The doors hiss closed behind me. The world blurs back into muted corridor lights, recycled air, the distant hum of machinery.
My footsteps carry me forward — not running. But leaving.
A tight knot of something — hurt, maybe. Surprise. Something raw and ancestral. I don’t let it sink in.
I tell myself:I’m not yours. Not yet.
Not until you earn it.
CHAPTER 10
VOKAR
The night air tastes of damp earth and distant rain. I sit on the ground outside the compound — a patch of rough soil, wild weeds, and broken rock. The wind shifts, carrying the scent of pine sap and mist from the forest on Storder, mixing with the iron tang of my own blood-and-fear memories.
My fingers dig into the dirt. I twist handfuls between my palms, watching granules spill through bone-studded fingers. Clack, clack — the sound soft in the quiet night. The soil crumbles, dust rising in pinpricks around me like ashes from a burnt-out pyre.
I strip the layers of the world down to earth. That’s what I do. I conquer. I raze. I build and rebuild. Planets of ash. Moons of ruin. Fortresses strung across star systems. Armies behind me. Death beneath me.
But I don’t know how to build something gentle. Something human.
That word — gentle — tastes foreign on my tongue.
A soft step behind me. A creak. Old bone-spur joints.
“Warlord.”
I don’t look up. Not yet.
“Yorta.”
He sits a few feet away. Gravel shifts under his armor. The smell of boneplate polish and recycled metal wafts faintly.
“Stop that,” he says quietly. “Tearing the land like it’s your enemy.”
I grip another handful of dirt. I tighten until knuckles whiten.
“Don’t.” I don’t raise my voice — I don’t need to. My calm is sharper than any blade.
Yorta bows his head. I can tell he wants to say more — advise, console, scold. But he waits. As always, he waits.
Good. Let him. Suggestions are cheap. Blood and bone weigh more.
When he finally stands, he casts me a glance. Not pity. Respect. War-worn, hard-won respect.
“Parfi wants to speak with you,” he says.
The name tastes like moss-water and old bark. Parfi — the soft-spoken sage among the harsh lines of war and strategy.
I nod once, without turning.
He departs into the night. The wind picks up, carrying the distant chirp of forest creatures and the hush of leaves brushing in the dark.
I gather another handful of dirt. Let it splay between my fingers.
I remember what Parfi said earlier — in that glow-lit chamber, in her quiet voice, like wind over old stones:You built a fortress around yourself. You’ll need to dismantle it, brick by brick, if you want her to come inside.
A fortress.
