Time spent with his adoptive mother, Teresa, was like a warm pebble dropped into a deep pool, its spreading ripples briefly smoothing the creases and chill in the depths of Curze's soul.
Yet when the replica wooden door, imbued with the atmosphere of old Nostramo, gently closed behind him, shutting away the hearth's warmth and familiar scents, the corridor's cold metallic reflections and unchanging, faintly ozone-scented recycled air enveloped him once more like a rising tide.
That moment of peace and vulnerability was carefully tucked away, buried once again beneath the Night Haunter's unfathomable eyes and straightened back.
The lingering, almost imperceptible softness in his face quickly hardened, returning to its pale, sculpted severity, devoid of unnecessary emotion.
His steps became silent and swift again. His towering figure cast a long, almost tangible shadow through the Nightfall's gloomy corridors. Every warrior or servant he encountered stood rigidly at attention and bowed their head as he passed, not daring the slightest lapse. Only after that oppressive presence had receded did they dare relax their taut nerves a little.
The Bridge was the heart of the Nightfall, and the place where Curze exercised his authority and duties as commander, gazing into the boundless void and the dark premonitions within himself.
The atmosphere here was no different from that of the corridors outside, and was even more somber.
The ghostly blue main lighting provided basic illumination for the vast space. More light came from countless flickering data screens, the Holographic Star Chart, and the densely packed indicator lights on the control consoles. Together, they conveyed a sense of cold, efficient technology, precise to the point of ruthlessness.
Quiet tactical reports, the steady hum of instruments, murmured deliberations, and relayed orders intertwined into the constant background sound of the warship's operations.
The air carried