, pressing against her skin before lightening in rapid succession.

  At the ship’s aft, a large docking bay took shape, designed for shuttle transport and cargo transfers. The overall mass of the vessel was subtly reduced during the transformation, alleviating strain on the ship’s dwindling resources while also aiding in repairs. Plates groaned as they finished sliding into their new configurations.

  She groaned along with the ship, the sound vibrating in her chest. Then—something shifted. Not just in the ship, but within her. A strange, instinctual sense of alignment, like a puzzle piece snapping into place. The discomfort dulled, fading to a distant ache, and the pulsing in the walls stilled. Beneath her, the floor settled, no longer carrying the ghostly tremors of change.

  She exhaled slowly, centering herself. The ship was still beneath her now—solid, steady. She ran a hand down her arm, trying to shake the lingering sensation of something foreign threading through her bones. The connection between herself and the ship felt deeper now, though she couldn't explain why.

  On impulse, she reached out and laid her palm against the cool wall beside her. For a moment, it was just metal. Then—something. A gentle pulse, faint and rhythmic, like the soft thrum of a heartbeat tucked far beneath the surface. Her breath caught. Was that the ship? Or her? The longer she stood there, the more the boundary blurred, until she wasn’t sure where she ended and the ship began.

  She let out a slow, measured breath, pressing her fingers against her temples as if she could smooth away the phantom sensation of motion still lingering in her muscles. “Ugh... that was deeply unpleasant,” she muttered, glancing toward the ceiling as if the ship itself could hear her complaint.

  "All primary modifications are in place," Steward reported. "The vessel now matches the specifications of a merchant vessel. External scans will register us as such. I have taken the liberty of fabricating an appropriate registry history, including falsified trade permits."

  Erica raised an eyebrow at the floating orb. "And if someone digs deeper?"

  "Then they will find a trail of bureaucratic inefficiencies, lost data, and system errors typical of long-haul merchant registration. It would take a dedicated investigation to uncover the falsehood, and even then, the data will appear inconclusive rather than fraudulent."

  She huffed, crossing her arms. "You’ve done this before."

  "I have observed others do it before," Steward corrected. "It is an integral part of my programming. My creators designed me to adapt to environmental and tactical modifications. I simply apply superior execution."

  As the ship shuddered, Erica gritted her teeth, her fingers gripping the armrest tightly. The energy signature of the New Horizon—normally an eerie, gravitational void in sensor arrays—remained unchanged. It was what made their presence so difficult to detect, but in a populated area, it was a dead giveaway that they weren’t a simple freighter.

  To counteract this, Steward deployed a false energy signature.

  "Our vessel will now register with conventional sensor arrays as a merchant vessel with standard gravitic propulsion. Adjusting identification transponders."

  Erica watched from the small display in her quarters as new readings scrolled across the screen. To anyone scanning them, they would appear as the New Horizon, an independent freighter with an unremarkable record of cargo deliveries.

  "And just like that, we’re ghosts in plain sight," she murmured.

  For a split second, Erica swore the data stream on her display glitched—just a flicker, gone before she could be sure. Steward extended his reach beyond the ship, brushing against the ever-present streams of subspace data. A nearby relay buoy pulsed faintly, broadcasting local trade routes, incoming traffic pings, and ship transponder data. To most, it was just background noise—a passive relay system for navigational convenience.

  To Steward, it was an unlocked door—until it wasn’t. As his code slithered into the buoy’s network, a latent security AI stirred, its routines flickering to life in response to the unauthorized intrusion. Warnings flared across Steward’s internal processes, a cascade of alerts signaling the imminent activation of defensive protocols.

  He adjusted instantly, diverting energy into a carefully crafted countermeasure—a temporary feedback loop that delayed the AI’s recognition of the breach. Seconds stretched as he wove through existing data caches, rewriting select entries while threading his deception beneath the AI’s detection threshold. Any longer, and the security AI would have triggered a full lockdown.

  With the last segment of altered records seamlessly integrated, Steward withdrew his presence, leaving behind no trace of his manipulation. The New Horizon—now a standard independent merchant freighter—existed in the buoy’s records. Its digital passport was stamped with the markings of past station visits, a fabricated trail spanning neutral ports and established trade hubs.

  Steward’s voice returned, smooth, confident. "Subspace records altered. Trade permits validated. System logs overwritten. We are now in the HUB’s network."

  Erica let out a slow breath. It was one thing to hide a ship. It was another to rewrite history so convincingly that even the system itself believed it.

  She exhaled slowly. "Alright, Steward. Let’s see if we can pull this off."

  The ship thrummed beneath her, steady, waiting. No turning back now.

  ...

  The New Horizon dropped out of subspace in a brilliant flash of distortion, space unraveling around her and reforming with the sharp shimmer of returning light. Before them loomed the HUB—a sprawling, asymmetrical station that floated like a patchwork colossus of rusted metal and industrial ambition. Habitat rings rotated slowly around a jagged central spire, blinking with traffic lights, docking beacons, and the chaotic bustle of unregulated commerce.

  Almost immediately, their comm system crackled.

  "Unidentified freighter, this is Citadel Security Patrol Zeta-Nine. Transmit your credentials and purpose or prepare to be boarded."

  Steward responded with calculated ease. "Transmitting credentials and cargo manifest. This vessel is registered as the New Horizon, independent hauler. Requesting clearance for docking queue."

  A pause.

  "Credentials received. Your record appears valid. Join docking queue sixteen. Do not deviate from the path or you will be fired upon."

  Erica raised an eyebrow at that. "Friendly welcome."

  "The HUB operates on loose protocol and strict consequences," Steward replied.

  As the ship entered the queue, their displays were suddenly flooded with pop-ups and hail requests. Offers from merchant guilds, trade networks, and opportunistic contractors lit up their screens.

  Secure your route with the Mercury Guild! Reliable shipping lanes, exclusive ports, and combat escort packages available!

  Join the Union of Fringe Traders! Resource pooling, defense pacts, and trade route intelligence!

  The Free Hauler’s Consortium wants YOU! Fly free, fly protected!

  The sheer volume was dizzying.

  Erica cringed and flinched back as the bright flashing light flared up on her HUD. “Good lord, where is the pop-up blocker on this?”

  "Would you like me to install one?" Steward asked, tone perfectly neutral. "I can also prioritize the removal of animated solicitations, those with auditory autoplay, or anything that uses more than three exclamation points."

  The young woman cast the illusionary parrot a side glance. “Did you catch a virus from all of those ads?”

  "Negative," Steward replied without missing a beat. "But if that was an attempt at humor, I believe I am improving. I anticipated your irritation and responded with sarcasm calibrated to a 0.6 on the passive-aggressive human scale."

  Both eyebrows shot up. Before slowly nodding with a grin. “You're getting it… Slowly, but you’re getting it… How did you get the statistics for your scale?”

  The parrot tilted his head. "From you. Your phrasing, tone inflection, and recurring rhetorical patterns provided a statistically rich data set for mimicking low-level sarcasm and humor. I’m still refining for higher-grade wit."

  Erica’s grin morphed into a grimace. “Ugh… Never mind, that was a stupid question.”

  The offers kept coming.

  Erica rubbed her temples as more advertisements popped up across her HUD. “Why do I feel like every one of these comes with a leash?”

  "Because they do," Steward replied. "The majority of these merchant guilds operate under binding contracts. Autonomy is sacrificed in exchange for logistical stability, market access, and collective defense. In most scenarios, such arrangements are favorable—but not for a vessel that intends to remain… flexible."

  Erica narrowed her eyes at one particularly flashy offer that guaranteed 'unmatched freedom with structured oversight.' "That sounds like a con wrapped in bureaucracy."

  "An apt assessment," Steward agreed. "I read the fine print. Most of these offers promise freedom, but only under layers of restrictions, scheduled reporting, and route audits. It is what is not written that concerns me more than what is. I recommend we decline all offers until further reconnaissance can be gathered."

  "Good. Let’s just dock without selling our souls."

  The New Horizon crawled closer to the HUB, its identity buried beneath layers of clever code and deception. But deception could only carry them so far.

  Erica leaned back from the console, still eying the pop-up barrage warily. "We're almost there, right?"

  "Approaching final approach vector," Steward confirmed.

  She stood up slowly, stretching the tension from her limbs. "Good. Because I want to go onboard."

  "No," Steward replied flatly.

  She blinked. "Excuse me?"

  "You are not prepared," he continued. "The HUB is uncontrolled space—no formal oversight, limited protections, and a reputation for opportunistic violence. I cannot guarantee your safety."

  "So? I wasn’t safe on Earth either," she countered. "I need to see this for myself. I need to experience the galaxy, not just hide inside your hull forever."

  "Your presence is unknown, your species is unknown and a national secret to at least one ruling entity, and your biology is unique. I cannot allow an unmasked appearance."

  "Then give me a mask. Find a way to hide my biology. You just created an entirely new energy signature for a starship—surely there’s a way to cloak one person." Her voice sharpened. "I’m not asking for permission—I’m asking for help. If I don’t start engaging with this world now, when will I ever be ready?"

  A beat of silence passed. Then:

  "You will wear full concealment. Cloaked biosignature, filtered breath mask, embedded translator, and remote monitoring."

  Erica’s lips quirked upward. "Deal."

  ...

  When the Fennecari crew was summoned to the cargo hold, they were expecting maintenance checks or an update from the ship’s increasingly curious AI.

  They did not expect the doors to open on a towering, black-clad figure that stepped through the door.

  The figure’s helmet was smooth and featureless, a dark mirrored sheen reflecting the lights above until it was shaded by the hood it wore. A long coat swept behind them as they moved—calculated, silent, otherworldly.

  Chika’s ears perked, eyes wide with awe. “It’s a Protector,” she whispered. “Just like in the old holovids! Black armor, mirrored visor… they always show up when someone’s in danger.”

  Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  Aelar nudged her gently. “You don’t know that.”

  “I do. Look at the way they walk. Like the stars are watching. They even have a Protector's cloak! I bet that thing has its own storage space full of stuff!”

  Joean’s fur bristled. “That thing is not a Protector. It looks evil.”

  Liora instinctively stepped forward, subtly shifting to shield the twins. Zireal rested a hand on his sidearm but didn’t draw it.

  Teklen’s tail flicked, his expression unreadable. Velia’s arms remained crossed as she studied the figure with a guarded calm.

  The familiar orb the AI used to communicate drifted down from the ceiling. Its glow pulsed softly as Steward's voice echoed through the bay.

  "This is my Avatar," he said. "She is the ships interface to the organic world— and my partner in navigating the galaxy. "

  The figure stopped.

  “I just go by Erica,” came the filtered voice, calm and carefully modulated. “And I mean you no harm.”

  The room was silent.

  Erica cleared her throat, her face burning as she caught the words from the little one called Chika, and sent a message over their link. —Steward, what did you dress me up as?— Out loud she continued, gesturing to the walls around them. “Welcome aboard the New Horizon.”

  Velia tilted her head. “A prosperous name… but we didn’t hear of any crew.”

  “Because I’m not really part of a crew. The AI and I are part of the ship,” Erica said simply.

  “And the AI?” Teklen asked. “You call him Steward?”

  A slight nod. “That’s what he is.”

  Eyes lingered on her helmet, the voice modulation, tension filling the room like a stormcloud waiting to break.

  Aelar, lingering near the back, tilted his head slightly. He said nothing, but his gaze was thoughtful—not wary like the others, but curious. There was a question in his eyes that hadn’t yet formed into words. He watched the way she moved, deliberate but not stiff, her presence quiet but unnerving. She didn’t feel like a stranger. She felt like a puzzle.

  And Aelar loved puzzles.

  No one moved. But curiosity had taken root, and for now—that was enough.

  ...

  The docking queue moved at a crawl. Bureaucracy at the HUB was notoriously inconsistent—sometimes lax, sometimes excruciatingly thorough. Today, it seemed the latter.

  "They’re rechecking our registration," Steward reported. "Twice. And have requested secondary verification from the Trade Authority."

  Velia stepped forward, ears twitching in mild irritation. “Let me handle this.”

  She opened a direct channel to the HUB's port authority. Her tone was crisp, her words chosen like a seasoned trader navigating hostile waters.

  "This is Velia Tal’Rayan Captain of the freighter Dunerunner, now traveling aboard the New Horizon. I am submitting confirmation of legal trade status and covering all docking fees from my trade account. Code: Rahl-D-746.”

  There was a pause—then a begrudging reply. "Docking authorization confirmed. Queue repositioned. Please proceed to berth 43-Delta. Your account has been charged."

  A low whistle escaped Zireal, and Teklen gave his wife a toothy grin. “She still knows how to crack the shell.”

  Velia rolled her eyes, but the subtle, rhythmic swish of her tail betrayed a quiet pride she didn’t voice aloud.

  As they shifted into the designated berth, an Interplanetary Patrol Service vessel slid into position three docks down—sleek, armored, and bristling with sensor nodes. Its presence didn’t go unnoticed.

  “IPS patrol,” Zireal murmured. “Possibly investigating pirate activity in nearby lanes. Their scan arrays are wide-angle. With a minimal margin for error.”

  “Do we look like a target?” Erica asked.

  “To most,” Steward replied, “we look like background noise. But our energy signature is… not easily replicated.”

  ...

  The HUB's customs bay was chaos incarnate.

  Alien voices barked orders, chattered deals, and sang out greetings in overlapping tongues. Flashing signage bombarded travelers in every direction—half of it animated, some of it interactive. The scent of fuel, exotic spices, and unwashed bodies mingled thickly in the recycled air.

  Erica followed the others closely, the filtered feed from her helmet keeping her HUD clear. Still, the crowd pressed against her like a wave. Her breath hitched as the floor beneath her seemed to tilt slightly. She cast a glance at her atmospheric oxygen levels—20.7%, perfectly normal. So why did it feel like she couldn’t get enough air?

  It wasn’t the oxygen—it was everything else. The closeness. The voices. The lights. Her senses screamed, even through the filter of her helmet.

  She managed to steady herself just as they reached the customs gate.

  "State your designation and submit biometric verification," the bored official drawled, not looking up from their screen.

  Erica froze. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.

  “Avatar designation: Erica,” Steward transmitted calmly through the internal link. “Requesting accommodation—biometric scans not applicable for medically-encased personnel.”

  The customs officer squinted at her. “Helmet off. I need to verify species. Policy.”

  “I can’t,” Erica said, keeping her voice flat. She grit her teeth as her muscles started to tremble with nerves.

  The device at her collar gave a soft sputter—her biosignature momentarily fluctuated.

  The screen flashed red. The officer glanced down, then back up, his eyes narrowing.

  “Unknown classification. Flagged for secondary—”

  Erica’s world tilted again as everything around her began to narrow. A burst of high-pitched alien speech in her left ear clashed with deep rumbling laughter on the right. Lights pulsed overhead. The air felt too thick. Her balance slipped. Her breathing turned shallow as a high-pitched whine pierced her ears.

  Her thoughts fractured—Why didn’t I listen to Steward?!

  “You’re experiencing sensory overload,” Steward said, his voice sharp and grounding in her skull. “Engaging internal filters. Reducing ambient noise. Dimming external light feed. Routing motion correction. Hold still.”

  The storm receded—though not fully. Her limbs felt like water.

  “Vitals are erratic,” Teklen said before stepping beside her and grabbing one of her arms to help stabilize her, concern flashing in his eyes. “Steward, what’s wrong with your Avatar?”

  “She is… unique,” Steward replied. “She requires carefully controlled stimuli. Please monitor her. I’m transmitting her baseline vitals now.”

  Teklen’s brows rose slightly as he scanned the incoming data. “These aren’t normal baselines.”

  “No,” Steward said. “They are hers.”

  The doctor paused. “She needs the suit?”

  “Yes.”

  Teklen turned back to the customs officer. “The Avatar’s suit is pressurized and calibrated for medical stability. Removing it could kill her.”

  The official blinked. “Ah..Yes Doctor…Medical exemption granted. Proceed.”

  Erica lifted her head and looked at the fox-like being next to her. “How did you do that?”

  Teklen’s ears perked as he glanced up from the tablet displaying her vitals. “Do what?”

  “Get that guy to let me through so easily. I thought for sure they were going to drag me off for a strip search.”

  Teklen lifted an eyebrow. “I’m a doctor—and a fairly well-known xenobiologist. Once they scanned my ID, they would’ve recognized the credentials. Plus,” he shrugged, “meddling with doctor-patient confidentiality tends to make even port security nervous.”

  He gave her a sidelong look. “Now, if they’d found out you were a terrorist planning to blow up the station… then yes, both of us would be in trouble.”

  Erica held up her hands. “Not a terrorist!” Teklen lifted an eyebrow and continued on ahead.

  Erica dropped her hands and sighed. She was still twitchy, but she could feel her heart rate calming.

  "Thanks, by the way," she murmured inside the helmet once her breathing steadied. "For stepping in."

  "I am programmed to preserve the Avatar’s wellbeing," Steward replied.

  She let out a weak huff of breath. "You’re not required to talk me down mid-panic. That felt… personal. I'm sorry—I probably should have listened. I didn’t think that would happen. I’ve never had something like that happen to me before."

  A pause.

  "You are my anchor," Steward said at last. "Your stability affects mine. Protecting you is… not just logic."

  As the group moved forward, a small red symbol blinked across a distant monitor.

  Her biosignature, though distorted, had pinged a dormant tracking system.

  Somewhere deep in the HUB, a terminal lit up.

  And someone started watching.

  …

  The Fennecari found themselves immediately swept into the cold machinery of HUB bureaucracy. Reporting the attack on the Dunerunner proved difficult. Docking officials demanded records, sensor logs, and legal proofs of ownership. The fact that their ship was now wreckage only complicated matters.

  Velia argued with a port representative while Teklen reviewed forms on a flickering console nearby. Voices buzzed over nearby terminals—“Next!” “Please take a number.” “You’ll need to resubmit that under the correct class code.”

  “We have survivors, a beacon trail, and a destroyed vessel,” she said. “What more do you need?”

  "Proper authorizations, archival backup registration, and a verified loss report from a neutral authority."

  Another officer leaned back in their chair with a shrug. "I’m sorry for your loss. But without complete documentation, our hands are tied."

  “You don’t understand,” Velia snapped. “Our ship is gone. Our kin are dead. We don’t have time to wait five cycles for a neutral audit team.”

  The words felt like a slap. Even mourning their dead came with red tape.

  A ping echoed from the tablet in Teklen's hands. He glanced down—then frowned.

  “Uh, Velia… you’ll want to hear this.”

  A large male Fennecari—Rathen Solari, their trade liaison—strode over, ears twitching and tail flicking with unease. “The client just updated the contract,” He said flatly. “They’re pushing up the departure deadline. Drastically.”

  Velia turned toward him slowly. “They can’t do that. The agreed-upon pickup window doesn’t start for another cycle.”

  “They can, and they just did. They’re citing emergency business conditions. If we don’t leave with the shipment today, they’ll claim breach of contract.”

  “How bad’s the penalty?” Zireal asked, stepping closer.

  Rathen handed over his datapad. “Enough to put one of us into indenture. At least.”

  Velia’s muzzle wrinkled in frustration. "Stars burn them all..."

  "“The client’s pushing hard,” Teklen said, eyes scanning the message on his datapad. “They want us gone yesterday.”

  “But we’re not late,” Zireal replied, confused.

  “No, we’re early,” Teklen said. “But HUB security’s sniffing around their operation. Hard. If their accounts get frozen, they lose everything.”

  Velia’s ears twitched. “So they’re trying to cut and run before the hammer drops.”

  Teklen gave a slow nod. “If we don’t pick it up and move now, we lose the job. No pay. No protection. Just debt.”

  Joean folded his arms. “I’m starting to think we should’ve let pirates board us again. That was more honest than this mess.”

  “It’s medical supplies,” Teklen muttered. “High-value, pre-ordered. If we don’t deliver, we don’t just get fined—we get banned from every mid-tier guild-run station in three sectors.”

  “And we don’t get paid unless we show up for pickup,” Velia added. “Buyer wouldn’t risk a deposit in case we ran off with it.”

  Zireal’s jaw tightened, but it was Liora who growled first. “Then let’s just get it and go. Sneak it out if we have to.”

  Joean scoffed. “What, and pretend we’re salvage crews?”

  “We could impersonate a salvage crew,” Joean offered, more seriously now. “Claim the cargo under emergency salvage protocols. Legal in over half of Citadel jurisdictions.”

  Velia’s ears flattened. “We’re not thieves.”

  “We should just take what we can and vanish,” Joean pressed.

  “That’s what pirates do,” Velia snapped. “Not us.”

  Zireal stepped between them, voice calm. “We have a ship,” he said, eyes drifting toward the Avatar standing near by and watched the crowd. “Let’s use it. But let’s do it right. The worst they can say is no.”

  …

  Erica leaned against the corridor wall just outside the HUB’s logistics wing, watching as the Fennecari tried to keep themselves upright on a space station that was seemingly determined to bury them in red tape. Port forms. Damage claims. Emergency housing requests. They chased signatures and waited in endless queues. She could see it—the exhaustion in Velia’s shoulders, the fire in Liora’s eyes dimming, the slouch of grief in the younger ones. They were running on fumes.

  She tapped her helmet.

  "Steward, can we make one of the cargo bays available for their ceremony? Quiet, private. Maybe adjust the lighting and pressure settings a little?"

  “Already preparing the space,” Steward replied. “The smaller port-side bay has been cleared and acoustically isolated. Shall I notify the Fennecari matriarch?”

  "Not yet. Let them catch their breath first."

  Ava...I mean Erica.. You got a moment?”

  She turned when a voice behind, pulled her from her conversation.

  Zireal.

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  Zireal folded his arms across his chest. “We need a ship—and right now, yours is the only one we’ve got. I know things are a mess, but we’re not asking for a handout. Just... a chance. Help us haul the cargo, complete the job, and maybe earn something back while we figure out what’s next.”

  Erica tilted her head slightly. “You want to hire the New Horizon?”

  “Exactly that. We’ll cover what we can. We’ve got trade credit. Rathen can work with your AI on terms. Just until we can stabilize and figure out our next move.”

  "Steward?"

  “It is acceptable. Resource draw is minimal, and their trade status provides increased access to commerce. Their presence would support our own operational goals. And… we do require a crew.”

  "You said we would, eventually."

  “They are a self-contained, interdependent unit. Efficient. Loyal. Not ideal, but viable.”

  Erica turned back to Zireal. “Let’s make it official, then. Contract terms handled by Rathen and Steward. You haul the cargo, we cover travel and the jumps. And maybe,” she added, “we help each other survive this mess.”

  Zireal smiled gave a small, respectful nod. “Agreed.”

  ...

  By the time they finalized the agreement, Steward had already prepared one of the smaller cargo bays. The space had been transformed—lighting softened, environmental controls adjusted, the harsh edges of storage crates masked by woven cloth. Erica stood silently near the entrance as the Fennecari gathered within, the tension of survival giving way, for a moment, to grief.

  A bowl of shimmering fire dust sat at the center, surrounded by six personal tokens—keepsakes of those they’d lost: a carved bead, a charm of bone, a faded datachip, and other memory-laden fragments.

  They stood in silence, forming the traditional Circle of Wind. Each held a wind rod—flute-like instruments that, when blown, created a high, gentle tone unique to the user.

  No words were spoken. One by one, each Fennecari raised their rod to their lips and played. The harmonies layered into a haunting, shifting soundscape that seemed to breathe sorrow and remembrance into the air.

  Velia, as matriarch, lit the fire dust.

  The soft flame flickered with hues of blue, gold, and violet. She stepped forward and placed the woven kevara—a memorial thread—into the bowl. The fire caught it instantly, and each memento shimmered briefly before disintegrating.

  Without cue, they all turned their backs on the flame, tails swaying gently in the ancient gesture known as the Turning of Tails.

  It was the final goodbye.

  Later, once the others had gone, Velia remained behind. She stared at the ashes, her expression unreadable. Slowly, she knelt and reached out, brushing her fingers through the still-warm dust. Nestled among it was a warped piece of bone—a charm shaped like a rising sun. Her hand hovered before gently closing around it.

  She didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. Just sat there for a moment longer, letting the silence fold around her like an old blanket.

  "Farewell old friend"

  Only then did she turn to leave.

  They would not speak of it again until the eighth cycle, when mourning shifted to remembrance.

  As Erica turned to leave the bay, she paused at the doorway, sensing the quiet approach of Velia.

  The Fennecari matriarch still wore the black mourning band tied around her upper arm, but her posture had regained a measure of strength. She stopped beside Erica, her voice low but steady.

  "Thank you—for this space, for the quiet, and for the chance to mourn properly. My people... my family... needed it more than I realized."

  Erica nodded. “I’m glad we could give you that, even if it’s just a start.”

  Velia glanced around the softly lit bay. “You didn’t have to offer us a place on your ship. You could have walked away. But you didn’t. Steward didn’t. That means something.”

  She met Erica’s gaze, solemn but sincere. “You gave us more than transport. You gave us purpose again. And for that… you’ll always have our gratitude.”

  Erica offered a quiet nod in return. “You’re not just passengers anymore. We are partners and hopefully, one day, friends.”

  Velia offered her a small smile and a nod before stepping out into the corridor.