The council of the Scarred Foot isn’t a polished court. There are no robes here, no gilded thrones or embroidered banners. There is only the crackling flame and the scent of sweat, leather, and iron. The wall behind me is bare save for the black scars of burn marks — reminders of the last time blood boiled too hot for words.
Yorta stands to my right, bone-spurs dulled by time but eyes like molten stone. The others — war-mates, cousins, former rivals turned lieutenants — spread out in a loose semicircle, all eyes fixed on me. All except Arnab.
The little bastard’s already got his arms folded across his chest like a rebellious pup. He leans against the stone column like he’s lounging in a brothel instead of facing his clan warlord. His spur crest twitches like an animal scenting prey. And hesmiles. Gods, that smug twist of a grin.
“Bread and shelter,” he says, voice slick as oil. “Next cycle, maybe we paint flowers on our armor and invite the IHC to afternoon tea.”
Muffled snickers rumble around the fire.
I say nothing. Not yet.
Arnab steps forward, daring. “You think they’ll respect us for planting roots? For tending to livestock like Terran swineherds?” He spits into the dust. “We’re Reapers. Wetake. That’s what we do. That’s what the galaxy fears.”
My jaw tightens. I let him dig.
“I remember when your name meant raids that broke cities, not…crop yields,” Arnab scoffs. “You call it vision. I call it cowardice.”
Now I step forward. Deliberate. Measured. Each footfall lands like a thunderclap.
The room goes still.
“Cowardice,” I echo, voice soft — far too soft for comfort. “You know much about that, do you?”
Arnab straightens. “I know how to keep our kind feared.”
“No. You know how to play at being feared,” I snarl, loud now. “You strut and roar and swing your little sword at patrol ships and think it makes you a warlord.”
Arnab’s face flushes, spurs twitching.
I advance, towering over him. Seven feet and change of muscle, bone, and fury, radiating heat. My voice drops to a growl. “You’ve never commanded a siege. Never held the line against Coalition steel. You’ve tasted blood, sure — but you’ve never swallowed the ash that comes after. I have.”
Silence. Not even the fire dares crackle.
Arnab opens his mouth — and I slap him.
Not a brawl. Not a bellow. Just one open-palmed strike that sends him crashing backward into the dust, his spurs scraping stone. Gasps erupt. Arnab’s pride hits the floor harder than his body.
I plant my boot on his chest before he can rise.
“You think I’m afraid?” I hiss. “You think planting grain is weakness? Youmockwhat it takes to keep this clan fed, housed, and alive?”
He struggles — I press down.
“War is easy,” I snarl. “You take. You burn. You kill. Then what? What do you build with blood? What’s left when the last scream dies?”
Arnab wheezes.
I look up, letting the firelight cast my shadow long over the gathered warriors. “I do this not because I am weak — but because I am the strongest bastard in this moon’s gravity well. I am strong enough to know that fear fades. But legacy…” I glance down at the boy. “Legacy doesn’t.”
I step back, let him rise. His spurs are dull with dust now. He glares at me — but doesn’t speak.
Good. He knows what line not to cross. For now.
But this? This isn’t over. I can humiliate him in front of the clan, but resentment festers in the shadows. I feel it in his shoulders as he retreats. I see it in the way two of his kin eye me sideways as they help him limp off.
Yorta joins me near the fire once the meeting disperses, his expression unreadable.
“You won that moment,” he says. “But you didn’t winhim.”
