The guards exchanged glances, their body language shifting to alertness. One of them—a Andurian with scarred hide the color of old bruises and cold eyes that had seen too much death—stepped forward, his hand resting on the blaster at his hip.
"Persico's not taking visitors."
"Then I'll see whoever's in charge." I kept my voice level, reasonable. "Tell them Ahrick wants an audience."
The Andurian's eyes narrowed, recognition flickering across his face. "The pit fighter."
"That's right."
Another exchange of glances between the guards, silent communication passing between them. Then the Andurian pulled out a comm unit and spoke into it in a low voice I couldn't quite hear, his words muffled and indistinct.
A moment later, he nodded, apparently receiving instructions through his earpiece.
"You can go in. But you leave your weapons here."
I wasn't carrying any weapons. Hadn't bothered. Didn't need to.
My body was weapon enough. My claws, my teeth, my strength—they were all I needed to kill a human male.
They patted me down anyway—thorough, professional, their hands checking every pocket and fold of my clothing, ensuring I wasn't concealing anything that could be used as a weapon. Then one of them opened the door, the heavy metal panel sliding aside with a hydraulic hiss.
"Straight ahead."
I walked through.
The corridor beyond was dimmer than I'd expected, lit only by strips of emergency lighting mounted near the floor that cast everything in shades of red and shadow, making the metalwalls look like they were stained with blood. The walls were thick, riveted and reinforced with additional plating welded into place, and the air smelled like recycled oxygen and something else.
Fear.
I could taste it on my tongue—sharp and metallic, the scent of sweat and anxiety that had soaked into the very walls.
The corridor opened into a larger chamber, and I stopped at the threshold, taking in the scene before me.
The throne room.
It was exactly as I remembered it from the few times I'd been summoned here—cobbled together from scrap metal and salvaged ship parts, with Persico's throne dominating the center of the space. A massive chair built to accommodate a Kerzak's bulk, decorated with trophies from defeated enemies: weapons, armor pieces, skulls of various species mounted on spikes.
But Persico wasn't sitting in it.
Hewes was.
He sat sprawled in the throne like he owned it, like he'd been born to sit there, one leg thrown over the armrest in a posture of casual dominance, a glass of something amber in his hand. Expensive liquor, probably—the kind that had to be smuggled from off-world at ridiculous cost. He looked relaxed. Comfortable. Completely at ease in his stolen power.
And to the left of the throne, in a cage barely large enough to contain his bulk, was Persico.
The Kerzak crime lord was on his knees, his massive body hunched forward, his head bowed under the weight of heavy chains. His dark eyes burned with humiliation and hatred, but the chains wrapped around his wrists and neck kept him immobilized, bolted to the floor of the cage.
He looked like a beast in a zoo, a once-mighty predator reduced to an exhibition for others' amusement.
My hands clenched into fists at my sides, claws extending slightly before I forced them to retract.
"Ahrick." Hewes's voice was smooth, pleased, like he was greeting an old friend. "I was wondering when you'd come to see me. Took longer than I expected."
I didn't look at him immediately. Kept my eyes on Persico, studying the Kerzak's condition.
The crime lord met my gaze, and something passed between us. Recognition. Understanding. A shared hatred of the man sitting in the stolen throne.
The enemy of my enemy.
