The Obsidian Sphere. It didn't reflect the light of the sun; it drank it. It was a perfect, impossible sphere, looming over them with an indifference that was more chilling than any weapon. The scale of it was deceptive; it looked close enough to touch, yet their sensors insisted it was hundreds of kilometers away.
"We are in range," Miller whispered, his voice hushed by the sheer, crushing majesty of it. "Commander... the surface. Look at the patterns."
Eva leaned forward. The smooth, black skin of the Sphere was beginning to ripple. Luminous, shifting geometries bloomed across the surface like frost on a windowpane—fractals of violet and gold that defied human geometry. They weren't just decorative; they were a greeting. Or a warning.
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