That cloudy blue's grown in intensity and scope within the space of seconds; it swirls, storm-dancing in the black, glowing orange at it's center until a comparative smudge of silver-grey streams through. The ship looks tiny beside the ebbing radiance, never mind the distance between itself and the promenade. It's briefly visible in greater detail as the blue brilliance dims, contracting to a point of light in two slow blinks, but then it's changed course, moved on. The docking ring is elsewhere on the station, after all.

"The Bajorans believe," Sariel says quietly, "that the wormhole is the home of their gods, the prophets. they call it the celestial temple." Pause. Long pause. "I can understand why."