The corridor outside the Marine deck carried a different rhythm than the rest of the ship.

Heavier.

More deliberate.

Bootsteps echoed with purpose. Voices were lower, sharper. The air itself seemed tighter—disciplined.

Into that space—

Nytha’rae walked.

Barefoot.

The contrast was immediate.

Her steps made no sound against the deck, her weight distributed with quiet precision, as if she were walking across living ground rather than reinforced starship plating. Her Starfleet uniform—blue and black—sat correctly on her frame, but still looked… slightly foreign on her, like structure placed over something that preferred to move freely.

Her tail moved slowly behind her, a controlled sway, adjusting balance as she navigated the corridor.

On her shoulder, Nytha’kae rode comfortably, wings folded, his glow dim but steady. His head turned constantly, observing everything—the Marines, the movement, the energy of the place.

As they walked, Nytha’rae lifted her PADD.

She paused.

Then sent a message.

LT.JG Nytha’rae