Zhoren remained still, but Makrath could sense his attention sharpen. The Sael measured everything, including the way Makrath’s body reacted.
Karian’s voice remained calm. “If one is found, she will be at least partially willing.”
The words were meant to reassure, perhaps. To make the arrangement palatable to whichever part of Makrath still understood law.
Instead, it made the anticipation spike harder.
Willing.Not compliant. Not surrendered. Willing enough to enter the ritual.
The Hunt required resistance. It was not a performance. It was a crucible.
Why did that concept excite him more than it should?
Makrath forced himself to speak with care. “If you can find one that is capable of the Hunt,” he said, “I will agree.”
He did not say what the agreement would cost him. He did not say what it would do to the last shreds of control he still held. He did not say how close the violence sat beneath his skin.
He did not need to. Zhoren knew. Karian likely knew too.
Karian held his gaze. Behind the smooth mask there was nothing to read, no mouth to curl in triumph, no eyes to soften. And yet the Marak’s certainty filled the chamber like gravity.
“Then you will have a human,” Karian said.
Makrath’s irritation flared again, hot and immediate. The confidence was almost insulting, as if procurement were a simple transaction and not a destabilising act with consequences across species and law.
Karian continued, unbothered. “I will begin the process.”
A pause—fractional, but deliberate.
“There are humans involved,” Karian added. “Those already bound. Those with understanding of both systems.”
Makrath’s attention sharpened further. He did not like unknown variables, and “humans involved” was a variable he could not map.
Zhoren spoke into the silence, voice smooth and formal. “We will return to Ythra,” he said. “And await your instructions.”
Karian inclined his head again, a signal that the audience was concluded. There would be no negotiation. No back and forth. No appeals.
The decision had been made before Makrath entered the chamber. Makrath had simply been brought to hear it.
They were escorted out the way they had come.
As the corridor curved and the lighting shifted, Makrath felt the tether inside him tug in a new direction. Not toward violence as release, but toward something else—an unknown pressure, a hunger sharpened by the promise of a ritual he had been denied.
His tail moved, restrained but restless.
He imagined a human in the jungle canopy of Ythra, running with desperate intelligence. He imagined the scent of fear and determination. He imagined his own armour rising, his bodyresponding, the Hunt pulling him into motion the way combat used to.
It would stabilise him, they claimed.
It would save the city from what he might become.
It would save him from himself.
Or it would tear the last remaining restraint from his bones and leave only the predator.
Makrath swallowed against the dryness at the back of his throat. The armour along his chest tightened, as if it sensed his tension and wanted to brace.
He did not look at Zhoren as they boarded their diplomatic craft again. He did not offer comment, not approval, not rejection. Silence was safer. Silence was control.
