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As the ramp lowers, I see them.

A group of a dozen humans gathers on the rocky beach. They’re carrying hunting rifles, rusted pitchforks, and makeshift spears. Their clothes are weathered, patched together from pre-invasion fabrics, but their faces are healthy. Sun-browned. Alive.

I walk down the ramp, leaving the shadow of the Avaren ship.

A man at the front of the defensive line lowers his hunting rifle. He’s wearing a faded wool sweater despite the Mediterranean heat, his gray hair blowing in the sea breeze. Beside him stands a woman with her silver hair tied back in a messy knot, her hands gripping a wooden walking stick.

My shoes hit the sand.

“Dad,” I breathe out.

The walking stick drops to the rocks with a hollow clatter.

“Margaret.” My mother’s voice cracks.

I close the distance. I don’t run, but my strides eat up the beach until I crash into them. My father’s arms wrap around my shoulders in a crushing grip. My mother buries her face in my neck, her hands clutching the fabric of my jacket. They smell like woodsmoke, salt, and lavender.

The knot in my stomach—the suffocating mass I have carried since the day the sky caught fire—dissolves. I press my face into my father’s shoulder and squeeze my eyes shut, allowing myself a few seconds of absolute, unshielded relief.

When I pull back, I smooth the front of my jacket, dragging the iron back into my spine.

The rest of the locals murmur among themselves, their eyes darting past my shoulder.

I turn. Orien stands at the bottom of the ramp. He retracted his armor before stepping outside, dressed in his dark trousers and shirt. He looks completely alien, towering over the humans, his amber eyes bright in the afternoon sun. Yet he keeps his hands clasped loosely behind his back, projecting an aura of unthreatening calm.

“It’s all right,” I tell the gathered crowd, switching effortlessly to the local dialect I learned during childhood summers in the region. I gesture to the spymaster. “He is an ally. His people are clearing the invaders from the mainland.”

My father stares at Orien, adjusting his spectacles. “He’s a bloody giant, Maggie.”

“He’s Avaren,” I correct, a faint smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.

Orien steps forward. He offers a slow, respectful bow to my parents. “It is an honor to meet the architects of the Commander’s formidable spirit. I am Orien.”

The locals stare, utterly bewildered by the deep, melodic rumble of his native tongue.

“He requires a translator,” I explain.

Orien shakes his head, walking toward the nearest fisherman. He extends his hand, palm up. “A microscopic transfer,” he says to me, trusting me to relay the message. “Language comprehension. I can give it to all of them.”

I translate the offer. The fisherman hesitates, then places his callused hand against Orien’s palm. The transfer takes a fraction of a second.

“Test it,” I instruct Orien.

Orien flashes a warm, easy smile at the fisherman. “Your coastline is magnificent. Avaris has lakes, but nothing quite like this sea.”

The fisherman’s eyes bulge. “I understand him. He sounds like he’s speaking perfect Croatian, but his mouth is moving wrong.”

A ripple of awe sweeps through the small crowd. Orien walks down the line, pressing his palm to each local, sharing the nanites with a gentle patience I have never seen him display in the bunker. He doesn’t rush them. He answers their frantic questions about his ship, his glowing skin, and the war. He charms them flawlessly, not with the predatory edge he uses on me, but with genuine, respectful warmth. Within ten minutes, everyone, including my parents, understands his words.

I watch him from the shade of a pine tree, my mother’s hand resting over my arm. I’m finding it hard to gather my defenses against him right now. He is giving me this moment. He is securing my parents’ community, elevating their survival, and demanding absolutely nothing in return.

By dusk, the rocky beach transforms.

The locals pull wooden tables from nearby houses and taverns, arranging them in the sand near the water’s edge. Fire pits are stoked. The smell of roasting garlic, grilled sea bass, and charred vegetables replaces the sterile, recycled oxygen of my underground life. Someone produces three unmarked bottles of local wine.

It is a feast built on resilience. A pocket of humanity that refused to die.

Orien sits near the head of the table, flanked by my father and the harbormaster. His massive frame makes the wooden chair look comical, but he navigates the cramped space with effortless grace. He eats the grilled fish, praises the cook with elaborate Avaren poetry that makes the village women giggle, and listens intently as the men explain their fishing routes.