Page 14 of The Alien in the Archive

I stumble back, my heart slamming against my ribs. Thesound of stone grinding against stone echoes through the corridor, impossibly loud in the stillness.

For a moment, I’m frozen, staring at the opening as a faint draft wafts out. It’s colder here, and that delicious scent is stronger now, filling my lungs. I force myself to step closer, the glow lamp hovering at my side casting warm light into the space beyond.

Whatever I was expecting to happen…it sure as hell wasn’t this. This is some cloak and dagger shit, not alien technology. I peer into the darkness, finding…

A living room?

The alcove isn’t like anything I’ve seen in the Obscuary; it’s personal, lived-in. A tattered velvet armchair sits in the center, surrounded by piles of books. Tapestries hang from the stone walls, their intricate designs faded but still vibrant in the steady light from the glow lamp. A wooden desk, scarred and warped with age, is covered in open volumes and scattered notes.

I step inside, my footsteps echoing too loudly against the stone floor. The alcove feels…different. Warmer, despite the chill in the air. It’s not just a hidden space—it’s a sanctuary, carved out of the Archive’s vast emptiness.

And then I see the fox.

Or…fox thing.

A creature resembling a fennec fox is curled up near the base of the armchair, watching me with wide, intelligent amber eyes. It’s no larger than a house cat, with soft, creamy white fur and glowing antennae. It doesn’t look away from me, staring me down.

“Uh…hi,” I mutter. “Is this your place?”

It blinks slowly.

The pulse in my chest grows stronger, more insistent. My eyes dart around the space, taking in every detail. The stolenfurniture, the misplaced books, the faint scent of something sharp and cold in the air.

This isn’t a fox’s den; this is wherehelives.

The hungry man.

Despite that—because I amnota smart girl, and because my curiosity has a tendency to get the better of me—I step further into the room, my fingers brushing the edge of the desk. The wood is rough under my touch, its surface littered with handwritten notes in a language I don’t recognize—which is saying something, given how overloaded my translator is. The handwriting is sharp, jagged, as though every word hurt to write.

My breath catches in my throat, the weight of the pain here almost unbearable.

“What are you doing here?”

The voice comes from the shadows, low and smooth and sultry, and it sends a shiver racing down my spine. I turn sharply, my eyes scanning the darkness. At first, I see nothing.

Then, slowly…a figure steps forward. The man from the shadows, that same silhouette, with shaggy hair and a lean, muscular frame.

He’s real.

I think this is the first time I’ve actuallyheardhis voice.

He’s tall—not as tall as the Skoll, but well over six feet. His hair is bone white and falls to his shoulders, framing a face that’s sharp and angular, like it’s been carved from ice. But it’s his eyes that stop me cold.

They’re…black. Not just dark, butabsent, like twin voids that absorb the light around them.

I can feel their weight as they lock onto mine, pinning me in place…and then I see the vague silver irises swimming in those pools of black.

Oh my God.

He’s Borean.

My thoughts race, cataloguing everything I’ve learned about the species that invaded Earth, enslaved the Skoll for millennia, destroyed the Nyeri’i homeworld. I thought they’d died out, all killed by the Pact. Fuck…they were the whole reason the Pact was created; a species so evil that every other species in the galaxy had to band together to stop them.

I’m looking at a piece of living history—ahorrificpiece, but historic all the same.

He doesn’t move closer, but his presence presses against me, ancient and predatory andwrong. I’ve met every species in the Pact since I arrived on M’mir…and here he is. Entirely alien.

And yet…there’s something familiar about him.

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