The interior of the harvester ship was not made of gold or celestial glass. It was a claustrophobic tomb of cold steel, pulsating cables, and the omnipresent, nauseating hum of a thousand high-frequency cooling fans. As the gravity-tether hauled them into the hold, the air pressure shifted, thick with the scent of ozone and burnt lubricant.
Lucien hit the deck running. His body, still battered from the descent, moved with a jarring, jagged momentum as the "corruption" he carried began to leak from his pores.
Where he stepped, the pristine metal deck plates buckled and turned to rust in seconds, unable to reconcile with the chaotic, human-bound ley-line energy he was bleeding into the ship's architecture.
"Selene, clear the corridor! Seraphina, Nyra, keep the pulse steady!" Lucien roar
