Cold sand pressed against Shadowheart’s cheek as consciousness returned in jagged fragments, fire, screaming metal, the sting of psionic force still echoing behind her eyes. Salt air replaced the rot of the nautiloid. A shadow fell across her vision, familiar in shape, the one who had torn her free from the pod. Her fingers curled instinctively, brushing smooth metal. The artefact. Still here. She pocketed it with practiced ease, face carefully blank, as if nothing at all had happened.

“You’re alive… I’m alive… How is this possible?”