The moment the prisoner fell silent, a low ripple of murmurs spread among the carabiniers. They exchanged uneasy glances, voices kept low but tinged with fascination and unease. Whatever had just been said had stirred something—curiosity, confusion, perhaps even doubt.
Ganya, still squinting toward the cell, elbowed Evdok lightly. «…Well? What did they say?» he asked, barely above a whisper.
Evdok turned his head, a crooked smile playing on his lips. He gave a small shrug before translating the exchange to the others, his voice casual, almost amused. A quiet chuckle escaped him as he spoke, drawing a few raised eyebrows from the group. There was something about it all—the surreal calm of the prisoners, their nonchalant introductions, the bizarre claims—that struck Evdok not with fear, but with a sort of bewildered amusement. The absurdity of the situation wasn’t lost on him, and rather than unnerve him, it entertained him.
Meanwhile, the Carnesia descended through the rain-swept skies and arrived over Beldore, its hull gliding into position above the carabinier station. With practiced precision, the vessel came to a steady hover, suspending itself four meters above the stone-paved courtyard. Beside it rose a broad, elevated platform—an airship docking pier reinforced with steel railings and heavy anchor clamps.
Deckhands moved swiftly, casting down mooring lines that snapped taut as they were fastened to the platform’s hooks. Within moments, the Carnesia was secured in place, its engines humming in a low idle as the crew moved to ready the gangplank and prepare for disembarkation.
Under guard, the prisoners were marched out from below deck, their steps echoing against the damp gangway as they were led down into the station's main structure. Flanked by armed carabiniers, they passed through stone archways and iron-reinforced doors, bound for the holding levels deep underground.
Arcadia followed at a measured pace, his boots striking the wet floor with deliberate finality. Qelan, meanwhile, remained aboard the aethermotive alongside Trierarch Korivia, the two officers hunched over clipboards and manifests, immersed in the tedium of paperwork that always followed a military detainment of this scale.
The station stirred into immediate action, coming alive with a flurry of movement as officials, uniformed guards, and plainclothes inspectors moved briskly through the halls. Orders were exchanged in clipped tones, paperwork shuffled, and security checkpoints reinforced. The arrival of the prisoners had clearly triggered a full procedural mobilization.
The two detainees were separated and escorted to adjoining cells deep within the subterranean holding level. These were no ordinary cells—they were narrow, windowless chambers built into the thick stone foundation of the station, cold and sterile under the glow of harsh overhead lighting.
A secondary inspection followed, this time far more exhaustive than the one at Kerr Bay. Specialized personnel carried out the search with clinical efficiency, examining the prisoners for concealed devices, implants, or anomalies. Every item was catalogued, every detail recorded.
Mindful of Khijovian customs surrounding propriety and bodily privacy, female officers were summoned to conduct the search of the elven detainee. The decision, rooted in cultural expectations of modesty, was meant to minimize discomfort and uphold protocol—even under these extraordinary circumstances.
Following the detailed body inspections, the prisoners were instructed to undress and surrender their clothing in exchange for standard-issue detention garments. The process was methodical and impersonal, carried out under the watchful eyes of both guards and medical personnel.
The Skimtari, whose towering frame and inhuman physique made standard sizing impossible, was draped in a temporary white cloak that barely concealed him. Its fabric clung awkwardly to his alien proportions, lending him an even more unsettling presence. The elf, more humanoid in stature, was given a regulation male prison uniform—ill-fitting, but functional.
Their original garments were meticulously cataloged, folded with sterile gloves, and sealed inside airtight preservation containers. Whatever technological or forensic value the clothes might hold, the authorities intended to analyze every thread.
Meanwhile, Ganya and the other guards remained posted nearby, silent witnesses to the humiliating transition. The moment the Skimtari stood exposed, Ganya stiffened—his breath caught in his throat. He hadn’t expected the raw, unnerving reality of the creature’s appearance. Something about its sheer physicality, so foreign and grotesque, struck him to his core. His stomach churned, but he didn’t move, rooted to the spot in horrified fascination.
