I turn and fix him with red eyes, the bone-spurs along my jaw clicking softly. “Then let them wear your skull as a belt buckle,” I snarl, each word measured — heavy. “But I want none of that belt unless it earned with foresight, not hate. I will not build castles on graves.”
For a moment silence reigns. The wind shifts, lifting the scent of newly tilled soil. I feel the clan’s gaze on me — some afraid, some curious. Yorta steps forward, placing a hand on that youth’s shoulder. “Come. Water the west field. The sprouts thirst,” he says gently. The youth jerks away, but reluctantly turns and steps toward the lines.
I snort, letting the axe tilt. “Even blood begins as water, kid,” I say.
Yorta nods. “You ask patience of bones, warlord. That takes… discipline.”
I regard him, letting the truth hang between us. Discipline. Yes. I don’t question his judgement — he knows the clan’s temper better than I at twelve seasons old. But I also know what the bone-blood thirst feels like. I have felt it. I’ve tasted it. The memory is a brand under my skull.
But I do not intend to let the brand scorch this moon.
I step away from the wall, boots crunching the scrap gravel. I walk down between the rows, the scent of damp earth rising — smell, sound, touch all reminder that life can sprout, not just perish. I kneel by a green shoot, fingertips brushing the wet leaf. The dirt is cool under my nails. I nod to a human contractor hauling water buckets. He pauses, lifts his head to me, fear and recognition warring in his eyes. I offer a nod in return. Not trust. Just acknowledgment.
He sets the bucket aside and bows his head before returning to work. That small gesture — that tiny tilt of respect — reminds me why I’m doing this. For more than bones. For more than raids. For stability. For unexpected mercy. For hope.
Then I feel it. The pulse in my comm-crystal — almost foreign compared to the steady hum of clan life. It’s not the steady beacon of home — no — it's jagged. An IHC signature. A summons. The kind that rattles teeth.
I stand, hand drifting to my hip where the crystal sits in a metal bracket. I press the glyph. The sky above darkens for a moment — dust kicked by wind, fieldworkers pause, even the humans still water-carrying glower upward.
The comm crackles. A voice — thin, polite, but edged with steel and expectation. “Vokar of the Scarred Foot clan? You are requested aboard the IHC vesselStan Hansen. Diplomatic parleys. Immediate departure arranged.”
I close my eyes. The world tilts. Behind me, someone swears. Spray of earth flies. A human woman — a contractor — stumbles backward, drops a bucket. Water arcs in slow motion, splashingin muddy clumps. Reapers freeze. The scent of wet dirt spikes, sharp and alive.
“Stan Hansen,” I whisper. The name tastes unfamiliar on my tongue. Alien. Metal. Ships. The decks smell of recycled air and politics and fear.
Yorta curses under his breath. Yorta is silent for a moment — longer than usual. Then: “They send you to parley. Our clan will wait two cycles. After that, you decide: sovereignty or slaughter.”
I stand, dusting dirt from my gauntlets. “Two cycles,” I growl. “No less.”
The youth who earlier spoke — the one scared of softness — laughs, bitter. The other warriors glare at him. Not fear. Anger. Rejection.
I turn to them. I raise my axe, finger against bone-spur. “Scarred Foot lives by honor, by tooth. But also by choice. We choose our path now. I choose this.” I sweep the axe in a slow arc, sunlight catching the steel — a reflection slicing across the proud faces of my clan. “And I bring back opportunity. Wealth. Trade. Land. If they bargain again with blood, we bleed them till the pike is full. But if they bargain with words… we build.”
I feel a tremor — not in earth but in soul. Every Reaper around me sees it. Some sneer. Some nod. Some widen their eyes, afraid. That’s fine. I don’t need them all. I need one. Two. Enough to plant seeds that grow deeper than bone. Enough to change the rhythm of claws and hunger to hands that plant.
Yorta steps forward. “Then we prepare. Load supplies, secure mounts. I’ll gather the loyalists.” He glances at the human contractors. “As for them,” he says coldly, “they go with you or stay. But no bleed-outs today.”
I nod. “No bleed-outs.” My throat tastes bitter with the word. But it’s necessary.
I pivot and walk away, axe on my shoulder. The wind takes the banner and ruffles it — a ghost waving over barren rock.Below me, water drips from upturned buckets. The field is quiet again, as if the world itself is holding its breath.
I stop at the edge of the cliff, looking out at the black horizon. The moons hang low — one fat and pale, the other a sliver red as dying blood. Their light grazes the metal plating of a distant shuttle on the landing pad. Waiting.
I close my eyes, feel the dust on my cheek, earth scent filling my lungs. For a moment I taste hope. And fear.
Hope that the Badlands might soften beneath new soil.
Fear that the soil might still thirst for blood.
I don’t care. I walk. I rise. I move toward the shuttle. I move toward the cage of theStan Hansen.
Because power is nothing if it only rules the known. I aim to rule the possible.
And maybe... just maybe — this time I drain them dry of blood turns them full of something stranger. Something lasting.
Later, the meeting fires are low, banked to a dull red. Around them, warriors crouch on haunches or lean against rough-cut stone benches, shadows licking across their faces. The clan chamber echoes with every grunt, every shift of armor, every exhale.
I remain standing. At the center. Always the center.
