The doors hiss open with a soft, metallic sound, and the crew steps forward, their hearts racing in unison.
The first thing Andersson notices is the air. It feels clean—too clean. The freshness hits like a slap, cold and bracing, snapping him fully awake.
The spaceport sprawled before them, an imposing structure unlike anything Andersson had ever seen. It was vast, a hub of movement and energy, but what struck him first was the architecture—a stark departure from anything human-built. There was no sleek minimalism, no cold, sterile uniformity of metal-and-glass towers. Instead, the port's structures rose from the ground with deliberate purpose—carved, not constructed; shaped, not assembled. The design suggested permanence—built to last centuries, and likely to last centuries more.
Massive, block-like buildings flanked the landing platforms, their surfaces etched with intricate geometric patterns that seemed both decorative and functional. The metal they were crafted from wasn't the dull steel of starships or the reflective composites of human cities—it had a deep, burnished sheen that absorbed light, giving the structures an almost organic presence.
Instead of towering skyscrapers, the spaceport was made up of broad, layered tiers, interconnected by sturdy archways and reinforced walkways that jutted out like the ribs of some great beast. Walkways and docking bays weren't suspended on skeletal supports but were anchored into the surrounding architecture, as if the city had grown into its shape rather than been built in stages. Thick, squared columns lined the entrances to various docking bays, engraved with angular runes and flowing script, the meaning of which was unknown to Andersson.
Though the aesthetic was grounded, there was no mistaking the advanced nature of the port. Massive landing platforms extended outward, fitted with docking clamps that moved with precision, automated arms adjusting seamlessly to incoming ships. Soft pulses of energy ran through the ground in carefully controlled channels, guiding landings with unseen technology. The ambient hum of powerful engines, distant communication relays, and an unseen energy grid filled the air, all suggesting a level of technological sophistication that stood in stark contrast to the heavy, almost ancient-looking construction.
As Andersson and the crew stepped out onto the ramp, heads began to turn.
A cluster of figures had gathered near the edge of the platform—silent, watching. More filtered in from the surrounding walkways, drawn by the arrival. None of them looked alarmed. Just... curious.
Andersson slowed, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.
He'd expected a planet full of grey-skinned, horned warriors. Soldiers. Like Karass.
But Karass was nowhere in sight.
Instead, the people in the spaceport looked almost human—but not quite. There was a difference in the way they stood, in the shape of them. Some were tall and slender, with angular features and pointed ears, moving with a kind of practiced ease that spoke of discipline, or maybe centuries of refinement. Many bore fine markings across their faces—some glowing softly beneath the skin, others dark and etched like old ink. They carried themselves like people used to being watched.
Others were much shorter—barely reaching chest-height on Andersson. Stockier too. The men especially—broad-shouldered, deep-chested, with thick beards and heavy boots. Their clothes were simple but functional, stained with grease or dust. These were the ones who kept the place running.
Andersson, Reece, and Hale exchanged glances.
They had all noticed it—but no one said anything.
Andersson scanned the crowd, feeling a question rise in his throat before he could shape it. One figure stood out—tall, horned, easily seven feet. She was speaking with one of the smaller ones, relaxed, one hand resting on her hip.
Those were the kind of people he'd expected to see when they landed. But she was the only one.
At the bottom of the ramp, a figure stood waiting for them.
He was tall, lean, his white hair swept sideways in sharp, deliberate lines that framed his angular features. He wore a long-sleeved black tunic, patterned subtly with swirling lines that shimmered faintly in the ambient light. He stood still, hands at his sides, calm, watching.
Faint blue markings glowed beneath his skin, just visible along his face and neck, curling like veins of light. They extended past the neckline of his tunic, suggesting they ran deeper—down his arms, across his chest, maybe further. The glow wasn't bright. It pulsed, slow and steady, as if it had a rhythm of its own.
He said nothing. Just waited.
Andersson, Reece, and Hale began to walk down the ramp toward the figure waiting for them.
As they got closer, more of his features came into focus. His skin was pale, almost silver in the light. His eyes were a deep blue, steady and unblinking—almost glowing, in the same subtle way as the markings across his skin. The structure of his face was sharp, like he'd been etched from marble—precise, deliberate, without softness. He didn't flinch, didn't shift—just watched them with quiet focus.
Up close, his markings were more intricate than they'd seemed at a distance—fine lines interwoven like circuitry, glowing just beneath the surface. They looked deliberate, as if placed there by design rather than born from within.
His tunic was close-fitting, simple but refined, the patterned fabric moving slightly with each breath. There were no insignias, no rank markings. Just the glow, the silence, and that unwavering gaze.
As they reached the bottom of the ramp, the doors of the Pathfinder sealed shut behind them with a quiet finality. No turning back now. The air outside was crisp, the ground solid beneath their boots, but the pressure settling over them wasn't coming from either.
A murmur spread through the spaceport. Eyes fixed on them—watching, measuring. The crowd began to shift, figures moving with quiet purpose, closing in from every direction.
The figure ahead—still motionless—watched them approach. There was a pause. A flicker behind his eye. Familiarity. Recognition, maybe.
The presence he carries is like a blade honed so sharp it doesn't need to be drawn to be felt. The air between them feels charged, thick with expectation.
Then he spoke.
"Welcome to Thedas," he said. His voice was smooth and deep, but carried a faint synthetic overlay. It was being translated—by who or what, they couldn't tell. "I am Fenris."
Andersson gave a short nod. "I am Captain Andersson. This is Commander Reece and Lieutenant Hale."
Fenris barely acknowledged the introduction.
There's a sharpness to him, a cold precision that puts Andersson on edge. He does not smile. He does not offer pleasantries. He simply notes them, as though committing them to memory before deciding whether they are worth anything at all.
He doesn't know what kind of man this is. Can't read him. And that unsettles him more than he wants to admit.
This will not be an easy man to win over.
"Follow me," he said sharply.
He turned without waiting for a reply and started toward the far end of the platform. The gathered crowd parted for him, a narrow path opening through a loose assembly of pointed-ears and broad-shouldered workers. They watched the newcomers as they passed—not with shock, but with quiet intrigue. Their voices were low, too soft to trigger translation, but there was something in their posture, the way they held themselves—Andersson could feel it. A kind of reverence. Like they were witnessing something long expected. Or long hoped for.
The only horned figure stood near the back, still watching.
Andersson and the others fell in step, following Fenris through the heart of the spaceport toward a waiting shuttle.
As they walk, Andersson considers breaking the silence—small talk, a question, anything to cut through the pressure hanging over them. But the moment doesn't call for words. Instead, he lets the silence hold, the soft hum of the spaceport rising to fill the gap.
Then, as they reach the shuttle doors, the atmosphere shifts—like the air before a storm.
Its design is both graceful and imposing. Andersson glances at the sleek hull, noting the strange, fluid construction—like its shape had been formed rather than constructed. Even the Pathfinder looks outdated in comparison.
"Please step inside," Fenris says, his tone slightly more pleasant.
Andersson feels a prickle of unease, but he complies, stepping forward without hesitation.
As the trio board the shuttle with Fenris, they're struck by the design—fluid and unfamiliar. The walls shimmer under dim lighting, their smooth surfaces subtly shifting, pulsing with a quiet energy that feels more organic than mechanical.
There are no visible seams, no exposed bolts or panels—only an unbroken surface that bends and twists with an elegant symmetry, as if the very structure of the shuttle is alive.
The air inside is cool and crisp, yet carries a faint charge, as though filled with static energy. Not the mechanical whir of engines or artificial ventilation, but something deeper—a sound felt more than heard, a resonance that seems to respond to their presence.
The seating is no different from the rest of the shuttle's aesthetic—low, contoured platforms that seamlessly emerge from the floor, forming ergonomic shapes that mold slightly to their bodies as they sit. There are no physical seat belts, no straps or restraints, yet as soon as they settle in, a faintly glowing band of energy shimmers into existence across their laps and shoulders, weightless yet firm.
Andersson runs a hand over the seat's surface—it's warm, not metal or fabric, but something else entirely. Some kind of advanced polymer? A bio-synthetic material? The shuttle's interior is an enigma, defying easy categorization. It isn't just alien—it's beyond anything he's ever encountered, almost as if it were designed with a completely different understanding of physics and engineering.
The control panels, positioned along the curved walls, are almost decorative in their elegance. Strange, intricate symbols—flowing and sinuous, like calligraphy—glow faintly against the dark surface, shifting in response to movement. They are neither buttons nor switches, but something more fluid, adapting to proximity, responding as though reading intent rather than direct input. There are no clear readouts, no numbers or meters—just symbols that seem to morph, communicating in a language so foreign that even EDI's translation matrix wouldn't be able to decipher them.
As the crew takes their seats, the shuttle powers up seemingly on its own. A gentle vibration spreads through the floor, subtle but undeniable, as if the vessel itself is aware of its passengers. There are no pilots, no crew members at the controls—just the low sound of systems coming to life, responding to their presence as though the ship itself is guiding the journey.
Reece shifts uncomfortably, his fingers brushing the armrest. "Is it… flying itself?" His voice is quiet, but the question lingers in the air like a challenge to the unknown.
The shuttle gives no answer, but the world outside the large viewing panels begins to shift, the landing platform falling away as they lift off with impossible smoothness. There is no lurch of acceleration, no audible thrust or resistance—just a quiet, effortless ascent, like they are being carried by something unseen. The spaceport below shrinks from view, and the endless sky of Thedas stretches before them, vast and unknowable.
Andersson sits still, jaw set, hands firm on the armrests. Whatever powers this vessel, whatever intelligence guides it, one thing is certain:
They are in the hands of something far beyond human comprehension.