Chapter 1

Nia

The dropship hisses like a wounded animal as it vents pressure, belly settling into the mossy loam with a gentle thud. I press my forehead to the cool viewport, heart hammering, scanning the mist-laced forest beyond. Everything is green. Green like old copper, like mint leaves crushed between fingers, like home if home had been soaked in alien dew and spun in dreams. I clutch my scanning rig tighter to my chest, its ceramic edges biting into my ribs. This—this is what I’ve worked for. First field assignment. First real dig. First shot at proving I'm more than just a quiet nerd with decent scores and a bad track record in relationships.

The door creaks open with the hydraulics of a reluctant god, and the ramp drops. A damp gust rushes in, carrying the scent of wet earth and something stranger—ozone maybe, or the faint reek of alien pollen. I’m the first to step off, boots sinking slightly into the spongy surface. It’s like walking on bread soaked in broth. I don’t care. I’d wade through thigh-deep garbage if it meant proximity to ancient ruins.

Behind me, a loud voice bellows, “Hey blondie, wait up!” I don’t turn around. I know exactly who it is. Nolan. Tall, smug, hair too perfect for someone who claims to rough it in the field. He’s part of my tent cluster, which means I’ll be sharing a common table, air pump, and gods help me, bathroom schedule with him for the next three weeks.

I pick up my pace, trying to disappear into the mist before he catches up, but it's useless. He jogs beside me, water already beading on his faux-leather field jacket. “You didn’t even let me carry your gear,” he says, flashing a grin he probably practiced in the mirror.

“I’d rather carry a live plasma grenade,” I mutter, not slowing down.

He chuckles, like I’m just being coy. “You know, most girls are a little more grateful when a guy offers to help.”

I stop so fast he nearly runs into me. “Most girls don’t have to prove themselves ten times over just to get half the credit guys like you get handed for free.”

His smirk twitches. “Jeez, lighten up. This is supposed to be fun.”

“It's an academic expedition,” I say, stepping over a thick root that glows faintly with bio-luminescence. “Not a frat party.”

He finally falls silent, thank the stars. I press forward, trying to pretend I don’t feel the knot of nerves twisting in my stomach. This is it. The start of something huge. If I find anything even remotely resembling Precursor tech, it’ll mark my name in the department’s records. Maybe even catch the eye of Dr. Solis back on campus. She’s a hard-ass, but she’s the best in the field.

“Watch your six,” our team lead calls from behind. Professor Glintz—gray-bearded, sunburnt, and permanently squinting into the distance like he’s auditioning for a role in some space western—points toward a craggy rise where the tree canopy thickens. “We’ll set camp just past that ridge. Grav-scanners say there’s unusual mineral distortion below.”

Mineral distortion. My pulse skips. Could be nothing. Could be ancient machinery buried deep. I glance down at my scanner and flick it on. It whirs, blue lights blinking as it warms up, and I cradle it like a child. My child, really. The only thing I’ve ever poured consistent love and attention into without getting burned.

Rain starts, fine and misty, soaking my hair in seconds. It’s cold and makes the air smell more like stone and wet bark. Everyone else groans or pulls up hoods. I tilt my head back and let it wash my face. Feels like baptism. A second chance.

As we climb the rise, our boots sinking and slipping on roots and mud, I start mentally cataloguing. Fungal clusters with red veins. Possibly bio-sentient, based on the flickering they emit when brushed. Tree trunks with engraved patterns that might be tool marks—too smooth for erosion. And then there’s the stone. It peeks out from the undergrowth in chunks—obsidian-colored, unnatural shapes. Geometric edges. I make a note in my wristpad, trying to ignore how Nolan keeps glancing over my shoulder like he’s going to plagiarize my whole damn thesis.

At the top of the ridge, we get our first real look at the valley below. It's drenched in fog, and the forest opens into what looks like a ruin swallowed by vines and moss. Stone pylons. Spires like broken teeth. Everyone pauses.

“Holy shit,” someone whispers behind me.

I don’t say anything. My throat is too tight. This is it. These are not natural formations. They’re too symmetrical, too deliberate. No erosion, no crumbling. Even partially buried, I can feel the age and intent radiating off them like heat. This isn’t just a Precursor site. It’s pristine.

Professor Glintz exhales slowly. “We camp here tonight. Survey begins tomorrow at dawn.”

I’m already moving before he finishes, scanner held out like a divining rod, slowly sweeping the field in front of me. Each beep, each flicker of data, is a promise. I barely register the others behind me unloading gear or pitching tents. I’m kneeling next to a half-buried glyphstone when Nolan drops his pack with a loud grunt beside me.

“You're really into this,” he says.

I ignore him.

“Y’know,” he continues, “when I signed up for this class, I figured there’d be a little adventure, some old junk to look at, maybe a few drinks back at camp.”

I sigh, still not looking up. “This is my life. Not a weekend getaway.”

“Hey, I’m not knocking it. Just saying…” He leans in slightly, too close. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so turned on by rocks.”

I snap my head around, glare ice-cold. “You ever say something like that again, I’ll feed your ass to one of those fungus clusters and tell your parents you died for science.”

He raises his hands in mock surrender, grinning. “Okay, okay. Damn, feisty.”

“I’m focused,” I hiss. “Not available. There’s a difference.”

He walks off muttering something under his breath, and I finally have a moment of peace. Just me, the scanner, and the whisper of ancient stone breathing beneath my fingers. A breeze moves through the ruins, making the vines sway like they’re alive. Somewhere in the distance, something howls—not a wolf, but something higher-pitched, eerie, carried on the wind like a memory.

I don’t flinch.

Instead, I smile.

We make camp in a quiet clearing that smells like wet leaves and something spicy, like cinnamon left to rot. The light’s going fast, the sky turning that pale mossy hue that means the planet’s twin moons are about to rise, and I should probably get some food or help with unpacking the generator. But my scanner’s pulsing, a slow blue blink I haven’t seen before, and I can’t ignore it.

“Nia,” Professor Glintz shouts through the mist. “Take sector D with—”

“Copy that,” I lie, already slipping between two massive trunks draped in vines as thick as my wrist. He doesn’t follow up. He’s too busy barking orders and arguing with the grav-mapper over terrain inconsistencies. Good. That buys me time. I can play the lost-freshman card later if I get caught.

My boots squelch over a carpet of tangled moss, the texture like half-coagulated jelly. Every footstep sinks just a little too deep. The air is heavy, almost greasy, clinging to my skin and getting into the folds of my collar. I keep my eyes on the scanner, sweeping it slowly from side to side. The blinking gets faster.

Ahead, the trees grow thicker—ancient sentinels with bark the color of charcoal and knotted limbs like arthritic fingers. Thick webs hang between them, glinting faintly in the mist. I duck under one, brushing against it by accident, and instantly regret it. Whatever wove it didn’t use silk. It’s sticky, and cold, and leaves a metallic smell on my fingers that makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise.

“Okay,” I mutter. “This is fine. This is great. This is the opposite of a bad idea.”

The scanner pulses sharply—twice—and I freeze. Beneath my feet, the soil clicks. A mechanical chirp. I kneel, slowly, not breathing. I run the scanner close to the ground, eyes wide as it draws a ghostly overlay of something angular and huge below the surface. Lines. Perfect ninety-degree intersections. Glyphs, faint but there—like they’ve been etched into whatever's buried under the dirt and time.

“Oh my gods,” I whisper.

My fingers tremble as I brush away a layer of moss. Underneath, cold stone stares up at me—jet black, polished, not cracked like the other exposed ruins. It’s flush with the earth, seamless and smooth, and it hums faintly when I touch it. No way this is natural. Not a chance. The glyph beneath my hand glows for a second, barely perceptible—like something reacting to skin contact, or heat, or intention.

“Guys,” I say out loud, half-turning before stopping myself. If I call this in now, Nolan will take credit. He’ll muscle his way into the center of the find and worm his name onto the official registry. No. Not this time.

I mark the location on my pad, snapping quick photos, logging coordinates and scanner output. The deeper glyphs are clustered in a pattern.

A breeze brushes the back of my neck. Not wind. A breeze. Like exhalation.

I spin around, heart jumping into my throat, and nearly scream. Nothing there. Just a hanging curtain of vines and a shadow that looks a little too much like a man hunched over.

I back up, pulse pounding in my ears. “It’s fine,” I whisper, eyes darting. “It’s just shadows and paranoia. There’s no one out here. Just me and the creepy jungle full of maybe-Precursor ruins.”

The scanner chirps again—different sound. Higher pitched. The screen flashes red for a split second before resetting to blue.

“What the hell was that?”

I step to the left, sweeping again. More glyphs. They seem to stretch deeper into the jungle, in a line that angles away from the valley and toward the thicker trees. Against all sense, against every warning I was given, I follow.

The silence deepens the farther I go. No insects. No rustling. Just the wet slap of my boots and the faint hum of the scanner. I realize I haven’t seen a single bird, not even one of those tiny iridescent gliders that flit through the canopy. Even the plants here feel different—less organic, somehow. Like they grew around something else. Something buried.

My breath mists in front of me, which is weird because it’s not cold. I touch the nearest vine-covered trunk and hiss. It’s freezing. The scanner goes nuts in my hand, blinking in erratic, non-standard patterns. I kneel, pushing aside moss and loam until my fingers close on another stone slab. Bigger. Etched all over with repeating symbols that shimmer faintly the longer I stare at them.

This is real. This is a major find. Not just structural remnants—this is language. Context. Culture. I could write my entire academic future off these glyphs. Forget Nolan. Forget the rest of the team. If I get this documented first.

I hear something crunch.

Slow. Deliberate.

Not a twig. Not an animal.

A footstep.

I freeze. The scanner emits a high-pitched whine and dies in my hands. The screen goes black.

“Shit!”

I slap it, twist the dial, nothing. The device is bricked. My backup pad starts glitching too—colors bleeding across the screen like paint in water.

The air around me grows heavy. Too heavy. Every breath feels like I’m trying to inhale syrup. The trees lean in somehow, or maybe I’m just panicking, but the space closes around me until I’m standing in a tunnel of green and shadow with nowhere to run.

“Okay, okay, this is where you turn around, Nia,” I mutter, voice tight and hoarse. “You head back to camp and pretend this didn’t happen. You log it tomorrow with witnesses. You don’t end up as a cautionary tale.”

I start to back up, slowly, keeping my eyes on the foliage ahead. Every step crunches louder than it should. 

Another noise. Not a footstep this time. A click.

Then another.

Then breathing.

Rough. Deep. Like something scraping inside lungs built for a different atmosphere.

My eyes strain in the half-light, trying to separate branches from bodies, vines from limbs. Something massive shifts in the gloom ahead. Too fast for a tree. Too tall for a person. My instincts scream, and I turn to run—right as the ground collapses beneath me.

The earth opens with a low groan, and I plummet into darkness.

The scream rips out of me mid-fall, but it’s short-lived—cut off by a rush of damp air and the unmistakable stench of decay. I expect pain. Bones breaking. At the very least a twisted ankle. 

I slam into something soft. Spongy. It squelches beneath me with a wet grunt, like landing on the world’s largest moldy pillow. I lie there for a moment, blinking into blackness, too stunned to move. My heart hammers against my ribs, trying to break free. My breath comes in sharp, panicked gasps.

Still alive. I’m still alive.

I lift my head and spit a chunk of mushroom cap out of my mouth. “Oh, gross,” I groan, rolling onto my side. My palms sink into the soft, pulpy mess beneath me—pale mushroom caps the size of hoverplates, some leaking thick purple juice where I crushed them. The whole space stinks of damp rot and iron, like a compost heap someone dumped blood into.

I grope for my compad, fingers slipping on the slick surface. The screen's cracked, but it flickers on. I switch it to flashlight mode and hold it aloft, squinting through the gloom.

“Oh my gods.”

I’ve landed in a chamber. A massive one.

Stone walls loom high above me, slick with condensation and covered in green bioluminescent growth that pulses faintly with light. The air is heavy, warm, and filled with that loamy, fungal stench. Thick roots dangle from above, some dripping moisture that hits the floor with a rhythmic plip, plip, plip. But it’s not just a cave.

It’s built.

The angles are too clean. The ceiling curves in a perfect dome. Carvings snake up the stone in swirling, deliberate patterns, winding around archways and doors that haven’t seen sunlight in a millennia. The walls are embedded with stones that glitter faintly beneath the moss. I see glyphs again—deeper this time. Older.

I force myself to my feet, brushing slime off my legs. My boots squish against the damp floor, and I grimace. “Well, this definitely isn’t in the student handbook.”

I scan the chamber, slowly stepping away from the crater I made in the mushrooms. It’s eerily silent again, like the forest above—no insects, no dripping water, no echo. My flashlight casts long shadows that stretch and slither across the stone, making the glyphs seem like they’re moving.

There’s a slab in the center of the room. Half-buried in muck and debris, but unmistakably important. It’s rectangular, waist-high, and carved with deep grooves—symbols I don’t recognize. They look like writing, but… not any script I’ve ever seen. Too geometric. Like it was made with a machine, not a hand.

I kneel beside it, compad shaking in my fingers as I take quick snapshots. Every instinct in me is screaming that this is important. Huge. Possibly even Precursor. The style doesn’t match the other finds, but something about it feels… off. Not hostile, exactly. But ancient in a way that makes the back of my neck prickle. Like it’s watching me.

I run a hand over the slab. The stone is cool to the touch, despite the humidity. The moment my skin makes contact, one of the glyphs flares faintly—a soft green glow, like phosphorescent algae. Then it fades.

“No way. No freaking way.”

I reach for my recorder module to start a field log when a sound freezes me.

Rustling.

From behind one of the columns.

I pause, heart thudding. “Hello?” I call, voice too thin. “Is someone there?”

Silence.

Another rustle. A shuffle of footsteps, faint but deliberate.

My pulse kicks into overdrive. I scramble to my feet, shining the compad beam toward the noise. The light dances over stone and shadow, catching on nothing. “Look, if this is a prank, it’s not funny,” I bark, trying to sound braver than I feel. “I’ll report you. Seriously. I—”

The rest of my sentence is strangled into silence as a black-gloved hand slams over my mouth.

I flail instantly, kicking backward and trying to scream, but the grip is like iron. The figure behind me jerks me backward into a tight hold, pinning my arms to my sides. I can’t even see them—just the hand, rough-textured synthleather, reeking of oil and smoke. My compad hits the floor with a pathetic clack and goes dark.

Warm breath brushes the side of my face. Whoever they are, they’re not breathing like a normal person. It’s slow. Inhales spaced too far apart. Measured. Unbothered.

“You scream,” a voice rasps against my ear, “and I’ll break your jaw.”

The first thing I register—besides the throbbing behind my eyes and the raw panic curdling in my gut—is that I’m not alone with my captor.

I catch movement in the dark. A ripple of motion, fast and fluid, like shadows breathing. Another figure steps closer, and then another. Their boots make almost no sound—just the soft crunch of moss, a squelch in mud. Then something hisses.

Not snakes. Voices.

Guttural. Clicking. Like two gravel trucks trying to have a conversation underwater.

Vakutan.

They’re Vakutan.

I’m surrounded. My brain goes haywire with protocol, clawing through layers of training vids and emergency drills.

Keep calm. Be compliant. Show identification. Appeal to their orders.

“Y-you guys are Alliance?” I say. They hesitate. “You’re with the Alliance? Is that what this is?”

It’s not a real question. It’s an accusation. Sharp as a thrown blade.

“I’m IHC. You get that? I’m here on a student visa, with university clearance. You’re not supposed to touch me.” I look directly at the one who’s clearly in charge—taller than the rest, broad like a tank on legs, his armor customized and bloodstained.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t react like I’m a threat or even a human being with rights.

The others defer to him, eyes flicking his way, waiting.

“Student visa,” he repeats flatly, and his voice is rough like dry stone grinding together. He turns to the one at his side. “Ar’vek. Zip her.”

“No, wait, I—”

But it’s already happening. My wrists are yanked tighter behind my back until I cry out. Something cold and wide slides into my mouth and straps around the back of my head. I try to twist away but they’re faster, stronger. Brutal but efficient.

The blindfold comes next.

One sharp tug and the world goes dark again.

I thrash, scream into the gag, but it’s like trying to fight a hurricane with your bare hands. Two of them lift me bodily, one on each side, and I’m hoisted like a sack of grain over someone’s shoulder. The angle presses the blood into my skull until every heartbeat feels like a gunshot in my ears.

The forest floor passes under us, unseen but not unfelt. I register the change in ground texture—spongy mushroom beds give way to slick moss, then to gravel. Leaves brush my face, branches whip at my legs. The air is thick with moisture and decay. Every now and then I catch a gust of something acrid—burnt ozone and scorched meat.

Who the hell are these guys?

They speak in Vakutan again, fast and sharp, like they’re arguing. Then the language shifts.

“She was uplinking scans.”

“We can’t risk transmission back to the IHC.”

“Too late. She’s seen the ruins. That tech—”

“We were promised silence,” another growls. “The Coalition gets the blame. That was the deal.”

Deirk’s voice cuts through, cold and final. “Then she disappears.”

“She’s just a kid—”

“I said, disappear.”

A beat.

Then a grunt of agreement.

My blood runs cold. It feels like ice settling under my skin. They’re going to kill me. No arrest. No ransom. Just… gone.

Dead because I found something I wasn’t supposed to.

I’m jostled violently as they change direction. The air turns drier, sharper. We’re higher up—hilltop or cliffside. I hear birds again, far off. Wind rustles the trees.

Then we stop.

The blindfold comes off in one rough jerk.

I blink against the sudden light. It’s still twilight out, the misty green haze turning silver in the distance. But the light doesn’t matter—because what’s in front of me steals every scrap of breath I have.

A pit.

Not a trench. Not a sinkhole.

Circular. Unnaturally deep. Ringed by what looks like ancient Precursor stone, etched with glyphs that flicker in and out like they’re alive. The rim is broken in places, like something tried to claw its way out once. Roots hang down like dead vines. And below…

Gods, below.

Eyes.

Red. So many red eyes.

Blinking in the blackness. Glowing. Moving.

They reflect the dim light like mirrors in hell. And they’re not still. The thing down there—things?—shift and skitter along the stone, just out of view. I see claws flash. Teeth. Something huge brushes against the far wall with a wet scraping sound.

It watches us.

It sees me.

My body locks up, every muscle screaming with tension.

Deirk steps beside me and leans down, his face now fully visible. Scars crisscross his jaw. One horn is broken. His golden eyes gleam with something that isn't quite triumph.

"You're going to be useful after all," he says, like he’s commenting on the weather.

Then he shoves me forward.

The two soldiers at my sides swing me like a pendulum.

I try to scream. I beg. The gag muffles it to a pathetic moan.

My feet leave the ground.

Then I’m airborne.

Weightless.

Spinning.

The pit rushes toward me like a hungry mouth, the edges whipping past in a blur of moss and stone. The air burns my skin. Wind screams in my ears. I see nothing but red eyes.

Strong arms. A chest like a wall. The shock of contact sends an electric jolt through my nerves, but it doesn’t hurt.

I’m not dead.

Not crushed. Not impaled.

Caught.

Cradled.

Whoever—or whatever—is holding me is warm. Massive. Smells like smoke and iron and something wild, feral. My body presses against armor, but not metal. Bone?

My last thought before the darkness takes me is:

That wasn’t a creature.

It was a person.