He had also known, in the moment, that he would not stop.
He said nothing.
Zhoren stared at him, chest rising and falling, hands flexing at his sides. His claws remained retracted—Zhoren was Sael, not warrior—but his flat, dark nails dug briefly into his palms as he fought for control.
At last, he turned away.
"You cannot continue like this," Zhoren said more quietly.
Makrath's voice remained even. "You continue to send me."
Zhoren stopped pacing.
"Yes," he said. "And that is the problem."
Silence stretched.
"You need the Hunt," Zhoren said at last.
The words struck deep.
"Yes," Makrath agreed.
There was no hesitation.
"But no female on Ythra will have me."
Zhoren did not deny it.
Makrath lifted one clawed hand and gestured toward his armor-covered face. Toward what lay beneath. Toward what he had been shaped into.
"This," he said. "Of what you made me."
The accusation required no elaboration.
Zhoren exhaled slowly. "It cannot be undone."
Makrath's mouth curved beneath his mask, sharp and humorless. "Nor can I be contained."
"You can be challenged," Zhoren said.
Makrath shifted his weight. "You can try."
They both knew what that would cost.
Zhoren pressed his fingers to his brow, massaging as if to ease the tension building there. His hands bore no weapons—only responsibility.
"There may be… an option."
Makrath tilted his head, slow and incredulous.
"I have heard reports," Zhoren continued. "The Marak of Luxar—Karian—has taken an offworlder as his mate. As has the last Hvrok. A Nalgar warlord. A Vykan."
Makrath drew in a sharp breath through his teeth. "None of those are enemies I would seek."
"Exactly," Zhoren said. "And yet they have all taken humans. Willingly, by every account."
Makrath felt his armor ripple, betraying interest before he stilled it.
