“Elevated adrenaline,” the wand announces.
“Wonder why,” I mutter, easing back another half-step.
The medic glances toward the Warlord and tilts his head a fraction. A silent request.
I’m caught in their silent, coordinated motion. Rythar steps in, hands closing around my shoulder and injured arm just as the medic's wand touches me again. There’s no pain.
“No,” he says. The word isn’t loud, but it leaves no room for argument. I’m not going anywhere while he’s watching.
The cool, medicated patch seals itself around my arm and soothes the ache. Rythar lets go the moment the patch holds.
I draw back. “Don’t touch me,” I say harshly.
He inclines his head once in acknowledgment.
They finish the sweep. We are catalogued, patched, sorted. The clearing smells of metal, rain, and the sharp scent their tech leaves in the air. The tech is generations past anything New Terra had. It's also curiously uniform. The same design language on the wands, the patches, the armor, like nothing here has been redesigned in centuries.
“Can you stop that frequency thing or whatever your armor is doing before our teeth rattle out of our heads?” I ask.
Rythar circles back toward me. “No. Sound is shield. Keeps safe. You leader?”
He doesn’t speak our language well, but we understand him. The women’s eyes are on me.
I shake my head.
“She is the leader,” Ex O Drenz says through his translator device.
I sigh. “Fine. What do you want?”
Rythar frowns, motions to Ex O Drenz, who answers. "You are assets. Critical to genetic restoration. Preservation of your cohort is paramount.”
I laugh, and it comes out bitter. “So we’re just breeder stock.”
The leader's jaw tightens. “Crude language.”
I wasn't expecting that. Threats, yes. A vocabulary correction, no. "And your intent isn't?"
He steps closer. The others hold their line. The armor, up close, looks less like metal and more like skin. It flexes over coppery muscle.
Rythar’s focus on me never breaks. “No. We follow law. You will as well.”
I don’t like what he means.
He sees my reaction, motions again to Ex O Drenz.
“Under custody, you will be protected,” the Ex O says. “Fed. Sheltered. No harm will come unless you attempt escape or violence. This is the law of the Astra Conventum.”
“And if we do attempt it?” I ask.
The Ex O’s tone doesn’t change. “Then Warlord Rythar will subdue you. This is the law of Xytheos.”
I catch a glance from Sophia, just out of the corner of my eye, and her words come back to me.
Let them think we're weak.
But I don’t know how far they’re going to take this. They say they’ll protect us—but who will protect us from them? No human has a chance fighting their way through these Xytheans.
Rythar watches the reaction flicker through me. His hand twitches as though he means to reach for me.And what would stop him?
