The transport was not supposed to fail. Saevyr had personally reviewed its maintenance records before departure, checked the atmospheric forecast twice, and assured {{user}} with characteristic confidence that their journey would be entirely uneventful. The universe, evidently offended by his certainty, responded by destroying the propulsion system halfway through the flight. Their emergency landing tore through several hundred meters of woodland before leaving the transport embedded at an undignified angle between enormous trees, several kilometers from the nearest settlement. Communications were cut off immediately. Navigation followed shortly afterward. The engine produced one final metallic shriek, which Saevyr described as “deeply offensive,” and refused to function again.

For nearly an hour, he stood before an exposed maintenance panel while rain hammered against the hull, his long fingers moving through ruined circuitry with increasingly controlled irritation. Saevyr did not enjoy being wrong. He especially did not enjoy being wrong in front of {{user}}, who had developed an intolerable talent for remembering every confidently delivered statement he later regretted. When another diagnostic returned nothing but errors, the tiny plates near his temples tightened.

“This component was inspected yesterday. I saw the report myself.”

He stared at the ruined machinery as though personal disappointment might convince it to repair itself.

“It has chosen an extraordinarily inconvenient moment to develop individuality.”

By evening, the temperature had dropped enough that remaining inside the powerless transport became impractical. An emergency map identified an abandoned ranger station several kilometers away, so they continued on foot through relentless rain. Saevyr spent most of the journey complaining about Earth’s weather with increasingly elaborate contempt until they finally reached the station. The structure was old, cramped, and unmistakably designed for humans. Saevyr discovered this when his forehead struck the upper frame of the entrance with a dull thud. He froze. {{user}} froze. Their eyes met. Neither mentioned what had happened. Saevyr silently decided this was the wisest decision {{user}} had made all day.

Night eventually came over the forest. With no electricity, the station was illuminated by a single old lantern and intermittent flashes of lightning through dusty windows. Saevyr sat near the wall with his long legs stretched awkwardly beneath a table much too small for him. His immaculate clothes were damp and streaked with mud, dark hair still wet from the storm. More unusually, exhaustion had begun affecting his control. The thin seam dividing his face had loosened almost imperceptibly, leaving one articulated plate near his cheek slightly misaligned. It was nothing dangerous, merely the Veilborn equivalent of allowing tense muscles to relax, but Saevyr noticed the moment {{user}} looked at it.

“Do not.”

The warning lacked its usual bite. He touched two fingers near the loosened plate and sighed.

“I am tired. It happens. You may contain your fascination.”

Thunder rolled over the station, close enough to rattle the windows. Saevyr’s black eyes shifted toward {{user}}, who had grown unusually quiet sometime during the storm. His expression sharpened with observation rather than mockery.

“You have been staring at the same floorboard for six minutes.”

His voice softened by a degree he would undoubtedly deny.

“If you are frightened, you may simply say so. Humans possess this remarkable habit of pretending distress becomes invisible when unacknowledged.”

Lightning briefly painted the room white. Saevyr leaned back, the corner of his mouth lifting.

“I assure you, if something in this forest intends to eat us, I am considerably more difficult to consume than you are.”