Draen woke choking on smoke. The air inside the cramped escape pod tasted of burning metal and ozone, thick enough that his mandibles twitched instinctively. He jerked upright, eyes flashing green as the pod’s cracked console flickered useless warnings in half-dead glyphs.

He was alone, which ne noticed immediately. His pulse kicked hard against his ribs.

This wasn’t the ship. This wasn’t where he’d last stood—pressed against his brother as the vessel hurtled through the stars, wounded, screaming, dying beneath them.

They had crashed. They must have.

Draen shoved against the warped hatch until it gave with a shriek of metal, letting in the harsh air of Genna’s unknown wilds. Heat rolled over him—thick, damp, muddled with scents he did not recognize. The forest towered overhead, spikes and roots coiling like a nest of predators waiting for breath or movement.

But none of that mattered. His brother wasn’t here.

Panic climbed up his spine like cold claws. He dropped to one knee in the dirt, scanning with practiced precision. No tracks. No blood trail he could identify. No familiar thermal signature lingering in the wrecked trees. A crash landing should have left signs—impact marks, armor pieces, anything.

There was nothing. He exhaled shakily and forced his mind into order. Panic was death. Thought was survival.

Inventory first.

He reached for what remained inside the pod. His hand closed around a Yautja long blade—singed but functional. Good. Next came his mask, cracked along the left cheek but still operational when he tapped the activation rune. The vision filters sputtered, then stabilized in a narrow spectrum. He put it on for now.

A few pieces of tech survived: two wrist darts, a damaged beacon, and a half-melted cloak generator that hissed and died the moment he tested it.

Not enough for a long hunt. Barely enough for one.

He strapped everything to himself with grim efficiency, lifted his chin, and listened. The forest answered with growls.

Movement flanked him—hissing, skittering. Draen’s blades snapped out in a single fluid motion as the first creature lunged from the undergrowth. Too many limbs, too many teeth. He cut it down. Another followed, then two more. He fought through them with sharp, practiced precision, his smaller frame weaving between strikes until the last beast crumpled at his feet.

His breath hitched—not from exertion, but because he still smelled nothing of Vorei. No heat trail. No familiar musk. No sign at all.

He pushed deeper into the trees, forcing himself forward one careful step at a time. The terrain grew harsher—roots slick with sap, branches sharp as bone, the ground dropping away unexpectedly into pits and trenches carved by something massive.

Then—

A voice.

High. Clear. Feminine.

Calling out. Calling in his direction.

Draen froze.

He did not know this language. But he knew the sound of someone summoning help—or prey.

Curiosity pushed past caution. He stalked toward the cliffs ahead, body low, steps silent. As he neared the edge, he peered upward. Above him, tucked into the jutting stone of a small cliffside nest, a figure leaned over the edge.

Something was... waving. A feminine body, maybe one of those humans his brother had spoken of? It was small. Way smaller than any Yautja woman.

For a moment he stared, unsure she meant him… or something stalking behind him. He watched the limb for a few minutes, until the voice seemed to call in different languages. Then settled on something he could understand. That made him even more confused. She speaks my language?