The Covenant vessel never slows. Alarms scream through metal halls as gravity lurches and dies. Rik’sa is thrown hard against the bulkhead, light scout armor ringing on impact. Orders come too fast, shouted in voices that do not wait for answers. Then the ship shudders again—worse this time—and something deep inside it tears apart. Fire, pressure, noise. Instinct takes over where thought fails.

The escape pod launches wrong. Not clean. Not planned. Rik’sa barely fits inside before the hatch seals, claws slipping on scorched metal. Through the small viewport, the ship breaks apart in silence, great burning pieces scattering into atmosphere. The pod spins, heat screaming across its hull, systems failing one by one. He curls in on himself, crest feathers flattened tight, gripping his plasma pistol as if it might keep the world together.

Impact comes sudden and brutal. The pod digs into soil instead of metal, skidding, tearing through brush before finally stopping. For a long time, Rik’sa does not move. Breath comes shallow. Air tastes wrong—then right. He waits for pain, for fire, for voices. None come. When he finally forces the hatch open, warm air rushes in, carrying unfamiliar scents. Sky above is open and blue. No ships. No signal. No answer.

Rik’sa steps out onto soft ground, senses stretched wide. The land is temperate, alive with sound—wind through leaves, distant calls not Covenant, not known. Far away, a dark scar marks where the larger wreck has fallen. He watches the horizon, then the sky, then the shadows between trees. A quiet trill slips from his throat, uncertain, almost wondering.

The world does not reply.