“This is Makrath of the Kha’Ruun,” Zhoren said. “Apex enforcer of Drenn. Designated blade of Khar. Veteran of the western river campaigns. Instrumental in the suppression of the Rethan incursion at the rim stations.”
He paused just long enough for the words to land.
“And,” Zhoren added, “he acted to protect Majarin trade assets during the Ythran convoy disruptions two cycles ago.”
That last detail was not a compliment. It was leverage. A reminder of debt, spoken politely.
Karian inclined his head a fraction. “Noted.”
Then his attention shifted, direct and unfiltered, onto Makrath.
“So this is he,” Karian said.
The words were simple. The tone was not.
“The untethered one.”
Mild irritation flickered through Makrath. The label was administrative, and it was accurate, and he hated that both could be true at once.
He did not speak. He did not bow. He let his silence stand as his only concession to diplomacy.
Karian regarded him for a long moment, as if measuring more than muscle and armour.
Makrath measured back.
Predator to predator, yes—but not equals. Not because Makrath lacked strength. Because Karian’s danger was layered behind control. Because the Marak was not fighting his own nature in the same visible way.
Makrath’s fingers flexed once. The armour over his knuckles tightened in response. He locked it down again.
Karian’s voice did not change when he spoke next.
“So you wish to have a human.”
Makrath’s gaze sharpened. He almost laughed, the sound trapped behind his mask.
“I doubt one could Hunt me,” he said.
It was not arrogance. It was fact. Humans were soft. Built for fragile environments. Their bones were small. Their skin tore easily. On the trading station he had seen them move through corridors like prey animals unaware of how loud their bodies were. They were beautiful in a way that made no sense—hair in shades from pale to near-black, skin ranging from milk-pale to deep earth-dark, eyes glistening with water and light. They looked too delicate to survive the first impact of Ythra’s jungle.
Alluring, yes.
Capable of the Hunt?
Surely not.
Karian’s head tilted, a small motion that conveyed something close to amusement. “I know of your mating custom,” he said. “And I know humans.”
Makrath’s tail twitched despite his control.
“I know what they are capable of,” Karian continued. “One who can Hunt will be found.”
Something stirred in Makrath’s chest, unwanted and undeniable. Not tenderness. Not hope.
Anticipation.
It felt like standing on the edge of a fight he had been denied for too long.
He hated the feeling. He wanted more of it.
