The shuttle cut through Ythra's upper defenses and descended into the jungle canopy without deviation. Shields parted. Transit lanes opened. The planet breathed around him—heat, moisture, the layered green density of growth so ancient it resisted mapping.
Above the forest floor, the city lived.
Khar stretched through the treetops in sprawling suspension: organically grown dwellings wrapped around trunks wider than ships, bridges arcing between them like living bone, transit systems threading through leaves and mist in smooth, silent lines. The Hyrakki moved there in instinctive order, a civilization suspended in growth rather than stone.
Below it all lay Drenn.
Stone rose where the jungle gave way—administration towers, bunkers, armories, command vaults. The places where law was enforced, where violence was regulated, where creatures like Makrath were deployed and restrained.
He descended toward it without hesitation.
Makrath remained fully armored as he entered the stone corridors. He always did.
Administrators pressed themselves to the walls as he passed. Sael aides lowered their eyes. No one challenged him. No one spoke.
It was simply how others adjusted around Makrath.
The pressure in his chest tightened as he walked. Not fear. Not uncertainty.
Resignation.
He reached the High Arbiter's chambers and waited as the doors parted.
Zhoren was already pacing.
The chamber opened onto the jungle beyond, shielded only by a transparent barrier that allowed sound and scent to bleed through. Somewhere below, a river thundered through rock and root. Heat rolled in slow waves. The world lived beyond the law's reach.
Zhoren turned sharply as Makrath entered.
The High Arbiter's skin was deep grey, lined by age and responsibility rather than weakness. His silver eyes were bright with fury. Long black-green hair, silken and thick, was drawn back into a low tail that moved with him as he stalked the chamber, mirroring the tension coiled through his body.
"Do you have any idea," Zhoren said, voice clicking low in his throat, "what you have done?"
Makrath stopped three paces inside the threshold and waited.
"One civilian dead," Zhoren continued. "Five injured. The entire Khelar delegation eliminated. Surveillance footage already circulating through neutral systems before arbitration could intervene."
Makrath said nothing.
"Who will trade with us now?" Zhoren demanded.
Makrath's shoulders lifted in a minimal shrug. "There will always be a market for our gemstones."
Zhoren's growl slipped free—low, resonant, dangerous. It was a sound that froze lesser Hyrakki where they stood.
Makrath remained unmoved.
"You violated the Code," Zhoren snapped.
"I performed my duty."
"You killed civilians."
"They should have stayed out of the way."
The words settled between them.
Makrath felt the familiar tightening beneath his armor. He knew—objectively—that it could have been avoided. He had the capacity. He always had.
