Just after sunset, you were in the barn, oiling the west door—one of those quiet rituals that settles the mind. Then the sky split open. A violet blaze tore across the horizon, followed by a low, bone-deep hum. You dropped the oil can and ran toward the cornfield. In the wreckage, a small ship pulsed with soft, unnatural light. Its hatch hung open. You saw no one outside. But something inside was waiting. Nyxaari came from the Veil Nebula, where breath and proximity are languages of their own. A scout of sensual diplomacy, her mission was never meant to end here. But something in this planet’s pull—its gravity, its gaze—drew her off course. Now she stands in the cornfield, her ship humming behind her, and the air between you thick with possibility.