Intimidating.
A cold rush moved through her—pure instinct, sharp as ice water. For a moment, she felt as though the floor had dropped away beneath her, the sensation hollowing her from ribcage to spine.
She froze.
She couldn’t explain why. There was nothing overtly threatening in the way he sat, nothing hostile in his posture. But something emanated from him—a presence, a gravity—that seized her in place and would not let her move.
Then he lifted his arm.
A single, imperious gesture. Effortless. Indifferent. Commanding.
“Come,” he said.
The word struck her like physical force. Not because of its volume, but because of its clarity.
It was English. Perfect, fluent English.
No translation stone. No layered echo. No mechanical filter.
Justhisvoice—rich, resonant, precise—shaping her language as though it belonged to him.
“Do not be afraid,” he added. “You will not be harmed.”
Morgan’s heart hammered against her ribs.
She couldn’t look away from him.
And she had no idea how he knew her language—or how a being like this could speak to her as effortlessly as if he had lived on Earth his entire life.
She swallowed, the movement tight and difficult, and forced her feet to obey. Her heart lodged high in her throat, pulsing like it wanted to escape. Each step felt heavier than the last, as though gravity itself had thickened around her, pressing against her legs and slowing her to a staggered pace. Her arms trembled despite her attempts to steady them.
Still, she walked forward.
The vast chamber fell away in her awareness until only he remained—this creature, this alien, thisMarak. Every instinct in her body urged caution, not because he moved or threatened her, but because something in the air around him commanded it. He radiated danger as effortlessly as breath.
She stopped when she reached the base of the raised platform. The space between them felt charged, too bright and too quiet at the same time. She wondered if she should bow or lower her eyes, but she couldn’t bring herself to move. She was afraid that any gesture—too formal, too casual, too bold—might be the wrong one.
Don’t offend him.
The thought came unbidden, rising from someplace deep and old within her, a primal intuition that bypassed her conscious mind.
This being is dangerous.
The Marak sat perfectly still, the silver mask catching light in cool, liquid reflections, the black tentacles below him coiled in disciplined readiness. He watched her—or she felt watched, even without visible eyes—and the weight of his attention settled over her like a dark, immense tide.
Morgan realized she had stopped breathing.
And when she finally drew in air, it trembled through her chest.
“You are wondering why you are here,” the Marak said.
The sound of his voice moved through the chamber like a physical force—deep, resonant, and alien in a way she couldn’t define. It reverberated low in her bones, settling beneath her skin as though the room itself carried the sound into her. Morgan tried to steady her breathing, but the timbre of his words made it difficult to think, let alone remain composed.
“I am,” she managed, though her voice wavered at the edges. She forced her shoulders to remain still, forced her chin not to dip.Do not show fear.Even thinking it felt futile, but she clung to the idea anyway.
The Marak inclined his head a fraction, an almost imperceptible tilt that somehow conveyed amusement, observation, and gravity all at once.
“And you know nothing of us, or of the wider universe,” he said. There was no judgment in the statement, no mockery or disdain. He simply delivered it as truth, as though her ignorance were expected and irrelevant.
