The Pathfinder glided ever closer to Thedas, the planet now dominating the viewscreen. Swirling blue-green oceans shimmered beneath sweeping cloud formations, and vast landmasses sprawled beneath like living continents. Even from orbit, the planet buzzed with life—its cities casting faint lattices of light beneath the haze.

Silence reigned on the bridge, thick with tension. No one spoke. No one had to.

Andersson stood at the forward viewport, arms folded, jaw set. This was it. They were about to make landfall on an alien world—a world of impossible technology, silent skies, and beings who claimed their arrival had been foretold. A world of giant, horned aliens. Of power. Of purpose. And now… them.

Without a sound, the red energy tether linking them to Karass's ship began to dissipate, unraveling like smoke in a vacuum. The sudden loss of that stabilizing force sent a shiver through the Pathfinder's hull.

The shift was immediate.

The ship, no longer buoyed by the alien corridor, groaned under its own weight. Warning lights blinked along the status panels. The inertial dampeners stuttered. The engines hummed with uneven strain—like a tired body remembering pain.

EDI's voice chimed in over the speaker. "We are no longer being guided by external force. Navigational control has returned to normal parameters. Structural stress levels are increasing. I advise caution."

Reece checked his readings. "Captain, I'm receiving coordinates from Karass's ship," he said, his voice steady, though not without tension.

A pause. Then EDI again, her voice as calm as ever: "Coordinates confirmed. The designated landing site is located on the smaller island continent."

Andersson turned from the viewport and approached the central holodisplay as the scans came online. The region was densely built—high-rise structures, precise grid patterns, and what appeared to be terraced platforms layered into the terrain.

But there was something else.

The scans returned anomalies. Shadows where there should be movement. Patterns that didn't quite fit the topography.

Something felt… off.

EDI's voice followed a second later, calm and precise. "I have confirmed the coordinates. The landing site is located on the smaller island continent. The infrastructure appears optimized for space travel—runways, support architecture, power routing—but there are no signs of active use."

Andersson frowned but said nothing.

Andersson kept his eyes on the shrinking distance between them and the surface. "Are we in any shape to make a landing?"

Reece didn't answer immediately. He was already running a systems check, his fingers tapping out a rapid sequence across the console. "Flight control's twitchy but serviceable. Starboard stabilizers are sluggish, and we've got minor pressure variances in the port-side struts. I can put her down…"

He hesitated, then added, "But I wouldn't bet on getting her back up again. Not in her current state."

Andersson's jaw tightened. "How bad?"

"Landing's doable. Take-off would be a different conversation. With the damage to the drive core and internal compensators? We're not flying off-world without some serious repairs."

EDI's voice filled the silence, calm and factual. "If we initiate a controlled descent and maintain an entry angle under seventeen degrees, the probability of safe landing remains high—approximately eighty-six percent. Risk factors increase significantly if atmospheric turbulence is encountered or if power fluctuations continue at their current rate."

"Excellent," Reece muttered. "Eighty-six percent. Love those odds."

Hale looked between them, brow furrowed. "Are we sure we want to be doing this?"

Andersson turned toward her, steady and unblinking. "We don't have a lot of options, Lieutenant."

He motioned toward the viewscreen, where the alien world now filled most of the forward display. "They brought us here. They've set the coordinates. If we refuse to land, they could drag us down anyway—or worse."

Another ping echoed through the bridge.

Reece checked the console. "Signal from the surface. We've been cleared for approach."

Andersson took a breath, steady but heavy. "Then let's take her in."

Reece adjusted the trajectory. The Pathfinder's engines flared, and the deck vibrated as they angled into descent. The stars overhead gave way to haze.

The Pathfinder shuddered hard as it hit the upper atmosphere.

The hull groaned.

Warning lights flared amber across Reece's display.

Andersson gripped the side rail near Hale's station, jaw clenched. "Talk to me."

"We're pushing it," Reece replied, calm but focused. "If we don't hit turbulence, we're golden. If we do—"

"We'll make it," Andersson said, cutting him off. No room for doubt. Not now.

The turbulence arrived in the next breath—jagged pockets of pressure shaking the Pathfinder like a kicked can. The lights flickered. Hull plating flexed under the stress. Reece's hands stayed locked to the controls, riding each drop with calculated precision.

Then, the pressure evened out.

Below them, Thedas stretched wide and endless. Oceans shimmered with a surreal, blue-green glow beneath a layered sky of pale gold and deep indigo. Mountain ranges clawed toward the horizon, vast plains unfurled in perfect symmetry, and sprawling cities glittered through the haze like constellations pinned to the surface.

It looked untouched. Alive. As if the planet itself was waiting.

"Damn," Hale breathed. "It's… beautiful."

Andersson said nothing at first. He just stared, the scale of it all pressing in like gravity.

They were landing on an alien world. A living, breathing civilization. A mystery older than anything Earth had ever dreamed of.

Reece adjusted their glide path, eyes still locked on the controls. "Yeah," he said quietly. "But is it safe?"

The smaller continent stretches beneath them as the Pathfinder descends, revealing a breathtaking landscape that seems almost untouched despite the unmistakable sprawl of civilization. It's an island continent, dominated by a vast central landmass with a smaller northern island separated by a gleaming inland sea.

As they breach the upper atmosphere, the world opens before them. The larger island unfurls like a living map—vast golden plains and emerald swaths of farmland ripple toward the horizon, broken only by winding rivers that shimmer under the twin suns. The sky is a deep, crystalline blue, so clear it feels impossibly vast, painted in layered gradients where the light of both stars diffuses across the smattering of clouds.

The land below pulses with life, but not chaos. Cities and settlements are woven into the terrain, structured to complement the environment rather than conquer it. From above, nothing feels imposed—it feels invited.

A colossal, snow-capped range wraps around the heart of the continent like a crown—jagged, towering peaks that dwarf the tallest towers nestled beneath them. The city they're approaching sprawls along the northern coastline, pressed between the cliffs and the sea, a gateway between worlds. It doesn't need a sign. Andersson knows. This is the capital.

As they close in, the city reveals itself in layered detail—and Andersson stares in silence, the sheer scale of it stealing whatever words he might have had.

Monolithic structures rise from the earth, tiered and interconnected, as if carved from the stone itself. The architecture is a breathtaking fusion of the old and the unimaginable—towering spires of dark metal and stone etched with flowing geometric lines that pulse faintly with light. They glow softly beneath the twin sunlight, like veins of power drawn from the land. Skybridges arch between towers like branches spun from glass.

But this place is not cold. It does not hum with the sterile detachment of a machine.

Massive trees stretch upward from the city's foundation—integrated into the skyline, into the walkways, into the heart of everything. Their trunks are wider than starship hangars, their branches thick with hanging gardens, shaded platforms, and elevated paths that disappear into the canopies. These aren't decorations. They're part of the architecture. Maybe even part of the power grid. The whole city breathes in tandem with them.

And beneath all of that—there is more.

The lower levels come into view as the ship banks slightly, revealing a glowing underworld carved into the bedrock. A second city, hidden in plain sight. Subterranean passageways glitter with soft light—some artificial, others bioluminescent—woven into vast underground complexes. Transport systems thread through open chambers. Residential zones bloom in luminous tiers, alive with the pulse of activity. This isn't just where people live—it's where culture, history, and survival intertwine.

Andersson's gaze remained fixed on the landscape ahead, now rising to meet them. The city swelled beneath the ship, its layered skyline and sweeping natural contours growing sharper with every second. His mind churned with questions—How will they be received? What kind of world were they stepping into? Would this be diplomacy… or survival?

But for now, he could only trust the crew. And hope the Pathfinder would survive the last leg of the journey.

The spaceport came into view—vast and angular, carved into the edge of the city like it had always been there. A circular landing zone stretched out beneath them, lined with multiple platforms arranged like petals around a central tower. Every pad was empty. Silent. Waiting.

Surrounding the structure, squat, solid buildings clung to the stone—low and wide, made of blackened alloy and volcanic rock, reinforced with rib-like buttresses and geometric archways. They looked ancient, but not abandoned—functional, armored, and enduring. Built not to shine but to last.

Reece leaned into his console, voice calm but clipped. "Leveling descent. Aligning trajectory with the central pad." He paused, then added with a sideways glance, "You might want to hold onto something, Captain. I can't guarantee a smooth landing."

The Pathfinder groaned in protest as its angle shifted. The inertial dampeners sputtered under the strain—compensating, but not comfortably. Loose panels in the bridge ceiling rattled. Somewhere below decks, something hissed.

Andersson gripped the edge of Hale's console, knuckles whitening.

Outside, the landing pad loomed—closer now, details sharpening. Faint lights rimmed the platform's edge, blinking in slow, deliberate rhythm. Below, the city sprawled around them, waiting like a stage prepared for the final act.

With a deep mechanical whirrrk, the landing struts began to lower. They did not sound enthusiastic about it.

"Come on, girl," Reece muttered under his breath. "Just one more."

The final descent was jerky, uneven. Reece made adjustments, but the ship no longer had grace to offer—only weight and willpower. The struts made contact with a bone-deep thud, the kind of sound that vibrated through the hull and into the chest.

They were down.

The Pathfinder creaked as it settled onto the platform, hydraulics exhaling in a tired wheeze. Lights flickered, then steadied.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

They had landed. But nothing about it felt like a finish line.

Reece shifted uneasily in his chair, rolling his shoulders with a grunt. "Anyone else feel like they want to puke?"

"Yep," Hale replied without hesitation, blowing out a sharp breath.

"Pretty much," Andersson muttered, running both palms down the front of his uniform. They came away damp with sweat and grit. He resisted the urge to sigh.

He glanced at the ship's chronometer.

Thirty-seven hours. That's how long it had been since they left Earth—since they launched into the unknown, crossed galaxies, met an alien commander, and touched down on a world no human had ever seen. Thirty-seven hours. It felt like years.

Behind him, Hale and Reece rose from their stations, stretching out stiffness with the grim resignation of people who knew they'd been through it.

"How are we looking?" Andersson asked, voice low.

"Like crap," Hale answered flatly.

Andersson turned. She wasn't wrong.

They all looked like hell—wrinkled uniforms, bloodshot eyes, hair matted to sweat-damp skin. Fatigue hung on them like armor plates. Reece's collar was half undone and Hale had a streak of grease or maybe dried blood smudged along her temple.

"Can't imagine we smell great either," Reece added, sniffing at his sleeve and making a face.

Hale glanced toward the airlock. "Maybe they'll let us shower before they eat us."

Andersson shot her a look. "Hale…"

"What? That guy looks like he could eat us."

Before he could respond, EDI's voice cut through the overhead speakers, crisp and definitive. "Captain, the atmosphere is safe for humans. I am equalizing the interior pressure with the external atmosphere. You are clear to disembark."

Andersson exhaled slowly, the knot in his stomach tightening—not from fear, exactly, but from the sheer enormity of it all. Still, beneath it, a strange calm was settling in. This was what they'd come for. The unknown. The edge.

He looked to his crew.

Reece was already gathering his bearings, boots braced like he expected a firefight the moment the ramp dropped. Hale stood by the airlock controls, her expression unreadable but her posture straight. Neither of them flinched.

Reece leaned toward him, voice lowered. "Should we suit up? Bring weapons?" The tone was serious—careful, like every time he'd called an audible in the field. "We don't know what we're walking into."

Andersson hesitated. Training wanted him armed. Instinct wanted him armored. But reason…

"There are fifteen billion people on this planet, Reece," he said, locking eyes with him. "If they wanted us dead, we wouldn't have made it to the landing pad. Us showing up in combat gear would only make it worse."

Reece gave a slow nod, then rolled his neck with a resigned grunt. "Fair."

"I'm with you, Captain," Hale said from the airlock, her hand poised above the release. "Let's not make our first impression with a rifle."

Andersson nodded.

"Then let's not keep them waiting."

Andersson stepped up to the panel by the airlock, his hand hovering for just a moment above the controls.

One last breath.

Not to steady himself, but to mark the moment. A breath between worlds.

Whatever was waiting for them on the other side of this door—whatever kind of people, politics, or power structures—they were about to walk straight into it.

Their world was about to change. Forever.

As he pressed the panel the airlock cycled with a deep hiss. Locks disengaged with a series of heavy clunks that echoed through the corridor like the toll of a bell.

Andersson squared his shoulders, eyes fixed ahead.

The door slowly began to open.