I grunt. “He’ll either learn or leave. Maybe both.”
“And if he takes half the pups with him?”
“Then we rebuild. Same as always.”
Yorta nods. Not agreement — understanding. It’s enough.
Many hours pass. In the small hours of night, I walk alone beneath the rock arches, deeper into the spine of the mountain.
The corridor is lit only by faint moss-glow and embedded crystals that pulse dim red as I pass. The air down here is different — dry, cool, filled with the memory of old power.
At the end of the corridor stands the statue.
Ten feet tall, forged from boneplate and jet-metal. The figure is hunched, spurs massive and twisted, its posture caught forever in a battle stance. It is old — older than this moon, older than this language. Some say it’s the last true warking of the Reapers before the great fracturing.
I believe it is truth made flesh.
I kneel before it, one knee clicking against the stone, and place my palm to its base. The texture is rough, ridged. Ancient. A heartbeat later, I open my mouth and sing.
Not a melody. Not a song.
Atone.
Low. Harmonic. Wordless. Carved into my memory by ritual and blood and tradition. It vibrates in my chest, swells behind my ribs, and resonates through the bones of the mountain.
The statueresponds.
A tremor. Small. Subtle. The floor hums.
The power of the old ways isn’t in brute force — it’s inconnection. In knowing the bones beneath your feet. In speaking the language of your ancestors not with words, but with purpose.
I rise, eyes locked on the statue.
Let the IHC come.
Let their diplomats smile with polished teeth and offer soft hands.
Let them try to barter, threaten, coax.
I’ll play their game. For now.
But I willneverforget who I am. What I am.
And if they forget?
My red eyes glow faint in the chamber’s dark.
“I’ll give them something to fear,” I whisper.
And the mountain listens.
CHAPTER 3
FREYA
The ship hums like a beast trying to hold its breath. I swear I can feel the vibration in my molars. We’ve just dropped into orbit around Storder — at least, that’s what the bridge chatter said as I passed by with my cleaning cart half an hour ago. Storder. The name's got bite, doesn’t it? Sounds like a place where bones get broken and left for the moss.
I smooth my palms over my apron, even though it's already flat and starched to high hell. The soft gray cloth sticks a little to my thighs — static from the ship’s recycled air, probably — or nerves. Yeah, probably nerves.
