“She chose you.”
Another psyblade.
“I… yes.” The admission scraped raw. He forced the next words out anyway. “I didn’t expect it. I never intended—”
“Intention matters less than outcome.”
Zirene crossed the space in three strides, shadow swallowing light as he moved. Up close, the sheer mass of him made Zyxel’s scales want to flare. Make himself larger. Defend.
He didn’t.
Control. Maintain control.
“You’re clan now.” Zirene’s tone stayed flat. Cold. A verdict instead of a welcome. “Don’t make me regret accepting that.”
V’dim’s tentacles shifted, the smallest ripple of movement. “Clanbrother.” One word, gentle and edged. “He’d pledged himself to her, and the bond formed naturally.”
“Naturally.” Zirene frowned, then the edge dulled into something tired. His gaze flicked toward the nestbed, toward the heart of this territory. “Nothing about my Nova—my Beacon, our Nestqueen—has ever beennatural.”
A breath slipped from him, slow and worn.
“And yet she has a way of making things feel inevitable. Like they were always meant to be. She adapts. Accepts what’s asked of her, even when it shouldn’t be hers to carry.”
Zyxel felt his tail loosen a fraction before discipline snapped it back into place.
“Perhaps not,” Zyxel said carefully. “But my bond with Selena is real. As real as anything I’ve ever known. I won’t abuse it.”
Zirene studied him. Not hostility, not even anger—more like the grim calculation of a leader drowning in war, deciding what he could afford to believe.
The shadow pulled back, settling closer to Zirene’s skin like a mantle instead of a weapon.
“We’ll see,” Zirene said at last. “When this war is done, I want to understand what you are. Your Rkekh self.” A pause. “Not now. After we win.”
Z’fir moved then, passing close enough that his vines brushed Zyxel’s shoulder. Not aggressive. Not affectionate. Present. An acknowledgement that landed like a mark.
“You fought well in the arena,” Z’fir said. “Kaede speaks—grudgingly—of your skill.”
“Kaede speaks grudgingly of everything,” V’dim added, and something like humor flickered between the nestbrothers. “Including the weather.”
The tension shifted by careful degrees. Not forgiveness. Not acceptance. But tolerance—the recognition that Selena had chosen, and arguing with her choice wouldn’t stop the war.
Zirene lowered himself onto the nest’s edge. Casual dominance. Territory claimed without needing to say it. His shadow spread across the sheets like spilled ink.
“The separation begins at dawn,” Zirene said, his voice hardening. “I leave for the front lines. V’dim and Z’fir will follow within days to join the Sol system defense once the female fleet arrives.”
Zyxel’s scales prickled. “And Selena?”
“Destima.” Zirene’s jaw tightened. “With reduced protection.”
A list, clipped and sharp. “Kaede. Xylo. Odelm.” Then the pause—heavy with what Zirene didn’t say, as his gaze drilled into him.
“And you.”
The responsibility landed on Zyxel’s shoulders like physical weight.
Four males to guard the Beacon against an empire of hunters. Against a threat that had followed a scent across galaxies.
Not enough. Nowhere near enough.
