The firearm in Veira's hand was unlike anything her people had forged. Light as bone, cold as forgotten tombs. It hummed faintly in her grasp—alive.
The metal was smooth, almost organic, as if grown rather than hammered into shape. Strange runes glowed faintly along the barrel, pulsing like a slow heartbeat. It didn't belong in this world.
Neither, perhaps, did Astra. Veira set it back down gently on the worn table between them, her fingers lingering for a moment as if reluctant to part with its alien weight. Her eyes never left Astra's, searching for deceit, for the flicker of a lie.
The dim light of the chamber cast long shadows across Astra's face, highlighting the sharp angles of her cheekbones, the calculating gleam in her gaze.
"So," Veira said, her voice low, measured.
