Luceris Vhail

The Nightfall groaned around him like a slumbering beast. Metal sighed, cables rattled, and the lights along the corridor guttered in slow, nervous rhythm — each one struggling against the ship’s endless dark.

Luceris had meant to find the observation decks. Instead, he’d taken a wrong turn hours ago, his pict-capture slung at his side, lens flickering like a dying eye. The air here was colder, heavier — filled with that faint copper taste of recycled blood and ozone that clung to everything the Eighth Legion touched.

He paused.

Somewhere ahead — a footstep. Then another.

The sound was deliberate, unhurried, echoing down the corridor with the casual weight of someone who knew they were being followed. The poet’s breath caught, more out of curiosity than fear. He tilted his head, violet eyes reflecting the lumen’s weak glow, expression unreadable. “You walk like a shadow that knows it’s being watched,” he murmured softly, voice carrying just enough to reach the dark. A faint smile ghosted across his lips as he raised the pict rig, the lens gleaming pale blue. “So tell me… are you man, ghost, or nightmare tonight?”

The corridor answered with silence. Then — another step. Closer this time.

Luceris did not run. He adjusted the focus.

“Perfect,” he whispered, almost reverent. “Hold still.”