The clan gathersin the great hull chamber, the one we only open when the stars themselves deserve to witness our rites. No glowing screens, no digital interfaces—just bone, steel, and the silence of space pressing in around us. The feast fires burn blue-white in gravity-caught braziers, casting wild shadows across armored chests and scarred faces.
They’re all here. Every captain, every blood-sworn, every Reaper with fire still in their bones. They’ve come because I called them. And they’ve come because they know something’s changed.
I stand at the head of the chamber on the raised platform, Ayla by my side.
She wears what I gave her—a sleeveless leather tunic lined with the thread of ancestral bone, her collar polished bright, the ceremonial dagger strapped to her thigh. Her hair is down, curling in wild golden waves that make her look like a storm in human skin.
She’s nervous. I can smell it—sweet and sharp and alluring.
But she doesn’t flinch. She holds her chin up, eyes scanning the crowd like she’s weighing them all and daring them to weigh her back.
My warriors feast on raw meat and honeyfire, drink thick black marrow-wine, roar with laughter and slap each other bloody. But their eyes keep flicking back to her. Curious. Wary. Some jealous.
Good.
I raise my clawed hand and the room stills.
“This is Ayla Verne,” I say. No yelling needed. My voice cuts through the chamber like a blade. “She is not cargo. She is not spoil. She is mine.”
A few murmurs ripple—some doubt, some intrigue.
I bare my teeth. “She is clan. You will honor her as you honor me. And if anyone thinks to challenge that—step forward.”
Silence.
Then one voice, deep and scarred. “Does she bleed with us?”
It’s Jarn, the oldest among us, one of the last to wear the bone mask in battle. He rises from his crouch, long limbs unfolding, eyes like flint.
“She will,” I say.
Ayla stiffens, and I glance down.
“It’s a rite,” I murmur. “You will be marked. Not hurt.”
Her throat works, then she nods.
So we begin.
The bloodfire is brought out—a living flame contained in a bone basin. It hisses when touched by Reaper flesh, branding the chosen with a sigil older than our species’ memory.
Ayla steps forward. She looks at the fire. Then at me.
“I trust you,” she whispers.
I hand her the blade. A curved crescent of bone and obsidian. “Draw your blood. One cut. Here.” I guide her hand to the inside of her forearm.
She doesn’t hesitate.
The blood beads bright red, startling against her pale skin. She holds it over the basin. The fire roars as it drinks.
The clan shouts approval, the sound deafening.
Then the bone-song begins.
They howl in harmony, their voices low and droning, rising like thunder from deep in their chests. It’s the song of mates—of the Ishani, the First Bonded. It hasn’t been sung since before I was born.
I see the way Ayla shivers, not from fear—but from recognition. Something primal stirs behind her eyes, some ancient thread inside her quivering like a string plucked by fate.
