The medics work quickly, cutting away scorched plating and sealing the worst of the wound with portable cauterization tools.The smell of burned flesh mingles with the lingering ozone in the air.
“You require sedation for internal repair,” the chief medic says firmly.
“No,” I reply.
“Captain—”
“No,” I repeat, meeting her gaze.
Rethan exhales slowly. “You’re losing blood.”
“I am not unconscious,” I say.
“You will be,” the medic counters.
“Stabilize me,” I order. “Nothing more.”
The medic exchanges a look with Elara.
“He can’t be sedated,” Elara says quietly. “Not now.”
Rethan’s expression shifts. “What else?”
The answer comes in the form of a cascade of incoming transmissions.
Clan Vorthan.
Clan Serekh.
Clan Drae.
“Open,” I say.
Vorthan’s chieftain appears first, his expression sharp and triumphant.
“You left territory undefended,” he says without preamble. “Alliance patrols did not cross into our zones, but internal skirmishes have begun. Minor holdings seized.”
“By whom?” I ask.
“By those who doubt your strength,” he replies.
Another transmission overlays his—Serekh’s matriarch.
“Formal challenges have been declared,” she says coolly. “Your absence invited them.”
Rethan mutters something under his breath.
“You question my authority while we bleed for survival,” I say evenly.
“We question vulnerability,” Vorthan counters. “You risked fleets for a human.”
“I exposed manipulation that would have eradicated us,” I reply.
“And now you are wounded,” Serekh says. “Your enemies scent blood.”
The metaphor is not inaccurate.
“Name your champion,” Vorthan says bluntly. “Ritual proceedings cannot be delayed.”
