Khari doesn’t waste time. She gestures, and I follow her into the chamber. It's dim, lit only by the faint bioluminescent glow of hanging fungi and the flicker of low-burning flame. A stone slab waits. I lie back, bare my belly. Her fingers are like claws, gnarled and steady as they trace over my skin.
A silence stretches—long and taut. I think I might scream.
Then she speaks.
“You are with child.”
The words drop like a boulder in my chest. I can’t breathe.
But then—slowly—I can. Because the terror, the disbelief, the holyfuckof it all… it morphs. Ittwists. And what rises isn’t fear. Not entirely.
It’s pride.
My hand flattens over my stomach. There’s nothing to see. Not yet. But Ifeelit. The faintest flicker of something foreign. Fierce. Mine.
Khari isn’t smiling. “You do not understand what you carry.”
I blink. “It’s a baby. My baby.”
“It is not human.” Her voice is harder now. “It will have fangs before it has fingers. Bone spurs before bones. It will tear you, girl. From the inside.”
I swallow. My pulse trips. “But Icancarry it?”
“With help. With luck. And with these.” She lifts a bundle of dried herbs, tight-wound into tight sachets. “You will take them. Daily. They will suppress the child’s traits. Delay the pain. Shield your womb.”
I nod, reaching out with trembling fingers. The sachets are warm. They pulse faintly against my palm.
Khari catches my wrist before I can pull away.
“But know this, Ayla of Earth. The suppressant will not last forever. It will work only as long as your blood permits. After birth, the child will grow quickly. The bone will surface. You must be ready.”
I can’t speak.
She leans in, blind eyes close. “Reaper babes do not coo. Theyhunt. Even in their sleep.”
I nod once, because it’s all I can do.
Later, when I slip back into the shadows of the jungle, the sachets tucked beneath my cloak, I don’t feel weak.
I feelready.
CHAPTER 14
KALLUS
The air inside the war chamber is hot with static and simmering pride. Holo-emitters whir softly, casting ghostly blue images of chieftains from across the Reaper-held systems. Their visages flicker—one scarred and cloaked in beast-hide, another encased in bone-plated armor stained with fresh ichor. Warriors all, leaders of scattered clans, brought together only when the scent of blood or threat carries far enough.
“IHC ships near the Vrekari moons,” snarls Warlord Oshen of the Dreadmarrow. “Three cruisers. Didn’t fire, but they sure as void weren’t sightseeing.”
“Their optics are mapping our fortresses,” rumbles Sahrak Bonegrinder, his tusks twitching with distaste. “Just like they did before the Echelon Purge.”
Murmurs ripple through the circle. Reapers don’t scare easily—but history breeds caution, and this smells too familiar.
“Earth-spawned bastards breed like spore-rats,” mutters Yul’sha the Ember-Eyed, her voice smoky with disdain. “They flood the stars with their ships, their tech, their treaties. If they mean to press into Reaper space, we should burn their scouts down to metal slag.”
“They are not pressing,” I say, slowly, carefully. “They are... probing.”
They all turn to me. Chieftain. Strategist. The war-wolf they follow—but only as long as I lead with strength.
