UK Habitat

Balazar’s term for Ravalox becomes a prison of distorted identity, where the planet’s name doubles as a prison yard and a civilization’s delusion. The space isn’t a place but a construct—walls of self-deception built from sacred texts purloined from other worlds. Dust swirls in the gloom of Marb Station’s interrogation chamber, where the weight of false reverence presses down on everyone inside. The air carries the scent of old parchment and sweat, the light from bare bulbs cutting through thick dread. This is not a habitat. It is a holding cell for a planet that has forgotten its own name.