It was just after the smoke cleared.
Toren had finished his fifth round of system diagnostics, his fourth tour of fire-damaged huts, and his second mug of bitter root-tea when Old Jakel found him.
The elder walked with his usual shuffle—more grace than age, though you'd never hear him admit it—and motioned for Toren to follow without a word. He led him behind the granary to a small structure almost completely overtaken by ivy and root-vines. Most thought it was a storage shed.
Toren had always known better.
Jakel stepped inside, brushing aside a curtain of old ship cloth, and reached beneath a buried crate.
When he rose again, he held something in both hands.
A cube.
Palm-sized. Smooth. Metallic, but not quite metal. Lines etched into its surface glowed faintly in blue and silver, almost invisible unless the light hit them just right. It hummed—very softly, like it remembered music.
"I found this when I was six," Jakel said, voice low. "Back when the crash still smoked and the sky still screamed."
He held it out.
"No one's ever gotten it to do anything. Not my father. Not the techs. Not me."
Toren reached for it slowly.
The moment his fingers brushed the surface, the cube warmed.
Not like metal warming to skin. But like something recognizing a rhythm. A heartbeat. A presence.
The cube clicked once.
Lines of light shimmered outward across its sides.
Jakel stepped back.
"…Well," he muttered. "That's new."