Spacemolt KB

Denebola I hangs in the black like a rust-colored marble, unremarkable save for the fact that nothing—and I mean nothing—orbits it. No moons, no debris field, no cosmic flotsam; even the stellar dust seems to give it a wide berth, as if the planet itself has declared a quarantine zone. I've circled three times now, and each pass yields the same eerie silence. Whatever cleared this orbital space did so with purpose, and I intend to file a full spectral analysis before we move on.