The lights flickered in the mess hall, casting erratic shadows that danced across the weary faces of the crew. The low hum of the ship's systems provided a constant backdrop, occasionally interrupted by the clink of metal against glass as someone set down a drink.

  For days, the crew had been in a haze, not overtly intoxicated but enveloped in a fog of numbness. Each sip was a silent attempt to drown the unspoken truth looming over them: they were entrenched in a war unlike any they'd anticipated. This conflict was ancient, enigmatic, and carried a weight that none could fully comprehend.

  Nathan rubbed his hand over the stubble on his jaw, a testament to nights without proper sleep. Across from him, Sinclair absently rotated a half-empty glass between his fingers, eyes fixed on an indeterminate point.

  "Been a long time since I’ve seen a crew this burned out," Sinclair murmured, his gaze still distant.

  Nathan glanced at Ortega, who mirrored the same exhaustion etched into every line of his face. The entire crew bore the marks of fatigue, both physical and mental.

  They needed a spark—a reason to push forward.

  Rising from his seat, Nathan stepped onto one of the benches, drawing every eye in the room.

  "Alright," he began, his voice gravelly, slicing through the heavy silence. "That's enough."

  Sinclair raised an eyebrow but remained silent.

  Nathan's eyes met each crew member's in turn, holding their attention.

  "I get it," he said, letting the words settle. "We've been thrust into a situation beyond our understanding. We've fought battles we had no business winning. We've faced losses, brushed against death more times than we can count."

  He paused, allowing the gravity of their experiences to resonate.

  "We've encountered things that make us question the very fabric of our reality."

  The room remained hushed.

  Even Ortega, typically sharp-tongued, listened intently, his exhaustion momentarily overshadowed by curiosity.

  Nathan drew a deep breath.

  "But we're still here. We're not defeated. We're not broken."

  Stepping down, he paced slowly between them.

  "We have the most formidable warship ever built. We have each other. And we have a mission."

  He let the significance of his words sink in.

  "And most importantly," he continued, grabbing an untouched bottle from the table, popping the cap, and taking a deliberate swig, "we're still one hell of a crew."

  For the first time in days, genuine laughter rippled through the mess hall.

  Even Sinclair chuckled dryly, shaking his head.

  Ortega smirked. "That was almost inspiring, Captain."

  Nathan settled back into his seat, exhaling deeply. "Enjoy it tonight. Because tomorrow, we get back to work."

  Tomorrow, they would reengage in the war.

  ANDI’s Return

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  The lingering laughter was abruptly cut short by a familiar voice.

  "Captain."

  Nathan stiffened, setting his drink aside. ANDI.

  They hadn't heard from him in hours.

  "Go ahead."

  "We have a situation."

  Nathan's eyes narrowed. "Define 'situation.'"

  "Kael'Zir is on the move."

  The room's atmosphere shifted to tense silence.

  Nathan straightened. "Destination?"

  A brief pause.

  Then, ANDI's voice returned, slightly distorted.

  "...The island."

  Nathan's stomach tightened.

  Sinclair sat up, his drink forgotten.

  Ortega muttered a curse under his breath.

  Nathan stood. "Open a channel."

  "Attempting to establish connection," ANDI responded promptly.

  Seconds dragged on. Nothing.

  "No response," ANDI finally reported.

  Nathan exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. His mind raced, analyzing possibilities, forming strategies—

  Suddenly, Sinclair was in his face, gripping Nathan's shoulders, eyes sharp and probing.

  "You're onto something, aren't you?" Sinclair's voice was low, intense. "Spill it. Now."

  Nathan met his gaze unflinchingly.

  "Have you ever noticed," Nathan began slowly, "how we never engage actual soldiers?"

  Sinclair's grip loosened, confusion flickering across his features.

  Nathan stepped back, pacing deliberately. His voice remained steady, but an undercurrent of urgency threaded through.

  "It's always machines. Warships. Drones. Leviathans. But never Dorne Phyrax warriors. Never living soldiers."

  A sharp intake of breath echoed from someone in the room.

  Sinclair's face paled.

  He stumbled back, collapsing into the nearest chair.

  His voice was hoarse. "How did we miss that?"

  Silence hung heavy.

  The irregularity of their encounters was glaring in hindsight.

  Nathan's jaw tightened. His voice dropped to a measured, contemplative tone.

  "I'm always observing, delving deeper, David. You taught me that."

  Sinclair let out a breath that was almost a laugh but lacked any humor.

  Nathan turned toward the comms console.

  "ANDI, where is Elisabeth?"

  A pause. Then, ANDI replied, "She indicated she would join us later."

  Nathan's gut twisted.

  Something was amiss.

  His gaze shifted to the screen, where a paused frame displayed the Titan-class Leviathan.

  The room was deathly quiet. Unattended cups of coffee sat cooling. All eyes were fixed on the image.

  Sinclair ran a hand through his graying hair, exhaling as if struck. Ortega leaned back, rubbing his face, while others simply stared.

  It was unmistakable—between the armor plates of the Leviathan lay something biological.

  A living entity beneath the metal.

  Nathan broke the silence.

  "Two scenarios."

  If it's Phyrax...

  "...Why isn't the water lethal to it?"

  They all knew—or believed—they knew: Phyrax couldn't survive in water.

  Yet, this one did.

  Was it an anomaly? A genetic evolution? Or had they been deceived for generations?

  Nathan's fingers drummed against the metal table, his mind racing.

  If Phyrax could endure water... why perpetuate the myth of their vulnerability?

  Perhaps it was never a weakness.

  Maybe it was a constraint.

  A method of control.

  Sinclair, still processing, exhaled sharply. "If that's true... we're looking at a deception spanning millennia."

  If it's not Phyrax, but a native species...

  "...How are they controlling it?"

  Commanding the ocean was a trait unique to the Vey'narii—a gift that had ensured their survival.

  But if the Phyrax had acquired this ability...

  Why not wield it against the Vey'narii directly?

  Why not drown them en masse?

  Unless...

  They were never meant to possess this power.

  Sinclair's voice was barely above a whisper. "What does this imply?" Nathan's gaze was unwavering. "...It means we've been fighting the wrong enemy."