“Those aren’t fake documents, Featherling.” Salaark frowned. “They’re real—issued directly by my administration. The people in the portraits may be fabricated, but everything else is legitimate.”

“Sorry. I forgot you’re the highest authority here.” Solus handed the papers back, and everyone shifted into their Desert disguises.

Kalla struggled a bit to stabilize her human form, her flesh flickering as if it might dissolve into shadow at any moment—but compared to Loma, she was doing just fine.

The Horde had taken the shape of a young man in his mid-twenties, his skin bronzed like a native of the Desert. But within seconds, his complexion turned pale, like someone fighting off nausea.

“Don’t worry about me.” Loma raised a hand, stopping Solus from stepping closer. “I just need a moment to adjust to this… flesh sack. I’m used to moving freely, scattering my spores wherever I go.”

“Being forced to hold everything together like this—it’s like being locked in a prison. I can’t feel anything beyond my skin. I have to rely on these things you call eyes to perceive the world.”

“What’s normal for you is suffocating for me.”