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UFO & Alien News, Garhwa (2025)

25/09/2025

The wrong Boarding
(Episode 6)
------------

The desert had a way of testing everyone who dared to cross it. Aron soon discovered that the near-disaster in Droska had not ended his troubles.

After the caravan left the city, unease rippled through the nomads. Some whispered that Jorak’s blood oath had been reckless. Others muttered that Aron was cursed—that the stranger would bring ruin upon them. Aron could feel their eyes on him as he moved about the camp, heavy with suspicion.

On the third night after leaving Droska, Jorak summoned him to the fire. The leader’s face, always carved with lines of stern authority, seemed more severe than usual.

“You must prove yourself,” Jorak said simply.

Aron’s translator hummed. “Prove?”

“Yes. My clan cannot carry you as a burden. If you walk with us, you must be of use.”

Aron nodded slowly. His scholar’s mind was untrained in their ways—he had no weapon, no survival skills. Yet if he failed, they would cast him aside into the desert. That was a death sentence.

“What… must I do?” he asked.

Jorak’s answer came like a hammer. “Trial of the Sands.”

The words drew murmurs from those gathered. Aron caught their meaning from fragments: a test of endurance, courage, and loyalty. Few outsiders had ever been allowed such a chance. Fewer still had survived.

---

At dawn, they led him to a ring of stones outside the camp. The horizon burned crimson, the air dry as powdered bone. Jorak stood with the elders while the younger nomads gathered to watch.

“The trial has three tasks,” Jorak announced. “Pass them, and you may walk as one of us. Fail…” His pause carried more weight than the desert itself. “…and the sands will decide your fate.”

Aron swallowed hard. His hearts—two small organs within his chest—thudded unevenly.

The first task began.

Task One: The Beast

A creature was brought forth from a cage—a dune-lurker, the nomads called it. It resembled a reptile but larger, with a ridge of jagged spines and eyes like pools of molten gold. Its maw could have swallowed Aron whole.

The challenge was simple: tether the beast without being torn apart.

Aron’s instinct screamed at him to run. But then he recalled his studies of life forms back on Zyphora. Many predators responded not to strength, but to posture, sound, and rhythm.

When the beast lunged, Aron did not dodge. Instead, he crouched low, making himself small, emitting a low hum from his throat. His species had resonance organs humans did not, and the sound vibrated in the air, unsettling the creature.

The dune-lurker slowed, its aggression faltering in confusion. Step by step, Aron edged closer, sliding the tether loop over its horned head. The crowd gasped as he secured it.

Jorak’s stern face betrayed the slightest flicker of approval.

---

Task Two: The Flame

The second task required him to make fire using only the desert’s gifts. The nomads handed him a shard of crystal and a bundle of dry brush.

Aron stared at them, panic rising. On Zyphora, fire was rare, almost ceremonial. He had never learned to coax flame from stone. Around him, the nomads murmured doubtfully.

Closing his eyes, Aron forced himself to think scientifically. Friction, spark, oxygen. He adjusted the angle of the crystal, striking it against a rock again and again until tiny sparks leapt. Still, the brush smoldered weakly, refusing to catch.

Sweat ran down his face. He blew gently, remembering how human explorers once nurtured flame in their primitive histories. Slowly—agonizingly slowly—the ember grew, then blossomed into a fragile flame.

When the fire crackled to life, the younger nomads cheered. The elders nodded, murmuring that perhaps the stranger had learned respect for the sands.

---

Task Three: The Crossing

The final task was the cruelest. Aron was led to a dune ridge at midday, the sun glaring mercilessly above. He was told to cross the span of the Burning Hollow—a stretch of shifting sand where heat rose in waves strong enough to disorient even the seasoned. He had to reach the marked stone at the far side before sundown.

Alone, he stepped onto the hollow. The sand burned his feet even through the thin leather wraps they had given him. Each step sank deep, dragging him back. His throat dried, his skin stung. He stumbled, fell, rose again.

Memories of Zyphora surfaced—of green skies, cool rivers, the laughter of colleagues in bright halls. He wondered if he would ever see them again.

But then another memory came: Jorak cutting his palm in Droska, swearing on blood to protect him. Aron could not let that sacrifice be in vain.

He forced his legs forward, one agonizing step after another. The horizon shimmered, teasing him with illusions of water. Hours blurred. His vision narrowed to the stone marker ahead, glowing faintly in the last light of day.

At last, with his final strength, Aron collapsed against it. The stone’s surface was cool. He clung to it like salvation as darkness fell.

---

When he staggered back into camp that night, supported by two nomads, silence fell. Jorak rose, studying him with unflinching eyes.

“You have faced the sands,” Jorak declared. “You have faced fear, fire, and death. And you have endured.”

A roar of approval erupted from the clan. For the first time, Aron was not merely an outsider. He was accepted—tentatively, conditionally, but truly—among them.

That night, as the fires burned bright, Aron sat among his new companions. They pressed food into his hands, clapped him on the back, and spoke his name without suspicion.

He had won their respect. But as he lay down to rest, sore and blistered, he knew the trial had revealed something deeper: survival on this planet would demand more than research notes and curiosity.

It would demand courage—and perhaps sacrifices he had yet to imagine.

---

25/09/2025

The wrong Boarding
(Episode 5)
-----------
The nomads traveled for many days, moving between dunes that seemed endless and mountains that shimmered in the heat. Aron grew stronger with each passing day. At first, his alien body struggled with the harsh air and scorching suns, but gradually he adjusted. His translator implant, too, began to adapt more fluently to the Cinsetian tongue. He was no longer a mute shadow in the caravan—he could ask for water, thank the cooks, even trade simple jokes with the children.

Yet one word appeared often in their conversations, always spoken in lowered tones: “Droska.”

When Aron asked, Jorak finally explained. Droska was the nearest city—a marketplace carved into the ruins of an ancient stone canyon. Nomads entered rarely, for the city was a den of thieves, smugglers, and officials who demanded heavy tribute. But now, after weeks of journeying, the caravan needed supplies—grain, healing herbs, spare crystal flints for their fires.

“Stay close,” Jorak warned Aron. “Outsiders disappear in Droska.”

The caravan arrived at dusk. From the ridge above, Aron saw the market spread out below like a living wound in the desert. Hundreds of tents, stalls, and stone chambers glowed with torchlight. Strange beasts snarled at posts. The air rang with the clash of haggling voices, the crack of whips, the shriek of music from instruments Aron could not name.

As they descended, a wall of smells hit him—spices, roasted meats, sweat, smoke, and something metallic, like blood.

The nomads tethered their beasts and entered cautiously. Jorak assigned guards, warning the younger ones to stay near. Aron, despite his curiosity, obeyed. He walked close to the caravan’s flank, wide-eyed at every sight.

In one stall, glass spheres floated mid-air, glowing faintly, said to be fragments of fallen stars. In another, a merchant displayed creatures in cages—scaled, feathered, and some with too many eyes. Children darted through the crowd with nimble fingers, cutting purses. Guards in black armor patrolled with long staffs tipped with humming blades.

Then it happened.

A wealthy trader, wrapped in silk and jewels, spotted Aron. The man’s eyes narrowed, and he barked something sharp in the local dialect. His guards rushed forward. Before Aron could react, one grabbed his arm roughly.

The translator crackled: “Runaway servant. Seize him!”

Aron froze. “No, I’m not—”

But his protests meant nothing. His pale features, unlike the sun-baked faces around him, marked him as different. The trader seemed convinced Aron had fled from his household.

The guards dragged him through the crowd, ignoring his struggles. The nomads shouted in protest, but the city’s law outweighed their words. Aron’s heart pounded—this mistake could cost him his life.

The guards hauled him toward a stone hall at the canyon’s edge. Inside, a magistrate sat on a raised dais, his robes heavy with silver thread. He peered at Aron with cold eyes.

“Name?”

“Aron,” he stammered.

“Clan?”

“I have none—”

The magistrate’s lips curled. “No clan, no mark, no proof. Then the claim stands. You are property.”

The trader smirked, stepping forward. “He fled my estate weeks ago. Look at his skin, his ignorance—it is plain.”

Aron’s stomach sank. He had no papers, no records, no evidence of his origin. To these people, he was defenseless.

But then, a voice rang out.

“Lies.”

It was Jorak. The nomad leader strode into the hall, cloak sweeping the sand behind him. His eyes burned with defiance.

“This man travels under my protection,” Jorak declared. “He is no slave. He is a guest of the sands.”

The magistrate raised an eyebrow. “And do you swear it on your blood?”

The room fell silent. Aron felt the tension thicken. Swearing on blood was no small matter—it bound a nomad’s honor to the oath. Breaking it meant exile or death.

Jorak did not flinch. He drew a small blade, cut his palm, and let a drop of blood fall onto the stone floor. “I swear.”

The magistrate considered, then waved a hand. “So be it. Take him. But should he prove false, your oath will condemn you.”

The trader cursed, but could not challenge the ruling. The guards released Aron reluctantly. He stumbled into Jorak’s shadow, shaken but free.

As they left the hall, Aron whispered, “You risked your life… for me.”

Jorak’s voice was low. “You walk with us. That makes you one of us. Remember that, Aron.”

The caravan wasted no time. They gathered their supplies and left Droska under cover of night, wary of vengeful eyes. Aron rode in silence, the desert wind cool against his face. His heart still raced from the near disaster, but beneath the fear stirred something new—gratitude, and a fragile sense of belonging.

For the first time since being stranded, he felt not entirely alone.

But the words of the magistrate echoed in his mind: No clan, no proof. You are property.

Aron knew he had narrowly escaped. Next time, he might not be so fortunate.

And somewhere in the depths of Droska, unseen figures whispered about the pale stranger who had defied a master’s claim. Rumors spread quickly in Cinsetia, and not all who heard them would be friendly.

---

24/09/2025

The Wrong Boarding
(Episode 4)
---------------------------
When Aron regained consciousness, the first thing he noticed was motion. His body swayed gently, rising and falling in rhythm. For a moment he thought he was floating, caught in some dream. Then the sounds reached him: the steady snort of a beast, the jingling of metal rings, the crunch of sand beneath heavy feet.

He opened his eyes. Above him stretched a sky of molten orange, scattered with thin clouds. His body lay draped over a saddle-like contraption strapped to the back of a massive creature. The beast had six thick legs and scales that shimmered faintly in the sunlight. Its head rose high, adorned with curling horns wrapped in colored cloth.

They moved like part of the desert itself—cloaked in layers of fabric, faces hidden behind veils. Only their eyes showed, sharp and watchful. Each carried a weapon of some kind—curved blades, spears tipped with crystals, bows strung with glowing cords. The air was filled with the scent of spices, leather, and sweat.

Aron’s throat was raw, his lips cracked, but he managed a whisper. “Where… where are you taking me?”

The leader turned in his saddle. His weathered face was still visible beneath a loose hood, his gaze steady. He said something in the harsh Cinsetian tongue. Aron’s translator implant sputtered, crackled, then rendered the words in his mind:

“Camp.”

Aron swallowed. “Safe…?”

The leader did not answer. He turned away, focusing again on the horizon.

The caravan pressed forward until the sun bled into the dunes and night swept across the desert. When they finally stopped, the nomads moved with practiced efficiency. Beasts were tethered. Fires were kindled using crystalline stones that sparked blue flame. Tents rose quickly, their frames lightweight but sturdy, cloth embroidered with swirling sigils that glowed faintly in the dark.

Aron was lowered from the beast, his legs weak, almost refusing to hold him. A pair of younger nomads guided him toward the fire. They pressed a bowl into his hands—thick stew that smelled strange but inviting. Aron hesitated only a moment before eating. The taste was earthy, rich, with a sharp tang that burned his throat but revived his strength.

The leader sat across the fire, watching. After a long silence, he spoke. “Name?”

Aron blinked. His name, in Zyphoran, carried sounds not easily reproduced in other tongues. But he tried. “Aron.”

The leader repeated it awkwardly, then nodded. “Aron.”

He pointed to himself. “Jorak.”

Aron bowed his head slightly. “Jorak.”

The exchange seemed to satisfy the nomads. Murmurs passed among them, and one or two offered him bread-like rounds of flat, spiced grain. Aron ate greedily.

As the fire crackled, Jorak began to question him. His words were clipped, simple.

“Clan?”

“I… have none here,” Aron admitted.

“From where?”

Aron hesitated. Should he reveal the truth? That he was from another planet? That he had boarded the wrong ship and fallen into their world by mistake? They might not even believe him.

Finally, he said softly, “Far away. Beyond your skies.”

The translator buzzed uncertainly, struggling with his phrasing. Jorak’s eyes narrowed, but he did not press further. Instead, he asked: “Purpose?”

Aron swallowed. His whole doctorate, his whole reason for being here, had been to study humans. But he was not on Earth. His purpose had changed.

He lowered his gaze. “Learning.”

The word seemed to satisfy Jorak again.

That night, as the nomads slept beneath the open sky, Aron lay awake near the fire. He studied their ways—their rituals of prayer before meals, their method of guarding the camp in shifts, the way they treated their beasts with reverence, almost like family. Every gesture, every word was a puzzle piece. His scholar’s instinct stirred.

Perhaps this was his thesis now.

The desert wind whispered around him, carrying the smell of spices and sand. Aron realized with a slow, reluctant acceptance: he was not returning home soon. The best chance of survival lay here, with these people of the sands.

The next morning, the nomads broke camp at dawn. Aron tried to help, fumbling with the tent frames until a young girl showed him how to fold the cloth properly. She laughed at his clumsiness, her eyes bright behind her veil.

As the caravan set out once more, Jorak rode close to Aron. He spoke a single phrase, and the translator hummed to life:

“You walk with us. But you are not of us. Understand?”

Aron nodded solemnly. “I understand.”

The leader’s gaze lingered, then softened almost imperceptibly.

And so Aron’s exile shifted into a fragile acceptance. He was an outsider, yes—but for now, the desert had given him a place among the wanderers.

In the rhythm of their march, in the glow of their fires, Aron began his first true contact with the people of Cinsetia.

It was not the fieldwork he had planned. It was something far more dangerous, far more real.

And he recorded into his mind, if not his powerless datapad:

Day five. Nomads of Cinsetia. They call themselves… survivors of the sands. And now, perhaps, so am I.

---

24/09/2025

---
The Wrong Boarding.
(Episode 3)
-----------
The gates of First Dawn City closed with a thunderous finality, their spiraled carvings glowing briefly as if mocking him. Aron stood outside, the copper desert stretching in every direction. For a long moment he did not move. The temple novices had left him nothing but a small pouch of dried fruit, a skin of water, and the heavy realization that he was no longer even worth guarding.

They had not imprisoned him, nor questioned him further. They had simply cast him out—like one discards scraps after a feast.

Aron’s twin hearts pounded unevenly. He pressed the record function on his datapad, though the battery was nearly gone. “Day three. Situation… altered. Expelled from the city. Supplies minimal. Direction unknown. Mood… uncertain.” His voice cracked. After a pause he whispered, “Correction: mood—terrified.”

The desert wind hissed over the sands, tugging at his travel robe. Sunlight blazed overhead, far harsher than Zyphora’s twin suns. His pale skin, not made for such intensity, was already burning. Aron pulled the hood of his robe tighter, though the fabric did little to shield him.

At first, he stayed close to the city walls, hoping he might find a caravan leaving or perhaps a sympathetic guard who would let him back in. But the walls curved endlessly, stretching farther than his legs could carry. By midday he realized that circling the city was impossible. He had to move outward.

The pouch of dried fruit sustained him only briefly. It was chewy and bitter, tasting faintly of metal. The water was cooler, sweeter than anything he had tasted, but dangerously finite. Each sip felt like betrayal—life slipping away drop by drop.

As the sun sank lower, shadows stretched long and strange across the sand. Aron stumbled into a ridge of stone where he could finally rest. The rock was rough, dotted with glittering crystals that pulsed faintly as though alive. He pressed his back against it, closing his eyes.

Exhaustion pulled at him, but so did fear. The desert was not silent. From the distance came scuttling sounds, low growls, the hiss of unseen creatures. Once, glowing eyes appeared on the ridge above him. Aron hurled a stone, heart racing, and the shapes scattered.

“Field note,” he whispered hoarsely into the recorder. “Local fauna active at night. Predatory. Recommend shelter—though none exists.” He gave a weak laugh. “Who am I recommending this to? Only myself, if I survive.”

Sleep came in jagged fragments. Dreams tangled with memory—lectures back home, the applause of professors, his careful plan to study humans. Earth had seemed so close, so simple. And now here he was, stranded on a world he had never heard named.

When dawn broke again, Aron’s lips were cracked, his limbs heavy. He forced himself to rise. He had one day of water left, maybe less.

Hours blurred together. The desert became an endless rhythm—step, stumble, sip, collapse, rise again. Heat shimmered across the horizon, bending light into illusions. Once he thought he saw a river, wide and glittering. He ran toward it, only to find more sand.

By the third afternoon, despair pressed heavier than the sun. He dropped to his knees, clutching the datapad. The screen flickered at one percent power. “Day four,” he rasped. “Status: critical. Supplies exhausted. Probability of survival: low. If any record survives, let it be known—I only wanted to understand humanity.”

The datapad dimmed, then blackened. His lifeline was gone.

He lowered his head into the sand, whispering, “I’m sorry, Mother. I’m sorry, Zyphora.” His twin hearts beat unevenly. His vision darkened.

At first he thought it was the desert’s cruel trick. But the voices grew louder, echoing in deep, guttural tones. Shapes appeared across the dunes—figures riding massive beasts with six legs, their cloaks flowing like banners in the wind. The beasts snorted, leaving great prints in the sand..

Aron tried to rise but collapsed again. The riders circled him, their faces hidden beneath hoods of woven cloth. Spears tipped with crystals gleamed in their hands. One shouted something, sharp and commanding.

Aron raised a trembling arm. “Please,” he croaked. “Not… enemy. Lost… scholar…”

The nomads closed in. Their leader dismounted, pulling back his hood. His face was weathered, lined with sun and sand. His eyes were sharp, piercing through Aron as if to strip away every lie. He studied the alien silently, then turned to his people.

The translator implant, sluggish but still functional, whispered the meaning into Aron’s ear:

“Outsider.”

The word was not spoken with malice, nor with welcome. It was a fact, heavy as the desert itself.

The nomads lifted Aron onto one of their beasts. Exhaustion overtook him, but before darkness claimed his mind, he realized one thing.

He had not been left to die. His story was not over.

Abandoned by the city, he had been claimed by the sands.

---

24/09/2025

---
The wrong Boarding
(Episode 2)
-------------

The desert stretched endlessly in all directions, a restless sea of copper-colored sand that shimmered under the twin moons. The air was dry, thin, carrying strange scents—metal, smoke, and something sweet, almost floral. He tried to recall his training for emergencies. Step one: secure shelter. Step two: assess atmosphere and resources. Step three: do not panic.

By dawn, the landscape had transformed. The copper sands glittered like shards of glass, reflecting the rising sun in blinding flashes. Aron shielded his eyes, scanning the horizon. His datapad blinked faintly, its battery draining faster in this environment. He checked oxygen levels—breathable, though thin. Water supply—barely a sip left in his canteen.

He muttered into his recorder, “Planet designation remains Cinsetia. Local star produces harsh radiation. Must seek cover before skin damage.” His voice sounded hollow. He tried to imagine what his professors back on Zyphora would say if they could see him now. A scholar, stranded like a lost hatchling.

At first, Aron thought it a mirage. Spires of crystal and stone pierced the sky, shimmering in the heat. Walls curved like waves, catching the sunlight until they glowed. Thin ribbons of smoke wound upward, carrying the aroma of spices. It was real, and it was vast.

Hope surged. If he could just reach it, perhaps someone would help him. Perhaps he could find transport, a way to signal home.

He stumbled toward it, each step heavier than the last. Hours passed. His pale Zyphoran skin, unaccustomed to such light, burned at the edges. His throat grew parched. Just as his legs buckled, shadows fell across him.

They were not like the insectoid crew, nor like anything in his textbooks. Tall, bronze-skinned beings clothed in layered fabrics that shimmered between crimson and gold. Their eyes were sharp, reflecting sunlight like mirrors. Each carried a long staff tipped with a glowing crystal. Guards, perhaps?

They shouted in a language the translator implant struggled to process. Fragments came through: “stranger… servant… property?”

Aron raised his hands, stammering in Zyphoran Standard. “Lost… wrong ship… researcher…” But the words made no sense to them.

One guard prodded him with a staff. The crystal sparked, sending a shock through his limbs. Aron yelped and fell to his knees. The guards laughed. To them, he must have looked pathetic—small, pale, draped in an ill-fitting travel robe.

Another guard bent low, examining his datapad. The screen flickered with symbols they could not understand. The guard barked something, and the group burst into amused murmurs. To them, it was clear: he was no dignitary, no pilgrim. He looked like a runaway servant caught outside his master’s walls.

Dragged by the arm, Aron was hauled toward the city gates.

The gates of First Dawn City loomed larger as they approached, carved with intricate spirals that pulsed faintly as though alive. The walls themselves hummed, built of stone fused with some energy he could not name. As they entered, the noise hit him—a thunderous mix of drums, flutes, voices.

Crowds pressed through winding streets, markets overflowing with goods: glowing fruits, fabrics that floated like mist, beasts of burden with six legs and jeweled horns. Spices hung thick in the air, stinging his nose. Everywhere, banners of scarlet and gold fluttered, symbols of the pilgrimage Aron had accidentally joined.

The guards shoved him through it all, ignoring his protests. Passersby stared, some laughing, others shaking their heads. To them, he was an oddity, a stranger caught in misfortune.

At last, they stopped in a broad square before a temple whose spires gleamed like fire. There, priests in flowing robes oversaw the arrival of pilgrims. Lines stretched across the plaza—families bringing offerings, musicians playing ceremonial tunes, traders selling charms against desert spirits.

The guards shoved Aron forward, speaking quickly to a robed priest. The priest’s eyes narrowed. He circled

24/09/2025

The Wrong Boarding
(Episode 1 )
---------------------------
Aron had always imagined his first field trip to Earth would be a triumph. Back on Zyphora, where students competed for years to win a single research slot, he had already earned a reputation as the curious one—the alien who collected human jokes and puzzled over their strange rituals of eating fried dough at fairs. His doctoral thesis, Homo sapiens: A Study in Chaos and Compassion, was approved with excitement. All he needed now was firsthand data, and then the doctorate that would mark him as a Scholar of the Stars.

The transport hub at Sector 9-Gamma was everything a young academic could dream of: gleaming docking rings, the smell of ion fuel, a hundred languages bouncing across the air. Ships arrived and departed in orderly chaos, each marked with symbols Aron could only half-recognize. He carried his datapad close, its holographic screen flickering with his careful notes. “Earth, third from its star, Sol. Arrival within one rotation cycle. Focus: social rituals.” He read it again and again to calm himself.

There were two vessels on Dock 77 that looked almost identical. Sleek silver hulls, long antennae, tinted glass like the eyes of giant insects. One was bound for Earth. The other, as Aron would discover far too late, belonged to the Royal Convoy of Cinsetia, chartered for a princely pilgrimage across half the quadrant.

Aron didn’t see the difference. He followed the glowing sign that flashed “Boarding Now,” marched up the gangplank, and tucked himself into a modest corner seat, humming quietly to steady his nerves.

The ship launched with a soft tremor. Aron strapped in, set his datapad on his lap, and began reviewing Earth’s human languages. English was a mess, Hindi a symphony, Mandarin a mountain of tones—he couldn’t wait to hear them all.

It was only hours later, when the stars outside twisted into unfamiliar constellations, that unease gripped him. He tapped at the datapad’s navigator. Instead of the calm blue line toward Sol, there was only a flashing red warning:

Aron blinked. “That can’t be right.” He leaned toward a passing crew member, a tall insectoid with iridescent wings that clinked against the corridor walls.

“Excuse me,” Aron squeaked in formal Zyphoran tones, “this vessel is bound for Earth, correct?”

The insectoid paused, mandibles clicking in amusement. “Earth? Ha! You’ve boarded the Cinsetian royal convoy. Our course is weeks away from that primitive little rock. Did you not check your ticket, hatchling?”

Aron’s twin hearts sank. His tentacle-like fingers fumbled with the datapad. Wrong boarding. Wrong ship. Wrong everything.

He thought about protesting, but the insectoid had already buzzed away, chuckling. Around Aron, the cabin buzzed with anticipation—not the quiet chatter of scientists, but the excited murmurs of pilgrims dressed in robes of glowing fabric. They bore sigils he couldn’t read and carried relics that pulsed faintly with energy.

It dawned on him that he was the only one not belonging.

The journey stretched endlessly. Pilgrims sang hymns in low tones, rhythmic chants that rattled his chest. Once, he tried to ask a fellow passenger about Earth, but the man only laughed kindly and pressed a fruit into Aron’s hand—a fruit that tasted like burning metal.

When at last the ship descended, it was not to the blue-and-green Earth he had studied so carefully, but to a world of red sands and copper skies. The air shimmered with heat. Towers carved from crystalline stone rose like spears above the horizon. Aron’s translator implant struggled, spitting out partial names: Cinsetia… First Dawn City… Temple of Light.

The landing port was chaos. Dozens of ships had gathered for the pilgrimage, unloading pilgrims, priests, even musicians who played drums that sounded like thunder. The Cinsetian prince himself disembarked first, a tall figure clad in flowing scarlet robes, surrounded by guards who carried banners of molten gold. The crowd roared, bowing, singing.

Aron stayed at the edge, clutching his datapad. He thought: If I just wait, perhaps I can buy passage back. He scanned for familiar insignias of Earth-bound crafts, but all he saw were royal ships contracted for the pilgrimage.

Hours passed.

The convoy reorganized swiftly. The prince’s clan moved on in ceremonial procession, their caravans sweeping across the copper plains. One by one, the ships lifted again, engines burning bright as they followed the prince’s route deeper into the desert.

Aron waited for his chance to ask for help. Waited too long.

By the time he ran forward, shouting in broken Cinsetian words, the final ship was already lifting. Its thrusters scorched the sand, blasting him back onto his knees. He coughed, blinking against the dust, watching as the last trace of silver hull vanished into the orange horizon.

Silence.

Only the desert wind remained, carrying with it the faint echo of drums and chanting long gone. Aron stood alone on an alien world, the datapad in his hands blinking helplessly:

NO SIGNAL. NO ROUTE HOME.

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