I walk to the edge of the human habitation block — lights dim, corridors empty — and pause. I listen. The night is alive. Quiet, but alive. Heartbeats masked beneath footsteps and machinery.
I taste the metal in the air — sweat, oil, steel. I taste victory. Not the kill. Not the blood. Not the war.
This is my victory: respect. Fear kept in line. Protection given. Claim laid bare not in conquest — but in warning.
I think of Freya. I think of the moss field under stars. I think of her soft breath at the waterfall. I think of the cloak she wore, the silence she allowed me, the soft acceptance of small gestures. I wonder if she knows — if she felt the tremor through bones of the clan beneath me.
I don’t know what comes next. Betrayals. Challenges. Jealousy. Hatred. But I know this: the path to building something under bloodlines and bruises is carved in temper, in threat, in unwavering bones.
I lower my head to the night sky — no roar, no shout. Just breath. A promise.
I’ll teach them fear. I’ll teach them respect.
Because those are the only languages they understand.
Because in this clan, in this world made of shattered moons and broken oaths — that’s how you protect what matters.
And she matters.
I turn. The wind catches my cloak. The echoes of the council hall fade behind me. The forest calls. Night deepens.
I walk toward the moongate — toward darkness, toward pain, toward tomorrow.
Because there is nowhere else I need to be.
Because whatever comes — I am ready.
Night pressesheavy against the wood-paneled walls of the old Reaper council dormitory. The torches down the hall gutter low, casting wavering shadows that dance like ghosts. I’m awake long after the halls go quiet, pacing — bone-spurs clicking soft against stone floor — haunted by every pair of eyes I saw tighten with fear or distaste when I named Freya my mate. The taste in my mouth is iron and ash; the memory of that low growl I offered as promise still tangles in my throat.
A soft rap at the hatch — slow, almost hesitant. It’s Parfi. She slips inside without sliding the door, moving like wind between ancient fires. Her robes whisper over worn flags, her skin pale under torch-flame. The scent of damp moss and forest-spice clings to her — a reminder of other worlds, of living things beyond metal and bone.
“You should rest,” she says — calm, measured. But I don’t stop pacing. My fists clench then unclench. I feel the dust on the floor, the weight of my armor leaning at the berth.
“The clan doesn’t sleep simply because I said so,” I grunt.
Parfi steps closer. Her eyes, wise with age and grief and hope, meet mine. “I know your claim is strong. But listen carefully, Warlord: fear teaches obedience. Respect — that takes something softer. If you want your people to acceptheralongside you, then they must see strength… not just inyou, but inher.”
Silence presses. Heavy. I taste it like rust.
“Strength … in her?” I echo, voice low.
She nods. Slowly. “Yes. Let her stand beside you. Let her fight. Let her choose. Let her bleed or win. Let her be seen. If you only rule by fear, you bind them with bone and blood — and when fear fades, your rule crumbles.” Her words drift against the walls like smoke. “Show them –allof us – that what you guard is not weakness. It is strength built from different bones.”
I close my eyes. I feel the pulse in my neck, the bone-spurs on my collarplate digging faintly into my skin. I breathe — slow, sharp.
“Very well,” I say. Voice ragged, uncertain, but firm. “I will try. For her. For the clan.”
Parfi offers a single nod. Gray eyes bright in the torch-glow. Then she turns and leaves, the whisper of robes dying in the corridor. I remain in the hush — torn between pride and dread.
Because I promised.
And promises among Reapers are carved in bone. They do not bend.
The courtyardunder Storder’s twin gas-giants’ glare sits silent. The air tastes faintly of ozone and cold rock. I bring Freya here at dawn — before the work crews stir. The training ring is a cleared patch of packed soil, surrounded by tall guard towers and the skeletal frames of old training dummies: target-posts of thick bone from creatures now long dead, cracked and worn from practice.
I wear light armor — harness with no plates, boots strapped, claws sheathed. The smell of sweat, leather, and weapons oil fills the morning air. My breath clouds, cold and sharp. Freya stands across from me: human frailness and stubborn strength folded in narrow shoulders and green eyes still wary. Her cloak is gone; uniform sleeves rolled. She shifts on the balls of her feet. The wind brushes her hair.
“Ready?” I call, voice low.
