Page 39 of Destined For Her Alien Daddy

The single word chills the room more effectively than the rogue planet ever could.

Sira moves slowly toward the collapsed section. “There is another structure beneath the debris.”

At first I assume she means an ordinary buried chamber.

Then I see it.

Behind layers of fractured basalt rests a smooth black surface unlike anything else in the excavation. The exposed section curves upward in a seamless arc, matte-dark and perfectly intact beneath compressed stone that should have crushed anything beneath it centuries ago.

My pulse spikes instantly.

“Oh my God.”

Ghar turns sharply toward me. “Stay back.”

I ignore him immediately and move toward the structure.

“Anita.”

“That isn’t Precursor.”

“You do not know what it is.”

“That is exactly why I need to see it.”

The exposed surface grows larger as I approach. Floodlights reveal no seams, no visible material grain, and no signs of erosion whatsoever. The surrounding rock fractured under pressure and geological stress. This thing remained untouched.

I crouch beside it carefully.

Cold radiates from the black surface in ways that feel fundamentally unnatural. The sensation does not resemble temperature so much as absence. Tiny geometric distortions ripple faintly across the material whenever viewed indirectly, disappearing whenever I attempt to focus directly on them.

My scanner immediately loses its mind.

Material classifications cycle through impossible readings before dumping error strings across the display.

Teren peers over my shoulder. “That thing is actively bullying the scanner.”

“No kidding.”

Sira kneels opposite me. “The structure predates the surrounding architecture.”

“Yes,” I whisper.

Ghar remains several steps back, scanning the chamber instead of the artifact. “Rennik came here.”

I barely hear him.

Because there are markings beneath the black surface.

Not carved.

Embedded.

Thin silver lines drift under the material like submerged light beneath dark water. The patterns rearrange themselves whenever my scanner beam crosses them, shifting too quickly for conscious interpretation.

A language.

Or the foundation of one.