And I’m not invisible anymore.
CHAPTER 14
VOKAR
The council hall smells like old sweat and sharper things — metal rust, recycled air, and fear thick enough it tastes bitter in my mouth. The long tables are carved bone and dark wood stained with oil and smoke. Torches flicker along the walls; their glow dances against armor plates, bone-spurs, and scarred faces. I stand at the head of the table, my claws tapping once against the wood. The council’s gathered: warriors, second-sins, scouts — each one sitting rigid, shifting with tension under the hum of lights and the low murmur of voices.
My second, Yorta, sits close by. His presence is steady — bone ridged, scarred, but calm. And then there’s Arnab, lounging too comfortably at the far end, eyes flicking toward me like he’s scouting prey. The air tastes of warning.
I inhale — the smell of damp leather, stale bloodlust, the high-metal sterility of the seats. I breathe slow, measured: foundation.
“Your voices are sharpened tonight,” I say, my voice low but carrying. “Let them rest.”
A flicker goes through the room. Someone snorts. Maybe a trader-turned-warrior from the outer rings; maybe just a drunkeyeing me with contempt. That’s fine. Let him. I’m not here to entertain arrogance.
Arnab shifts, slicing his gaze across the faces — expecting laughter or support. “Warlord,” he says, voice smooth as bone away from the howl, “why waste time on hollow blossoms and?—”
“—human fluff,” I finish for him quietly. My fingers curl. “You are a warrior who revels in razor screams and falling moons. Do you now sneer at what keeps your blade sharp?”
Laughter rolls low, but not cheerful. Nervous. I let it linger. Let the edges burn.
He leans forward, chin nearly on the table. “This… human — our accord with the IHC? What guarantee do we have there’s no poison under the cloak?”
The room shifts — chairs creaking, armor plates groaning. Whispers. Judgment. Doubt.
Too many eyes. Too many expectations. Too many wired nerves ready to fray.
I rise. The hall silences. The torches flinch as if they know a storm’s coming.
“She is my mate,” I roar — voice like a thunderclap in a tin shed. The thud echoes off stone and bone. My hand slams the table; the plates jump. “Let the mouths of lesser beasts speak — but I will not tolerate disloyalty.”
I turn slowly to Arnab. Step by step I cross the floor until I stand above him. The wooden chair cracks under me. His eyes widen — shock, fear, that familiar spark that comes when a predator realizes he might be prey.
“Speak of her again,” I growl, breathing heavy. My claws flex — bone-spurs catching flicker from the torches. “And I’ll use your teeth as a belt buckle.”
Silence so thick it presses. The only sound — the drip of water from somewhere in the stonework. The slow pant of enemies waiting to move.
I raise a hand. Don’t strike. I don’t need to. The threat is enough.
He does not speak. His spine bows slightly — involuntary. The fight drains from his eyes. Others around shift; whispers die. Chairs scrape as some shift backwards. No one tries to stop me. Because they know. They fear.
I step back. Softly. I let the tension slide away like steam from a wound.
I turn to Yorta. The old Reaper nods. No words. No approval needed. His steady gaze says enough: the clan will obey.
I scan the rest of the hall. Their faces already changing — confusion, respect, fear, begrudging acceptance. The glow from torches reflects off bone-plate, off the metal gauntlets, off scarred cheeks. This is order reinstated. This is dominance without shred of mercy. This is peace by sharp intent.
I speak again — calm now, ice-cold. “Let it be known: my mate walks under my protection. Inside this clan, she is not prey. She is not weakness. She is mine. And those who threaten her will learn the meaning of pain carved from bone.”
No one breaths. No one moves. The echoes hang.
When I leave the hall — head held high, armor rattling, bone-plate heavy on my skin — I feel something shift beneath me. The weight of eyes. The tension in spine. The risk. In blood and honor and fragile trust.
Outside, the air tastes free but haunted. Moonlight — planet-light — wavers through the pines. The scent of moss, wet earth, distant storms. Forest wind rides slow across the compound ground.
I glance at Yorta walking beside me. “Take the guards off her quarters,” I say. Voice hard but low. “No outsider watch. She’ll travel free within the compound.”
He nods, silent. I watch through bone-lens eyes as the guards adjust. As small changes ripple through routines built on fear and suspicion.
