I stand. Soil falls from my claws in little cascades. I look over the dark stretch of land — the compound lights dim in the distance, the hum of building activity far, far away.
And in that space — empty, open, quiet — I taste possibility.
I shift my shoulders. Bone-plates rattle softly.
I whisper to the earth beneath me:
"I claim you, world. Not with war. But with life. Begin."
The soil around us still trembles from some distant quake — or maybe it’s just the settling of old wounds.
I lift a hand over my ribs, where scars run long and deep.
"And I claim what is mine. In time."
I walk away from the field. Not fast. Not recklessly. But sure.
Because I know now: conquering planets was never the point.
Saving what I cherish — that is the battle I choose now.
The next morning the compound smells of solder fumes, recycled air, and stale coffee. I don’t go to my quarters right away. Instead I walk among the half-built greenhouses near the ash-plain outside the main living ring. The sky is a dull gray swirl overhead, and the air tastes of damp moss and distant storm-clouds.
I find one of the Solari — the ones from the forest moon, with pale skin and eyes like washed-out jade. Their name is Trelis. I learned long ago that their advice often comes wrapped in quiet patience — something my bone-plated heart knows little about.
Trelis is kneeling next to a shallow trench, setting small roots of a fast-sprout herb into oxygen-rich soil. She looks up when I approach. Her eyes flick once — no surprise, no fear, just calm acceptance.
“Warlord,” she says softly. “You came for counsel?”
I nod. The leather straps of my belt hiss as I shift. The smell of dirt and sap — sweet, organic — lifts in little waves around us. I hate missing this smell when I’m armored; it’s too gentle.
Trelis wipes a smear of earth from her hand, then offers it to me — an old courtesy. I sniff. The scent is alive: loam, root-bark, rain-soaked rock. Hard soil turned soft.
“Human affection,” she says. “They don’t speak in threats or iron. Not always. To win trust… you give space. And small gestures. Warm drink at the end of a shift. Something softto wrap around cold skin. Shelter when they wake.(refuge) Provisions. Safety.”
“Small,” I repeat. The word is awkward in my mouth. I’m big. I’m built to give orders. To conquer. Not to coddle.
“Small means less danger,” she says. “Less fear. Less shock to their bones. Some human women—especially those who survived loss—need gentle first. Not the earthquake.”
I stare at the budding herb in her fingers. Tiny green sprout, fragile leaves shining.
“Show me,” I say.
She nods. “Observe. Then learn.”
Later, my boots echo hollow in empty corridors. I carry a rust-stained thermos — human coffee, dark, hot. I learned from a soldier’s ration recipe how to make it strong enough to chase away cold, but not bitter. I fill it just before the convocation shift ends, when the corridors still hum with air-recycling and the last alarms flicker off.
I don’t bring it to her. That would be too direct. Too possessive. Instead — I slip it beside the water-dispenser at the break-room door. The hiss of the auto-slide is the only warning. I don’t watch. I walk away before I hear her.
I don’t have to hide. My armor clanks enough to announce me if someone glances over. I make no effort to soften that sound. I want her to feel safe without needing to see me. I want the gesture to be invisible.
Hours later, I catch the faint scent of coffee in the corridors. I close my eyes. Warm, bitter, real. Like rain after ash. For a moment I think I hear her laugh — soft, uncertain — like the tremor after a thunder-clap subsides.
Hope flickers. Small. Dangerous. But burning.
The cloak comes next.
I’ve had cloaks made before — heavy bone-plated wind-covers for raid runs. This one I carve myself. I order soft insulated sheeting — rare on Storder — and tailor it small. Tight. Human-sized. I wrap it in faded cloth and leave it on her bunk. I don’t knock. I don’t announce. I just place it there, like a silent offering.
