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Chapter Text

The shuttle shuddered like a beast straining against its leash. Lyra pressed herself closer to the viewport despite the restraint harness biting into her shoulders. Her breath misted faintly against the reinforced glass, quickly smearing into fog that blurred the sight of the world below. She wiped it with her sleeve, unwilling to lose a single glimpse. There it was. The planet. From orbit, it had appeared formidable—scars of volcanic activity etched across its surface, ash storms swirling in colossal spirals. But as the shuttle descended through the atmosphere's burn, the planet unveiled itself in a breathtaking display.

Beneath the bruised clouds, expansive valleys stretched, their darkness interrupted by rivers of molten rock that snaked like veins through the Earth. And beyond, defiant forests rose—canopies the colour of deep emerald, so vast they seemed to dance on the volcanic winds. It was a world alive, clawing against destruction, a sight that filled Lyra with a sense of wonder and amazement. A world alive, clawing against destruction. Her heart soared. She forgot the ache of the harness, forgot the static sting of recycled air, forgot everything but the sharp, beautiful truth of it: she was here. "Five minutes to drop zone," came Tessa's voice over the comm, casual but edged with focus. The cabin lights dimmed to amber. Equipment racks rattled against the turbulence, the metallic clangs punctuating the ship's low groan.

Lyra adjusted the strap of her satchel, fingers brushing the smooth casing of the sample vials secured at her hip. Her personal talisman - proof she wasn't dreaming. Weeks of training, months of planning, years of research—it had all led to this. Their mission is to study the unique ecosystem of this volcanic planet and understand how life thrived in such extreme conditions. This understanding could potentially revolutionize the knowledge of life in the universe and pave the way for future interplanetary exploration and colonization. Across from her, Dr. Reza, their geologist, swore softly in Farsi as the shuttle jolted hard enough to bang his head against the side rail. He rubbed at his temple with exaggerated drama. His expertise in geology was unquestionable; his knowledge was a reassuring presence in the face of the unknown, a testament to the careful planning and selection of the crew for this mission. They had undergone rigorous training and simulations, preparing for every possible scenario.

Their competence was their shield against the dangers of this alien world. Lyra turned, suppressing a smile. "You'll live. Think of the seismic data you'll get. A living volcano system—untouched, unstudied. This place could rewrite half the textbooks on tectonics." Reza rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched. "I'd rather the textbooks stay the same and my bones stay intact." "Your bones will be fine," Lyra said. "Besides—lava doesn't bite." "Tell that to Pompeii," he retorted. That earned him a snort from Tessa up in the cockpit. She had one boot braced against the console, fingers flying across the controls with the relaxed confidence of someone who lived half her life strapped into metal coffins plummeting through space. Her voice was a low drawl as she glanced back at them. "Reza, if the tectonics shift under us, I'll have us airborne before you finish whining. Lyra's right—you worry too much." There was a strong sense of camaraderie in her words, a shared understanding of the risks they faced, and a unity that would see them through.

They were more than just colleagues; they were a team, bound by their shared mission and the trust they had in each other. Reza's eyes twinkled with a mix of annoyance and amusement, and Lyra couldn't help but smile at the familiar banter. "You don't worry enough," Dr. Chen said quietly, never lifting his gaze from the medkit he was methodically checking. He was steady as always, his voice a calm undercurrent that carried even through the roar of engines. He tightened a strap, then gave Tessa a flat look. "Overconfidence kills faster than lava." Tessa grinned, showing a chipped tooth. "So does boredom, Doc." From the far side of the cabin, Dr. Asher let out a sharp exhale, more of a scoff than a sigh. He sat with arms folded, boots planted, his expression set in a mask of cool disinterest. He had said little the entire descent, but now his gaze flicked toward Lyra, who was still pressed half out of her harness to catch every detail beyond the viewport. "You're going to smear up the glass before we even land. Try to contain yourself, Botanist." Lyra flushed and pulled back an inch, though the grin tugging at her lips refused to fade. They could tease all they wanted. They didn't understand. Not the way she did.

The shuttle bucked again, harder this time, alarms chiming sharply in the cabin. Heat roared against the hull, the acrid tang of ozone thick in the air. For a heartbeat, the world outside was only fire. Then—suddenly—calm. The turbulence dropped away as though cut. The amber lights steadied. Through the viewport, clouds broke into ragged swathes of sunlight. And there it was. The valley stretched below them, a cradle of black basalt fringed by jagged ridges. At its heart, an open clearing lay veiled in drifting ash. Around it, colossal trees towered—trunks like twisted pillars, canopies unfurling wide as sails. Light pierced through in fractured beams, painting the world in molten gold and shadow. The trees, unlike any on Earth, seemed to pulse with a strange energy, their leaves shimmering in the alien sunlight. It was a sight that filled Lyra with a sense of awe and a tinge of fear. This was a world unlike any she had ever seen, and it was both beautiful and terrifying in its alienness. Lyra's breath caught - she couldn't wait to get to studying the flora.

The shuttle touched down with a final shudder. The engines groaned, then fell to a low hum. Silence filled the cabin, thick and expectant. "Survey Site Theta," Tessa announced, voice light. "Population: five idiots and one optimist." Her tone was light, but there was an underlying confidence in the crew's readiness for the mission. Lyra unbuckled before the others had finished chuckling, her pulse a drum in her throat. The hiss of the airlock depressurizing filled her chest with a sensation akin to reverence. They were here, and they were ready to make history. The drones went first—sleek spheres that lifted on repulsors, buzzing into the clearing with bright beams cutting the haze. Readouts pinged green: breathable atmosphere. Hot. Sulfur-heavy. But survivable. Lyra followed them out. Her boots crunched against soil dark as coal. Ash clung to the air, settling in her hair and on her lashes. Heat radiated from cracks in the Earth, distorting the air in shimmering waves. The stench of sulphur and iron filled her lungs, sharp and bitter, and yet—Life. A cluster of vines clung stubbornly to the basalt just meters from the landing site. Their surfaces glowed faintly with inner light, veins pulsing in hues of bioluminescent blue. Lyra froze. A thousand instincts warred in her chest—catalogue, sketch, sample, touch. Her knees hit the ground before she realized she had knelt, her gloves brushing the soil inches from the vines. "Hello, beautiful," she whispered.

Behind her, Reza groaned. "She's talking to dirt again." Lyra's lips curved. "Not dirt. Life." Lyra brushed her fingers over the delicate tendrils, careful not to disturb them. The pulse beneath the soil felt fragile, but insistent, as though the planet itself whispered beneath her gloves. She wanted to stay, to listen, to sketch—but bootsteps thudded around her, breaking the fragile spell. "Come on, botanist," Captain Imani called, hefting a crate from the shuttle's ramp. "We've got a camp to raise before the next flare." Lyra lingered a heartbeat longer, eyes tracing the vine as though it might vanish if she looked away. With reluctance, she pushed herself upright, brushing grit from her knees. The living soil hummed in her mind even as she turned to join the others.

The rest of the day blurred into a rhythm. Prefab shelters unfolded from crates with the hiss of hydraulics, locking into place with metallic groans. Solar panels clicked open like mechanical petals, drinking the fractured light. Power nodes were driven into the basalt with sharp metallic clangs. The crew moved in sync despite their banter. Tessa barked instructions as she wrangled the power grid. Reza cursed at his seismic gear when it refused to calibrate. Chen checked oxygen scrubbers twice before giving a terse nod. Asher muttered about "structural inefficiencies" under his breath but lent his strength to hauling crates nonetheless. By nightfall, the base stood—a rough ring of shelter pods, lab tents, and a mess canopy, all huddled against the ash-choked wind.

The smell of scorched plastic and sulphur filled every breath. Lyra thrived in it. By day, she vanished into the periphery, cataloguing ferns that folded in on themselves when touched, mosses that spiralled tightly as springs when disturbed. She pressed samples between pages, sketched frantic outlines of alien blossoms, and filled data slates with comparative analysis. Every discovery was a thrill that lit her chest. By night, she scribbled under lamplight, translating notes into both technical jargon and curling sketches. Sometimes she doodled leaves spiralling into galaxies. Sometimes she only wrote single words—Alive. Strange. Waiting.

The others teased her. "You're going to name half this forest after yourself," Tessa said one evening, tossing her a ration bar with lazy precision. "Not at all," Lyra replied, grin crooked as she scribbled. "These things already have names. We just don't know them yet." Even Asher smiled faintly at that.

The fire of their banter smoldered into quieter moments. The lamplight cast long shadows across their little camp, and beyond the ring of prefab shelters, the jungle pressed in—vast, unbroken, watching. When Lyra paused to flex her cramped fingers, she noticed it: how the laughter seemed to fall flat against the silence. No rustle of wings. No trill of unseen creatures. Just the thrum of generators and the scratch of her pen.

"Storm coming?" Reza muttered, glancing up at the canopy. The air was heavy, but still. Tessa shook her head. "No wind." Then it came—a shift. Not sound, exactly. More like weight. A ripple through the trees, leaves trembling without a breeze. Lyra's stylus hovered mid-stroke. Chen's hand strayed to his rifle. For an instant, something vast seemed to move beyond the firelight —a darker shadow sliding between the trunks.

"Did you see—" Lyra began. But when they all turned, the jungle was still again. Only the glow of their own lights stared back at them, reflected in a thousand glossy leaves. Reza forced a laugh, too loud. "Nerves. That's all." Yet no one spoke for a long while after. And yet—the silence never left them.

The jungle held its breath. The drones returned with scratches gouged across their casings, as though something massive had swiped at them. Footprints appeared near the perimeter. Not human. Too large. Too deliberate. Reza laughed it off, muttering about paranoia. Chen checked his rifle twice as often. Asher fell quieter, his gaze flicking to the tree line when he thought no one was watching. Lyra found herself listening too often for the wrong things. The wind carried silence—listening silence. One morning, she found a stalk she had tagged and catalogued—snapped clean in half. Not chewed. Not trampled. Deliberate. As though by hand. She didn't tell the others. For the rest of the day, Lyra couldn't shake the image—the stalk split so cleanly, the fibres splayed like torn muscle. She kept glancing over her shoulder as she worked, half-expecting to find more broken stems, more signs that someone—or something—had been there first.

But when the sun dipped and the shadows stretched long across the camp, routine pulled her back into the orbit of the others. That night, the campfire hissed against the damp air. Sparks crackled up into the dark like fireflies. The smell of ash mixed with something faintly peppery—Tessa had dug up a root that spiced the bland rations into something almost edible. The crew sat scattered around the flames. Reza muttered numbers into his datapad, sketching ridgelines with his stylus. Tessa leaned back on her elbows, grinning as she teased Chen about his perpetual frown. Chen repaired a glove with quiet patience. Asher watched the forest, his silence a weight all its own.

Lyra wrote: Field Journal, Entry 52: Soil samples stable. Observed carnivorous flora with retractable spines—possible sensory adaptation. Fungal colonies dim under UV exposure, indicating a potential defence mechanism. Notation: moss spiral indicates environmental stress response. Recommend comparative sampling at multiple elevations. She hesitated. The stylus hovered. Personal note: The jungle is too quiet. Too deliberate. As though the silence itself is waiting. Her throat tightened. She stared at the words, then slowly erased them.

The fire cracked. Sparks rose. Beyond the ring of light, the forest loomed vast and breathing. Watching. The night pressed down heavy, like a lid closing over flame. The campfire hissed against the damp, alien air, its thin smoke curling into the canopy where shadows tangled like webbing. Lyra sat near the edge of the light, journal on her knees, stylus tapping absently as her ears strained for the rhythms of the jungle. The insect hum had thinned. Even the croak of those frog-like things by the marsh had gone silent. She wrote: Entry: Day 4. Night? Fungal colonies react to contact with bioluminescent flare, retracting their caps. Possibly a survival mechanism… Her hand hovered. The silence pressed harder. She wanted to write what she really felt—Something is watching us. But she knew if she did, the words would take shape in her chest and never leave. She closed the journal instead.

"Still romancing the dirt?" Tessa asked, chewing on a strip of dried rations of meat, her wiry frame hunched forward like a coiled spring. The pilot-mechanic never really relaxed, constantly twitching at the edge of motion. "Not dirt," Lyra said softly. "Soil. Entire ecosystems live here. You're sitting on more organisms than your stomach could hold." "Mm," Tessa grinned around the piece of jerky, "romancing it." Reza snorted, fiddling with a cracked sensor casing. "Careful, Tess. If she leaves us for the mud, you're flying this heap home alone." The banter should've been comforting. Usually, it was. But tonight, every sound seemed too loud, too fragile against the weight of silence pressing in from the trees. Dr. Asher broke the unease with his usual dry timing, scribbling into his datapad without glancing up. "If something is out there, it's probably avoiding us because of your voice, Tessa. Predators prefer subtlety." "Cute, Doc," she said, tossing the remaining of the jerky at him. He didn't even flinch when it bounced off his boot. Chen, the medic, just shook his head with that tired patience he always carried, running a finger along the seam of his kit. "You're all acting like kids telling ghost stories. The drones picked up nothing." "The drones came back scratched," Lyra reminded, sharper than she meant. That killed the mood. For a moment, no one spoke. The fire spat embers.

Something distant cracked—wood? Bone? The sound of it echoed too long. Reza cleared his throat, as though dragging them back to normalcy. "Maybe a tectonic shift. This planet breathes differently. I've been telling you—" A terrifying scream drowned out the rest of his words. It tore out of the forest like metal shearing apart, high and raw, cutting the night wide open. Not an animal call. Not a human voice. A thing being ended. The crew froze. Lyra's journal slipped from her lap; her pulse thundered in her ears.

Chen was first to move. "Inside, now—" A thundering, threatening roar drummed in the air. Trees shuddered. Birds—if they were birds—erupted in a panicked cloud overhead, their wings slapping the air. Shadows moved between the trunks, massive and deliberate. Tessa was already on her feet, wrench in hand. "That's no quake, Reza." The geologist's hands shook as he fumbled with his scanner. "I—I can't get a reading. It's—static—" Then the first of them broke the treeline. It shimmered into existence like something peeling itself out of the air—first distortion, then flesh, then armour. Massive. Humanoid in outline, but too tall and broad, with a ridged head and dreadlock-like tendrils of thick hair. The firelight caught on its mask, sleek metal carved with scars. The crew stumbled back. "What the—" Asher choked, voice cracking for once. The creature raised something that gleamed—a spear—longer than a man's height. And behind it, two more emerged. All different—masks shaped with grotesque flares, tusks jutting from carved bone armour, weapons glinting. One carried what looked like a whip made of segmented blades. Another dragged a hooked blade across the ground, sparks snapping off stone.

"Move!" Chen shoved Lyra toward the lab tent. The whip cracked. Chen jerked back with a strangled sound—his arm—gone from the elbow down. Blood sprayed across the dirt, steaming in the firelight. Lyra screamed, reaching for him, but Tessa yanked her back. "Run, damn you!" The camp erupted. Equipment crashed, fires flared higher as bodies shoved into motion. Drones buzzed up, beams swivelling wildly, before one was swatted from the air with a single strike. It exploded against the rock. Lyra stumbled, clutching her satchel instinctively, her eyes wide as the world around her began to collapse. Reza ran for the shuttle. He didn't make it two steps before a spear pinned him through the chest to the ground, body convulsing as the brutal alien being leaned down and studied his twitching face before wrenching the weapon free. Tessa bellowed in rage, swinging her wrench as if it weighed nothing, slamming it against the masked face of the nearest monster. It barely flinched. A clawed hand closed around her throat, lifted her kicking into the air. Her curse strangled in her mouth. The thing tilted its head, curious, before driving a curved blade through her stomach. Lyra couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Every instinct screamed at her to hide, to vanish, but her body wouldn't move. Asher fired the emergency flare gun. The red streak cut the night, searing across the canopy. For a heartbeat, Lyra thought maybe—just maybe—someone would see it, someone would come. The monster with the whip caught the flare mid-air. Crushed it in one clawed hand, sizzling out of existence. The night went dark again. Asher dropped the gun. "That's—That's not—" The spear caught him through the throat before he could finish.

The smell—metal, blood, burned resin—clogged Lyra's throat. Her vision blurred with tears. She backed against the outside wall of the lab tent, squeezing herself between two generators, her hands trembling as she clutched her useless satchel. The sound of blood-curdling screams of her comrades - her friends, along with disturbing, brutal noises that followed. Lyra glanced out from her hiding place; Chen was still alive, crawling, blood trailing in thick smears. He reached for her, mouth forming her name— One of them crouched over him, purr-like clicking coming behind the mask. It pressed a talon-like hand against his back, pinning him gently, almost tenderly. Chen gasped once, then went still. She slapped a hand over her mouth to stop the sob from breaking loose, but it was too late. The monster above Chen's body turned toward her, followed by the other two, which came to stand next to it to join in the staring. Three pairs of eyes—glowing faintly behind metal—fixed on the last survivor. Their shoulders heaved, but they seemed to hesitate to move, as if waiting. And then… the forest itself seemed to shudder.

A weight entered the clearing. It was not noise at first, but pressure—a heaviness in the air that crushed her lungs. He was larger than they were. Broader, taller, his armour a patchwork of bone and scarred metal, each plate gouged with memories of war. Spikes jutted like broken teeth along his shoulders, and fused to his mask was a jagged crown of bone, an ugly, deliberate mark of rank. He moved without haste, but with the inevitability of a tide rolling in—impossible to stop, impossible to escape. Even the other giants - these unknown executioners that sprang out from the jungle- stepped back, their weapons lowering in deference. Lyra's mouth worked soundlessly. Her legs refused to obey. This was no nightmare beast lunging with fury—this was something worse. He loomed over her, filling her vision, and when he lowered his head just slightly, the firelight slid across the planes of his mask—etched with cracks, carved with cruel precision. His hand rose. She flinched, expecting the blow. Instead, two fingers brushed her hair, plucking a strand loose and holding it as if weighing it. The touch was too careful, too deliberate—like a jeweller inspecting a gem, like a child reaching for a fragile toy. Then came the sound. A low, resonant rumble—so deep it thrummed in her ribs. Was this thing in front of her speaking? The others roared in response, a chorus of triumph and bloodlust that shook the trees. Weapons lifted, the large executioners shaking their heads in a gesture of exultation. But the towering one didn't look at them. His hand closed around her arm, talon-like tip fingers wrapping with terrifying gentleness. Not crushing. Not yet, at least. The world tilted, the fire snapping into streaks of red and gold as darkness surged at the edges of her vision. She thought she heard her own heartbeat, the weight of his clawed hand anchoring her as everything else collapsed. And the world went dark.

Chapter Text

Consciousness returned in waves of heat. Lyra's lashes fluttered, her mouth dry, her body heavy as if gravity itself had redoubled and chosen her alone to crush. She wasn't on the ship. She wasn't in camp. Her back pressed against something smooth and hot—stone, not fabric. A faint red glow licked the edges of her vision. Firelight.

Her eyes opened fully, stinging with smoke. Braziers set into carved alcoves guttered and hissed, their flames fed by oils that spat sparks into the air. Shadows stretched long and jagged across the chamber walls, which were etched and marked with grotesque trophies—alien skulls, twisted horns, the hollowed faces of creatures she couldn't name. Hides hung like banners, cracked and leathery, stitched together with bone cord. Some still bore the outlines of claws or scales. Others, gods help her, looked sickeningly human.

A low sound rippled through the air. A growl—deep, vibrating, almost a purr. It came again, closer this time, syllables curling in a guttural tongue. Harsh. Alien. A language she didn't know. Lyra's pulse spiked. Slowly, she turned her head and froze in fear; her captor crouched beside her.

The towering figure cast a shadow that blotted out half the firelight. His mask was gone. The full horror of his face loomed close: scarred hide thick and mottled, tusks curving from mandibles sharp as ivory blades, and eyes like two yellow suns staring intently. Dreadlocks—ropes of dense, dark hair bound in metal rings—swung forward to brush against the skin of her knees as he leaned closer. He inhaled—a deliberate, shuddering breath. Lyra scrambled back in instinctive terror, but her leg jolted to a halt. A massive hand clamped around her ankle, talon-tipped fingers biting into her delicate flesh, never piercing, but the message was clear - she wouldn't escape. The monster lowered himself, his enormous frame caging her in without the need of chains or ropes; his presence alone pinned her.

"Stay away from me," she whispered, voice raw, barely more than breath.

He didn't listen. A single claw-tipped finger extended, tracing her jawline with the care of someone toying with a fragile object. The sensation of the claw tip slowly moving up her jawline was rough and deliberate, tilting her chin until her throat lay bare and exposed. Then he bent lower. Mandibles brushed her temple. She felt the rasp of their edges against her skin before his tongue—hot, alien, serpentine—slid slowly across her cheek. Lyra gagged, wrenching her head aside. Her hands shoved weakly against his chest, but the captor's hand that held her ankle loosened before it was slammed against the spot beside her head, stone cracking under the force. She let out a sharp, fearful cry, which seemed to amuse her captor. Another growl rumbled from him, words thick and incomprehensible.

"What do you want from me?" she gasped, choking on panic.

In answer, the beast reached into the shadows. When his hand emerged, it carried a device: a collar of sleek black metal that thrummed faintly with an energy she didn't understand.

He lifted it toward her throat, mandibles flaring in something like satisfaction. The growl came again, sharper this time, and before she could twist away, his hand struck like a striking predator.

The collar snapped shut around her neck.

It hissed. Seamless, self-adjusting, prongs kissing her flesh with a sting of heat. Lyra clawed at it desperately, fingers scrabbling at smooth metal, but there was no clasp, no seam, nothing to tear open. The hum deepened.

"Speak," the monster ordered.

Lyra froze.

The words were clear—his voice was still rough, guttural—but something inside the collar twisted the voice of her captor.

"What have you done to me?" she breathed, horrified.

Her voice came twice: once in her own tongue, then immediately in his.

The beast's eyes gleamed with hunger. "Better."

He pressed his talon hand against her ribs, pinning her further without piercing her skin or crushing her with his enormous weight. "Now I know every word. Every truth. You cannot hide."

Her throat closed. Tears burned at the corners of her eyes. "If you're going to kill me, then do it. Don't—don't play with me."

The monster chuckled. A low, rolling sound that reverberated through her bones.

"Kill?" he repeated. "Others, yes. I kill. I hang skulls in fire. But you…"

He bent closer, tusks scraping the stone by her ear.

"…you are mine."

"I'm not yours," she snapped, though terror hollowed out her chest.

"You will be."

His hand dragged slowly up her ribs, grazing but not cutting, until it was resting against her chest. He slightly pressed—just enough that she felt the flutter of her heartbeat under his talon hand. His mandibles clicked slowly, savouring.

"Your fight makes you sweet," he hissed. "I will taste every breath, every sound."

His hand shifted lower, hovering above her stomach before resting on the curve of her hip. The threat of it, the promise of what he might do, locked every muscle in her body rigid.

He inhaled again, savouring her fear, then drew back just enough to lick the taste of her from his mandibles.

"You will learn," he said softly. "You will scream for me… and then you will beg."

Hot, rattling breath seared her throat as he lowered his head. His tongue slid wetly up the side of her neck.

Lyra gasped, shoving at his chest with renewed desperation. Her vision blurred with tears. A sob ripped free of her throat, broken and panicked.

"Your tears,” he growled, voice thick with something like reverence, "are beautiful. You give such divine gifts."

"Please…" Her voice cracked as sobs overtook her. "Please, just—let me go."

"Go?" His head cocked, mandibles shifting. “Go…? Go…?” Then, abruptly, he rumbled a laugh. "Ah. You're right. We should go."

His arm swept behind her in one sudden, fluid motion, scooping her up as though she weighed nothing. Lyra shrieked, clinging instinctively to the thick cords of muscle at his neck for balance. His chest vibrated with a pleased purr at her reaction. Then he lowered her to her feet. Slowly. Deliberately. Her bare soles touched smooth black stone. Heat pulsed up through it. That's when she realized that her uniform was gone. In its place clung a tunic of silk-like fabric, nearly translucent in the flickering firelight. It hung indecently against her skin, cinched only with a braided cord. The air in the room brushed against the exposed hollows of her body, shame burning hot in her chest. The monster's mandibles spread. His predator's gaze slid from her trembling legs to her fearful face.

"I chose it," he said. His voice was almost reverent, though it held no kindness. "So they will see what I see. Fragile. Soft. Alive. Yours is not armour. Yours is beauty."

His claws flexed slowly at his side. "And beauty is best when bared."

Lyra wrapped her arms tighter around herself, every nerve alight with humiliation.

"Come," he ordered, turning toward the towering doors. "Follow me."

And she did—because disobedience felt like a death she wasn't ready for.

The ground trembled beneath her bare feet. The fortress itself seemed alive, its stone bones groaning with distant seismic shudders. Heat pressed in from fissures in the volcanic rock beneath. The air smelled of ash, of molten earth, of something darker—blood scorched into stone. The corridors twisted upward like veins in a body, lined with lava flows that pulsed through channels carved into the walls. Tribal markings had been scorched into the rock itself, glowing faintly as though the mountain remembered every ritual ever carved into its skin. Her captor strode ahead with unhurried confidence. Lyra's heart pounded with each step she took behind him, the translucent fabric clinging to her sweat-dampened skin. She didn't dare adjust it. She didn't dare breathe too loudly. Even when his back was turned, she felt his gaze burn into her. The corridor widened into a hall, and Lyra froze in place.

Massive columns rose like the spines of titans, each stacked with skulls bleached and grinning. Some were human. Some were not. Long stone tables stretched into the distance, carved with crawling symbols. Flames fed by oil hissed and spat, shadows writhing on the ceiling. It was a cathedral of bone and flame.

The smell struck her next. Charred meat. Blood hot in the air. Marrow boiled from bone. It coated her tongue until she gagged. Dozens of these alien killers feasted. They tore steaming flesh with tusked jaws, grease dripping down their mandibles. They cracked bones for the marrow, tossing scraps to the ground where smaller vermin-like creatures fought over them. Goblets carved from skulls and metal sloshed with dark liquid. Their roars of laughter shook the walls. Lyra's stomach lurched. This wasn't a hall. It was a slaughterhouse dressed as a temple.

But the instant the towering figure entered, silence fell.

At the far end, his throne awaited. A monstrosity of blackened metal and fused bone, ribcage arches rising over it like a shrine. Firelight carved every edge into menace. He moved toward it, unhurried, the silence broken only by fists slamming against armoured chests in respect. Lyra's knees weakened as she followed. The throne rose high. The monster mounted it in one smooth, powerful motion. He sat, colossal and unshaken. Then he turned—and extended a clawed hand toward her. Gesturing. To his lap. The implication was unmistakable.

Her stomach churned. Terror squeezed her throat until she thought she might choke. But slowly, legs shaking, she stepped forward. Climbed the steps. Lowered herself onto his massive thigh. His arm curled around her waist. Heavy. Unyielding. She felt like a doll clutched by a god. The collar hummed at her throat, and his voice purred near her ear. "Good. Obedience is beautiful on you." Lyra flinched but stayed still. Then, slowly, his hands slid into her curls. Stroking, separating strands. With unnerving patience, he began to braid her hair. It should have been tender. But nothing in him was tender. His mandibles brushed her temple. He inhaled at her scalp, slow and lingering, marking her.

"You tremble," he rumbled. "As prey should. Yet still you sit. Still, you obey."

His grip tightened in her hair, tugging her head back until she had no choice but to look him in the eyes. They burned fever-bright, obsessive, unblinking.

"That is why you will not leave me. Fear is the root—but obedience—ah. Obedience blooms into devotion. You will see."

His finger grazed the side of her neck, circling just below the collar, testing where her pulse leapt fastest.

"Yes," he hissed. "Better than bone. Better than skulls. Hair, soft and alive. The braid binds you as the collar does. You are fastened to me, piece by piece."

He tilted her head, admiring his work as though she were an ornament.

"My treasure," he whispered, too low for the others to hear. "My prize. My possession."

The hall erupted with roars and howls, the drum of slamming fists to stone. The sound shook her bones.

The monster leaned back, colossal and calm, his living trophy perched upon his knee.

And Lyra sat frozen, braids tugging at her scalp like chains, the collar humming at her throat, her tears flowing down her cheeks.

The hall still echoed with the slamming of fists, the roar of guttural voices like a storm contained by stone. The towering figure leaned back on his throne, massive hand tightening around Lyra's waist as if to remind her that even seated, even distracted, she was never free. His burning gaze swept over the gathered members of his clan — a sea of tusks, scars, and blood-wet mandibles, every eye lifted to him in absolute devotion. He raised one clawed hand. Silence fell at once. The collar at her throat vibrated with a faint hum, carrying his voice into her understanding. The sound was still guttural, harsh, violent — but the words carved themselves clear in her mind.

"Brothers," he rumbled. His chest rose, the low growl of his speech rolling like thunder. "Blood spills. Flesh burns. The mountain hears us. The galaxy fears us."

A chorus of hisses and snarls shook the air; these aliens thumped the hafts of their weapons on stone. Lyra flinched as the sound struck through her body. Suddenly, Lyra felt her captor's hand against the back of her head and tightened his grip in her hair, forcing her chin high, making her a spectacle for all to see.

"And this," he growled, mandibles flaring as he yanked her closer to his face, "is proof of our supremacy. Their kind — soft, weak, crawling in numbers — yet she is here. Breathing still, because I chose it."

A roar split the hall, savage and unholy, her captor's followers pounding their fists on their chests. Some gnawed at bones like beasts, others lifted skull goblets in tribute. Lyra's stomach turned, humiliation choking her as she felt the monster's claws stroke idly at her hip.

"They call us dishonour," he snarled, his voice rising with fury, "Traitors. Unclean. Badbloods . " The words spat like venom, echoed by hisses from the crowd. He rose halfway from his throne, his massive form towering above them, Lyra still clutched tight to his body as her hands braced against his arm around her waist. "But tell me, my worthy hunters of death — what honour is there in restraint? What strength in silence?!"

The hunters howled their agreement, striking the stone until cracks spidered across it. He raised his left hand high, the firelight striking across scars carved deep in his flesh. "We are not chained. We are not bound. We do not bow to their codes. We drink blood, we take flesh, we wear their screams as trophies!" The hall convulsed in wild, feral uproar, the hunters bellowing like an army unchained. Lyra pressed herself tight to her captor's chest, trying to look away in terror, but his hand, which hooked under her chin, forced her face back toward the crowd.

"You fight for me," he thundered, his tusked mandibles flashing in firelight. "You kill for me. You bleed for me. And in return…" Freeing his hand from Lyra's chin for a moment, he slammed his fist against his chest with a force that rattled the throne. "…I give you worlds to devour."

The throne room shook with their voices, fists striking chests, weapons smashing against stone. The roar was not just sound—it was violence given breath. And then some of them began to scar themselves. Lyra's breath hitched as she watched a hunter seize the blade strapped across his back, dragging it in a deliberate slash over his own chest. The wound split open like meat, and a thick stream of glowing, neon green blood welled up, running in radiant rivulets down his muscled stomach. It hissed faintly against the heat of the hall, casting an eerie glow across the stone. Others followed. Some clawed their own arms, others carved new lines into scars already raised across their torsos. The blood poured freely, luminescent, as though each warrior was spilling fire from their veins. They smeared it across their masks, across their weapons, even across each other, marking themselves in savage devotion.

The sight made Lyra's stomach twist violently. She couldn't stop staring—the brightness of it was wrong, unnatural, too vivid against the chamber's gloom. It painted the room in streaks of toxic light, turning the hunters into demons made of shadow and molten emerald. One warrior slammed his claw into his own thigh, blood bursting across the floor, then fell to one knee and roared his pledge upward. Another bent his head back and let the ichor run across his mandibles, glowing streams dripping down his exposed mouth like diseased honey. Lyra gagged. She pressed her lips tight, fighting the instinct to vomit, but her body trembled in revulsion. The stench hit her nose a moment later—sharp, metallic, acidic. It burned her throat.

The leader—her captor—watched it all with pride swelling in his broad chest. His claws tightened at her waist, forcing her to witness.

"See them," his voice rumbled through the translator-collar, heavy and guttural. "See their truth. Blood is honour. Pain is proof."

The warriors bellowed at his words, some striking themselves harder, deeper, blood spraying across the stone until it glowed like runes written in fire. The hall flickered with their frenzy, green blood etched into every scar. Lyra wanted to shut her eyes, wanted to disappear into some corner of her mind where none of this could reach her. But a forceful grip in her hair forced her gaze up; forced to see, forced to understand: this was worship. Her terror deepened. They weren't just killers. They rejoiced in it. Then, slowly, he sat back, pulling Lyra tight onto his lap again, as if claiming her was the seal on his speech. His breath rasped hot against her temple as the warriors below continued their chants, and he loosened his grip on her braided, brunette hair.

His left hand curled at her throat, just under the collar, talon pressing lightly against her pulse. "Tell me your name," he said, voice low but edged with command.

Lyra froze. The demand coiled through her gut like poison. Her name felt like the last shred of herself she still possessed — the only thing untouched, unsullied. She clenched her jaw, shaking her head, and whispered through the collar's hum, "No."

A long silence. Then, a low laugh. His mandibles brushed her cheek as he leaned close. "Then I will teach you mine."

Her eyes widened. She hadn't expected him to offer that piece of himself.

Her heart pounded in her ribs as his voice rumbled, heavy with pride and danger: "I am your master. I am your hunter. I am the blood that crowns this clan. My name—" His tusks nearly scraped her skin as he hissed it in her ear.

"Krull. The Bloodseeker."

Chapter Text

The name clung to her skin like fire. Krull. The syllables scraped against her mind with a weight she could not shake off, a chain that tethered her to him as surely as the collar at her throat. The Bloodseeker. It was more than a name—it was a title steeped in violence, the sound of every hunt, every skull taken, every kill that had built this monstrous warlord into something the others worshipped.

Lyra's breath came shallow, trembling. She felt the vibration of his voice still lingering in her bones. His talon traced the line of her throat as though to remind her how easily her blood could join the countless others who had been claimed by that name.

Krull's gaze bore down into hers, unyielding, golden irises glowing like molten suns. "Now," he growled, mandibles flexing, "I desire you to be no longer nameless in my hand. I have given you mine. You will give me yours."

The Great Hall around them had not quieted since his address to his clan. The badbloods had returned to their frenzy—some roaring, others gouging their chests with claws until neon green ichor streamed down like warpaint. They smeared it into scars already burned deep into their hides, laughing through the pain, as if bleeding was its own form of glory. Bone goblets clashed together, flesh was ripped apart by tusks and talons, and the air shook with the sound of a hundred throats chanting in alien cadence.

But despite the chaos, Lyra felt as though all eyes still rested on her—on the small, trembling creature perched in Krull's lap like a living prize. His possession. His contradiction.

Her lips trembled. She wanted to spit in his grotesque face, to claw and scream and insist she would die before giving him the only thing she still held as hers. But the heat of his hand at her throat, the weight of his body beside hers, the fire of his name pressed into her ear—it all tangled with her will.

"I…" she began, and her voice cracked, the collar humming and translating even her broken syllable.

Krull's talon pressed a fraction deeper, not enough to pierce, but sufficient to make her pulse flutter violently against the sharp edge. His mandibles clicked in patience, thinning to a warning. "Do not waste breath. Tell me, prey. Your name. Or I will carve it from your fear."

Lyra shut her eyes tight, her mind clawing at the walls of itself. Bargaining, always bargaining. If I tell him, I survive longer. If I tell him, maybe he spares me worse. It's just a word. Just a sound. But it's mine. It's mine.

Her chest heaved. She thought of her mother, of her father, of the name whispered in lullabies long ago. She thought of how it might sound in his guttural tongue, twisted by the collar's translation. Desecrated. Claimed.

Tears leaked hot from the corners of her eyes as she forced the word past her lips. "…Lyra."

The collar hummed, reshaping her sound into his tongue, carrying it into his ears.

Krull's mandibles flared. He drew in a deep, deliberate breath as though tasting the shape of her name in the air itself. His talon eased at her throat, not releasing her, but holding with a possessive steadiness that chilled her deeper than any threat.

"Lyra," he repeated, savouring it, dragging the sound low and long as if he meant to etch it into stone. His other hand, the one braced at her waist, tightened slightly. "Now you are bound. Name to name. Breath to breath."

Around them, his clan howled as though they sensed the moment. Skulls clattered against stone, neon blood smeared brighter on scarred hides. The frenzy redoubled, yet through it all, Krull's voice cut like iron.

"She is mine," he declared as he let go of her throat, raising his taloned hand toward the feasting horde, his grip on her waist a silent proclamation. "Her name is Lyra. Remember it—remember it as the name I keep, the name I will break and bend, the name that sits on my throne!"

The hall erupted in thunderous roars. They pounded fists on stone and slammed claws into their own flesh, chanting her name twisted in their guttural voices. "Ly-ra! Ly-ra!"

Lyra's heart splintered with every echo, shame and terror mixing until she could not tell one from the other. And through it all, Krull lowered his mandibles to her ear again, his voice intimate amidst the chaos.

"You spoke. You obeyed. That is the first step." His tusks grazed her cheek as he hissed her name once more, possessive and unyielding. "Lyra."

The frenzy didn't die quickly. It dragged on, a storm of sound and violence. Badbloods smashed skulls against stone pillars until fragments scattered across the floor like offerings. Others carved fresh gashes into their hides, letting the neon green blood pour and mingle with the fetid smoke of burning meat. Their chants thundered in waves— Ly-ra, Ly-ra, Ly-ra —until it no longer sounded like her name but some terrible mantra born of madness.

Lyra sat rigid in Krull's lap, her pulse hammering beneath her chest. Her throat ached where he had pressed against her pulse, though he hadn't pierced the skin. Every time the clan roared her name, she flinched, wishing she could tear the sound from the air. Wishing she had lied. Wishing she had bitten her own tongue bloody rather than speak.

And yet—part of her couldn't stop trembling at the knowledge that she had bargained and survived another night. That sliver of survival whispered you did what you had to, even as her stomach churned with shame.

Eventually, the chaos began to wane. The strongest of Krull's warriors had spent their frenzy bleeding, the loudest had shredded their throats with chants, and the hall grew sluggish with exhaustion. Skulls lay in heaps. Fires guttered low. One by one, the badbloods staggered out of the hall, some dragging each other, others collapsing where they stood, reeking of blood and smoke.

Through it all, Krull never moved her from his lap. He sat like a throne within the throne, letting his warband bleed themselves dry while he remained untouched. His talon-tipped hand rested against her waist the entire time, a reminder of both his restraint and his claim.

When at last the hall had quieted to the occasional groan or snarl of a straggler, he finally rose. He didn't release her—he lifted her easily with him, carrying her as if she weighed no more than the skulls littering the floor.

Lyra dared a glance back. Some of the badbloods still watched, their eyes glowing faintly in the gloom, neon blood streaked across their bodies like war paint. Their mandibles clicked in satisfaction, in hunger, in recognition. She turned her face away quickly, shame burning her cheeks.

Krull strode from the hall without a word, her body pressed close against his chest. His scent engulfed her—She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to numb herself, to dissociate, to imagine she was anywhere else but in the grip of the monster whose name now branded her.

They entered a narrower passage, torchlight flickering against jagged walls. The roar of the clan faded behind them until silence stretched between them like a blade. Only Krull's footsteps echoed, steady and slow, deliberate.

Finally, he stopped. Lyra heard his chest rise in a long breath, as if savouring the quiet, then he lowered her onto her feet. His large, possessive hand slid from her waist only to catch her braid again, wrapping the hair around his talon fingers as if it were a tether he could yank at any moment.

He bent low, golden eyes gleaming in the half-dark. His mandibles flexed, brushing close enough for Lyra to feel the air stir across her cheek.

"Lyra," he rumbled, testing the name again, this time slower and more intimate. "Your name will not leave my ears. It belongs to me now."

Lyra's lips parted, but no sound came. Her throat felt raw, her voice locked behind terror.

His fingers tugged lightly on her braid, forcing her chin up. "Do not hide it. Do not shame it. I have spoken mine. You have spoken your. Now we are bound."

She wanted to scream that he was wrong, that nothing bound her but his brute strength and her fear. The thought of her clawing her braid free, spitting her name back at him, and taking it with her into silence. But all she could do was stare, her heart hammering, her body betraying her with trembling.

Krull's mandibles clicked once, sharply. Then, to her shock, his other hand shifted—his massive palm cupped her jaw, claws grazing her skin but not piercing. It wasn't gentle, not truly, but it wasn't cruel either. It was… possessive.

Krull pulled her into his den with that unyielding grip on her braid, the tug firm enough to sting her scalp but not tear. The chamber was cavernous yet suffocating, a hollow carved from volcanic stone and lined with furs that reeked of smoke and musk. Skulls leered from alcoves, some bleached pale, others darkened with age, their hollow sockets fixed on her as though they shared the same cruel amusement as her captor.

He stopped before the massive bed of hides and trophies. The surface looked like it could swallow Lyra whole, but she knew instinctively it wasn't meant for her.

Krull turned, mandibles spreading slightly as he crouched to her level. He kept her braid looped around his talon fingers, the strand taut between them like a leash.

"You," he rumbled, voice scraping low through the translator, "will remain here."

Her gaze darted to the floor beside the bed. A patch of fur had been dragged there, smaller, rougher, clearly arranged for her.

The meaning hit her like ice down her spine. Krull wasn't offering her a place at his side—he was chaining her existence to the shadow of his. A possession tethered at arm's reach. Not a partner. Not equal. A reminder of her place.

She swallowed hard. "The floor?"

The collar hummed, translating, her voice trembling but clear.

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he sat himself on the edge of his bed, the heavy weight of his large frame settled comfortably. Slowly and deliberately, he tightened Lyra's loosening braid into his grasp, his talons weaving into it, curling until her hair was tangled in his fist.

"Yes," he said, voice final. "Within reach."

Her knees weakened. The air left her lungs in a shallow stutter. She stared at the furs, then shifted her gaze to look at Krull's intimidating face. The thought of lying there, of closing her eyes with his claws knotted in her braid, made her chest clench so tight she thought she might choke.

No. No, no, no. Not here. Not like this.

Her mind scrambled for escape, for bargains, for any thread of control she could weave. "I don't—please—" she tried, but the words faltered into silence as Krull's grip tightened ever so slightly, his eyes narrowing in warning.

Her body betrayed her again. She sank to the floor.

The furs scratched at her skin as she lowered herself onto them. She curled tightly, arms hugging her chest, every muscle strung taut as wire. The collar's hum felt louder in the silence, like a mockery of her trembling breaths.

Above her, heavy and inescapable, a talon sank into her braid as though staking a claim. Krull's threatening presence lingered even as he shifted onto the bed, the creak of furs and bone announcing his immense form as it settled down.

The chamber dimmed. The fire pits guttered low, shadows lengthening until only the faint glow of her captor's eyes shone in the dark.

Lyra stared at the jagged ceiling, unblinking. Her body was there, on the floor, tethered by hair and fear. But her mind—her mind scrambled for distance, whispering bargains to herself, desperate lies she clung to like lifelines. It's just one night. He won't stay awake forever. You can dissociate. You can survive this. One night. Just one.

Her heart rattled like a trapped bird in her ribs.

Sleep never came. Only the crushing weight of his presence, and the knowledge that every breath she took, he could hear.

The chamber swallowed every sound but her own breathing.

Lyra lay rigid on the pile of furs, her back pressed to the cold stone, her braid stretched taut above her where his claws tangled in it. Every slight shift she made tugged her scalp, reminding her—anchoring her—that she was tethered. That escape, even the smallest freedom of movement, was a fantasy.

Her eyes burned from forcing them open, refusing to succumb to the weakness of sleep. She tried to count her breaths, tried to anchor herself in numbers, in rhythm, in anything that belonged to her.

One. Two. Three.

The numbers blurred. The chamber stank of iron and musk. Her stomach turned.

She shifted slightly, her shoulder scraping against the fur. Krull's talon-tipped fingers flexed in response, tugging at her braid—not painfully, but enough to remind her he was still there. Even half-asleep, he held her. A living shackle.

She froze, breath caught in her throat. Slowly, the grip eased, his massive body above her exhaling in a deep, guttural rhythm. Sleep. Or something close to it.

Her pulse throbbed in her ears. She clutched at her chest, holding herself tightly as though her arms might hold her together.

Don't think. Don't feel. Just—survive. That's all. One night. You can endure one night.

But her mind betrayed her. Images rose, unbidden and cruel. Chen's crooked grin when he teased her about filling sketchbooks. Tessa's laugh was sharp and bright. Reza hummed off-key as he calibrated his machines. The memory of campfire sparks drifting up into the black sky.

All gone. Burned. Torn. Dead.

Her lips trembled. She pressed them shut until her teeth ached, refusing sound, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing her break.

The floor beneath her seemed to tilt, the world tilting with it. She stared at the stone wall, tracing the cracks until they blurred into shapes—faces, maps, constellations she invented just to keep from seeing this place for what it was.

Her thoughts splintered. She tried bargaining with herself, over and over.

If you give him nothing, he'll grow bored. If you're quiet, he won't notice you. If you endure, maybe he'll forget you're here.

Another voice cut through, harsher. Krull will never forget. You are his trophy. His prize. His toy.

Her throat tightened. She buried her face into her hands, hiding from the sight of his hand suspended above her, talons coiled into her braid. She wished she could cut it off, wished she could sever the tether, but she knew even that wouldn't free her. He'd find another way to bind her.

Her chest shuddered. The collar hummed faintly, translating nothing, a parasite at her throat. She wondered if Krull would hear the sound of her heart racing through it, if even that had been taken from her—her silence, her stillness.

Time stretched into a cruelty of its own. The fire pits guttered lower, shadows devouring the walls. Her body ached from lying stiff, but she dared not shift again.

Every so often, he stirred. A low rumble, a twitch of claws in Lyra's messy braid, a breath that rasped like a growl. Each time she flinched, her nerves tightened until she thought she'd splinter apart.

She began to drift—not into sleep, but into something else. Numbness. Her mind slid sideways, retreating to places untouched.

She pictured the moss that curled when touched, the blossoms that glowed faintly at dusk. She imagined sketching them, pen scratching furiously in lamplight. Her hand moved in her mind, though her real hand clutched her ribs in desperation.

The sketches blurred into doodles, leaves spiraling into galaxies, words scrawled: Alive. Strange. Waiting.

Waiting.

The word lodged sharply in her throat. Waiting for what? Rescue? Death? Him?

Her lips moved soundlessly, repeating it like a mantra until even the word lost its shape, became only breath.

At some point, her body betrayed her. Exhaustion dragged her eyelids half shut. She slipped in and out of a shallow daze, never fully asleep, never fully awake.

In one of those moments, she felt the slightest tug at her braid. Not harsh, not cruel. Almost absentminded. Like a child clutching a toy to keep it close in the night.

Her stomach turned to ice. She bit her lip until she tasted copper.

When she dared to glance up, she caught the faint glow of his eyes above. Open. Watching.

Her breath stilled. She forced her gaze back down, to the stone, to the furs. Pretend to sleep. Pretend you don't know. Pretend you're not breaking.

Hours bled together. Her body shook with silent tremors. Her mind drifted farther and farther, clinging to anything—scribbled sketches, scraps of laughter, the sound of rain she used to imagine in the trees of home.

Until, mercifully, sleep took hold of her - even if it was a short-lived one.

Lyra's eyes cracked open, sand-gritted from a night of fractured half-sleep. Her body ached as though she'd been beaten—muscles locked, limbs stiff, scalp tender from the braid being held tightly in the beast's grip. His weight still hung above her, the massive bed creaking as he shifted.

Then his hand moved.

The talons slipped free of her braid at last. Relief jolted through her, almost dizzying—but before she could draw a full breath, Krull's touch skimmed lower. The back of his taloned knuckles dragged along her temple, down the side of her face, as though confirming she was real. Awake. Present.

She went rigid.

The collar hummed. His voice followed, rough and low with sleep, each syllable resonating in her chest.

"You breathe still."

It wasn't a question. It was a statement, a claim.

Lyra swallowed hard. Her throat worked against the smooth band of the translator, but she said nothing.

A sound rumbled from him, not quite laughter, not quite approval. He sat up in one fluid motion, towering even when seated on the slab-bed, his body cutting a silhouette against the thin dawn light. She forced herself not to shrink when his gaze cut down to her.

The command came sharply: "Rise."

Her body obeyed before her mind caught up, scrambling upright; her hair was dishevelled, and her limbs trembled from the cold stone and lack of rest. She hated herself for moving so quickly, hated the instinct to survive overriding pride. But she stood.

He watched, silent, assessing. His mandibles clicked once, sharp as flint. He leaned forward, his elbows braced on his knees, examining her fragile human frame; Krull's mandibles flared in what might have been a sign of satisfaction.

"You keep strength," he said. "You will not break."

Lyra's jaw locked. She wanted to spit back words, anything to defy him. But all that left her mouth was a rasp: "Why?"

The translator carried it upward, fragile and small against the cavern's vastness.

For a moment, silence. Then he leaned closer, talon curling under her chin, lifting her face. His eyes gleamed, fever-bright.

"Because you are mine."

Her stomach dropped. Krull's words sank like hooks under her skin, pulling tight. She wanted to scream, to claw at him, to tear the collar free and run—but the weight of his hand, the sheer scale of him, froze her where she stood.

He released her suddenly, shoving her head aside with almost casual dismissal. Rising to his full, monstrous height, he turned toward the great doors of the hall.

"Come."

The command cracked like a whip.

Lyra hesitated only a heartbeat before following, each step heavy, each breath a fight. The furs behind her lay scattered, marked by the shape of her body pressed into them through the long, endless night. A silent witness.

Chapter Text

As Lyra entered the hallway, the smell hit her first—sour with ash, bitter with smoke. Down the halls, Lyra could already hear the frenzy of his clan. Training. Roaring. Preparing for something she couldn't put a name to.

Her first night had ended. Her captivity had truly begun.

The corridors of the fortress wound like arteries through stone, torchlight bleeding against walls blackened with soot. Krull walked ahead, each stride long and deliberate, forcing Lyra to half-run just to keep up. His hand never touched her, but his presence pressed against her back like a weight, the collar humming faintly with every guttural sound he made.

They descended a spiralling stair, the air thickening with new scents—smoke, char, something roasting. Lyra's stomach knotted with dread.

Krull pushed through a wide archway, and the world changed.

The kitchen, at least in Lyra's mind, was like a cavern of fire and steel, thick with smoke and the hiss of roasting meat. Lyra stood stiff, the collar's hum at her throat reminding her with every breath that she was on display. Krull had said nothing since bringing her here. He didn't need to. His looming presence kept every step of hers cautious.

The workers moved about the hearths in silence. They weren't like him—they weren't like the blood-mad hunters in the hall. These ones bent their backs to labour, their mandibles clicking softly as they carved, stirred, and hauled. Scarred hands, notched hides, movements born of duty, not glory.

One looked up. Old—his hide pale and mottled, his spine bowed but unbroken. His eyes were fixed on Krull without fear. The room stilled.

"Prepare food for her," Krull rumbled. The collar translated after a beat, mechanical and cold: "Ensure it will not sicken."

The elder's mandibles twitched. He did not bow. Instead, he answered slowly, voice deep and rough.

"She is soft-fleshed. Delicate. Much here will poison her."

Krull narrowed his eyes, "Find the meals that won't," he retorted.

The elder turned, motioning to his staff. Pots clanged, knives flashed. He moved towards Lyra and stood before her, pausing only long enough for his clouded eyes to rest on her face. His voice dropped to a rumble, quiet enough that the others might miss it, though the collar still hummed faintly in translation.

"You will eat," he said. "Keep your strength. Do not show weakness before a Yautja."

The word snagged in her mind like a hook. Yautja.

Her pulse leapt. She almost repeated it aloud, but fear sealed her lips. Still, the name burned behind her teeth—alien, heavy, a truth she hadn't been given until now.

Krull's gaze lingered on her, unreadable, but she swore his mandibles flexed in faint amusement. As if he'd heard the word too and dared her to cling to it.

Lyra stood still, listening to the nearby hearth crackling as the scents of charred meat and bitter herbs filled her lungs. The heat pressed against her, but it was nothing compared to the oppressive weight of Krull's silent presence behind her. He didn't touch her this time—just watched, his shadow like a chain binding her in place.

The elder—the one Krull had ordered—moved with deliberate calm, pulling roots from a carved trough, checking their skins, setting a pot to boil. His movements were measured, exact, as though he'd been doing this longer than Lyra had been alive. His scarred hands seemed to know every edge of the kitchen.

Lyra swallowed, her voice thin when she finally dared:

"Y-Yautja?"

The elder's head tilted slightly, mandibles flexing. His gaze shifted down to her, sharp but not cruel.

"What… what does that mean?" she whispered.

For a heartbeat, the entire kitchen stilled. Lyra hadn't realized how loud her question would sound, how fragile it was. Every worker froze, knives hovering over cutting boards, claws clutching pans, as though the very air held its breath.

The elder's eyes slid past her to Krull. His mandibles clicked once, slow and deliberate, before he spoke.

"Why am I not surprised," he rasped, "that a bloodthirsty moron like you didn't bother to explain the basics to your new pet?"

The word moron cracked across the air like a whip.

Lyra's stomach dropped. Her heart hammered so hard she thought she might collapse. The kitchen staff seemed to flinch as one, waiting for the violence, waiting for the inevitable sound of bone snapping. No one—no one—spoke to Krull the Bloodseeker in that manner. But Krull only shrugged.

A ripple of disbelief shuddered through the room. A hiss of mandibles clicking, eyes darting between the elder and their master, confusion radiating from every stance.

And then, in a low rumble that curled around Lyra's spine like cold iron, Krull said: "Her inquisitive nature amuses me, Ekk'thal."

The kitchen fell utterly silent, the weight of those words settling like ash. Amusement. That was all her life amounted to in his grasp—a passing entertainment, a diversion to be toyed with.

Her breath caught. She looked up at the elder again, her fear tangling with something else—something dangerously close to hope.

Ekk'thal's gaze settled on her once more, and this time his voice was quieter, edged with something almost like kindness.

"Yautja," he said. "That is what we are. Hunters. Killers. A name older than your kind has walked upright. Remember it, girl."

Her lips parted, forming the word silently: Yautja.

Krull's eyes gleamed in the firelight, fixed on her as though measuring how the word tasted in her mouth. His mandibles flexed, but he said nothing more—only let the moment hang, dangerous and strange.

The elderly Ekk'thal guided Lyra past the long counters of stone and metal, his voice clipped but steady.

"This root, boiled, will not harm you. Raw, it will sear your throat shut." He lifted a crooked finger at a bundle of black-veined roots hanging from a hook. Lyra then saw his hand grab hold of something and moved it in front of her; "This fruit is edible, if peeled." Ekk'thal then sliced into a crimson orb with practiced efficiency, the rind curling back like skin. Then he pointed towards the back of the room, "Never drink from the open cisterns—only from what I provide. Do you understand?"

Lyra nodded quickly, drinking in every word. Relief flickered in her chest at his matter-of-fact tone. He wasn't kind, exactly—but he wasn't cruel either. Each warning felt less like a threat and more like a shield.

Ekk'thal moved on, pointing to a shelf stacked with jars of dried herbs. Lyra followed close, memorizing textures and colours, her hands clasped together to hide their tremor. It was only when she felt eyes on her that she faltered.

Someone was watching.

Across the kitchen, near a basin of steaming water, a young Yautja stood frozen mid-task. He wasn't as broad as the others—shorter, his crest of dreadlocks tighter, his frame lean. He stared openly at her, unblinking, as though trying to puzzle out what exactly she was. His head tilted just slightly, indicating curiosity. There was no hunger in his gaze, no malice—only a strange, raw intensity, as if she were a new species under his lens.

Ekk'thal noticed the pause. His mandibles clicked in irritation, and his voice cracked like a whip.

"It's rude to stare. Go back to work."

The younger one jolted, mandibles tightening. He dipped his head stiffly and turned back to the steaming basin, claws plunging into the water to scrub at bone-white shells.

Ekk'thal snorted, muttering as much for Lyra's benefit as the kitchen's:

"That one is Grii'tach. Too much curiosity, not enough sense. Pay him no mind."

Lyra let out a small, breathy laugh, amused by the event.

But her fragile peace was shattered when her gaze drifted back toward the archway.

Krull leaned against the stone frame, silent and waiting. He filled the threshold like a living shadow, arms crossed, tusks of his mandibles catching the dim kitchen firelight. The staff worked faster under his stare, their movements sharp with fear, yet he did not speak. Did not move.

He was patient. That, somehow, was worse.

And Lyra felt the truth settle cold in her chest—no matter how many names she learned, no matter how many warnings Ekk'thal gave her—everything here began and ended with him.

Ekk'thal had just finished pointing out a row of sealed jars when the low rumble of Krull's voice broke across the kitchen.

"Are you done?"

The words were tossed out lazily, but they cracked through the air like a whip. Every pair of hands in the room froze—knives hovering over roots, claws hovering above boiling water. The silence was suffocating.

Ekk'thal didn't flinch. He rolled his eyes in a way that made several of the younger staff nearly choke on their own breath. "For now."

Krull made a sound deep in his chest, a mix of amusement and impatience. He lifted one taloned finger and curled it in a slow beckon. The gesture wasn't loud, but it was absolute.

Lyra's stomach knotted. She felt every gaze on her as she forced her legs to move, the translator collar humming softly against her throat. Each step toward him felt like it dragged her deeper into chains.

At the archway, she hesitated. Just for a heartbeat, she turned back. The kitchen's firelight flickered across the staff's uneasy faces. With the smallest, shyest motion, Lyra lifted her hand and gave a tiny wave.

Most looked away immediately, afraid to acknowledge her at all. But the youngest—Grii'tach—hesitated. Then, awkwardly, he lifted one clawed hand in return, the motion stiff but unmistakable. Lyra's chest tightened. It was the first kindness she'd received since her capture. Ekk'thal, arms crossed, watched her with a look that cut deeper than his words ever could—something like empathy buried beneath his stern exterior. A warning. A promise. She couldn't tell which.

Then Krull's shadow fell over her. Without looking back again, Lyra stepped into his orbit, and he turned from the kitchen, guiding her toward the stairs with a possessive ease.

Behind them, the staff exhaled as one, tension spilling out in the sound of knives striking cutting boards, water sloshing, and fire crackling. Life resumed—because their master had left the room.

The stairs coiled upward in heavy spirals, each step lit by guttering sconces that dripped smoke into the air. Lyra kept her eyes on the stone steps beneath her feet, each one worn smooth by the centuries of footsteps that had passed over it. Krull's presence loomed at her side, his stride slow, deliberate, and far too close.

Her throat tightened. She told herself not to speak, not to break the silence that kept him unreadable. And yet the words spilled out before she could stop them, brittle and thin:

"What… what do you have planned for me?"

The echo of her own voice filled the stairwell, fragile against the weight of stone.

Krull's head turned, and she felt his gaze burn down the length of her body. A dangerous stillness followed. Then—his mandibles flexed, and a sound like a chuckle rolled from his chest.

"How amusing. My precious pet speaks without being told to."

The words were mocking, but his eyes glowed with hunger. His hand shot out, thick talon-like claws grazing the wall beside her as he boxed her in, forcing her back into the cold stone.

"You will learn your duties," he said, voice low and rich with cruel promise. "You will please me. In every manner I desire."

Lyra's stomach knotted, revulsion burning through her veins. She turned her face away, bile rising in her throat. But his shadow pressed in, his body heat searing against her skin as he lowered his head towards her, his breath a growl against her ear.

Then his hand was at her side, talons tracing her form with a deliberate slowness that made her skin crawl. She froze, every muscle trembling as he claimed the silence between them, pressing closer—

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Lyra pressed her hands against his collarbone and tried to push him away, but it was like pushing against a boulder up a hill.

"No," she begged softly. Krull rumble a growl, not of anger, but hunger.

"You dare deny me?" he purred, "How delicious."

He moved his hand upwards, the tip of his claws gazing against her with the threat of breaking her delicate skin. With a flick of his index finger, Krull took hold of the silk cloth that barely covered her breasts and shifted the fabric onto the area of her sternum, exposing her nipple to the cool air.

Lyra tried to cover her exposed breast with her hand, but Krull growled and took hold of her wrist. In one quick motion, he pulled her arm up by her wrist and snarled, "Lift up your other arm," he ordered.

Lyra closed her eyes tightly and slowly lifted her other arm, allowing his other hand to guide it into his massive hand above that was now holding her place. Suddenly, Krull moved his hand upwards, his grip on her wrists never loosening. Lyra felt her feet leave the safety of the stone step and felt the weight of her body as she was lifted against the wall, dangling by Krull's grip alone. Lyra couldn't stop the soft whimper from escaping her lips as Krull's mandibles began to flex against them, and a primal pur-like clicking was heard.

"Such lovely noises you make," purred Krull in delight; "Let me hear more."

"Please stop," begged Lyra, hoping the captor would offer her mercy.

"No," He answered, exposing the other breast out in the open; the silk now folded between her breasts. "I'm not done yet,"

Lyra then tried to kick him, to stop him from continuing to degrade her body, but her foot met thick leg muscle that barely flinched. Krull moved his free hand onto her thigh, giving it a firm squeeze before moving towards the lower silk fabric of her outfit. Lyra whimpered out a gasp as he pushed the fabric to the side, further exposing her to his gaze.

"Don't... Don't look," She felt shameful, her womanhood exposed for this beast, this Yautja to look upon.

"Beautiful," Krull said, moving his hand towards the opening of her vagina and began to rub. Lyra flinched at the sudden touch and gasped softly, his large fingers gliding against her opening and folds, moving in slow, deliberate motions.

Krull leaned and purred in her ear, "I wanted to do this the first time I saw you," he admitted. "When I tore off your clothes you wore before I dressed you, I wanted to claim you... But I remained patient."

Lyra shivered in disgust at his words, "Bastard..."

Krull emitted a soft growl of pure, primal lust. "I think you mean, Master," he said as he plunged his fingers inside her.

Lyra barely had time to adjust to his two thick fingers entering her, let alone adapt to the rough rubbing within her. Lyra squirmed against his touch, feeling the sensation of pleasure brewing within her. She tried to focus on something else, but his touch was aggressive and unrelenting. His thumb pressed against her clitoris, moving it in a small, circular motion as his fingers kept up the momentum. Her body was betraying her, the moans escaping her lips before she could stop them.

"Look at me," she heard Krull order; her hazel eyes met his scorching yellow eyes, staring at her like the prey she felt under his predatory gaze.

Lyra could feel her cheeks flush with embarrassment, and the pleasure his invading fingers were giving her. Krull's mandibles spread open, his small inner mouth slightly agape as a thin, serpent-like tongue came out and licked against Lyra's tremoring lips. She gasps, the sensation of his tongue against her lips was strange; alien, but what bothered her more was that she didn't hate it.

His thick fingers quicken the momentum, rubbing against her sensitive spot with primal urge. Lyra felt her inner walls of her sensitive womanhood tighten their hold against the invading extremities, feeling the climax threatening to erupt with pleasure. Lyra's lips parted, a soft plea escaping her. She knew she shouldn't be enjoying the pleasure building within her, how his rough, thick fingers and thumb moved against her - but her mind was focused on the pleasurable sensation her body was craving. Her mind was elsewhere, not focusing on the alien captor who had taken her against her will, who was currently violating her with pleasure against her will. Just as quickly as it began, Lyra squirmed against Krull's hand and moaned loudly as her orgasm erupted and shook her entire body in sinful ecstasy. Krull slowly pulled his fingers out of her, lifting his hand to examine the sticky substance of her orgasm against his fingers. Krull cruelly laughed at the sight as he began to lick and suck his fingers clean from her juices. He then brought his attention back to Lyra, watching her pant for air as she hung dangling against his firm grip.

"You taste better than I've imagined," Krull said in a mocking tone, lowering her trembling form back onto the stone stair step.

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The corridor felt colder than before. Lyra's arms ached, her chest hollow. She slid down the wall, arms wrapped around herself, breath coming in ragged gasps.

Krull straightened, satisfied. The gleam in his eyes was one of ownership, not intimacy. He reached down and tangled his claws into her braid again, tugging her forward like a tether.

"Good," he rumbled, almost lazily, as though grading her performance. "You will learn quickly."

She wanted to scream at him, but her voice caught in her throat. Her only rebellion was silence, and even that felt stolen from her lips.

With a final glance at her flushed, broken form, he yanked her back to her feet and resumed walking up the stairs, as if nothing at all had happened.

Lyra's knees still trembled, her breath came shallow, uneven. She felt unclean, her skin crawling with phantom touches, the echo of his claws, his voice, his heat.

How long can I endure this?  She thought to herself, her mind fragile and desperate. How long before I break? Before he takes the last piece of me?

Her fingers dug into her arms, nails biting into her own flesh. The collar hummed faintly at her throat, a reminder that even her words were no longer hers.

The stone steps seemed to creak as he shifted his weight, unhurried, entirely at ease, as if her devastation were nothing more than a meal digested and forgotten. She wanted to scream at the casualness of it. Instead, she pressed her lips together, silent, holding the sound inside until it burned her chest.

Escape. The word surfaced, fever-bright, a fragile spark against her despair. But how? These walls were alive with fire and monsters. The fortress was a mountain, a prison. Yet the thought clung to her like breath—escape, or die trying.

Chapter Text

The silence broke like a stone dropped into a still pool, reverberating through the stone corridors of Krull’s fortress. Heavy treads echoed up the stairwell, each step rattling faintly against Lyra’s chest. A younger Yautja stepped into view, his hide smoother, fewer scars than the battle-hardened veterans around him. His mandibles folded inward, a respectful gesture, and he lowered his head, careful not to meet Krull’s gaze.

"My lord," the hunter rasped, guttural words filtering through the collar at Lyra’s throat, precise in meaning. "The war room demands you."

Krull’s gaze lingered on her a moment longer—hungry, calculating, possessive—before he finally shifted. He released her braid, letting it fall against her back like a silken cord freed from restraint. He straightened to his full, towering height, a living shadow that seemed to swallow the firelight.

Without a word, he turned and moved down a short hallway, following the summons. Lyra stumbled after him, bare feet slapping softly against the stone, driven not by obedience, but by instinct—the knowledge that staying close meant survival.

The hall opened into a cavernous chamber. Molten fissures ran beneath glassy floors, casting a blood-red glow that danced across jagged stone walls. Slabs of black stone were etched with maps—territories, hunting grounds, conquest trails, intricate and deadly. Spears, glaives, and bone-handled blades leaned against the walls like offerings. Each weapon glinted in the firelight, some slick with dried ichor from previous hunts.

And waiting at the far end of the chamber, she saw him.

The whip-wielder - The one who had carved fire and pain into her camp, who had torn through her people like a storm made flesh.

He was taller than most hunters, though not as broad as Krull. His posture was neither relaxed nor threatening—simply still, like a predator conserving energy. His dark armour bore deep, deliberate scars, each mark a testament to skill and cruelty. His whip coiled at his hip, claws resting lightly on its handle, a seamless extension of his own body.

His mandibles shifted once, perhaps a grimace—or a smile. His gaze flicked to Lyra, sharp and assessing. Not hungry. Not cruel. Calculating.

“Dur’ka,” Krull rumbled, settling into the chamber like a storm cloud. “What news bleeds into my hall?”

The strategist inclined his head, voice measured, precise. “The hunters grow restless. They want targets. Your spectacle last night has lit their blood, but frenzy without direction burns itself out. We need order before the fire consumes the warband.”

Lyra’s pulse quickened. There was weight to his words, a steadiness that cut through the chaos she had seen in the great hall. He did not howl. He did not scar himself. He spoke with reason. And Krull listened. The warlord’s mandibles twitched. His gaze narrowed, but he did not strike. Instead, he lowered himself onto the obsidian chair at the head of the chamber. His claws drummed against the armrest, deliberate, thoughtful.

Lyra pressed herself into the edge of the firelight, arms clutched tightly around her. For the first time, she realized Dur’ka was dangerous in a different way—not through raw violence, but through a mind capable of calculating horrors long in advance. Yet when his eyes met hers, there was no hunger—only a flicker of disdain.

Her stomach churned. It made her skin crawl differently than Krull’s gaze did.

The chamber reeked of heat, blood, and smoke. Shadows leapt across the jagged maps etched into the stone. Lyra’s collar hummed faintly against her bare throat, a mechanical heartbeat tethering her to comprehension. Krull then slouched in his throne like a predator at rest, yet the weight of his presence bent the room into silence. He drummed his claws against the armrest. “Speak,” he commanded.

Dur’ka stepped forward, calm and precise. His whip hung at his hip like a living thing. Unlike the other warriors, restless, seething, he seemed carved from stillness, a storm waiting for release.

“The clans mass at the southern ridge,” he said, clipped and steady. “Two banners stake claim to the lava rivers. Another near the ash plains. They scent weakness here. They believe they can unseat us.”

Krull tilted his head, tusks catching the firelight. “Let them believe.”

Dur’ka’s mandibles flexed. “Belief becomes strength when it numbers greater than ours. You have given them frenzy. Bloodlust. But frenzy without direction will splinter. They need an enemy. Give them one.”

Krull leaned forward, eyes burning. “And who do you suggest we feed them?”

Dur’ka extended a claw to the map slab. “The Ashfang clan. They have challenged our hunts twice in the northern passes. They call you unworthy. Weak.” His gaze cut upward, mandibles clicking in distaste. “Their leader wears the skull of a Warlord you killed, crowning himself with your kill as though it were his right.”

A growl rolled from Krull’s chest, shaking the chamber like distant rockfall. Warriors roared in answer, slamming their fists against their chests. Lyra pressed back against the archway. Names meant nothing to her—but the fury in the room was undeniable.

“They spit on our claim,” Krull snarled, rising. “They think themselves kings. But I am the crown. I am the mountain.” His fist crashed into the map slab, stone splintering.

The warriors howled. One dragged a blade across his chest, neon-green blood spilling in rivers. Another clawed his mask, painting it with glowing streaks. The frenzy built inward, a storm without battle.

Dur’ka raised his voice, slicing through the din like a knife. “Strike first at dawn. Burn their banners. Spill their weak blood on their ground. Show the others what becomes of those who whisper against you.”

Krull’s mandibles spread wide in a terrible grin. He seized the slab, gouging a deep line where Dur’ka had pointed. “At dawn,” he growled. “The Ashfang clan dies. Their skulls will hang from this throne.”

The hall erupted—slams, roars, self-inflicted bloodletting, neon ichor spraying like ritual fire. Lyra’s stomach heaved. She pressed a hand over her mouth to keep from retching.

Krull’s gaze fell on her. His clawed hand beckoned, dragging her into the center of the storm. She froze, trembling, each breath caught in her chest.

“She watches,” he rumbled. “She learns. Let the soft thing see what power is. Let her see who I am.”

Dur’ka’s eyes flicked to her briefly, unreadable, then back to Krull. The room was his. The war was his. Lyra, helpless, realized she was not just a possession—she was a witness. The war cry echoed down the corridors as the chamber emptied, warriors spilling out in a frenzy. The hall reeked of blood and smoke. Only Krull, Dur’ka, and Lyra remained. She lingered in the archway, collar humming faintly, wishing she could vanish into shadows.

Dur’ka’s voice cut the silence. “Do not bring your new pet.”

Lyra’s breath caught. Pet. The word twisted in her gut like a knife.

Krull’s mandibles flared, tusks gleaming. “You dare—”

Dur’ka’s voice held steady. “She is a distraction. Nothing more. The ooman is not built for war. She will slow you; she will draw their gaze. And if the Ashfang get close enough… what is yours becomes theirs.”

A low growl vibrated through Krull, claws flexing. Tension snapped like lightning. Lyra pressed herself deeper into the stone.

“Careful,” Krull snarled. “You tread close to defiance.”

Dur’ka’s mandibles twitched in the ghost of a humourless smile. “No. I tread close to reason. You claim her for pleasure—keep her for pleasure. Do not give your enemies the chance to touch what is yours.”

Silence stretched, taut and dangerous.

Krull loomed. For a heartbeat, she thought he would strike.

Then he leaned back, voice low and dangerous. “You think yourself wise.”

“I think myself loyal,” Dur’ka corrected, dry, measured.

Krull exhaled, a hiss in the heat. His eyes slid to Lyra, pinning her like a specimen. “Very well. She does not go to battle.”

Relief fluttered in Lyra’s chest, hollow.

Krull leaned forward. “But she will wait for me, and when I return, bathed in blood, she will know what is mine cannot be taken.”

Dur’ka inclined his head. “As you say.”

Lyra’s hands trembled. She wanted to scream, but the words lodged like ash. The chamber emptied, silence pressing against her ribs. Krull moved toward her. She shrank, but he was already there. His claws caught her chin, tilting her face upward.

“You,” he rumbled. “Always trembling. Always fighting me in your small ways. Do you know how sweet it is?”

Her breath hitched. She could not move. Could not look away.

His grip shifted, thumb brushing her lower lip. “Every sound, every look—I take it. I keep it—all of it, mine. And yet… You still dream of running.”

Her body stiffened, thought drawn from her chest. Krull laughed softly, chilling. “Good. Keep dreaming. It will make your cage feel wider.”

Her stomach knotted. Then, his hand released her. Eyes glowing, obsession stripped bare.

“You may walk,” he said, casually. “Freely. Among my walls. Let them see you. Let them know who you belong to.”

Her legs shook. Permission? No. Control disguised as indulgence.

The smirk deepened. “But do not mistake it for freedom. You are mine. Always. And should you stray…” His claws flexed. “…I will find you. And remind you who you breathe for.”

The heat of his stare was unbearable. He returned to his throne with predator-like ease.

“Go, little one,” he said. “Show my fortress the pet their master favours.”

Her steps were shaky. Every nerve screamed to flee. Even as distance grew, the invisible leash coiled tighter around her throat.

He… let me walk freely?

Her mind recoiled. No freedom here. His words clung like oil: You are mine. Always. Yet for the first time, no hand gripped her. She was unguarded in the shadowed arteries of his fortress. Stone pulsed faintly under her bare feet. Fissures bled molten light, painting her skin in red and gold. The air reeked of iron and ash. Step by step, she moved.

The corridors of Krull’s fortress were alive. Every step Lyra took echoed across the volcanic stone, amplified by the cavernous halls. Shadows stretched and leapt across walls, distorted by the molten fissures bleeding faint light from below. The hum of her collar pulsed against her throat—a tether to understanding in a world that spoke only in guttural tones and growls.

The fortress itself seemed to watch her. Movements flitted at the edges of her vision: elongated limbs slipping between pillars, Yautja figures moving with the patience of apex predators. Some were scarred veterans, massive and imposing, tusks flashing in the firelight. Others were younger, leaner hunters-in-training, armour untested, eyes sharp but calculating.

Every hunter she passed noticed her. Heads turned in unison, eyes tracking her, assessing. Their tusks clicked softly, a low vibration that carried through the stone and into her chest. One leaned close, shoulder brushing the wall, but letting her pass. A hiss escaped his throat—amused, predatory—and she felt it like a warning in her bones.

Her heartbeat hammered. She hugged herself tighter, wishing the stone could swallow her. Whispers spread in her wake, guttural, half-laughs, half-chatter, discussing her in the guttural tongue translated by the collar: The master’s prize walks freely. Observe and learn.

Yet none touched her.

Lyra knew that, she knew she was untouchable not because they feared her, not because of her strength, but because she belonged to Krull. Every glance, every predatory leer reminded her of the invisible leash wrapped around her life. The truth was clear: she was part of a lesson. A warning. An assertion of dominance.

She passed the armoury. Hooks and serrated blades gleamed faintly in the molten light. Grotesque trophies hung on the walls—skulls, claws, and teeth from hunts she dared not imagine. Two young hunters knelt, sharpening spears, their claws scraping against the stone. Every strike echoed, yet their gaze never left her, slow and calculating. She forced herself forward, every step measured against the weight of their scrutiny.

The corridors were narrow and long, lined with pillars carved to resemble ancient beasts mid-roar. Even the younger hunters followed her with predatory patience, silent shadows on either side. They did not interfere, but their eyes carried a promise: the moment Krull willed it, she would be taken.

She entered a hall with ceiling-high windows overlooking molten chasms, lava flowing like liquid fire below. From here, she could see the fortress’s beating heart: firepits spewing smoke, bridges of stone spanning the glowing rivers, dozens of hunters moving with mechanical precision, each step deliberate, each motion honed for death. Alive. Predatory. Perfect. She moved on, feeling the curious eyes from the shadows.

Finally, she reached the towering doors marked with Krull’s claw-etched sigils. Fingers hovered over the cold ironbound wood. The weight of the fortress pressed on her shoulders. A breath. And she slipped inside.

The chamber glowed with molten light, crimson and amber spilling from embedded firepits. Air thick with char, musk, and iron. She crept forward, bare feet whispering across the carved black floors, until her eyes landed on his bed: a slab of stone wide enough for three of his kind, draped in furs stripped from beasts. The hides, scarred yet softer than the fortress floor, invited her into a false sense of safety.

She climbed carefully, curling into herself. Arms wound tight. Collar thrumming faintly against her throat. Thoughts spiralled: I can’t survive this. Every eye wants me gone—or worse. How long before one dares? How long before he grows bored?

Chest tight, breath shaky, face buried in knees. At least here, rules were clear: obey or break. Live or die.

The doors groaned open.

Lyra stiffened, wiping her face as Krull entered the room.

“You return,” he rumbled. “Good. You wait.”

Words shrivelled on her tongue. His eyes devoured her stillness.

“You come back of your own will,” he hissed. “My little ooman knows where she belongs.”

Her pulse leapt. Body locked tight.

His massive hand cupped her jaw, talon grazing her skin. Eyes gleamed with an unsettling blend of adoration and hunger.

“I go to war,” he growled. “But while I spill blood, you stay… warm on my furs… waiting.”

Mandibles brushed her lips, hot breath thick with possession.

“When I return,” he whispered, “I will show you what devotion tastes like. I will take your screams, your breaths, your body… all of it, mine.”

Tongue flicked across her cheek before he straightened.

With cruel tenderness, he brushed her braid over her shoulder. “Rest, little prize. Dream of me. When I come back, you will give sweeter still.”

Doors slammed behind him like the jaws of a beast. Lyra sat frozen, trembling. Words rang in her mind like a curse. She was not waiting because she wanted to—she waited because nowhere else existed. And he thought that was love.

Chapter Text

The silence after his departure pressed in heavier than his presence ever had. The echo of the doors closing lingered in her chest, like the beat of a war drum —a hollow thud that reverberated through her ribs. Lyra stayed where she was for a long time, curled on the furs, too afraid to move. Her hands shook against her knees, her pulse still hammering where his claws had grazed her throat. Every word he’d spoken clung to her like oil, seeping into her skin, impossible to wash away. Mine. Treasure. Doll. The words circled in her mind, each one a barbed hook sinking deeper, dragging her further into his delusion. He thought she’d come back for him. Thought she’d waited because she wanted to. He believed this was devotion.

A laugh threatened to escape her lips, brittle and strangled, but it caught in her throat before it could turn into sobbing. She pressed her palms hard against her eyes until stars flared behind them. No. No, don’t cry. He liked it when she cried. Liked the way her tears gleamed in the firelight, the way they trembled on her skin like dew. Don’t give him more to take. Her breath stuttered. She forced herself to lower her hands, to look around instead of folding in on herself. The chamber seemed larger without him inside, though no less oppressive. Firelight threw shadows across the grotesque trophies mounted on the walls. Skulls grinned down at her in silent testimony, their hollow sockets alive with mocking glee.

She swallowed hard, throat tight. I have to think. I have to survive this. If she stopped thinking, if she just let herself… Her mind skidded too close to the memory of his talons against her skin, of the tongue sliding across her cheek, of his breath promising what would come after battle. She wrenched her thoughts back. No. Focus. Focus on what’s here.

The furs shifted beneath her when she stood, her legs unsteady. She moved slowly across the room, toes curling against the hot stone floor. At first, she only circled the perimeter, testing her courage against the shadows. The walls were carved with symbols she didn’t understand, lines scorched deep into the volcanic rock. When she touched one, it was warm—not from the firelight but from the stone itself, as though the whole mountain bled heat. She lingered there for a moment, pressing her palm against the wall, imagining the molten core far below, pulsing with life. The fortress was alive, and she was trapped in its heart.

Her eyes drifted to the towering doors. She hesitated. Then, step by step, she approached, pressing her ear against the seam. Nothing. No guards’ voices. No footsteps. Just the faint thrum of the fortress itself, alive with its molten heartbeat. Her hand brushed the handle. It didn’t give. Locked. Her breath left her in a thin exhale. Of course. He wouldn’t just leave her free. She pressed her forehead against the cold metal. A flicker of defiance sparked in her chest—small, fragile, but still alive. Maybe I can find another way. A vent. A tunnel. Something. He thought she’d sit here like a doll waiting to be played with. But she wouldn’t. She couldn’t.

Still, her hands were trembling when she pulled away, her body weak with the weight of the day. She returned to the furs, curling up once more. This time, she faced the door, as if watching it might keep him away a little longer. Outside the heavy doors, the fortress was alive. The sounds reached her faintly at first—a low murmur, like distant thunder. Then it grew, rolling through the stone walls until it seemed the mountain itself growled with hunger. The warband was gathering.

Lyra hugged her knees tighter, sitting on the edge of the furs. The floor beneath her trembled as the warriors outside roared their oaths. She could hear the metallic clang of weapons striking armour, the guttural chants of the alien tongue echoing like drums in her chest. Every few moments, a cheer swelled, savage and unified, shaking dust loose from the carved ceiling above. She pressed her palms against her ears, but it didn’t help. The vibrations carried through her bones, through her lungs, as though the entire fortress demanded she hear it—demanded she know what awaited if she ever fell into the hands of anyone but him.

They’re going to kill each other out there. Or worse. And she was trapped here. Alone. Her eyes darted toward the firelit walls, the grotesque trophies staring down at her. Shadows crawled across the skulls’ empty sockets, making them seem to grin wider, mocking her helplessness. She tried to distract herself. She studied the markings carved into the stone, though the alien script was nothing more than jagged scars to her. She counted the braids in the fur rugs. She whispered her crewmates’ names under her breath like a prayer—Chen, Tessa, Reza, Asher—each name a sharp wound, but also an anchor.

But the fortress wouldn’t let her forget. The warband’s frenzy grew louder, turning into a storm. The chorus of voices rose and broke like crashing waves, and then came the sound that made her stomach knot—the sharp, wet shhkk of blades dragging through flesh. Her mind painted the scene even though she didn’t want it to: the warriors cutting themselves again, blood spraying in glowing arcs, hissing against the stone. She remembered the way it had looked in the great hall—neon green, like molten glass pouring from their veins. The memory was so vivid she swore she could smell it now, sharp and acrid, burning her throat.

She buried her face in her knees. Stop. Stop imagining. Stop seeing. Just… make it through tonight. Just tonight. The fortress shook as the warband thundered out through its gates, their roars dwindling as distance swallowed them. The silence that followed was almost worse. It left her exposed, her thoughts too loud in the absence of their noise.

And beneath that silence, a truth gnawed at her: When he comes back, he’ll expect me to be waiting. Her breath hitched. She curled smaller on the furs, the heat of the mountain seeping up through the stone beneath her. Exhaustion dragged at her body, but fear kept her taut as a bowstring. Sleep finally took her in broken fragments, each dream stained by fear, fire, and the smell of blood.

Even in sleep, she couldn’t escape him. His presence lingered in every corner of her mind, his voice a low growl in her ear, his claws tracing patterns of possession over her skin. She dreamed of running down endless corridors lit by molten rivers of green blood—but no matter how fast she ran, his shadow loomed behind her, always closer, always laughing. When she woke, gasping for air, the collar at her throat burned like a brand, a reminder that he was never truly gone. She lay there in the darkness, shivering despite the heat, and wondered if this was all that remained for her: a life of flight from a predator who would never let her go.

The heavy scrape of iron jolted her awake. Lyra sat up too quickly, heart hammering, the furs tangling around her legs. For a split second, she thought it was him, returned early, come to collect what he had claimed. Her throat closed, panic sharp and immediate. But when the chamber doors creaked open, it wasn’t the towering silhouette of the warlord. It was Ekk’thal.

The elder Yautja leaned against the threshold, his presence filling the space without the same oppressive weight Krull carried. His skin bore the dull sheen of age, the ridges of his mandibles scarred but steady. His eyes found her in an instant — not with hunger, not with pride, but with something sharper. Assessing. Measuring.

“You look hungry,” he said flatly.

Lyra blinked, her stomach twisting at the reminder, though she hadn’t noticed the gnawing ache beneath her ribs until now. She swallowed, uncertain.

“Why are you here?”

He shrugged with one broad shoulder, already turning away as if the answer wasn’t worth speaking aloud. “Because you’d starve, otherwise.”

She hesitated, clutching the furs tighter around herself. The chamber still reeked of Krull — the heat of his body, the faint metallic sting of his armor. Leaving might mean safety, or it might be stepping straight into another trap. Her silence stretched too long.

Ekk’thal’s head reappeared around the doorframe, one brow ridge rising. “You rather stay here?”

The question was dry, almost mocking, but the implication made her chest tighten. Stay here — where the air itself pressed like chains, where the furs still held his imprint. She bolted up, nearly stumbling in her haste, and followed him before she could talk herself out of it.

The corridor beyond felt colder, emptier. Ekk’thal didn’t slow his stride, his back a wall of muscle and scars as he guided her down the winding halls. Lyra glanced over her shoulder once, just once — the chamber doors looming shut again, like jaws closing over a cage. She didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until the smell of the kitchens began to reach her. Smoke. Char. Spices she didn’t know. The faint, bitter tang of blood mixed with something almost sweet. It was the first scent since her capture that didn’t reek entirely of violence.

Her stomach growled loud enough that Ekk’thal’s mandibles twitched in what might have been amusement. He glanced back at her, his gruffness softening just slightly.

“Hunger doesn’t lie,” he rumbled, his tone devoid of judgment. “No shame in it.”

Lyra’s cheeks burned, but she kept pace with him, her bare feet brushing against the cool stone floor. The kitchen loomed ahead, its cavernous entrance lit by the flickering glow of hanging braziers. The air inside was thick with the smell of charred meat, spiced roots, and iron. It felt like another world inside the fortress, where the throne hall had been a frenzy of violence; this place moved to a rhythm of its own. The heat was still there—braziers and smoking pits lining the walls—but it was steadier, controlled, directed into ovens carved into stone and vast iron kettles suspended on chains. The air smelled not of blood but of spice, char, broth, roasted flesh. There was still cruelty in it, yes, but of a different kind: work demanded, rules enforced, order maintained.

Ekk’thal guided her to a high stool near one of the long counters. The seat was almost too tall for her bare legs, and she clambered awkwardly, toes dangling a hand’s width above the warm stone floor. She could feel eyes on her, but no one spoke; the staff bent back to their tasks as if her presence were only another oddity among many.

The old Yautja worked with deliberate efficiency, pulling slabs of meat from a rack, trimming away charred husks with a knife longer than Lyra’s arm. His movements were deceptively graceful for someone so massive, the blade flashing in his scarred hands. He spoke without looking up.

“You eat only what I set before you,” he said, voice gravel-thick, commanding.

“Do not touch the pots. Do not taste from the kettles. Do not drink anything that glows.” His mandibles flexed faintly, perhaps in humour, though his tone stayed dry.

“Half this kitchen would burn through your veins before you swallowed.”

Lyra nodded quickly. “Understood.”

He slid the trimmed meat into a pan where oil hissed, then added a handful of roots that bled purple into the bubbling fat. The scent made her mouth water despite her unease. Around them, the kitchen staff moved like a machine. One tended the spits, turning skewers of flesh. Another stirred a vat the size of a bath with a carved bone pole. Knives clicked, chains clattered, fires roared. Even without words, Lyra could sense the hierarchy: older warriors in charge, younger ones learning, everyone deferential to Ekk’thal. He commanded the room not with volume, but with presence.

It was then she noticed Grii’tach again. The young Yautja hovered nearby, carrying a stack of bowls nearly as tall as himself. His wide eyes kept flicking toward her, mandibles shifting nervously as if he were swallowing questions.

Finally, he blurted out, “Is it true… You bleed red?”

The clatter of knives and the hiss of oil seemed to pause. Lyra blinked, startled by the directness of it. “Yes,” she said, voice small but steady.

“I’ve seen yours already. When they…” Her throat tightened at the memory of Krull’s warriors in their frenzy, slashing themselves open. The glow of green blood spilling like fire. She forced the words out. “…when they cut themselves.”

Grii’tach leaned closer, balancing the bowls awkwardly in his arms. His eyes widened with fascination. “So strange. Like rust. Like soil.”

There was no cruelty in his tone, only awe. For the first time since her capture, Lyra felt no fear in answering. “To me, your blood looked like poison.”

That earned a ripple through the kitchen. Some of the staff gave guttural chuffs of amusement, others muttered in their own tongue. The boy’s mandibles flared into something like a grin, tusks glinting faintly. Ekk’thal broke the moment with a snap of his tusks.

“It’s rude to stare,” he barked. “Go back to work.”

“Yes, master,” Grii’tach mumbled, hurrying off. But not before Lyra caught one last lingering glance from him — curious, not hostile.

Her chest tightened. The boy was still alien, still terrifying in his own way, but his curiosity felt closer to something she understood. Human.

The old Yautja worked in silence for a while longer before sliding a plate toward her. It was piled with sliced meat, roasted roots, and a steaming cup of something dark and fragrant. Lyra hesitated, glancing at him.

“Eat,” he said, firm but not unkind.

She obeyed. The first bite was so rich, so real, she nearly moaned aloud. Hunger crashed over her in a wave, and before she could stop herself, she devoured the plate in greedy mouthfuls, grease slicking her lips and fingers. When she realized how quickly she was eating, she froze in shame.

“I’m sorry—” But Ekk’thal only rumbled, a sound that might have been laughter if it weren’t so gravel-deep.

“Do not apologize. I would rather see food vanish than rot. Better still to see someone enjoy it.”

Lyra flushed, but the warmth in his tone loosened something knotted in her chest. For the first time since she had been taken, she felt… safe. Not free. Not trusted. But not in immediate danger. She chewed more slowly after that, savouring the food, letting herself breathe. Her eyes drifted over the kitchen again — the rhythm of blades, the hiss of fires, the quiet order that ruled here. It was the opposite of Krull’s chaos. She couldn’t help but feel a small flicker of hope, something she hadn’t dared to entertain since the raid. Maybe, just maybe, there was a way to survive this — not just as a toy, but as something more.

Lyra set her cup down, warming her fingers on the rim. For a long moment, she debated whether she should say it—whether giving her name here, in this place, would make it feel more like hers again. She drew in a breath, the words poised on her tongue like a fragile offering.

“My name—”

“Lyra,” Ekk’thal interrupted flatly, still slicing at a slab of meat with his long knife. The blade’s edge glinted in the firelight as it cleaved through sinew.

“We all heard it. The entire fortress rattled with our master’s demands and the clan’s chants.” His voice was as blunt as the back of his blade, leaving no room for argument.

The words hit her harder than she expected. Lyra blinked, the corners of her eyes prickling. The sound of her name screamed into a frenzy of bloodlust… twisted, taken from her, turned into something ugly. She could still hear it echoing off the black stone walls, Krull’s voice carving her identity into a trophy. Her fingers tightened around the cup. She lowered her gaze, voice soft as a thread.

“…I’d rather you learned my name from me.”

The kitchen noise carried on—the scrape of knives, the pop of fat in the pans, the low hum of Yautja voices—but at the counter, something shifted. Ekk’thal’s knife slowed, his thick shoulders stiffening as if the words had struck deeper than he’d admit. For once, he didn’t have a dry retort waiting on his tusks. His mandibles twitched faintly, and when he finally set the blade aside, there was a pause heavy enough to feel like an apology unspoken. The firelight caught the scars along his knuckles, the old wounds of a warrior who’d survived too much to pretend he didn’t understand loss.

From the corner, Grii’tach piped up, too quick to notice the gravity in the air; “Now who’s rude?”

His voice was bright with mischief, oblivious to the tension thickening between them. The staff stilled. Even the hiss of the oil in the pans seemed to quiet.

Ekk’thal turned, slowly, and fixed the boy with a glare that could have cut meat clean off the bone. The young Yautja’s mandibles clicked nervously, but he didn’t take the words back, his spine straight with the stubborn pride of youth. Lyra blinked, caught between the sting of her own sadness and the absurdity of the boy defending her. For the first time since her capture, she almost wanted to laugh—a sound so foreign it startled her.

Ekk’thal rumbled something deep in his chest, a growl that might have been exasperation or reluctant amusement. He turned back to his work without answering, but his movements were sharper now, the knife striking harder against the cutting board as if punishing the meat for the boy’s insolence. Still, when he slid a fresh plate of roasted roots and charred meat closer to her, the gesture was a little too deliberate to be careless. Almost like he was… making amends in the only way he knew how. Food, she realized. His language. And for the first time, she wondered if he’d ever had to apologize before.

Lyra stayed perched on the stool, much too tall for her, her bare toes dangling just shy of the floor as the kitchens breathed and worked around her. For the first time since the jungle, since the raid, her shoulders loosened. The clatter of blades on cutting stones, the hiss of boiling pots, and the deep hum of voices speaking in the Yautja tongue didn’t frighten her; they steadied her. This place felt… alive in a way that didn’t thrum with violence.

A small haven, tucked inside the belly of the fortress. She rested her chin on her hand, watching as Ekk’thal barked orders with a gruff certainty, every word carrying weight, every motion efficient. His staff moved like extensions of him, each Yautja seeming to know their part without pause. Even young Grii’tach, though he tripped once under the weight of a pot, scrambled to correct himself quickly under the old warrior’s sharp eye. Lyra breathed slowly, trying to make this small corner of the fortress last. She didn’t want to go back upstairs. Not to those walls, not to the bed that wasn’t hers but felt like a trap waiting to spring shut again.

When Ekk’thal finally approached her, wiping his claws on a cloth, he tilted his head and said in that low rumble, “At least the bed will be yours for a few nights. Krull won’t return until the clans bleed each other dry.”

The words should’ve brought comfort. And they did, a little. But Lyra’s chest tightened all the same. Going back up there still felt like surrender.

She hesitated. “Do I have to?”

Before Ekk’thal could answer, a voice piped up from the side. Grii’tach had sidled closer, shoulders hunched, his tusks flashing in a small grin. “She can share my bed.”

Lyra’s brows lifted, caught between surprise and a laugh that almost slipped free. Ekk’thal shot the youth a flat glare. “Your snores would keep her awake.”

“I do not!” Grii’tach snapped, mandibles clicking, the tips of his dreadlocks bristling as though he’d been accused of something grave.

Lyra’s hand lifted to her mouth, stifling the laugh this time. Ekk’thal and Grii’tach both looked at her when the sound escaped her — a laugh. Not bitter, not sharp, but light. The first one since the raid. Lyra pressed her hand to her lips, almost embarrassed that it slipped out, but the young Yautja’s eyes lit up as though she’d handed him a treasure.

Without hesitation, Grii’tach seized her hand in his much larger one. His palm was rough, claws carefully curled so they didn’t scratch.

“Follow me!” he said, his tone more excitement than command.

“Wait—” Ekk’thal started, his mandibles twitching with disapproval.

But Grii’tach was already tugging her off the stool, guiding her across the stone floor. Lyra glanced back once at the old cook, half-expecting him to drag her back. But instead of stopping them, Ekk’thal only sighed, rubbing at the scarred ridge of his brow.

His gaze softened as he muttered, “This is not wise… but I’ve no heart to force you back to his chamber.” There was something in his tone, unspoken, almost protective. As if he understood the weight of what she’d been carrying.

They passed into a dimmer part of the kitchens, where the air cooled and the smell of ash faded to something more earthy — woven mats, stored furs, the faint musk of sleeping bodies. A few of the kitchen slaves were stirring, preparing for the night shift, their low murmurs filling the cavern. Some gave Lyra curious glances, others ignored her entirely, too wrapped in their own weariness. Grii’tach led her to a corner where a pile of furs and a rough, woven blanket were spread on the stone. His chest puffed with pride as he gestured to it.

“Here. My bed. Enough room for both.” Lyra blinked at him.

Her heart pinched, not with fear this time but with something gentler — the reckless kindness of youth, of someone who hadn’t yet learned how sharp the world could be. She lowered herself carefully onto the furs. They smelled faintly of smoke and spice, but they were warm, softer than she expected. Ekk’thal lowered himself nearby with a grunt, settling into his own makeshift bed. His posture screamed disapproval, but his eyes didn’t leave Lyra. The warning was there, silent, but so was the unspoken protection.

Grii’tach, ignoring the elder’s scrutiny, sat cross-legged beside her, bright with curiosity.

“You are really an ooman?” Lyra smiled faintly, adjusting the blanket over her bare legs.

“Yes. A human. That’s what we call ourselves.”

“What are you like?” he pressed, leaning closer. “You are… small. Soft. Different.”

Lyra chuckled softly, answering his questions one by one — about food, about hair, about why her blood was red instead of green. She spoke simply, carefully, the words soothing her as much as they satisfied his hunger to know. It was strange, talking so freely to one of them, but Grii’tach’s fascination was earnest, untarnished by cruelty. His eyes widened as she described Earth’s forests, the way sunlight filtered through leaves, and how rain smelled after a storm.

“It sounds… beautiful,” he admitted, voice softer now, almost dreaming.

But before she could finish explaining how human villages raised their young, a sharp voice rang across the cavern.

“Go to fucking sleep!” one of the day-shift slaves barked, rolling over in his bedding.

Lyra burst into laughter again, muffling the sound in the blanket. Grii’tach’s mandibles clicked in protest, but even he was grinning.

“We’ll chat in the morning,” Lyra whispered, her voice lighter than it had been in weeks.

She lay down, curling onto her side. The woven blanket scratched a little at her skin, but it was warmth — chosen warmth, not chains. Beside her, Grii’tach shifted into his furs, his presence a comfort more than a threat. And just beyond, Ekk’thal settled deeper, one eye still half-open, watching them both like a weary sentinel. For now, at least, she wasn’t alone.

The heat of the fortress seeped through the stones beneath the woven blankets, and Lyra pressed herself into the furs, curled small as Grii’tach’s steady breaths settled beside her. Across the row, the muffled sound of the kitchens’ night shift working faded into silence as the slaves not on duty surrendered to exhaustion. For the first time since her capture, the air around her felt less suffocating, less watched. The collar still hummed faintly at her throat, but Krull was gone, and that absence let her body sag into uneasy rest.

Sleep came fractured.

It was not the peaceful kind but a battlefield of images: the slam of Krull’s hand against stone, the crack of bone splitting beneath his warriors’ blades, the glowing rivers of green blood streaking their bodies as they roared their devotion. Then his face—always too close, always looming—mandibles brushing her skin, his breath hot on her ear, his claws pressing down as he whispered the word mine until it burned into her bones.

In the dream, she couldn’t breathe. His hand was back on her throat. His mandibles scraped her cheek. She fought to push him off, but her arms moved like stone, her voice like smoke.

Her own scream ripped her awake.

Lyra shot upright, thrashing against the blankets tangled around her limbs.

“Don’t touch me!” she cried, voice raw and strangled, chest heaving. Her hands clawed at the air as if swatting away invisible claws.

“Lyra—Lyra, wait—” A smaller shape leaned toward her, hands reaching—Grii’tach’s broad, clawed fingers trembling as he tried to help.

But she didn’t see him. Her vision blurred with tears, her mind a prison replaying Krull’s face.

“No! Stay away—don’t touch me!” she sobbed, backing against the stone wall, her shoulders scraping the rough surface.

The sleeping chamber had erupted. The other slaves stirred and sat up, blinking groggily, muttering curses until they saw her. Their irritation melted into silence, then pity, a heavy sympathy hanging in the smoky air.

Grii’tach froze, his hand hovering helplessly between them, his mandibles twitching with guilt. He looked more boy than warrior, but to her, in that moment, he was just another shadow in Krull’s image.

Ekk’thal’s heavy steps crossed the chamber. The old Yautja crouched low in front of her, his scarred face lit faintly by the dying glow of the braziers. His voice was gravelly, but softer than she had ever heard it.

“Look at me, girl.”

Her sobs tore at her throat. Her gaze darted, wild, seeing nothing.

Ekk’thal’s hand did not reach for her. Instead, he pressed his palm flat against the stone floor between them, slow and steady. His eyes locked with hers, sharp but patient.

“Here. Hear me. You are not there. You are here. No one touches you.”

Her breathing hitched. She blinked, chest shaking, eyes finally snagging on his.

“Breathe,” he ordered. “Slow.”

The collar hummed with the weight of his guttural words, and though she didn’t need translation to understand, the sound grounded her all the same. She tried—air burning down her throat, ragged, but slower.

The chamber was hushed now. Every slave awake, every pair of eyes on her. But no one mocked. No one sneered. They only watched Lyra wept into her hands, shaking.

Ekk’thal finally shifted closer, his broad hand settling—not on her, but beside her, close enough that she could feel his warmth if she chose to lean toward it.

“That’s it,” he said, quieter. “The ghosts cannot touch you here. Not while I stand.”

Her tears streaked hot down her face, but the wild terror began to loosen its claws. She dragged in a breath, then another. Her hands fell from her face, trembling.

When she finally whispered, her voice cracked. “…I thought it was him.”

Ekk’thal’s mandibles clicked once, a sound like an old sigh. “I know.”

Grii’tach lowered his head, ashamed, curling back into his blanket without a word. The rest of the slaves, one by one, turned away again—though not without glancing back at her, their eyes carrying the unspoken truth: they all knew what it was to wake screaming.

Lyra stayed pressed against the wall, shivering, but Ekk’thal remained crouched before her, a scarred sentinel holding her to the present until the shaking ebbed.

Lyra’s breathing slowed, though her cheeks were still wet, the collar warm against her throat from the heat of her skin. She scrubbed her palms against her face, ashamed of the trembling in her arms. Her voice came out hoarse, broken by the shreds of her sobbing.

“…I’m sorry,” she whispered, glancing at the others still half-watching from their furs. “I didn’t mean to wake everyone. Or… cause a scene.”

The chamber was hushed but not hostile. Only weary. Only knowing. Eyes lingered on her briefly, heavy with understanding. They had all been there—waking in the dark, hearts pounding, minds trapped in the grip of nightmares they couldn’t escape.

Ekk’thal’s scarred brow furrowed, and after a moment, he reached out—not to restrain, not to claim, but to rest one broad, calloused hand on the crown of her head. His claws raked lightly through her tangled curls as if she were still a child.

“You,” he said, voice deep and steady, “who has been claimed by the Bloodseeker, have nothing to apologize for.”

The words struck her deeper than she expected. Not because she accepted them, but because his tone carried no judgment, only quiet weight. The rough touch at her scalp was grounding, almost tender, and Lyra found herself leaning into it despite herself, tears spilling fresh down her cheeks.

“…When I was little,” she admitted softly, staring down at the stone floor, “I was always alone. My parents—they worked all the time. Always too busy, too tired, too far away. Even when they were in the house, it felt like they weren’t there. Like I was invisible.” Her throat bobbed. “I guess I got used to it. Being on my own.”

Ekk’thal’s mandibles flexed, the clicking sound low, contemplative. His hand ruffled her curls once more before he let it drop to his knee. “Not anymore,” he said, simple and certain. “I will not leave you.”

A smaller voice, half-mumbled from the furs beside her, followed: “Me neither…”

Lyra’s eyes flicked to Grii’tach, who had curled back into his blanket but now peeked at her, mandibles shifting in something shy. His gaze, bright and uncertain, held no threat.

Her chest tightened. Something fragile and warm stirred there, cutting through the chill of fear. She crawled back into the narrow furs laid out beside him. The air still held the echoes of her panic, but Grii’tach’s nearness softened it.

She turned her head toward him, whispered, “…Sorry.”

He shook his head quickly, mandibles twitching in something almost like a smile. He reached for her hand, hesitant at first, then wrapped his thick fingers gently around her smaller ones. His grip was careful, not binding, just steady.

Lyra let out a long breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The heat of his palm anchored her, a small but vital comfort in the cold vastness of the fortress. For the first time since the raid, she didn’t feel entirely lost. Within minutes, exhaustion dragged her eyelids closed, and for once, sleep came without claws or chains.

Ekk’thal stayed awake long after the girl’s breathing steadied, long after Grii’tach’s grip on her hand went slack with sleep. His old eyes, dulled by smoke and years of war, lingered on the frail form curled beneath borrowed furs. A strange sight, he thought. An ooman, small and trembling, yet stubborn enough to keep going. Fragile as cracked bone, but fire at her core. She was a paradox—something so delicate it shouldn’t have survived the first brush of violence, yet here she was, clinging to life with a tenacity that surprised even him.

His mandibles clicked faintly as he leaned back against the stone, the weight of his years pressing into his bones. He should not care. She was prey, a creature dragged in like a spoil of war, a trophy for the Bloodseeker’s insatiable pride. And yet… watching her press closer to the boy, finding what scraps of comfort she could, stirred something heavy in his chest. It was a feeling he hadn’t allowed himself in decades, not since the last time he’d stood guard over something worth protecting. The thought unsettled him, but it also wouldn’t let go.

The Bloodseeker had claimed her, yes—branded her with his collar, painted her name across the fortress walls like a declaration of ownership. But claims did not last when the one making them was as volatile as Krull. And if Krull broke her spirit too quickly, it would be a waste. Not just of her, but of something deeper, something Ekk’thal couldn’t quite name. She wasn’t just a trophy; she was a spark in the dark, a flicker of defiance in a fortress built to crush it. To let that spark die would be… unworthy.

Ekk’thal exhaled slowly, shoulders easing as he folded his arms across his chest. The glow of the hearth cast long shadows across the chamber, painting the sleeping slaves in soft amber light. His gaze fell on Lyra again, her face now peaceful in sleep, her hand still loosely cradled in Grii’tach’s. The boy, too, slept soundly, his youthful innocence untouched by the horrors of the fortress. For a moment, they looked like two children huddled together against the cold—a fragile sanctuary in a world of violence.

His mandibles twitched as he grumbled softly to himself. No, he thought. I will not let her break. Not while these old hands can still shield a flame from the wind. He had seen too many lives extinguished too soon, too much potential wasted in Krull’s endless hunger for domination. If there was any purpose left to his weary existence, perhaps it was this: to stand between her and the storm until she found her footing.

In the dim glow of the hearth, he kept his silent vigil. The fortress loomed around them, its black stone walls alive with the heat of the mountain and the echoes of countless battles. But here, in this quiet corner of the kitchens, it felt less like a cage and more like a den—if only for this one night. And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The warmth of bodies and furs had kept the chill at bay, and for the first time since she’d been dragged into the fortress, Lyra slept deeply enough that dawn caught her by surprise. She woke to the sound of movement—the scrape of stone bowls, low chatter in the Yautja tongue, the shuffle of feet as the next day’s rhythm began. Her eyes blinked open to the muted glow of firepits. The slave’s quarters smelled of smoke, herbs, and something faintly sweet. Grii’tach was still curled beside her, his massive frame pressed close, hand slack but still resting in hers. The sight made her chest ache in a way she couldn’t name—comfort and guilt braided together, a fragile moment of peace in a world that had otherwise been stripped from her.

She carefully pulled her hand free and sat up on the woven mat, her gaze drifting across the room. A few pairs of alien eyes flicked her way—some curious, some guarded, some pitying. None cruel. For once, she did not feel like a spectacle for sport, like something to be gawked at or tormented. A female Yautja, her mandibles' tusks chipped with age, approached carrying a shallow bowl. She was broad-shouldered, her skin marked with old scars that told stories Lyra could only imagine. Without a word, she held out the dish to Lyra, steam curling upward from the porridge-like mixture inside. It was thick and flecked with grains she didn’t recognize, strips of roasted root laid across the surface. A clay cup of water followed, pressed gently into her hands.

Lyra hesitated, clutching the warm bowl as though it might vanish.

“Is this… for me?” she asked softly, her voice still rough from sleep.

The female grunted—a sharp, affirmative sound—and set the cup beside her before moving on without another word.

Lyra glanced at Ekk’thal, who was already awake, mandibles flexing as he watched her. He nodded once. “Eat. You’ll need strength.”

She ducked her head, muttering a shy thank-you, and dipped her fingers into the porridge.

The texture was thick, almost chewy, but it carried a nutty, grounding flavour that made her stomach lurch with sudden hunger. She began to eat quickly, too quickly, the food vanishing between shaky breaths.

Grii’tach stirred beside her, blinking awake, and when his eyes focused on the scene, he yawned and muttered groggily, “Save me some next time.”

Lyra set the empty bowl down carefully on the stone beside her, licking the last trace of porridge from her thumb. The food had quieted the gnawing hollow in her belly, and with it came a spark of something she hadn’t felt in days—energy—a purpose stirring. She looked toward Ekk’thal, who was overseeing a pair of younger slaves as they hauled in bundles of dried meat.

His presence dominated the room not with Krull’s menace, but with the easy weight of someone who had lived here long enough to become the foundation stone.

Lyra hesitated, then pushed herself up from the mat. Bare feet padded softly across the floor until she stood near him, craning her neck back to meet his gaze.

“Ekk’thal,” she began timidly, voice small in the buzz of kitchen work. “Can I… help? Around the kitchen, I mean.”

The old Yautja’s mandibles flexed in what could have been annoyance—or amusement. He studied her for a long, quiet moment before exhaling a sound like gravel shifting.

“Sure,” he said at last, though the word carried a sigh. Relief bloomed in her chest.

She darted toward a nearby bench where herbs and roots were laid out, waiting to be chopped, cleaned, and sorted.

Lyra glanced down at herself—bare arms dusted with ash and grime, the thin drape of the sleeveless tunic clinging where sweat had dried, the leather cord biting faintly against her ribs. Her fingers were smudged with dirt from the stone floor.

“Uh—wait,” she murmured, drawing back. Ekk’thal’s yellow eyes flicked toward her, narrowing slightly.

“My hands,” she explained quickly, showing them to him—palms nicked, stained, nails rimmed dark.

“If I’m going to help, I should wash first.”

The old Yautja made a low chuff, something between a scoff and reluctant approval. He gestured with his chin toward a stone basin set near the hearth. Steam rose faintly from it, where another slave had just finished rinsing utensils.

Lyra padded barefoot across the kitchen, wincing at the rough stone under her soles, and plunged her hands into the water. It was warmer than she expected, tinged with the earthy smell of boiled herbs. She scrubbed carefully, working the grit from under her nails, and dried them awkwardly on a rough cloth someone tossed her way. Only then did she approach the bench again.

The young female Yautja sorting leaves stepped aside, mandibles twitching curiously as Lyra reached for a stalk with trembling eagerness. The knife beside it looked absurdly large in her small hands. Her first slice sent the blade clattering against the board too hard. She winced, cheeks burning, but tried again—slower this time. The clean cut made her grin, quick and unguarded. She bent low over the plants, inhaling their scents like they were treasures.

“This one smells like mint,” she said with delight, brushing the leaf under her nose. She picked up another and coughed at the sharp, burning scent.

“And this—oh, this is like mustard, I swear. What’s this one called? Can it be eaten raw? Or only cooked?”

Her questions spilled out one over the other, and the Yautja staff began to glance at each other, amusement rippling through the room. Ekk’thal, arms folded across his scarred chest, loomed near the fire pit. He rumbled deep in his throat, shaking his head.

“Never in my eight hundred or so years of living,” he said with dry wit, “have I ever met something excited about plants.”

The other slaves chuckled, even the stone-faced ones. Lyra’s cheeks flushed red, but she ducked her head, grinning all the same.

“Well… they’re alive,” she murmured, twirling a sprig between her fingers. “And they keep us alive. Doesn’t that make them worth being excited about?”

The silence that followed wasn’t mocking. Ekk’thal’s mandibles twitched faintly, and though his tone stayed gruff when he replied, there was a subtle warmth threaded through it.

“Just keep your fingers attached,” he muttered, “and maybe you’ll earn your keep yet.”

Lyra laughed, light and nervous but real—and for the first time since her capture, the air didn’t feel like it was crushing her chest.

The kitchens became her refuge, a world of warmth and rhythm that slowly dulled the sharp edges of her fear. Lyra spent her days hunched over stone tables, sleeves rolled back from her bare arms, her hands stained with the earthy hues of roots and herbs. Ekk’thal’s voice was a constant presence—low, rough as stone, sometimes edged with impatience—as he guided her through the intricacies of Yautja survival. He taught her which jagged leaves had to be blanched before eating, which soft ferns could be torn and sprinkled raw, and which creatures’ blood was safe only after it had been seared black. The lessons were practical, but they carried an unspoken weight: here, in the grit and grime of the kitchen, she was learning to survive beyond Krull’s shadow.

At first, her hands fumbled with the knives, clumsy and too soft-skinned for such work. But repetition steadied her, calluses forming where there had once been only smooth skin. She learned to dice herbs into fine ribbons, to strip the meat from stalks without mangling them, to grind roots into paste with a steady, rhythmic motion. The other slaves watched her progress with quiet curiosity. Those who had once eyed her with wariness or pity began to soften. She caught herself laughing with them sometimes, sharing brief smiles over burned bread or exchanging knowing glances when Ekk’thal muttered one of his sharp-edged remarks.

Even the grizzled old Yautja himself seemed to tolerate her presence more, huffing less when she hovered too close and occasionally muttering, “Don’t cut yourself,” instead of chasing her away entirely.

Nights were no longer spent in Krull’s suffocating chambers. Instead, Lyra curled up in a narrow corner of the slaves’ quarters, pressed against Grii’tach’s warmth and covered by his mismatched furs. The boyish Yautja snored faintly, though he denied it every morning, and Lyra learned to smile at his stubbornness. The others never complained after her first nightmare; they only shifted aside to make room or left her in silence when she woke gasping in the dark. It was a fragile peace, but it was hers—a small, precious thing she clung to like a lifeline.

Ekk’thal’s gruff demeanor masked a reluctant kind of care. His steady hand on her shoulder when she worked too long, the way his mandibles clicked softly when she devoured food too quickly—these small gestures told her more than words ever could. He was not Krull. He would not hurt her. And in the safety of the kitchens, surrounded by the hum of activity and the warmth of the hearth-fire, Lyra felt like she could breathe for the first time since the night her world had shattered.

But the illusion of safety was just that—an illusion. It shattered in an instant.

A roar split the fortress—deep, thunderous, vibrating through the very stone beneath her bare feet. It rolled down the halls like a storm, rattling dishes and sending a shiver of ash from the ceiling. Lyra froze, the pestle slipping from her hand. She didn’t need to be told whose voice it was. Krull. Her heart lurched painfully against her ribs. That sound—raw rage and fury—was like the crack of a whip, like the promise of violence. The roar carried his return, his displeasure, his ownership.

The kitchen slaves went deathly still. All sound ceased as if someone had cut a thread. Even the fires seemed to shrink lower, cowed by the echo of their master’s wrath. Lyra’s throat went dry, her breath caught in her chest. He’s back. Her mind stumbled. For days, she had slept among them, worked beside them, breathed freely without the iron cage of his presence. She had allowed herself to feel safe. She had forgotten—no, not forgotten—pushed aside the truth of what waited for her. And now he was back.

Ekk’thal’s mandibles clicked softly in the silence. His gaze cut toward her, sharp with understanding. But he said nothing. No one dared to. Lyra’s fingers trembled against the stone table. She couldn’t make herself move. She couldn’t make herself breathe. The roar seemed to still hang in the air, promising that soon he would come for her. He knows. He knows I wasn’t where he left me.

Her chest constricted until it hurt. The fragile haven of the kitchens felt as if it were already collapsing around her. Then it came again—her name, loud enough to shake the fortress to its core.

“LYRA!”

The bellow shattered the fragile calm of the kitchens like a blade through glass. It wasn’t just a roar—it was a force, a seismic wave that shook the stone walls and sent pots clattering to the floor. The sound crawled up Lyra’s spine, cold and suffocating, a reminder of the storm she had foolishly believed she could escape. Her hands froze mid-motion, the pestle slipping from her grip and rolling across the table with a hollow clatter. The kitchen fell silent, every Yautja turning toward the source of that terrible sound. Even the fires seemed to dim, as if cowering in its wake.

The silence that followed was worse than the roar itself. It hung heavy in the air, thick with dread, as though the fortress itself held its breath. Lyra’s chest tightened, her heart pounding so fiercely she thought it might burst. She could feel it—the weight of his presence, the heat of his fury—bearing down on her from somewhere deep within the fortress.

He was back. Krull. And he knew.

She didn’t need to hear her name again to understand what that roar meant. He knew she hadn’t been where he left her.

Her legs trembled, threatening to buckle beneath her. She clutched the edge of the table, her knuckles white, as the echo of his voice reverberated through her bones. The kitchen slaves exchanged uneasy glances, their mandibles twitching in silent unease. None dared to move, none dared to speak. Ekk’thal stood rigid at her side, his yellow eyes narrowed as he stared toward the hall. His silence was more telling than any words could be. Even he, gruff and unyielding as he was, could do nothing to shield her from what was coming.

The second roar came moments later, louder, closer, and this time it wasn’t just her name—it was a declaration, a promise of violence she could almost taste.

“LYRA!”

The sound rolled through the fortress like thunder, shaking the very stones beneath her feet. Her breath caught in her throat, her body frozen in place, torn between the urge to flee and the crushing realization that there was nowhere to run. The collar at her throat hummed faintly, translating his rage into something tangible, something that wrapped around her like chains.

She looked to Ekk’thal, her eyes wide and pleading, but he only shook his head once, a grim set to his mandibles. “It’s done,” he said quietly, his voice rough but not unkind. She wanted to scream, to protest, to beg him to hide her away—but she knew it was futile. Krull would find her no matter where she went. The fortress was his, and so was she. The thought made her stomach churn.

Then it came again—her name, roared with such ferocity it seemed to crack the air itself.

“LYRA!”

This time, it was closer still, and she knew with a sickening certainty that he was coming for her. Her hands flew to her arms, nails digging into her skin as if she could somehow anchor herself against the tidal wave of his wrath. But there was no escape, no refuge left. The illusion of safety she had clung to these past days crumbled to dust, leaving her exposed and vulnerable once more.

Her thoughts spun wildly, chasing one another in frantic circles. Run—hide—scream—but every option ended the same way. There was nowhere to go. The fortress was his. Every wall, every corridor, every hall belonged to him. He would find her. He would always find her. Her hands shot up to clutch her own arms, nails biting through the skin of her arms as tremors overtook her body. She wanted to vanish, to fold herself into nothing, but the weight of his voice pressed her deeper into the reality that she had nowhere to disappear.

A hand settled firmly on her shoulder. Lyra flinched, her whole body jerking, but when she turned, she met Ekk’thal’s steady gaze. His eyes, dark and age-lined, held no judgment—only a stern, quiet understanding. His voice was gravelly, low, meant only for her ears.

“Come,” he said. “I will guide you back.”

Her lips parted, trembling around words that wouldn’t come. Tears stung her eyes, burning trails she couldn’t blink away.

Finally, she managed to rasp, almost inaudible: “Can I... Hold your hand?”

Her hand lifted, shaking. Not to point, not to defend—but to seek. Slowly, timidly, she reached for his. Ekk’thal’s mandibles shifted, a flicker of surprise passing his features. Around them, the other slaves stared, wide-eyed, certain he would recoil. But the elder did not. With a slow, deliberate motion, he extended his hand, rough and scarred from centuries of work, and let her clutch his thick fingers.

“Then hold,” he said, steady as stone. “And do not let go.”

Lyra nodded rapidly, too desperate to speak again. Her bare feet shuffled forward as he led her from the kitchen, the corridor yawning before them. Krull’s voice still echoed in the fortress, bellowing her name like a curse and a claim all at once.

“LYRA!”

The closer they drew to the Great Hall, the heavier the air became. Heat pressed down on Lyra like a molten weight, the very stones trembling beneath Krull’s fury. His voice rolled again through the fortress, vibrating through her bones. It wasn’t just sound anymore—it was a storm, a threat that reached into her chest and squeezed her heart. She stumbled, her grip tightening around Ekk’thal’s scarred hand. Her other arm clutched at her own ribs, pulling the fabric of her sleeveless tunic close, though the leather cords left her sides bare to the chill and the eyes she knew would be waiting.

They rounded the corner. The Great Hall blazed alive in fire and shadow. Warriors lined the walls, their eyes fixed on the scene unfolding. Krull stood at its heart, colossal, his chest rising and falling in ragged waves. His mandibles flared wide, saliva gleaming on his chin, and his yellow eyes burned like suns. When his gaze found her, the air seemed to vanish. The roar that tore from his throat was nothing human. It was the sound of a predator denied, of possession challenged. The floor shook beneath it. Several of the younger hunters flinched. Lyra froze in place. Every instinct screamed at her to bolt, to drop Ekk’thal’s hand and throw herself at Krull’s feet in apology. But she couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. She clung to the elder’s hand like it was the only thing anchoring her to reality.

Krull’s gaze shifted. Down. To their joined hands. The silence that followed was worse than his roar. It was heavy, suffocating, like the moment before the kill. Ekk’thal didn’t let go. He stood firm beside her, shoulders squared, though age lined his frame. His expression was unreadable, but his stillness carried defiance—quiet, measured, deliberate. Krull’s head tilted. Slowly. The cords in his neck bulged with restrained rage.

The collar at Lyra’s throat hummed faintly, translating the words when it came, low and venomous: “Get your filthy hand off of what is mine.”

Ekk’thal’s voice broke the silence. Gravel-deep, unhurried: “I guided her,” he said. “Because she was afraid.”

Krull stepped forward. One massive stride. Then two. His looming form cast her in shadow, the heat of his body like a wall against her exposed skin. His mandibles shifted as he leaned close—not at Ekk’thal, but at Lyra, his voice a guttural purr edged with steel.

“You hold his hand. You walk by his side.” His voice lowered, intimate and dangerous. “Do you forget who owns your steps? Who binds your throat? Who chose you?”

Lyra shook her head quickly, tears burning her eyes. Her voice caught in her throat, only managing a whisper: “N-no…”

Krull’s gaze flicked again to Ekk’thal, mandibles spreading. For one horrible moment, Lyra thought she’d watch the elder be ripped apart for the crime of touching her. He tore his gaze from Ekk’thal as if he no longer mattered and fixed it wholly on Lyra.

Ekk’thal finally released her hand. Slowly. Reluctantly. His mandibles clicked, but he said nothing more. Lyra felt the last flicker of safety drain from her chest as Krull’s clawed fingers guided her chin to face him, his burning gaze devouring every shred of defiance she still held.

Krull’s grip on her chin shifted suddenly, his claws snapping down around her wrist instead. The strength in his hand was absolute—unyielding. Lyra gasped, stumbling forward as he yanked her arm, the leather cord of her tunic tugging against her ribs as she tried to keep pace with his strides.

The Great Hall parted for him, his warriors lowered their heads, watching with guarded fascination as their Bloodseeker dragged his trembling human toward the stairway.

As they ascended, Krull muttered under his breath, each word a lash against Lyra’s fraying nerves.

“She dares look at them… to smell like them… She is mine.”

His grip tightened with every syllable, his claws pressing harder into her flesh until she could feel the dull ache of bruises forming beneath his touch. The pain was sharp but distant, overshadowed by the raw terror coiling in her chest. She stumbled forward, her bare feet slipping on the smooth stone, as he dragged her through the fortress. His strides were long and deliberate, each step a reminder of his dominance. The air around them grew heavier, hotter, as if the fortress itself reacted to his rage. Warriors lining the halls averted their gazes, their mandibles twitching in unease, but Krull paid them no mind. His focus was singular, unyielding—her.

When they reached his chambers, he shoved her inside with a force that sent her sprawling onto the obsidian floor. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs, her palms scraping against the rough stone. The door slammed shut behind them with a resounding finality, sealing her fate within its cold walls. Lyra scrambled to her knees, her chest heaving as she tried to orient herself in the dimly lit room. The air here was stifling, thick with the scent of smoke, metal, and something primal—him. Krull loomed over her, his massive frame casting a shadow that swallowed the room. His yellow eyes burned with a predatory intensity, and his mandibles twitched as he took in her trembling form.

"You stink like the slaves!" he sneered, his voice a low growl that vibrated through her bones. "Your scent should be the smell of me, only me!"

He stepped closer, his clawed feet clicking against the stone floor, each sound driving her further into herself. Lyra shrank back, her hands instinctively rising to shield her face, though she knew it would do little to protect her from his wrath. Krull crouched low, his mandibles flaring as he inhaled deeply near her neck, his breath hot and damp against her skin. He recoiled with a snarl, the sound guttural and sharp.

"Dirt. Sweat. Them." His voice dripped with disgust, each word a lash against her already frayed nerves. "You forget who you belong to. Who marked you! Who owns you!"

Lyra’s throat tightened, her voice barely a whisper as she stammered, "I-I didn't—" Her words cut off as his hand shot out, gripping her jaw with bruising force. His claws pressed into her cheeks, forcing her to meet his gaze. The yellow of his eyes seemed to glow in the dim light, their intensity burning into her soul. She could feel the heat of his anger radiating off him, a living thing that threatened to consume her whole.

"You will not forget again," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. The collar at her throat hummed faintly, translating his words with a clarity that made her stomach churn.

"You will not touch them. You will not walk among them. You are mine." His grip shifted, dragging her to her feet with effortless strength. She stumbled, her legs shaky beneath her, as he leaned in close, his mandibles grazing her ear.

"And I will remind you," Krull murmured, his voice a dark promise, the words dripping with possessive venom. His clawed fingers tightened around her jaw, forcing her to meet his burning yellow gaze. "Until there is nothing left in you but me."

Lyra’s breath hitched, her small hands instinctively wrapping around his wrist as she tried to pry herself free, but his grip was unyielding against her fragile skin. Her voice trembled, barely a whisper, as she pleaded, "Please... don’t hurt me..."

Krull’s grip on her jaw loosened slightly, though his claws still pressed into her cheeks, forcing her to meet his burning yellow gaze. His mandibles flared, trembling with barely contained rage, and his eyes bore into hers with an intensity that made her feel as though he could see every thought, every fear, every flicker of rebellion. She shuddered under his scrutiny, her breath quick and shallow, her hands still clinging weakly to his wrist as though it might somehow anchor her against the storm of his wrath.

"I hate that you smell like them," Krull snarled, his voice a low, guttural rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very air.

His mandibles twitched furiously, saliva gleaming on their jagged edges as he leaned closer, his massive frame casting a shadow that swallowed her whole. The heat of his body pressed against her, suffocating and primal, a reminder of his dominance, his claim. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned down, inhaling deeply near her neck, his breath hot and damp against her skin.

"Those pathetic slaves. Their stench clings to you like filth." He recoiled with a visceral snarl, the sound sharp and guttural, dripping with disgust.

Lyra’s breath hitched, her small hands instinctively tightening around his wrist as she tried to pry herself free, but his grip was unyielding. Her voice trembled, barely a whisper, as she pleaded, "Please... don’t—"

Before she could finish, Krull’s hand shifted, releasing her face only to grasp her arm with bruising force. He dragged her across the obsidian floor toward a recess in the chamber where a spring-fed pool shimmered faintly in the dim light. Steam curled from its surface, the water dark and inviting. But there was no comfort in the sight—only dread.

"Strip," Krull commanded, his voice a low growl that brooked no argument. Lyra’s hands trembled as she reached for the leather ties of her tunic, her fingers fumbling with the knots. Krull watched her every movement, his eyes burning with predatory intensity. When the fabric finally fell away, she hesitated, her arms crossing protectively over her chest. His mandibles clicked impatiently.

"Get in the water," he growled.

Her face burned with shame as she obeyed, stepping into the warm water. The pool lapped at her skin, its heat a stark contrast to the cold dread coiling in her chest. She hesitated, the water rising to her thighs, her arms still crossed protectively over herself. Behind her, she heard Krull moving—the rasp of claws against armor, the clatter of metal hitting stone as he stripped himself bare. Her breath hitched as she glanced over her shoulder, catching a glimpse of his massive form towering over her. His scarred, muscular frame gleamed faintly in the dim light, his yellow eyes locked on her with an intensity that made her feel like prey cornered by its predator.

He stepped into the pool with a heavy splash, the water rippling outward as his weight displaced it. Lyra tensed as his presence enveloped her, the heat of his body radiating through the water like a furnace. His claws traced the curve of her spine, lightly at first, ghosting across her skin in a way that sent shivers through her despite the warmth. The touch was deceptively gentle but carried an unspoken threat, a reminder of his control.

"I will wash their stench from you," Krull growled, his voice a low, guttural rumble that vibrated through the air and coiled around her like chains. His breath was hot and damp against her ear, and she could feel the faint scrape of his teeth as his mandibles shifted. His clawed hands slid down her arms, prying them away from her chest with ease. She trembled as he began to work, his touch firm and methodical as he scrubbed at her skin with a rough, fibrous cloth dipped in some kind of pungent lotion. The scent was sharp, almost overpowering, but it was nothing compared to the heat of him so close, his presence suffocating and inescapable.

The cloth moved over her shoulders, down her back, and across her sides, each stroke deliberate and unyielding. He was thorough, almost obsessive, as if determined to erase any trace of the slaves’ influence from her body. Her skin tingled under his ministrations, the friction leaving it raw and sensitive. When his claws grazed the curve of her hip, she flinched instinctively, a soft whimper escaping her lips. Krull paused, his grip tightening slightly in warning.

"Stay still," he commanded, his voice a low growl that demanded no disobedience. Lyra nodded shakily, her hands balling into fists at her sides as she forced herself to endure his possessive cleansing.

His touch moved upward again, this time tracing the line of her collarbone before sliding down the slope of her chest. She stiffened, her breath catching in her throat as he worked the cloth over her breasts with the same ruthless efficiency. His claws brushed against her nipples, sending jolts of sensation through her that she couldn’t entirely suppress. A low rumble escaped Krull’s chest, a sound that was almost a purr but carried an edge of menace.

"Even here," he murmured, his voice dark and possessive, "their scent lingers."

Lyra’s cheeks burned, humiliation and fear mingling as she fought to keep still under his scrutiny. Finally, Krull stepped back slightly, his gaze raking over her as if assessing his work.

"Better," he said at last, though there was no warmth in his tone—only satisfaction at having reestablished his claim.

Lyra sighed heavily, her body trembling from the intensity of his attention, but the brief respite was shattered as Krull’s massive hand clamped down on the curve of her rear end. His claws dug into her soft flesh, not enough to break skin but with a grip that left no doubt of his dominance.

"So soft," Krull growled, his voice low and guttural. "So delicate. All mine to enjoy."

His other hand snaked around her waist, pulling her small frame against him. The heat of his body pressed into her back, his massive frame overwhelming her delicate form. His mandibles grazed the nape of her neck, the sensation sending shivers down her spine as he inhaled deeply, his breath hot and damp against her skin.

"They will never touch what is mine," he rumbled, his voice a dark promise laced with possessive fervour.

Before she could protest or even process his words, Krull bent her over the edge of the pool, his strength rendering her powerless to resist. Her hands scrambled for stability on the smooth stone as he positioned her, his claws trailing down her spine in a gesture that was both possessive and cruel.

"You belong to me," he snarled. Lyra gasped as she felt the tip of his cock against her entrance, thick and unyielding.

His claws gripped her hips, holding her in place as he claimed her with a ferocity that made her gasp. The force of his thrusts drove the air from her lungs, each movement a brutal reminder of his strength and dominance. Every push was a claim, every pull a declaration—she was his, wholly and utterly.

The water around them churned violently as he moved, steam rising like a veil that only seemed to amplify the heat of their bodies. Lyra’s fingers clung desperately to the edge of the pool, her knuckles white as she tried to anchor herself against the onslaught. Her body felt like it was being torn apart and remade with every thrust, stretched to its limits under the sheer size of him. A low, guttural growl rumbled from his chest, vibrating through her like a storm.

"You will remember this," he growled, his voice thick with lust and menace. "You will remember who owns you."

Krull’s pace quickened, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more punishing. Lyra could feel her body giving in to him, her muscles trembling as she struggled to hold on. His claws dug into her hips, sharp points threatening to break skin as he pulled her back against him with each brutal stroke. The water sloshed around them, soaking the stone floor and leaving her slick and shivering despite the heat. She could hear the sound of his breathing—heavy, ragged, primal—and it only added to the overwhelming sensation of being consumed by him. His hand snaked around her waist, pulling her upright against his chest, her back pressed to his scarred, muscular torso. His mandibles scraped against her ear as he spoke, his voice low and dripping with possession.

"Say it," he commanded, his breath hot and damp against her skin. "Say you are mine."

Lyra’s voice caught in her throat, a whimper escaping her lips as she tried to respond. But Krull didn’t wait for her answer. With a guttural growl, he bent her back over the edge of the pool. The force of his thrusts was relentless, each one driving the air from her lungs as if he meant to imprint himself upon her very bones. Her legs trembled, knees scraping against the rough stone beneath them, but there was no escape. She was trapped against the searing heat of his body, her cries mingling with the sound of water sloshing violently around them.

"Say it," Krull snarled, his voice a low, thunderous command that vibrated through her like a storm. His mandibles flared, grazing the nape of her neck as he leaned over her, his breath hot and laboured against her skin. "Say you are mine."

His pace quickened, each thrust more punishing than the last. Lyra could feel herself unravelling, the tension in her body coiling tighter and tighter until it threatened to snap.

"Say it!" he roared again, this time louder, more insistent.

Lyra’s hands clawed at the edge of the pool, her fingers slipping against the slick stone as she struggled to hold on. Her body trembled, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of his presence, his strength, his unrelenting dominance. The water churned around them, steaming and chaotic, and yet all she could focus on was him—the heat of his body pressing into her, the rough texture of his scarred skin against hers, the way his massive frame seemed to consume her entirely.

"I’m… I’m yours," she gasped, her voice breaking under the weight of his ferocity.

The words were barely audible, but they were enough. Krull let out a low, guttural growl of satisfaction, his grip tightening as if to emphasize his triumph. He leaned closer, his mandibles grazing her ear as he purred, "Again."

His thrusts grew slower now, more deliberate, each one dragging against her sensitive flesh until she couldn’t tell if it was pain or pleasure that had her trembling.

"Yours," she whispered, her voice trembling but louder this time. "I’m yours!"

The words spilled from her lips like a confession, like a surrender, and they seemed to ignite something primal in him. His growls deepened, growing more feral, as his thrusts became erratic and punishing. Each movement drove Lyra closer to the edge, the force of him stretching her to her limits, claiming her in ways that left her gasping for air. Her nails scraped uselessly against the stone as her body arched against his, pleasure and pain intertwining in a dizzying spiral that threatened to unravel her completely. She could feel the overwhelming wave of sensation building inside her, a storm she couldn’t fight against, couldn’t escape from. Her vision blurred as the tension coiled tighter and tighter, her body trembling on the precipice of release. With a roar that shook the chamber, Krull claimed her completely, his claws digging into her flesh as he spilled himself inside her. His body shuddered with the force of his climax, and Lyra’s orgasm erupted in tandem, a white-hot burst of pleasure that tore through her like a wildfire. She cried out, her voice breaking as the intensity of it overwhelmed her, her muscles clenching around him as if desperate to hold onto the searing heat of his release. The sensation was both punishing and intoxicating, a paradox of pain and ecstasy that left her gasping for air.

For a moment, the world seemed to still—the only sounds their ragged breathing and the soft lap of water against stone. Lyra’s body trembled, her limbs weak and unsteady, as the intensity of their shared climax left her slick with water, sweat, and the lingering heat of his release. Her chest heaved, the cold air of the chamber biting at her damp skin, but the warmth of Krull’s massive frame pressed against her back was a stark contrast, a reminder of his claim. His clawed hands, still gripping her hips, twitched faintly, as if reluctant to let her go. His weight was overwhelming, his presence inescapable, yet there was something almost… quiet in the aftermath, a fragile stillness that felt too intimate to break. She felt Krull’s hot, rapid breath against her neck, his mandibles grazing her skin in a gesture that was both possessive and oddly tender.

“My... Lyra...” he rumbled, his voice guttural and raw with emotion. The words were soft, almost reverent, yet they carried the unyielding weight of his dominance. His hold on her tightened, pulling her closer as if to remind her that even in this moment of stillness, she belonged to him entirely.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and unbroken. Even the water seemed still, its surface smooth once more, as though the storm had passed. But Lyra knew better. This moment of quiet wasn’t peace—it was the eye of the hurricane, a brief reprieve before the storm returned. And when it did, she would be swept away again, caught in the whirlwind of Krull’s obsession.

Chapter Text

Krull stared at Lyra's sleeping form next to him on the bed, his massive frame dwarfing her delicate figure. Her curls spilled across the bedding in a wild tangle, catching against his talons as he brushed them aside with a gentleness that belied his brutal nature. He hooked one coil around his claw, marveling at how fine it was—so easily torn, yet it resisted him in tiny, stubborn snags that pleased him. In the stillness, his gaze roved over her features with a mix of hunger and reverence. The slope of her cheek, the softness of her lips parted in sleep, the delicate pulse fluttering in her throat—it would be easy for him to crush it, yet he did not. Could not. Something deeper bound him. Something older than his bloodlust.

His mandibles flexed in something close to a smile, though the hunger beneath it was sharp, unhinged. His chest rumbled faintly as he leaned closer, his voice a low, guttural whisper that seemed to vibrate through the air:

“You do not yet see… but you are mine. You are the only thing in this black pit of a world worth keeping. No blade, no rival, no god will take you from me. I will break the stars themselves before I let you go.”

Lyra shifted faintly in her sleep, a soft whimper escaping her lips. Krull leaned in closer, pressing his forehead against hers.

“Even in your dreams, you cannot escape me,” he murmured, his voice a dark promise. “Your every breath, your every thought, will always lead you back to me.”

He inhaled deeply, savouring the scent of her fear mingling with something sweeter, something uniquely hers. He lifted his head up and pressed his mandibles on top of her head, his guttural whisper spilling like a vow: “Sleep, my precious little Lyra. Sleep in my arms. You will wake and see me first. Always me.”

In the dim light of the chamber, his yellow eyes gleamed with an unsettling intensity, the madness within him tempered only by his obsession with her. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine a future where she would no longer fear him—where she would look upon him with something other than terror. And with that, he closed his eyes again—not out of weariness, but out of trust in his own dominion. The fortress would not dare disturb him while he lay entwined with his prize.

Lyra stirred awake, her cheek pressed firmly against the warm, scarred expanse of Krull’s chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat reverberated through her, a low, primal thrum that seemed to echo in her bones. His massive arms encircled her like iron bands, trapping her against his frame with a possessiveness that was both suffocating and strangely comforting. She lay there for a moment, her mind foggy with sleep, trying to piece together how she had ended up in this position. The faint scent of blood and smoke clung to him, mingling with the earthy musk of his skin, and she felt a shiver run down her spine.

She shifted slightly, testing the limits of his hold. The movement was subtle, but it was enough. Krull’s grip tightened instantly, his talons digging into her flesh just enough to make her gasp. His chest rumbled with a low, guttural growl as his yellow eyes snapped open, piercing the dim light of the chamber. The intensity of his gaze pinned her in place more surely than his hold, and she froze, her breath catching in her throat.

“Where do you think you’re going, Lyra?” he murmured, his voice a deep, gravelly purr that vibrated through her. His mandibles flexed in a mockery of a smile, the sharp edges glinting dangerously in the shadows.

“Did you think you could slip away from me so easily?”

Lyra swallowed hard, her heart pounding. “I wasn’t trying to—” she began, but he cut her off with a soft, menacing laugh.

“You lie so poorly,” he said, his talon tracing a line down her jaw in a caress that was both tender and threatening.

“But I don’t mind. It’s part of what makes you so… intriguing.” He leaned closer, his breath hot against her skin as he whispered, “You can try to run, little one. You can fight, you can scream, you can claw at me with those tiny hands of yours. But you will always end up here. In my arms. Where you belong.”

Lyra took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling with a quiet, trembling rhythm. She turned her head slightly, her dark eyes meeting his piercing yellow gaze with a mix of fear and defiance. Her voice wavered, soft but resolute, as she asked the question that had been gnawing at her for what felt like an eternity: “How long will you keep me?”

Krull’s mandibles twitched, his low, guttural chuckle reverberating through the chamber like a storm rolling in. The sound was both menacing and possessive, sending a shiver down her spine. His hand tightened around her waist, pulling her closer until she could feel the heat radiating from his massive frame.

“Forever,” he growled, his voice dripping with dark amusement. “You are mine, Lyra. Not just for a day, not just for a lifetime. Forever.”

She swallowed hard, her throat tightening as his words sank in.

“But… why?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “What do you want from me? What can I possibly give you that you don’t already have?”

His yellow eyes gleamed with an almost feral intensity, his breath hot against her skin.

“You think this is about what I can take from you?” he murmured, his tone both mocking and strangely tender.

“No, you are not a possession to be used and discarded. You are a treasure. You are the only thing in this wretched universe that I have chosen to keep. The only thing I will never let go.”

Lyra’s heart pounded in her chest, her mind racing to make sense of his words. His grip on her tightened further, his talons pressing into her flesh with a possessiveness that bordered on painful.

“You can resist,” he continued, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr.

“You can fight me, curse me, or even hate me. But it won’t change anything.”

She opened her mouth to protest, her defiance flickering in her eyes like a spark threatening to ignite. But before she could utter a word, Krull silenced her with a sharp click of his mandibles, the sound slicing through the air like a blade. His yellow eyes burned into hers, their intensity unwavering, as if peering straight into the depths of her soul.

"This is your fate, Lyra," he said, his voice a low, guttural rumble that seemed to echo in the very walls of the chamber.

"Bound to me as I am bound to you. You may not understand it now," he continued, his tone softening into something almost reverent.

"But you will, in time, you will see that there is no force in this universe stronger than what binds us. Not the stars, not the void, not even death itself can sever this tie," Krull's words dripped with a dark conviction that filled Lyra's heart with dread.

"But… I don’t want this. I will never accept it," she replied, her voice trembling with fear of his obsession with her.

Krull’s mandibles twitched, his low, guttural chuckle reverberating through the chamber like a distant thunderclap. His yellow eyes gleamed with a mix of amusement and something darker, something primal.

"You amuse me greatly," Krull chuckled, his voice low and resonant.

His massive hand lifted towards her face, the sharp talons brushing against her skin with surprising gentleness as he cupped her cheek. The contrast between his brutal strength and the tenderness of his touch sent a shiver through Lyra, though she refused to let him see it.

"The day you break down and accept your fate will be a glorious one," he murmured, his mandibles twitching in a mockery of a smile.

Lyra sighed, her defiance flickering faintly as she turned her head away from him. Her dark eyes stared at the jagged stone wall of the chamber, her jaw tightening as she tried to distance herself from his overwhelming presence.

"... Keep dreaming," she replied, her voice soft but steady, a fragile shield against his relentless obsession.

Krull’s chuckle rumbled through his chest, a deep, guttural sound that seemed to vibrate through her very bones. His grip on her tightened, pulling her closer until her body was pressed firmly against his scarred frame.

"Oh, Lyra," he purred, his breath hot against her ear. "I do dream. I dream of the moment when you finally see what I see—that we are meant to be."

Lyra’s pulse quickened, her heart pounding in her chest like a trapped bird. She hated how his words unsettled her, how they wormed their way into her mind despite her best efforts to shut him out. His voice, low and guttural, seemed to echo in her very bones, wrapping around her like chains she could not break.

“I’ll never accept you,” she whispered, her voice trembling but resolute. “I'll never accept my fate as you put it.” Her defiance flickered in her eyes like a dying flame, desperate to keep alight in the face of the storm that was Krull.

Krull’s yellow eyes narrowed as he studied her, the intensity of his gaze like a weight pressing down on her chest. He shifted his weight, the massive frame of his body casting a shadow over her as he braced himself against the stone bed. His arms caged her in, trapping her beneath his scarred, muscular form with a possessiveness that made her pulse quicken. Lyra gasped, her hands instinctively clutching the fur draped over her, pulling it closer to her chest as if it could shield her from him.

“Those eyes of yours,” he murmured, his voice low and guttural, each word dripping with a dangerous mix of admiration and irritation. His head tilted slightly, mandibles flexing as he observed her with an almost clinical fascination.

“They are both beautiful and maddening at the same time. I want to crush that fire out of you,” he admitted, his tone dark and unyielding. “And yet… I cannot bring myself to do it. I crave the fire in your eyes, Lyra.”

One of his hands moved to brush a stray lock of hair from her face, the gesture almost tender if not for the underlying menace in his tone. “Oh, what to do, what to do?” he mused, his voice a low purr that sent a shiver down her spine.

Krull’s massive hand reached out, his talons brushing against her cheek with a gentleness that belied their razor-sharp edges. He took hold of a lock of her curly hair, rubbing it gently between his thumb and index finger as if it were the most delicate thread in the universe. His yellow eyes gleamed with a mix of possessiveness and something softer —something almost reverent —as he examined how the light caught the dark strands.

“Such unruly hair,” he murmured, his voice low and guttural, the words rumbling like distant thunder.

“It suits you—wild, untamed, just like your spirit.” He leaned closer, his breath hot against her skin as he whispered, “Let’s tame this hair of yours first.”

The words were soft but laced with an unspoken command, a reminder of his control. She hated how his touch could feel both tender and suffocating, how it could ignite a storm of conflicting emotions she didn’t want to acknowledge. Krull straightened, his towering frame casting a shadow over her as he stepped back from the bed.

“Get up and get dressed,” Krull ordered, releasing the lock of her hair from his grip.

She rose reluctantly, her movements slow and deliberate, as if every step were a silent protest. Krull moved to a large chest carved from black stone, its surface etched with alien symbols. He opened it with a sharp click, revealing the silk dress he had chosen for her—a garment that barely covered her, its fine fabric shimmering faintly in the dim light. Lyra’s throat tightened as she took it from him, the cool silk sliding against her skin as she slipped it on. Her fingers trembled slightly as she adjusted the straps, her eyes avoiding his piercing gaze.

Krull watched her intently, his yellow eyes tracing her every movement. Once she was dressed, he settled himself on the edge of the stone bed, his massive frame dominating the space. He motioned for her to sit on his knee, his talons flexing impatiently as he waited. Lyra hesitated for a moment, her defiance flickering briefly in her eyes, but she knew better than to resist. She perched on his knee, her back straight and her posture tense, her heart pounding in her chest.

His talons moved deftly through her curls once more, the rhythmic tug and pull of his fingers sending shivers down her spine. He worked methodically, his touch surprisingly gentle as he began to braid her hair. The silence between them was heavy, charged with unspoken tension as Krull’s breath warmed the nape of her neck. The intimacy of the act, the care he took with her hair—it was a reminder of his obsession, his unwavering claim over her.

A sharp knock at the door shattered the fragile silence.

“Enter,” Krull commanded, his voice deep and unbothered, continuing his task without pause.

The door creaked open, and Dur’ka stepped inside, his massive frame kneeling in a show of respect. He kept his gaze averted, refusing to acknowledge the intimate—if one-sided—scene before him.

“We’ve received a message from one of the other clans,” Dur’ka rumbled, his tone as steady as ever. “It is meant for your eyes and ears only.”

Krull’s talons stilled for a moment, his mandibles twitching in what Lyra had come to recognize as mild irritation before he resumed his braiding.

“Another threat, no doubt,” he muttered, his voice dripping with disdain. “The war room, I assume?”

Dur’ka nodded, his expression unreadable as he rose to his feet, waiting for further orders. Krull tied off the braid with a small bone charm from one of his trophies, his yellow eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he examined his handiwork.

“There,” he murmured, his voice low and satisfied as he examined his handiwork. “Now you are perfect.” The words sent a chill through her, a stark reminder of the cage he had built around her—one that was as much mental as it was physical.

Lyra turned slightly to look at him, her dark eyes meeting his piercing gaze. Her voice was quiet but laced with a simmering anger she couldn’t entirely suppress.

“...May I walk freely?” she asked, the words tasting bitter on her tongue.

The shame of having to ask for even the smallest measure of independence burned in her chest, but she held his gaze, unwilling to let him see how deeply it wounded her. Krull regarded her in silence for a long moment, his expression unreadable save for the faint flicker of amusement in his yellow eyes. Finally, he gestured dismissively with a clawed hand.

“You may,” he said, his voice low and deliberate. “But remember this, Lyra: you belong to me. Do not touch, nor allow yourself to be touched by those slaves. Is that understood?”

His tone was calm, almost casual, but the underlying threat was unmistakable. His eyes bore into hers, waiting for her acknowledgment, his possessiveness as suffocating as ever.

Lyra’s jaw tightened, but she nodded stiffly, her defiance simmering just beneath the surface. As she slipped off his knee and made her way toward the door, she could feel Krull’s gaze following her every move, heavy and unyielding, like molten iron pressing into her back. She glanced at Dur'ka, who rolled his eyes with a low, grumbling exhale—a gesture of exasperation that seemed to say, This again? Lyra returned the look with a sigh of her own before stepping into the corridor, leaving the two Yautja to their business.

The volcanic fortress loomed around her as she walked, its black stone walls carved with jagged precision and pulsing faintly with veins of lava. The faint glow cast long, trembling shadows that danced around her feet, making her feel small in the vastness of it all. The air was thick with the scent of sulfur and heat, and the distant roar of the volcano beneath the fortress echoed like a constant reminder of the danger that surrounded her. And yet, she wasn’t alone.

Two Yautja warriors passed her, their hulking forms clad in scarred armor that clinked softly with every step. Their eyes lingered on her—not with Krull’s obsessive fixation, but with something colder, sharper. Appraisal. Disgust. Hunger. One’s mandibles twitched open in a low hiss, but neither spoke, their gazes flicking to the collar around her throat before they shifted aside. They knew whose possession she was, and that knowledge kept them at bay—for now. Whispers trailed behind her, low and guttural, fragments of their language bleeding through the collar: Ooman… pet… Bloodseeker’s claim.

Lyra lifted her chin, forcing her steps to remain steady despite the trembling in her legs. She couldn’t falter, not here, not now. If she showed even a hint of weakness, she feared they’d test the limits of Krull’s protection—or worse, see her as fair game. The weight of every gaze felt like a physical touch, one that made her skin crawl and her pulse quicken. She focused on the glow at the end of the corridor, letting it guide her like a beacon.

At last, she stepped into the kitchens, where heat and smoke enveloped her like a familiar embrace. The rhythmic clang of knives against bone and the hiss of boiling pots filled the air, a chaotic symphony that felt oddly comforting after the oppressive silence of the fortress halls. She froze for a moment in the archway, her dark eyes scanning the room until Ekk’thal’s gravelly voice cut through the noise.

“You walk,” he muttered from across the room, his yellow eyes narrowing slightly as they landed on her. He wiped his massive claws against a cloth, flecks of blood staining the fabric before he tossed it aside.

“Sit before you fall. You’re pale as salt.” His tone was gruff, but there was an undercurrent of concern that made her chest ache with relief.

She obeyed without hesitation, climbing onto the same high stool as before, her legs dangling bare above the floor. The familiarity of the spot brought a strange sense of comfort, a fleeting reprieve from the suffocating grip of Krull’s world. Ekk’thal moved with practiced efficiency, preparing something for her without asking. For a moment, she allowed herself to breathe, to let the tension in her shoulders ease just enough to make her feel human again. Yet even here, in this pocket of safety, she could feel the weight of Krull’s claim pressing down on her like a shadow she couldn’t escape.

The kitchens cocooned her in rhythm and warmth, a rare sanctuary amidst the oppressive fortress. Ekk’thal barked orders with his usual gruffness, his massive claws slicing through roots and herbs with practiced ease. The younger slaves bustled about, their movements swift and fluid as they tended to pots and pans, the steam thickening the air with the rich scent of roasted meat. Lyra sat on her perch, her shoulders finally easing under the comforting hum of activity. Her bare toes curled anxiously against the stool’s edge, but for the first time in what felt like an eternity, she could breathe. Here, no one reached for her. No clawed hands brushed her skin. Here, she was simply Lyra, not Krull’s possession.

Grii’tach drifted closer, balancing a basket of thick-skinned fruits in his arms. His green eyes were locked on her with open fascination, his mandibles twitching as if he were debating whether to speak. When Ekk’thal’s back turned, he dared whisper, “You came back.” The words were soft but carried a note of surprise, as though he hadn’t expected to see her again. Lyra offered a faint smile, her dark eyes softening as she replied, “For now.” There was a weight to her words, a quiet acknowledgment of the precariousness of her situation.

Ekk’thal’s gravelly voice cut across the air like a blade. “Boy, if you have time to talk, you have time to work. Move.” Grii’tach flinched at the reprimand, his mandibles clicking shut as he scurried back to his tasks. Still, his gaze lingered on Lyra, curiosity burning in his eyes. She watched him for a moment, a pang of sympathy twisting in her chest. He was young—too young to be caught in this brutal world. She turned to Ekk’thal, her voice soft but tinged with pleading. “Don’t be too harsh on him,” she said gently, her dark eyes meeting his.

“Don’t encourage him,” Ekk’thal grumbled, though there was a flicker of something softer in his tone. He paused in his work, his yellow eyes narrowing slightly as he studied her. “He doesn’t know better, but you should,” he added, his voice low and firm.

Lyra nodded, her lips pressing into a thin line. She knew Ekk’thal was right, but it didn’t make it any easier. This place, these people—they were all trapped in Krull’s web, each struggling to survive in their own way. She glanced back at Grii’tach, who was now diligently peeling the thick-skinned fruits, mandibles twitching in concentration. There was an innocence to him that reminded her of the life she’d lost—a life where she hadn’t known the weight of chains or the suffocating grip of possession. She sighed, sliding off the stool carefully and began to leave the kitchen.

"Where are you going?" Ekk’thal asked, his brow arched with curiosity as he paused in his task, his yellow eyes narrowing on her. Lyra stopped and turned to face him, her expression clouded with a mix of sadness and resignation.

"I've been here too long," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "And I don't want Krull punishing you or your staff because of me." Her dark eyes flicked to the other slaves working diligently around them, their movements quick and precise under Ekk’thal’s watchful gaze.

Ekk’thal’s mandibles twitched, a low rumble escaping his chest as he regarded her. "You think he’d punish us for your actions?" he grunted, though there was a flicker of understanding in his tone.

"You give yourself too much credit, Lyra. The Bloodseeker’s wrath is not so easily provoked—not when it comes to you." He wiped his massive claws on a cloth, the fabric already stained with traces of green blood and grease.

"Still, you’re right to be cautious. That one…" he trailed off, his gaze darkening. "He sees more than he lets on."

She hated how true his words were. Krull’s presence loomed over every corner of this fortress, his obsession with her suffocatingly omnipresent. Even here, in the safety of the kitchens, she could feel the weight of his claim pressing down on her, a reminder that she was never truly free. "I just… don’t want anyone else to suffer because of me," she admitted, her voice trembling faintly.

Ekk’thal let out a gruff sigh, his massive frame shifting as he turned back to his work. "You’ve got a soft heart," he muttered, though there was no malice in his tone.

"A dangerous thing in a place like this." He glanced at her again, his yellow eyes softening ever so slightly. "Don’t be a stranger. And… be careful," he added, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "The fortress is no place for someone like you to wander alone."

Lyra nodded, her shoulders sagging under the weight of his warning. As she stepped toward the door, her gaze lingered on Grii’tach, who was perched on a stool across the room, peeling fruits with clumsy determination. She offered him a small, encouraging smile, though it did little to lift her own spirits. He watched her leave with wide eyes, his mandibles twitching as if he wanted to say something, but he stayed silent. Ekk’thal’s earlier rebuke still hung in the air, a heavy reminder of the risks he took by even acknowledging her presence.

She slipped out of the kitchen, the warmth and noise fading behind her as she stepped into the cooler, darker corridors of the fortress. The weight of Ekk’thal’s words echoed in her mind—be careful. It wasn’t just a warning; it was a grim acknowledgment of the precariousness of her existence here. Every step she took was fraught with danger, every shadow a potential threat.

Lyra wandered through the hallways of the volcano fortress, the oppressive heat from the lava veins pulsing through the black stone walls like a living heartbeat. The fortress was alive with noise—grunts, growls, and the rhythmic clang of metal on metal. She followed the sound, drawn toward a cavernous space carved open to the volcano’s heart. The training pits spread out before her: circles of stone where Yautja clashed in brutal sparring. Their movements were a blur of blades and snarls, green blood splattering the sand as strikes landed. Lyra hugged the wall, watching. The ferocity chilled her. These weren’t drills; they were survival lessons. And every Yautja eye that flicked her way reminded her she was no more than prey among predators. She slipped away quickly, her stomach tight.

The next hall was darker, lined with alcoves and lit by faint, flickering flames that cast long, trembling shadows. Her steps slowed as her gaze caught on objects mounted on stone plinths and hooks—trophies. Skulls of beasts she couldn’t name, some massive, others disturbingly human-like. Weapons broken in half but displayed with reverence. Jagged shards of armour still stained with green blood. The air was heavy with pride, with memory. Lyra’s chest tightened. She could almost feel the ghosts of the hunts clinging to the room. This is what they live for, she realized. This is what he lives for.

She lingered for a moment, her fingers brushing against the edge of a stone plinth. The texture was rough, cold, and unyielding—much like the world she now inhabited. A low growl echoed from deeper in the hall, and Lyra’s breath hitched. She turned sharply, her heart pounding, but there was no one there. Just the shadows, dancing mockingly in the flickering light. She shook her head, forcing herself to move on.

As she continued her journey through the labyrinthine fortress, she found herself in a quieter wing. The walls here were adorned with intricate carvings depicting scenes of battle and conquest—Yautja warriors standing triumphant over fallen foes. Lyra paused before one particularly vivid relief, her eyes tracing the lines of the predator depicted in the center. His posture was commanding, his expression fierce. It reminded her too much of Krull, and she felt a chill run down her spine. This entire place is a shrine to violence, she thought, her mind reeling. A temple built on blood and death.

She turned away, her steps quickening as she sought escape from the oppressive weight of the fortress’s history. But no matter where she went, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched—that Krull’s presence loomed over her, even in his absence. Every shadow seemed to grow sharper, every distant growl more menacing. She felt like a rabbit darting through a forest of wolves, always one misstep away from being pounced upon. Her bare feet whispered against the stone floor as she moved, her heart pounding in rhythm with the distant thrum of the fortress’s heartbeat.

Lyra’s feet carried her onward until she found herself climbing a narrow stairwell. The air shifted as she ascended—cooler, thinner, touched with a whisper of dampness that made her skin prickle. The steps were uneven, carved roughly into the volcanic rock, and she gripped the jagged walls for balance. Each step took her further from the oppressive heat and noise of the lower levels, but not from the weight of Krull’s claim. She could still feel his eyes on her, the phantom pressure of his talons brushing against her skin. You can never escape me, his guttural voice seemed to whisper in her mind.

At the top, she stepped through an archway and stopped dead. A balcony jutted from the fortress, open to the world beyond. For the first time since her capture, Lyra could see past stone and shadow. The sky was a deep molten red, streaked with ash and smoke from the volcano’s endless breath, but beyond that… green. A stretch of jungle canopy, wild and alive, rippled in the distance. Her throat tightened. It wasn’t home. It wasn’t even safe. But it was outside—a glimpse of something other than this suffocating prison.

Lyra stepped forward, her bare feet brushing against the warm black stone. The wind pulled at her curls, carrying the faint cries of distant creatures—shrill, haunting, but real. Her hands gripped the railing, fingers digging into the volcanic rock until grit bit her skin. Out there, she thought, her chest heaving. Somewhere out there are the bones of my camp. The ashes of what I lost. Her mind raced with memories of her crewmates, their laughter, their dreams—all reduced to nothing but echoes and ash. But maybe… just maybe… there was a way to run. A flicker of hope sparked in her chest, fragile but insistent.

Her breath hitched. The jungle seemed endless, stretching in all directions like a promise and a threat. She knew she couldn’t survive it alone—not barefoot, not unarmed. The predators out there would tear her apart before she even had a chance to find safety. And yet, her heart reached for it all the same. The freedom to breathe, to move, to be without Krull’s crushing gaze weighing her down—it was worth any risk. She leaned forward, her arms trembling as she stared into the vast expanse of green. The wind carried the scent of earth and rain, a sharp contrast to the sulfur and blood that clung to the fortress walls.

Behind her, the fortress muttered with the growls and clangs of Yautja life—violent, unyielding, a constant reminder of her place in this brutal world. But here… here she could almost pretend she was free. Almost. The illusion was fleeting, shattered by the weight of the collar around her throat and the certainty that Krull would never let her go. Still, for this moment, she clung to it—the faintest taste of what could have been, what might still be if she dared to dream. Her fingers tightened around the railing as she whispered under her breath, “Someday. Someday.”

Lyra lingered there longer than she should have, fingers splayed across the rough black stone, eyes drinking in every shred of green on the horizon. She imagined herself slipping into the jungle, pressing her body low to the moss and vines, moving so silently the hunters would never hear. She imagined the taste of air that wasn’t filled with smoke, the warmth of sunlight unfiltered by volcanic haze. It was a dangerous fantasy—one that made her pulse quicken with both fear and longing. Out there, she thought, there’s a chance. A slim, desperate chance. But even as hope kindled in her chest, she knew it was a dream. The jungle was no sanctuary; it was a graveyard waiting to claim her. Still, she couldn’t tear her gaze away.

A sound rumbled behind her—deep, weighty footsteps that carried authority and violence with every echo. Her stomach dropped, and her fingers tightened reflexively on the railing. Slowly, as if the delay might shield her from what she already knew was coming, Lyra turned.

Krull.

He stood there in the archway, his massive form silhouetted against the dim glow of the fortress interior. The wind caught the edges of his dreadlock-like hair, making the bone charms clink softly, and the scars etched into his armor seemed to shimmer faintly in the volcanic light. His yellow eyes locked onto hers, unblinking, penetrating, as he stepped forward with deliberate, predatory grace.

When he stopped just behind her, the air seemed to vanish, every breath pulled out of her lungs. He loomed over her, his presence oppressive, dominating, inescapable.

“You look far away,” he said at last, his voice low, almost soft—though the collar translated the undertone of threat laced in every syllable.

It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation, a reminder that even her thoughts were not hers alone. Lyra swallowed hard, her throat tight as she met his gaze with a flicker of defiance she couldn’t quite suppress.

“I was admiring the view,” she replied, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. “Until you came along.”

His mandibles flared, a slow spread that wasn’t quite a smile but something darker, more possessive. One massive hand lifted, the sharp edges of his talons brushing lightly over the braid he had woven into her hair earlier. The touch was deceptively gentle, but it sent a shiver down her spine all the same. His hand settled heavily on the back of her neck, the pressure not enough to hurt but enough to remind her—she couldn’t move, not without his permission.

Krull leaned closer, his breath hot against her ear, and murmured, “Do you dream of running, Lyra?”

His voice was low, guttural, each word vibrating through her like a seismic tremor. She stiffened, her heart pounding as his grip tightened fractionally. The weight of his words pressed down on her, suffocating and inescapable.

“Do you dream of leaving me?” he asked again, his tone deceptively soft, yet carrying an edge that made her blood run cold.

He waited for her response, his yellow eyes burning into the side of her face, unblinking and relentless. Lyra swallowed hard, her fingers gripping the railing as if it could anchor her against the storm of his presence.

“Why ask me questions you already know the answers to?” she whispered, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to steady it.

Krull’s mandibles twitched in what might have been amusement, though the sound that escaped him was more growl than laugh. His free hand moved to trace the curve of her spine, the heat of his palm searing through the thin fabric of the dress he had forced her to wear. The tips of his talons barely grazed her skin, leaving faint trails of sensation that made her shiver despite herself.

“I wanted to hear you answer me,” he rumbled, his voice a dark purr that resonated deep within her.

“If you leave,” he murmured, his mandibles brushing against the shell of her ear, “I will follow. If you run, I will chase. There is no corner of this universe where you can hide from me, Lyra. No shadow deep enough, no sanctuary secure enough. I will find you.”

His voice dropped lower, a guttural growl that seemed to vibrate through her very bones.

“And when I do, you will see the lengths I am willing to go to keep you by my side. I will tear mountains apart, rip them from their roots and scatter their rubble across the stars. I will scorch worlds with my burning rage, leaving nothing but ash in my wake. I will drown the endless suns themselves in blood if it means bringing you back to me.” His breath was hot against her skin, his words a promise and a curse woven together.

Lyra turned to look at him, her dark eyes meeting the blazing intensity of his yellow gaze. The sheer madness etched into his expression sent a shiver down her spine. His mandibles twitched, a slow, deliberate movement that seemed to mirror the predatory tension coiled in his massive frame. In that moment, she saw it all—the unhinged obsession, the raw, consuming desire that had bound her to him from the first moment he’d laid his claws on her. He was insane, she thought, the realization settling like a stone in her chest. But more than that, he was relentless, a force of nature that would stop at nothing to keep her within his grasp.

And she was helplessly trapped.

Chapter Text

The great hall was a cavern of nightmares adorned in trophies, a monument to death held in the volcanic mountain’s heart. Krull’s hand was a vise around hers, his rough, heated skin branding her. He led her not like a guest, but like a prize on a leash, his massive frame moving with a predator’s effortless grace that made her feel like a child stumbling alongside him.

Her eyes, wide and scanning the hostile faces of the clan members who paused to watch, caught the new arrangement at the foot of the monstrous throne. A single, plush pillow of a deep crimson hide lay on the stone floor. Beside it sat a low, tiny table of polished black obsidian, upon which a stone bowl steamed with a fragrant, meaty aroma. Her meal. Her place.

He stopped before the throne but did not ascend it. Instead, he released her hand only to place his own on the back of her neck, a gesture of ownership that sent a tremor through her. His voice was a low rumble, translated by the collar into an intimate growl.

“You will sit here. You will eat. You will watch your master hold court. To be by my side for all to see.”

The command brooked no argument. The hum of the collar against her throat was a constant reminder of the consequences of defiance. She lowered herself onto the pillow, the softness a stark contrast to the cold, hard floor she was used to. It was a perversion of comfort, a luxurious cage. She kept her back straight, her chin high, refusing to fully submit in posture even if she had no other choice.

Krull watched her for a long moment, his yellow eyes gleaming with a possessive satisfaction that made her skin crawl and, to her shame, a treacherous heat stir low in her belly. He finally turned and took his throne, the blackened metal groaning under his immense weight.

The hall slowly came to life around them. Yautja gathered, their guttural conversations a harsh soundtrack to her humiliation. She picked at the food, the rich flavor turning to ash in her mouth. She was a centerpiece, an object on display for her master’s pleasure. Every glance from the clan felt like a physical touch, assessing, judging.

She felt his gaze on her more than she saw it, a palpable weight that made the fine hairs on her arms stand up. She dared a glance upward. He wasn’t looking at his warriors, at the petitioners approaching. He was watching her. His focus was absolute, a hunter locked on his most treasured prey. A thick, taloned finger curled, beckoning her.

The silent command was unmistakable. Heart hammering against her ribs, she rose from the pillow and climbed the two shallow steps to his side. The eyes of the clan bored into her, their alien gazes sharp and calculating, as though measuring her worth in this strange, humiliating ritual. Krull didn’t speak. He reached out, his hand impossibly large and warm, and wrapped it around her waist. With effortless grace, he pulled her onto his lap, settling her sideways across his armoured thigh.

Her legs dangled off one side of his massive leg, her bare feet brushing against the obsidian throne as she perched awkwardly on his lap. His grip tightened slightly, pulling her closer until her side pressed against the hard planes of his chest. Then, his voice boomed across the chamber like rolling thunder, rich with authority and menace.

“Tonight, we stand upon the bones of those who dared to claim our fire! Their screams are fuel. Their flesh—offered to our blades. Their skulls shall hang in witness to our supremacy!”

The clan erupted into a cacophony of approval, their guttural roars reverberating through the cavernous hall. Mandibles clattered, tusks gnashed, and weapons pounded against stone tables in a deafening rhythm. Some raised goblets carved from bone, their dark contents sloshing like blood as they drank deeply. The air seemed to crackle with their fervour, a palpable energy that made Lyra’s skin prickle. She felt small, exposed, a mere pawn in this spectacle of dominance and savagery.

His hand shifted slightly, his thumb rubbing back and forth against her hipbone. The gesture was almost absentminded, as though she were nothing more than a prized possession to be fondled. Her breath hitched, and she forced herself to remain still, not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her squirm. Krull’s voice rose again, cutting through the chaos like a blade.

“Let their screams echo in the halls of their gods! Let their blood feed the earth beneath our feet!”

The clan responded with renewed vigour, their chants growing louder, more frenzied. Lyra flinched as a nearby Yautja slammed its fist against the table, the sound ringing in her ears. She felt Krull’s chest rumble with a low, approving growl, his grip tightening ever so slightly around her waist. It was a possessive gesture, one that made her pulse quicken despite herself. In that moment, she was acutely aware of how completely he dominated not just the room, but her as well. This is what he wants, she thought bitterly, for me to feel my place—small, powerless, and utterly his.

Suddenly, Krull raised his hand in the air once again, and the room fell into an abrupt, heavy silence. The air seemed to thicken with anticipation as the Yautjas turned their attention to their warlord, their eyes gleaming with a mix of curiosity and bloodlust.

Krull’s voice rumbled through the chamber, low and commanding, "My warriors, I have news to share. A rival clan dares to tread into our den in the coming days. They come with honeyed words, speaking of unity, of swelling our strength with theirs. But do not be fooled. Their whispers are a veil for their true ambition—to snuff out the smaller, weaker packs who claw at lands that were never theirs to claim."

He paused, letting his words sink in like a blade twisting into flesh. "Prepare yourselves. The Shattered Fang Clan is cunning, strong, and greedy. They will come with smiles sharp enough to cut and promises laced with poison. We will show them our strength, my Bloodseekers. Whether through alliance or slaughter, their fate will be ours to decide." His mandibles clicked in a dark, menacing rhythm as he finished, his gaze sweeping over his clan like a predator surveying his territory.

The hall erupted in a cacophony of guttural roars and pounding fists against stone tables. Weapons clashed against armour, creating a deafening symphony of approval. The air thrummed with their fervor, their bloodlust palpable as they drank deeply from goblets carved from bone. Krull watched them with a twisted satisfaction, his chest rising and falling with the pride of a leader adored by his pack. Then, his piercing yellow eyes shifted to Lyra, who sat perched on his lap like a fragile ornament amidst the chaos.

He tilted his massive head, his mandibles twitching in cruel amusement. “And you,” he said, his voice now low and intimate, though every word carried across the loud hall.

“What are your thoughts, Lyra? Shall we crush the weak beneath our heels, or bind them to us with chains?” His grip tightened around her waist, the edges of his gauntlet pressing uncomfortably into her skin. “I am rather curious to hear what my precious treasure thinks of these developments.”

Lyra blinked up at him, startled. Of all the things she expected—a command, a demand, another humiliation—conversation was not one of them. Her mind raced, her heart pounding as she weighed her options. If she gave him a bland response, he’d toy with her mercilessly. If she refused to speak, he’d torment her until she did. She needed to use this moment to her advantage, to turn it into an opportunity to learn more about the world beyond these suffocating walls.

“My… opinion?” she asked cautiously, her voice trembling at the edges despite her efforts to steady it. “Would it even matter to you?”

Krull chuckled, a deep rumble that vibrated through her body where she leaned against him. “That,” he purred, his taloned thumb tracing a slow circle on her hipbone, “depends on your answer.” His tone was deceptively soft, but the threat beneath it was unmistakable. She had no choice but to engage, to play his game.

“Then…” she began slowly, feigning careful deliberation while masking her true intent, “I would need to know who this other clan is before I can give you my thoughts.” It was a lie, of course. She didn’t care about war strategy—what she cared about was knowing who else existed beyond these walls. Who might pose a threat… or offer an opportunity for escape.

Krull’s eyes flared wide at her words, then narrowed with something sharp and hungry. His mandibles clicked slowly, a low chitter of dark pleasure escaping him.

“My little Lyra,” he purred, his voice vibrating like thunder close to her ear. “You want to know about rivals? To weigh their blood against your master’s? How… delicious. Alright then, they call themselves the Shattered Fang Clan. Strong, cunning, and greedy. They think to whisper deals to us, but their ambition is plain—they want our land, our strength, our blood.”

He paused, his gaze locked on hers, his yellow eyes gleaming with an intensity that made her stomach clench.

“Now that you know, little one… tell me. Should we slit their throats in the night, or welcome them to our fire before we strike?”

Lyra took a deep breath, her mind racing as she considered her response. She needed to give him something that would satisfy his twisted curiosity without revealing her own thoughts.

“It doesn’t matter to me,” she said carefully, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions inside her. “Because when the day comes, their fate is in your hands. Their actions will give you the answer you seek.”

Krull’s eyes burned with an almost predatory glee as he let out a low, rumbling chuckle. The sound reverberated through her body where she sat perched on his lap, a constant reminder of how close she was to his monstrous presence. His mandibles twitched in a slow, deliberate rhythm, and his gaze locked onto hers with an intensity that made her stomach churn and her pulse quicken.

“I love how you know me so well, my beautiful Lyra,” he purred, his voice dripping with a dark affection that sent shivers down her spine.

His other hand moved with deliberate slowness, taloned fingers brushing against her jawline before curling beneath her chin to tilt her face upward. She fought the urge to flinch, to pull away, but his grip—though not painful—was unyielding. He wanted her full attention, and he would have it.

“Tell me,” he continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper that somehow carried across the hall despite the low hum of his clan’s murmurs. “Would you like their leader’s head as a gift?”

His thumb stroked her chin, the motion almost tender if not for the razor-sharp edge of his claws grazing her skin.

“A trophy for you, perhaps? It would make a fine addition to your… collection.” His yellow eyes gleamed with a twisted amusement, as though the idea of gifting her a severed head was as charming as giving her flowers.

Lyra’s stomach turned at the thought, and she barely managed to suppress a grimace. She forced herself to meet his gaze, knowing that any sign of weakness would only fuel his sadistic curiosity.

“No,” she replied, her voice steady despite the nausea rising in her throat. “I’m good, thank you.”

Krull’s chuckle deepened, a sound that was both menacing and oddly pleased. He leaned in closer, his mandibles brushing against the side of her face in a grotesque parody of a kiss.

“Always so polite, my treasure,” he murmured, his breath hot against her skin. “But I think you underestimate your worth. A warlord’s companion should be adorned with tokens of her master’s victories. Perhaps you need convincing.”

His hand shifted from her chin to cup the back of her head, his talons tangling gently in her hair. It was a possessive gesture, one that made her feel smaller, more vulnerable than ever. He tilted his head slightly, studying her with that unnerving intensity.

“Or perhaps,” he added, his voice dropping to a low growl, “you’re simply too soft-hearted for such gifts. Tell me, Lyra, do you pity them? These fools who would see us destroyed?”

The question caught her off guard, and for a moment, she hesitated. She knew there was no right answer—no response that would satisfy him without inviting further torment. Carefully, she chose her words.

“I don’t pity them,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “I just… don’t find joy in death. Not like you do.”

Krull’s mandibles clicked softly, a sound that might have been laughter or contemplation. He leaned back slightly, his gaze still locked on hers, and for a moment, the hall seemed to disappear around them.

“You are fascinating,” he said at last, his voice tinged with something almost like admiration. “It is no wonder I chose you.”

His hand dropped from her hair, sliding down to rest possessively on her waist once more.

“But one day,” he added, his tone darkening with a promise that sent a chill through her, “you will learn to appreciate the beauty in bloodshed. The artistry of a well-placed blade, the symphony of a scream—it is not mere violence, little Lyra. It is… perfection.”

Krull’s eyes bore into hers, their yellow gleam intensifying as if he could see the unease stirring within her. His mandibles twitched, a low chitter escaping him as he leaned in closer, his breath hot against her skin.

“You are still so soft, so human. But I will sculpt you into something greater. Something worthy of standing by my side as more than a mere trophy.”

The words were almost tender, yet they carried the weight of a threat. She knew what he meant: he would break her, reshape her, until she was as cruel and bloodthirsty as he was. He paused, his gaze sweeping across the hall before returning to her.

“Until then,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through her very bones, “you will remain mine to educate. Every moment, every breath, will be a lesson in strength, in dominance, in the purity of the hunt.”

His hand tightened around her waist, pulling her closer until her side pressed against the hard planes of his muscular chest. “And you will learn, Lyra. Whether you wish to or not.”

As the feast continued, the hall filled with the cacophony of guttural laughter and the clatter of bone goblets against stone tables. Lyra shifted uncomfortably in Krull’s lap, the pressure in her bladder growing unbearable. She knew she couldn’t hold it much longer. With a careful, measured movement, she slipped off his thigh, her bare feet brushing against the warm obsidian floor. She didn’t get far.

Krull’s hand shot out like a viper, his rough, taloned fingers closing around her forearm with an iron grip. His yellow eyes narrowed, their piercing gaze locking onto hers as his voice rumbled low and dangerous.

“Where do you think you’re going? You do not leave my side without permission.”

Lyra stiffened, her jaw tightening as she met his gaze with defiance. “I need to relieve myself,” she snapped, her voice taut with frustration. “So kindly let me go.”

Krull’s mandibles twitched in amusement, a low chuckle escaping him. “Ah, such fire. But I don’t recall permitting you to leave.”

His grip tightened slightly, but she refused to wince. Instead, she squared her shoulders and glared at him, her eyes blazing with anger.

“I don’t need your permission,” she retorted, her voice cutting through the noise of the hall.

She tried to yank her arm free, but his grip only tightened further. Pain shot through her arm, but she clenched her teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her struggle.

Fed up and fueled by a surge of frustration, Lyra acted without thinking. Her free hand swung through the air, the sharp sound of her palm connecting with his face echoing through the hall. The impact was startling, even to her—the sting of it reverberating up her arm. Everyone froze. The clatter of goblets ceased, the muted conversations died, and even the crackling torches seemed to hold their breath. All eyes turned to them, the air thick with tension.

Krull’s head snapped to the side from the force of her slap, his mandibles parting slightly in surprise. For a long, drawn-out moment, he didn’t move. Slowly, he raised a hand to where her palm had struck him, his talons brushing against the area where her hand made contact. His yellow eyes flicked back to hers, and for a heartbeat, Lyra thought she saw something dangerous flash within them—something feral and unhinged.

Then, he laughed.

It started as a low rumble, deep in his chest, but it quickly grew into a full-bodied, menacing sound that filled the hall. His laughter was sharp and wicked, a sound that sent chills down Lyra’s spine. He leaned back in his throne, his free hand covering his face as he roared with dark amusement. His grip on her arm didn’t loosen—if anything, it seemed to anchor her more firmly in place, as though he feared she might slip away while he was distracted.

Between the gaps of his taloned fingers, Lyra caught a glimpse of his eyes. They burned with a madness that made her blood run cold—an intensity that was both possessive and hungry. It wasn’t just anger or pride she saw there; it was something deeper, darker, almost primal. He lusted for her—not just for her body, but for her defiance, her spirit, the very essence of her humanity that he was determined to twist and reshape into something monstrous. His laughter subsided into a low chitter, a sound that crawled under her skin like the skittering of beetles. When he finally uncovered his face, his expression was one of twisted delight.

Lyra swallowed hard, her pulse thundering in her ears as she fought to keep her composure. Krull let out a soft huff, amused by her silence, before finally releasing her. He waved a dismissive hand, the gesture casual yet imbued with absolute authority. Go.

Lyra didn’t hesitate. She turned on her heel and fled, her bare feet barely making a sound as they slapped against the smooth obsidian floor. The eyes of the clan followed her, their guttural murmurs and sharp clicks of mandibles echoing in the cavernous hall, but she didn’t dare look back. She could feel Krull’s gaze burning into her retreating form, a palpable force that urged her to move faster, to put as much distance between herself and the mad warlord as possible. Her breath came in short, panicked gasps as she rounded a corner and disappeared into the shadows of the corridor.

The entire clan turned as one, their eyes locking onto their warlord with a mix of awe and trepidation. Krull sat upon his obsidian throne, his massive frame radiating both power and amusement as he watched his human pet disappear into the shadows of the corridor. His mandibles twitched in a slow, deliberate rhythm, a low chitter escaping him that carried an undercurrent of dark satisfaction. The hall, once filled with the cacophony of guttural laughter and clattering bone goblets, now held a heavy, expectant silence.

Dur’ka, Krull’s second-in-command and the Bloodseeker clan’s leading strategist, rose from his seat. His movements were deliberate as he approached the throne. His mandibles clicked thoughtfully, betraying his curiosity, though his tone remained respectful when he spoke.

“Bloodseeker,” he began, his voice a low rumble that carried across the hall, “you let her strike you and leave without punishment?”

Krull’s gaze shifted slowly to Dur’ka, his yellow eyes gleaming with a dangerous light. He leaned back in his throne, the blackened metal groaning under his weight, and let out a deep, rumbling chuckle. The sound was rich with amusement but laced with something darker—something that made the air in the hall seem to thicken.

“Tell me, Dur’ka,” he purred, his voice dripping with menace, “do you truly believe she struck me from strength, or from weakness?”

Dur’ka hesitated for a moment, his brow ridges furrowing as he considered the question. “She attacked you in anger,” he replied cautiously. “Her defiance is a challenge to your authority.”

Krull’s mandibles spread wide in a gruesome approximation of a grin. His taloned fingers drummed against the armrest of his throne, the sharp clink of metal against stone echoing through the hall.

“And yet, Dur’ka, she did not flee out of fear. She fled because she could not face the fire in my eyes—the fire she herself ignited.” He paused, leaning forward slightly, his massive frame casting a long shadow over the stone floor. “Her defiance is a spark, my friend. And I will fan it into a flame.”

Dur’ka’s mandibles twitched in confusion, but he said nothing.

“She is more than a prize,” he continued, his voice lowering to a near whisper that somehow carried across the silent hall. “She is mine. And I will mold her into something worthy of standing by my side. Let her slap me, let her defy me—it only proves her spirit is unbroken. And when I finally shatter it… Oh, what a masterpiece she will be.”

The hall remained silent, the clan members exchanging uneasy glances but daring not to speak. Dur’ka bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment, though his expression was still clouded with uncertainty. Krull leaned back once more, his gaze drifting toward the corridor where Lyra had vanished.

The water ran cool over her hands, dripping into the shallow stone basin. Lyra scrubbed furiously at her fingers, her palms, as though she could erase the memory of her defiance, the sting of her own hand against his face. Her reflection warped in the rippling surface—eyes wide and rimmed red, her face pale under the flickering firelight. She couldn’t stop trembling.

What had she done?

She regretted it—gods, she regretted it more than anything. The moment it happened, the slap had cracked louder than she’d imagined, echoing in her ears like a gunshot. Her palm still burned, but the heat was nothing compared to the cold dread pooling in her stomach.

She had expected death. She had expected him to break her in half, right there, in front of them all. A public execution, a brutal display of his dominance, something to remind her, to remind his clan, that she was nothing more than his property. But he hadn’t. He’d laughed. That laugh—low, rumbling, and utterly unhinged—still echoed in her mind. It wasn’t just amusement; it was something darker, something predatory and twisted. And the way he looked at her afterward—those yellow eyes burning with a kind of lust that made her skin crawl—it frightened her more than any threat of violence could.

She knew he was insane. She knew he obsessed over her, his fixation bordering on madness. But this… this was different. This was a new level of his derangement.

Lyra turned off the water and gripped the edge of the basin, her knuckles whitening as she stared down at her distorted reflection. Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat a painful reminder of how powerless she truly was. She had struck him, challenged him, and he hadn’t punished her. That wasn’t mercy—it was something far more terrifying. It meant he saw her defiance as part of the game, a spark to be nurtured before he snuffed it out completely. And that scared her more than anything.

She splashed water on her face, the coolness doing little to calm her frayed nerves. Taking a shaky breath, Lyra straightened and wiped her face with the back of her hand. The corridor outside was silent, but she could still feel his presence lingering, his gaze burning into her even from afar.

Lyra stepped out of the cleansing room, her bare feet silent against the smooth obsidian floor. Her thoughts were still a whirlwind, her palm tingling with the memory of her slap and the weight of Krull’s laughter echoing in her mind. She barely registered the figure in front of her until she collided with it, stumbling back with a sharp gasp. Her heart leaped into her throat as she looked up into a pair of orange-amber eyes—Dur’ka, Krull’s second-in-command, loomed over her like a shadow carved from stone.

"... Sorry..." she mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper.

She tried to sidestep him, desperate to escape the suffocating tension of the corridor, but he moved with deliberate precision, blocking her path. His massive frame towered over hers, his imposing presence making her feel even smaller than she already was.

"How does a pathetic little ooman like you live after slapping the Great Bloodseeker?" Dur’ka’s voice was low, guttural, and laced with something between curiosity and disbelief.

His mandibles clicked thoughtfully as he studied her, his gaze intense and probing, as though she were some sort of puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. "I’ve seen Krull kill for less," he added, his tone darkening as he leaned in slightly, his shadow enveloping her.

Lyra sighed heavily, wrapping her arms around herself as if the meager gesture could shield her from his scrutiny. She met his gaze, her own eyes tired but defiant.

"Does him being utterly insane count as a valid reason?" she shot back, her voice edged with bitterness. The question hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken truths and the chilling reality of Krull’s madness.

Dur’ka tilted his head, his mandibles twitching in what might have been amusement or contemplation. He didn’t respond immediately, instead taking a moment to assess her further. The silence stretched, thick and oppressive, until he finally let out a low chitter that sent a shiver down her spine.

"Perhaps," he rumbled, his tone now carrying a hint of something she couldn’t quite place—something that might have been respect, or perhaps pity.

"But be careful, ooman. Krull’s patience has limits, and his obsession with you is... Troubling."

Lyra swallowed hard, the weight of Dur’ka’s words settling over her like a noose tightening around her neck. She nodded faintly, feeling the cold dread creeping into her chest, a sensation that seemed to seep into her very bones.

Before she could muster a response, Dur’ka stepped aside, his massive frame moving to clear her path. His orange-amber eyes bore into hers, narrowing with a caution that made her skin prickle.

"Best of luck, little puzzle," he rumbled, his voice low and guttural.

Lyra hesitated, her gaze flickering to the corridor beyond him, where shadows danced in the flickering firelight. The thought of returning to Krull’s side made her stomach churn, but there was no escape, not here, not yet.

"...Thanks," she replied softly, her voice barely audible between them.

The word felt hollow on her tongue, a weak attempt at gratitude for a gesture that offered little real comfort. She stepped past him, her bare feet silent against the obsidian floor, and felt the weight of his gaze follow her as she retreated further into the corridor.

Dur’ka didn’t move immediately. He watched her go, his mandibles twitching in thoughtful silence. There was something about her—her defiance, her quiet resilience—that intrigued him, though he couldn’t place why. She was just an ooman, after all, fragile and soft, yet she had done what no other dared: she had struck Krull and lived to tell of it.

Perhaps she is stronger than she appears, he thought, though he quickly dismissed the notion. Strength alone wouldn’t save her from the Bloodseeker’s madness.

As Lyra vanished into the shadows, Dur’ka turned back toward the great hall, his steps heavy with contemplation. The air was thick with tension, the weight of Krull’s unspoken plans pressing down on them all. He knew the warlord’s obsession with the human was dangerous, a distraction that could cost them everything if left unchecked. But questioning Krull’s decisions was a risk even Dur’ka wasn’t willing to take—not yet. For now, he would watch, and wait, and prepare for the storm he knew was coming.

The stone corridors of the fortress were a labyrinth of echoes and heat. Lyra moved through them, a sliver of pale silk in a world of brutal, dark rock. She’d had a single, simple goal: find the kitchens, find Ekk’thal, find a moment of sanity. But the twisting passages all looked the same, and the low, resonant hum of the mountain seemed to mock her disorientation.

A shadow detached itself from a deeper darkness ahead, solidifying into a nightmare of scarred muscle and polished bone charms. Krull. He didn’t emerge; he was simply there, having been waiting, watching her aimless progress through the infrared haze of his vision. His massive form blocked the entire corridor, his yellow eyes glowing with a possessive madness that made her breath catch.

“Hello Lyra,” his voice grated through her translator collar, the words a caress and a threat intertwined. “You are far from where you're suppose to be.”

Lyra’s heart hammered against her ribs. She took a step back, but it was futile. He closed the distance between them in one silent stride.

“I was… I was looking for the kitchens,” she stammered, hating the tremor in her voice.

A low, rumbling sound vibrated in his chest. It wasn't a laugh. It was the sound of a predator savoring the fear of its cornered prey.

“You require sustenance? I will provide. I am all you require.”

His taloned hand closed around her upper arm, not with enough force to bruise, but with an absolute certainty that made struggle pointless. He turned, pulling her with him, not back the way she came, but toward the deeper, more private levels of the fortress - his chambers.

He led her inside and then released her arm only to seal the door with a low beep from his wrist computer. The finality of the sound echoed in the sudden silence.

He turned to face her, his gaze a physical weight. “You struck me,” he said, the words deceptively soft through the collar’s translation. “In front of my clan. You showed them your fire.”

“You deserved it,” Lyra whispered, defiance flaring, a desperate spark in the overwhelming darkness of his presence.

The gleam in his yellow eyes intensified, flickering madness brewing inside of him.

“Yes,” he hissed, the sound sibilant and hungry. “Show me again. Show me now. For me alone.”

He took a step toward her, his posture inviting, taunting. “Hit me, little treasure. Let me feel your spirit.”

Revulsion and a terrifying, unwelcome chill coursed through her. “No.”

Another step. He was so close now she could see the fine network of scars around his mandibles.

“Strike your master.” he growled, his mandibles twitching anticipation.

“I am not yours to command!” she cried, the words feeling hollow and pathetic.

His hand shot out, faster than she could follow, closing around both of her wrists. He forced her hands up, pressing her clenched fists against the hard, unyielding plating of his chest armor. The struggle was absurd; her strength was nothing against his. She strained, muscles trembling, but he held her effortlessly.

“Oh but you are,” he growled, his voice dropping to a intimate, rasping whisper. “Every frantic beat of your heart is mine. Every gasp. Every drop of resistance… it only makes the claiming sweeter.”

The raw, obsessive need in his voice was more frightening than any threat of violence. He didn’t want a broken slave; he wanted a spirited possession, a fire he could endlessly stoke and contain. His other hand came up, not to hurt her, but to trace the line of her jaw with the back of a single, deadly talon. The touch was strangely gentle, a lover’s caress from a beast.

The contrast undid her. A sob escaped her lips, a mix of terror and confusion.

With a low growl, he released her wrists only to wrap his arms around her, crushing her against him. One hand splayed across the small of her back, pressing her into the hard ridge of his arousal straining against his loincloth. The other tangled in her hair, tilting her face up to his.

“Then I shall have to inspire you,” he murmured, and his mouth came down on hers.

============

It wasn't a human kiss. His mandibles framed her face, and the pressure was dominant, consuming. He licked into her mouth, claiming it, and a shocked, involuntary moan was dragged from her throat. The taste of him was alien, spicy and dark. Her mind screamed in protest, but her body, traitorously, responded to the absolute authority of the act. A heat, low and deep, began to uncoil within her.

He broke the kiss, his breath a hot gust against her wet lips. His eyes burned into hers.

“You see? Your body knows its master. It rebels against your foolish mind.”

He spun her around, pulling her back against the solid wall of his chest. One arm banded across her collarbones, holding her in place. His free hand slid down her front, over the thin silk of her garment, palming her breast. She gasped, arching against her will as his thumb rubbed a rough circle over her nipple, the sensitive peak hardening instantly beneath the fabric.

“So responsive,” he purred into her ear, the translator humming with dark delight. His hand continued its downward journey, skimming over her stomach, pressing lower. He cupped her through the silk, the sheer size of his hand covering her completely. A jolt of pure, undiluted pleasure-pain shot through her.

“No…” she whimpered, but it was a weak protest, her head falling back against his chest.

“Yes,” he corrected her, his voice thick with lust. His fingers hooked into the soft, delicate fabric of her silks and with a single pull, he tore fragile garment apart. The tattered silk whispered to the floor, leaving her naked and exposed in the circle of his arms.

His hand returned to her bare flesh, fingers sliding through her curls, finding her heat. He groaned, a deep, resonant sound that vibrated through her very bones.

“Drenched for me already. Your defiance is a lie your flesh cannot tell.”

One thick finger pushed into her, and her knees buckled. He held her up easily, his arm like iron across her chest. He worked his finger in and out, a slow, merciless invasion that stretched her, sparking a torrent of shameful sensation. He added a second finger, crooking them, and a broken cry was torn from her throat as he found a spot inside her that made her vision blur.

“This is what you truly want,” he growled, his voice ragged. “This claiming. This ownership. You hunger for it as I hunger for you.”

He withdrew his fingers suddenly, leaving her empty and aching. Before she could process the loss, he spun her back around to face him. His own loincloth was gone, cast aside as if it were nothing more than a trivial obstruction. His erection sprang free, massive and terrifying, its girth obscene and undeniable. The veins along its length pulsed with a life of their own, and Lyra’s breath hitched as her gaze was drawn to it, both mesmerized and horrified.

He gripped himself, his taloned fingers wrapping around his throbbing length with a possessive firmness. He stroked once, a slow, deliberate movement that made her stomach twist with a mixture of dread and unwanted fascination. His yellow eyes never left hers, their glow intensifying as he drank in her nakedness with a hunger that was almost feral.

“You will not strike me?” he growled, his voice low and dripping with dark amusement. “Then you will take me. All of me.”

He leaned in, his mandibles brushing against her cheek in a gesture that was both intimate and alien.

“Your body knows the truth,” he whispered, his breath hot against her ear. “It betrays you with every shiver, every gasp. You belong to me, Lyra. And tonight, I will make sure you never forget it.”

With that, he released her chin and lifted her as if she weighed nothing, his hands under her thighs, and impaled her on his shaft in one smooth, devastating thrust.

Lyra screamed. The stretch was immense, a burning fullness that bordered on pain. She took hold of his shoulders, her fingers feeling the roughness of his scarred hide. He held her there, speared on him, letting her feel every inch of him buried deep inside her convulsing heat.

Then he began to move.

His thrusts were deliberate and brutal, each one driving deeper into her than the last. The sheer size of him stretched her to her limits, a burning ache that was as overwhelming as it was intoxicating. Lyra’s breaths came in ragged gasps, her fingers clawing helplessly at his shoulders as she tried to anchor herself against the relentless force of his movements. Every stroke sent ripples of sensation through her, a confusing mix of pain and pleasure that left her trembling.

“You feel it, don’t you?” he growled, his voice low and guttural, the words vibrating through her translator collar like a dark serenade. “Your body betraying you, yielding to me. You are mine, my precious little prey, and nothing can change that.”

Lyra’s head fell back, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders as he held her aloft, impaled on his throbbing length. She wanted to deny him, to scream her defiance, but all that escaped her lips were whimpers and moans. Her traitorous body responded to his every movement, her inner walls clenching around him in a way that drew a deep, primal groan from his chest. He reveled in her involuntary responses, his yellow eyes glowing with a possessive gleam that sent shivers down her spine.

He shifted his grip slightly, lifting her higher so that he could thrust at a different angle, one that made her cry out in a mix of shock and pleasure. His mandibles clicked softly as he watched her face, studying every flicker of emotion that crossed her features.

“Good,” he murmured, his voice a dark purr. “Let me see you unravel for me, Lyra. Let me feel your surrender.”

The pace of his movements quickened, each thrust more intense than the last. Her senses were overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of him—the heat of his skin, the musky scent that enveloped her, the sound of his labored breathing mingling with her own. She could feel the tension building within her, a coiled spring wound tighter and tighter until she was sure it would snap. And still, he pushed her further, his unrelenting rhythm driving her closer to the edge.

“Krull…” she gasped, her voice barely audible over the sound of their coupling.

It wasn’t a plea for mercy or a cry of protest; it was simply the only word she could manage as her world narrowed down to the sensation of him filling her, owning her. He growled in response, his grip tightening as he felt her body begin to quake beneath him.

With a final, deep thrust, he brought her crashing over the edge, her entire body convulsing with the force of her release. Lyra’s back arched as if struck by lightning, her scream a raw, primal sound that echoed through the chamber. Her inner walls clenched around him in a desperate, rhythmic spasm, milking every inch of his throbbing length. He groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through their joined bodies, his grip on her thighs tightening to the point of nearly bruising. She was a masterpiece of unraveling ecstasy, and he watched her with a possessive hunger that bordered on madness.

He held her there, suspended in the throes of her climax, his hips still grinding into hers with deliberate precision. She could feel him pulsing inside her, his own release building as her body continued to tremble around him.

When his climax hit, it was with the force of a storm. His roar was deafening, a primal declaration of dominance that seemed to shake the very walls of his chamber. His seed filled her, hot and searing, a tangible claim that left her feeling marked in the most intimate way possible. Lyra’s breath caught in her throat as she felt the sheer intensity of it, her mind reeling from the overwhelming sensations coursing through her. She wanted to push him away, to deny the undeniable, but her traitorous body only clung to him tighter, as if it feared the loss of his heat.

For a moment, they stayed locked together, both of them trembling from the sheer ferocity of what had just transpired. His breath came in ragged bursts against her neck, and she could feel the rapid thrum of his heartbeat where their chests were pressed together. He didn’t release her immediately, instead holding her close as if savoring the lingering connection between them. His fingers traced lazy patterns along her spine, a strangely tender gesture that contrasted sharply with the brutality of their joining.

Her breath still came in shallow gasps, her body trembling as the aftershocks of her climax continued to ripple through her. Reluctantly, almost instinctively, she wrapped her arms around his thick, scarred neck, her fingers brushing against the bone charms that hung from his dreadlocks. She could feel his hot seed seeping out of her, a visceral reminder of his claim, and it made her shiver with a mix of revulsion and lingering pleasure. Krull, ever attentive to her every reaction, let out a low, satisfied growl, his mandibles clicking softly as he nuzzled the side of her neck.

With deliberate care, he shifted their positions, his massive frame moving with surprising gentleness. He cradled her against his chest as he lowered them both onto the stone bed covered in furs, the rough texture of the pelts a stark contrast to the heat of his body. He laid her down first, his movements slow and controlled, before finally pulling himself out of her. The separation drew a soft whimper from her lips, her body still sensitive and raw from the intensity of their coupling. He lingered for a moment, his yellow eyes glowing with a possessive gleam as he watched his seed pool between her thighs—a mark of ownership, a promise of what was to come.

"You are beautiful," he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, the translator collar rendering his words with an eerie intimacy. His taloned hand traced the curve of her cheek, a gesture that was almost tender if not for the unyielding possessiveness in his gaze.

"You are perfect. You were meant for me... As I am meant for you."

His words carried a weight that went beyond mere obsession; they were a proclamation, a vow that bound them together in ways Lyra could scarcely comprehend. He leaned in closer, his mandibles brushing against her ear as he whispered, "If anyone dares to take you away from me, I shall strip the flesh from their very bones."

The promise was delivered with a quiet ferocity that sent a chill down her spine, yet his touch remained gentle, almost caressing.

Lyra’s mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions—fear, anger, and a traitorous flicker of something she refused to name. She lay there, trapped in the aftermath of his dominance, her body still tingling from his touch. Krull’s presence loomed over her, both a threat and a protector, his every movement calculated to remind her of her place in his world. He settled beside her on the bed, one arm draped over her waist, pulling her close so that her back pressed against his chest. His heartbeat was steady and strong against her skin, a rhythmic reminder of his monstrous vitality.

For a long moment, there was only silence, broken by the sound of their mingled breaths. Krull’s fingers traced idle patterns along her arm, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the sharpness of his talons.

"Sleep, little treasure," he murmured, his voice softening into something almost resembling affection.

"You are safe here, in my arms. No harm will come to you while I am near." It was both a comfort and a cage, his words wrapping around her like chains forged from something far more complex than mere brutality.

Lyra closed her eyes, her body still aching from their encounter, but exhaustion began to tug at the edges of her consciousness. Against her will, she felt herself relax into his embrace, the heat of his body lulling her toward sleep. In that moment, she hated him—hated his strength, his arrogance, his unrelenting claim on her. But more than anything, she hated the small, treacherous part of herself that found solace in the safety of his monstrous arms.

Eventually, she fell asleep, her breath evening out into a soft rhythm against his chest. Krull watched her, his large clawed hand resting gently on her stomach. The rise and fall of her body beneath his touch was mesmerizing, a fragile reminder of her humanity in contrast to his monstrous form. His yellow eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, their intensity softened by something akin to reverence.

It was a shame, he thought, tracing the curve of her hip with a talon. They were two different species, bound together by a twisted fate that allowed them intimacy but denied them the ultimate connection: a child. The idea of her carrying his offspring, of their union creating something tangible, eternal, stirred something primal within him. It was a dream as impossible as it was intoxicating. He imagined her round with his seed, her body nurturing the life they had created together. The thought made his chest rumble with a low, possessive growl.

Krull’s mandibles twitched as he let the fantasy unfold in his mind. She would be radiant, her defiance tempered by the vulnerability of motherhood. He would protect her fiercely during her pregnancy, shielding her from any threat, ensuring she had everything she needed. The very notion of a child—his child—being carried within her filled him with a mix of longing and frustration. It was a cruel irony that their bond, so visceral and consuming, could never yield that.

He shifted slightly, careful not to disturb her, and pressed his forehead to hers in a rare moment of tenderness. The dreams would remain just that—dreams. But they were his dreams, born of an obsession that consumed him entirely. For now, he would content himself with the warmth of her body against his and the knowledge that she was his alone. His hand drifted back to her stomach, as though willing his desires into existence through touch alone.

Lyra stirred in her sleep, murmuring softly, and he stilled, his predatory instincts attuned to her every movement. When she settled again, he exhaled slowly, his grip tightening just enough to remind himself of her presence.

The chamber was cloaked in darkness, the only sounds the distant hum of the volcano and the steady rhythm of their breathing. Krull closed his eyes, allowing himself to drift into the same oblivion as his treasure. In that shared slumber, the line between reality and fantasy blurred, and for a fleeting moment, he could almost believe his dream was real, but he knew it would always remain just that—a dream. A beautiful, cruel illusion of what could never be.

Chapter Text

The kitchens were alive with clatter and steam, but the rhythm felt wrong. Conversations were hushed, glances sharp and fleeting, and when Lyra padded barefoot across the stone floor, every head turned for a heartbeat too long before snapping back to work.

Ekk’thal stood at the main table, hands elbow-deep in a basin of herbs he was grinding down to paste. The old Yautja didn’t even look up as she approached, but his tusks flared in a way that meant his temper was simmering.

Only when she tried to slip past him toward her usual stool did his gravel-edged voice cut the air:

“What,” he rumbled, “in the void-damned pits… did you do?”

Lyra froze mid-step. “...What do you mean?”

Now he looked up. His eyes narrowed, boring into her. “Do not play games with me, girl. The fortress hums with it. Warriors mutter in corners. Slaves whisper when they think no one listens. You struck him.”

Her stomach dropped. The words hung like a noose. Even Grii’tach, who had been scrubbing bowls nearby, stilled and turned wide-eyed toward her.

Lyra’s throat tightened. Her mind flashed back—Krull’s grip bruising her arm, her palm stinging from the slap, the way his laughter had split the hall in two.

“I—” Her voice cracked. She swallowed, trying again. “He wouldn’t let me go. I… I had to. I couldn’t—”

Ekk’thal slammed his pestle down, the crack echoing through the kitchen. A few slaves flinched. Lyra did too.

“You fool,” he hissed, leaning across the table toward her. “Do you have any idea what that means? No one strikes the Bloodseeker and lives. No one. You have painted a target on your back that I cannot shield you from.”

Tears pricked her eyes, but she forced herself to hold his gaze. “He let me live.”

Ekk’thal’s mandibles clicked in bitter disbelief, the sound sharp and final, like a bone snapping under pressure.

“Then he has lost what little sanity remained,” he growled, his voice low and heavy with warning. His eyes narrowed, the yellow orbs gleaming with a mix of frustration and something else—fear, perhaps.

“That makes him more dangerous, not less.” The words hung in the air like a storm cloud, ominous and inescapable.

A new voice cut through the steam and tension of the kitchen, deeper and laced with cold curiosity. “The old one speaks the truth.”

Dur’ka stood in the arched entrance, his massive form blocking the light from the corridor, casting a long shadow that seemed to stretch unnaturally across the room. His gaze swept over her, cold and analytical, dissecting every detail as if she were a puzzle he was determined to solve. He stepped into the room, ignoring Ekk’thal’s wary posture and the way the slaves instinctively shrank away from him as he stepped closer to Lyra.

“The Krull I know,” Dur’ka began, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very stone beneath their feet, “would have broken the arm that struck him. He would have made a spectacle of it. A lesson for the entire clan.”

He paused, his words precise, each one carrying the weight of undeniable truth. Then he stopped in front of Lyra, looming over her like a mountain, his presence both oppressive and strangely mesmerizing. His gaze bore into her, searching for something she couldn’t begin to understand.

“And yet,” he continued, his tone shifting to something almost contemplative, “with you, little puzzle, he didn’t…?” The question hung in the air, dense and unanswerable, its implications twisting like a knife in her gut.

Lyra shook her head, her voice barely a whisper as she admitted, “If you're asking me why, I don’t know. I wish I did.”

Dur’ka tilted his head slightly, his expression thoughtful but no less intimidating. His mandibles twitched in a way that might have been the ghost of a smirk, though there was no warmth in it.

“Curious,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. His gaze shifted to Ekk’thal, seeking confirmation or perhaps an explanation from the elder.

“Tell me, old man. You knew Krull the longest.” Dur’ka stated, his voice low and deliberate. His amber-orange eyes flicked toward Ekk’thal, sharp and unyielding.

“This obsession of his—it is not just a flaw. It is a crack in his armour, a weakness that could unravel him if pressed too far. I have seen it myself. He watches her, even when he believes no one is looking, not with the hunger of a hunter for a trophy, nor the fleeting curiosity of a beast. It is… something else. Something deeper. A fixation so consuming it borders on madness.”

Dur’ka paused, his mandibles twitching faintly as though the words themselves left a bitter taste.

“Why her?” he continued, his voice dropping to a rumbling whisper. “What is it about this fragile, defiant creature that has such a hold on him? She is no warrior. She has no power, no strength to challenge him. And yet, she has tethered his mind so completely that he lets her live after she defies him—After she strikes him! This is not the Krull I know. This is… something else. Something I do not yet understand.”

Ekk’thal remained silent, his rough hands still gripping the pestle though his work had long since stopped. His gaze was distant, as though Dur’ka’s words had stirred something deep within him—a memory, perhaps, or a truth he had buried long ago.

Dur’ka tilted his head, his expression hardening as he turned back to the elder Yautja. “You knew him before the madness took root. Before he became the warlord we see today. What drives this obsession? What is it about her?”

The question hung in the air like a blade poised to fall. Lyra stood frozen, her heart pounding in her chest, caught between Dur’ka’s relentless scrutiny and the dawning realization that she was at the center of something far darker than she had ever imagined. Dur’ka’s voice softened slightly, though there was no warmth in it—only a cold, calculating curiosity.

“If I am to understand how to deal with him, I must first understand what it is about her that burns so brightly in his mind. And you, old one, are the only one who can answer that.”

The silence that followed was heavier than stone, the tension in the room so palpable it felt like the walls themselves were leaning in to listen. Lyra’s breath caught as she waited for Ekk’thal to speak, her fate hanging in the balance of whatever truth he might reveal.

Then, he answered. “…The doll.”

Dur’ka’s head tilted. “What?”

“When Krull was young,” Ekk’thal began, his voice losing its gruff edge, becoming almost gentle with the recall, “he was always… different. Drawn to the trophies others found mundane. He would linger in his father’s hall, not at the great skulls of monsters, but at the cases of human remains. The small, delicate skulls fascinated him.”

Lyra stood utterly still, barely breathing.

“His father was leaving for a human-infested world. The young Krull made a request. Not for a weapon, not for a tale of glory. He asked for a trinket. A human thing.”

A faint, almost imperceptible chuff of laughter escaped Ekk’thal. “His father was confused, but he was a warlord honouring his son’s first strange wish. He returned with it. A small, fragile object. A doll. It had a painted face, a head of curly hair wearing a tiny, frilled garment.”

Dur’ka made a dismissive sound deep in his chest, but Ekk’thal continued, his eyes now fixed on Lyra as if seeing a ghost.

“Krull kept it with him always. He was never without it. He would speak to it. He would… care for it. He pretended it was a real, living human, placed under his protection. His own perfect, silent companion.”

The old Yautja’s mandibles tightened. “The older youths… they found it. They teased him. Said it made him weak. In a scuffle, it was snatched from him. It fell. It shattered on the stone.”

A thick silence descended upon the kitchen. Lyra could picture it: a young, brooding Krull, his most precious possession destroyed, the laughter of the others echoing around him.

“He snapped,” Ekk’thal whispered. “A bloodrage unlike any I had seen in one so young. He did not stop until they were all… gone. The wild took them, their families were told. I ensured the truth was buried to protect him from his father’s wrath. I thought the obsession died with the doll. I was wrong.”

The weight of Ekk’thal’s words settled over the kitchen like a shroud. His voice, once gruff and commanding, now carried a somber undertone, heavy with regret.

“It did not die,” he said slowly, his gaze fixed on Lyra as though seeing her in a new light. “It festered. I should have noticed, but it is clear as water that the doll was more than a mere trinket to him. It was a… fixation. A need.”

He paused, his mandibles tightening as if the admission pained him. “Perhaps, when he went out into the stars, he wasn’t hunting for glory or trophies. No, he was searching… for her.”

Ekk’thal’s voice dropped, low and graveled, carrying the weight of a revelation long buried. “Not a replica of porcelain, but one reborn of flesh and blood. A new her to keep and ensure he would never lose again.”

His eyes softened momentarily, a flicker of something akin to sorrow crossing his weathered features. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his tone almost tender, “I should have realized, my dear child…”

The revelation landed like a physical blow. Lyra’s hand flew to the collar at her throat, no longer just a translator but a shackle to a childhood delusion. She wasn’t a person to him. She was the doll—a living embodiment of a broken Yautja’s deepest, darkest longing

Dur’ka stared at her, his earlier analytical curiosity replaced by a dawning, unsettling understanding. The warlord’s madness had a root, and it was standing right in front of him, looking pale and horrified.

The heavy clank of armored footsteps broke the tension in the kitchen, and all eyes turned to the entrance. A guard, his bio-mask gleaming faintly in the dim light, stepped inside and bowed deeply to Dur’ka.

“Warlord Krull has requested your presence,” he announced, his voice muffled but unmistakably urgent. “The Shattered Fang clan has arrived.”

Dur’ka’s mandibles twitched in irritation, and his low growl echoed through the room. “Now?! It’s too soon!” His eyes narrowed as he glanced toward the door, clearly displeased by the timing. His gaze then shifted to Lyra, and the guard followed it, adding with a hesitant tone, “He also requested… her.”

Lyra felt her stomach twist. She had hoped to avoid Krull for at least a little longer, but fate had other plans. Dur’ka’s expression darkened as he turned to her, his voice sharp with thinly veiled frustration.

“Continue your ‘duty,’ ooman,” he said, the word dripping with disdain. “Let’s not keep our esteemed warlord waiting. Especially with guests.”

Her shoulders slumped slightly, but she nodded, knowing there was no other choice. She followed Dur’ka and the guard out of the kitchen, the weight of Ekk’thal’s revelation still pressing heavily on her mind. As she walked, her thoughts raced. The knowledge that she was nothing more than a replacement for a shattered doll gnawed at her, filling her with a mix of anger and despair.

Before leaving the kitchen entirely, she glanced back over her shoulder. Ekk’thal stood where she’d left him, his broad frame looking smaller somehow, as if burdened by the weight of his admission. His yellow eyes met hers, and in them, she saw a flicker of something she hadn’t expected—guilt. It was brief, but it was there, raw and unmasked. He had shared a truth long buried, and now he seemed to be grappling with the consequences.

The hall outside was dimly lit, the walls lined with jagged black stone that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. The air was thick with tension, and Lyra could feel the storm brewing beneath the surface. The Shattered Fang clan’s arrival was unexpected, and she had no doubt it would only complicate things further. As they approached the Great Hall, the distant murmur of voices grew louder, blending with the ominous hum of the fortress itself.

Lyra took a deep breath, steeling herself for whatever lay ahead. She didn’t know what Krull had planned or why she’d been summoned, but one thing was clear: she was no longer just a captive in this twisted game. She was a pawn in a much larger, much darker scheme—one that had been set into motion long before she ever set foot in this cursed place. And as much as she hated it, she knew she had no choice but to play her part for now.

They entered the Great Hall, its towering walls of jagged black stone casting long, ominous shadows that danced in the flickering light of the braziers. Lyra’s breath caught as her eyes landed on Krull. He sat on his throne, a massive seat carved from obsidian and adorned with trophies of past hunts—skulls, bones, and weapons. His talon-tipped fingers drummed impatiently against the armrest, the rhythmic tapping echoing through the vast chamber like the ticking of a clock counting down to some inevitable confrontation. The air was thick with tension, and Lyra could feel the weight of his presence even from across the room.

Dur’ka gave her a subtle nudge forward, his expression neutral to. Lyra forced herself to take a steadying breath, her bare feet silent against the cold stone floor as she approached the throne. She hesitated for only a moment before stepping toward the silken pillow at Krull’s side, but before she could sit, his massive hand shot out and seized her. In one swift motion, he pulled her onto his lap, her small frame dwarfed by his muscular bulk. His grip was firm but not painful, his talons resting lightly on her waist.

“I need you close,” he grumbled, his deep voice vibrating through her as his piercing yellow eyes remained fixed on the hall’s entrance. The words were possessive, commanding, and carried an undercurrent of something darker that made her stomach twist.

The heavy double doors creaked open, and the Shattered Fang clan entered that made the air seem to crackle with energy. Their leader was a towering figure even among Yautja. His broad chest was bare, marked with scars that ran like lightning across his dark skin, each one a testament to battles fought and survived. His bio-mask was tucked under one arm, revealing a face that was as brutal as it was striking. He knelt before Krull, bowing his head low in a show of respect, but his gaze never wavered from the Bloodseeker’s.

“Greetings, Warlord Krull,” began the other Yautja, his voice deep and resonant. “It is a great honor that you allow my clan and I to enter your domain.”

Krull’s mandibles twitched in irritation, his grip tightening ever so slightly on Lyra’s waist as he leaned forward on his throne.

“Razhor,” he rumbled, his tone dripping with barely concealed disdain. “Your eagerness to see me is flattering, but arriving sooner than announced is simply… annoying.”

The last word was growled, low and menacing, a clear warning to the visiting warlord. Lyra could feel the tension in the room rising like a storm on the horizon, and she fought the urge to shrink back against Krull’s chest. Razhor didn’t falter, his sharp eyes flickering briefly to Lyra before returning to Krull.

“My apologies, Bloodseeker,” he said smoothly, though there was a glint of challenge in his gaze.

“We heard whispers of your… acquisition.” His voice lingered on the word, making it clear he wasn’t referring to territory or trophies.

“We could not resist the opportunity to witness such a rarity for ourselves.” Razhor’s tone was polite, but the implication was unmistakable—Lyra was a curiosity, a prize to be scrutinized and evaluated. His sharp eyes flicked over her once more, lingering on the collar at her throat, the faint bruises peeking from beneath the thin fabric of her ceremonial silks. There was something predatory in his gaze, a hunger that went beyond mere curiosity. She felt exposed, like a trinket displayed for inspection, and it took all her willpower not to shrink back against Krull’s chest.

Krull’s eyes narrowed. His deep, guttural voice cut through the tension like a blade, low and deliberate, forcing the hall into an oppressive silence.

“She is mine,” he declared, each word precise, each syllable weighted with authority. His yellow eyes gleamed with a dangerous intensity as they locked onto Razhor. “Her worth is not for your eyes to weigh, nor your tongue to question.”

Razhor didn’t flinch, but his mandibles twitched faintly—a subtle sign of irritation or perhaps defiance. He straightened slightly, his scarred chest puffing out as he met Krull’s gaze head-on.

“Of course, Warlord,” he replied, his tone smooth but laced with an edge that hinted at challenge. “I meant no offense. It is simply… unusual to see one so fragile kept so close. Especially by one as mighty as you.” The words were carefully chosen, a veiled jab cloaked in flattery.

Krull’s growl rumbled deep in his chest, a sound that seemed to vibrate through the stone beneath their feet. His fingers flexed against Lyra’s side, the tips of his talons brushing her skin in a way that was both possessive and protective.

“Fragile?” Krull echoed, his voice dropping to a near whisper that somehow carried through the hall like a thunderclap.

The sound of it seemed to ripple through the air, silencing even the faintest murmur in the room. His yellow eyes burned with an intensity that could have scorched stone, locked onto Razhor with a gaze that was both predatory and possessive.

“You mistake her for what she appears, Razhor. She is more than flesh and bone.”

Lyra felt the weight of his words press down on her, the heat of his body radiating against her back as he leaned forward slightly, his grip on her waist tightening just enough to remind her of her place—and his claim. His talons grazed her skin, not hard enough to break it but firm enough to make her pulse quicken. She could feel the tension in the room thickening, the air becoming almost suffocating as Krull’s presence dominated the space.

The other Yautja, Razhor, laughed—a low, rumbling sound that carried a hint of mockery. His sharp eyes flicked over Lyra once more, lingering on her collar, her bruises, the way she sat so small and still against Krull’s massive frame.

“So you hoard her,” he said, his tone smooth but laced with a challenge that was impossible to miss. “Hide her away like a trinket from one of your hunts.” He paused, his mandibles twitching faintly in amusement.

“Strange taste for a warlord.”

The words hung in the air like a taunt, and for a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath. Krull’s growl rumbled deep in his chest, a sound that vibrated through the throne and into Lyra’s bones.

“You speak of taste,” Krull began, his voice low and deliberate, each word weighted with menace, “yet you fail to understand what lies before you. She is no mere trinket, no trophy to be displayed and discarded. She is mine.”

His yellow eyes burned with an intensity that could have scorched stone. The air in the hall seemed to thicken, heavy with the weight of his words. “Do not insult her further.”

Razhor tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable but his eyes glinting with something that might have been curiosity—or perhaps a flicker of challenge. He let out a low, rumbling chuckle, the sound carrying a dangerous edge.

“I meant no offence, Warlord,” he said, though his tone suggested otherwise. “Your… treasure is certainly unique.”

His sharp eyes lingered on Lyra, scanning her from head to toe as if appraising her value. Her collar, her bruises, the way she sat so small and still against Krull’s massive frame—it all seemed to fascinate him.

“Still,” he added, his mandibles twitching faintly in amusement, “I’m amazed this female ooman was able to charm the mighty Bloodseeker.”

Krull’s growl rumbled deep in his chest, a sound that vibrated through the throne and into Lyra’s bones. His hand tightened just enough on her waist to remind her—and everyone in the room—of his claim.

“Her charm is none of your concern,” he snapped, his voice sharp and final. The air around him seemed to crackle with suppressed energy, as if the room itself was holding its breath. “She is not here for your scrutiny or your judgment. Speak of her again, and you will regret it.”

Razhor didn’t flinch, but the tension in the room was palpable. His mandibles twitched once more, and for a moment, it seemed he might press the issue. But then he inclined his head in a gesture that might have passed for respect.

“Understood, Warlord,” he said smoothly, though the glint in his eyes suggested he was far from cowed.

He straightened, his broad chest rising as he shifted his focus to what had brought him here. “To business then,” he said, his tone shifting to something more calculating. “The smaller clans are carrion pests. They scavenge on scraps we leave behind. It is time they were… erased.”

Krull’s yellow eyes gleamed with a dangerous light, his mandibles twitching as he leaned back in his throne, though his grip on Lyra remained firm. The air in the hall grew heavier, charged with the unspoken tension between the two warlords. His voice, when it came, was low and deliberate, each word carrying the weight of a predator stalking its prey.

“An alliance, you say,” he rumbled, his tone laced with both intrigue and skepticism. “And what makes you think I need your strength to claim what is already within my grasp?”

Razhor’s mandibles spread in a grin that was more threat than smile, his sharp eyes glinting with ambition.

“Bloodseeker, your might is undeniable,” he began, his voice smooth yet edged with steel. “But even the strongest hunter knows there is value in numbers. The smaller clans grow bold, their numbers swelling like rot in a carcass. Alone, they are nothing—but together, they could become a thorn in your side. With the Shattered Fang at your flank, we could crush them like insects before they dare to challenge your rule.”

Krull’s growl rumbled softly, a sound that vibrated through the throne and into Lyra’s bones. She could feel his muscles tense beneath her, the heat of his body radiating against her back as he considered Razhor’s words.

“And what do you seek in return for this… generosity?” he asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm, his piercing gaze locked onto Razhor as though daring him to lie.

Razhor tilted his head, his scarred chest rising and falling with a slow, calculated breath. “A share of the spoils,” he replied, his tone casual but his eyes sharp as daggers.

“The planet will be ours to carve as we see fit. Your Bloodseekers and my Shattered Fang, ruling side by side. The weak will scatter before us, their skulls adorning our halls like trophies. Together, nothing will stand in our way.”

He paused, his mandibles clicking faintly as he added, “Think of it, Krull. A legacy written in blood—yours and mine.”

Krull’s silence was deafening, the weight of his contemplation pressing down on the room like a storm cloud ready to burst. Lyra could feel the tension coiling in his body, the way his claws twitched ever so slightly against her skin. She dared not move, barely breathing as she waited for his response. When he finally spoke, his voice was a low, menacing purr.

“You speak of shared bloodlust,” he said, his tone measured but laced with warning. “But alliances are not forged on hunger alone. They are built on trust. And you, Razhor, have yet to prove yours.”

Razhor’s grin faltered for the briefest moment, his mandibles tightening as he met Krull’s gaze head-on.

“Then let me prove it,” he said, his voice steady but carrying an edge of challenge. “Send me to the front lines. Let me lead the charge against the weaker clans. You will see my loyalty is not just words, but deeds carved in flesh and bone.”

Krull’s eyes narrowed, his grip on Lyra tightening subtly as he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a barely audible growl. “Careful, Razhor,” he murmured, the threat in his tone unmistakable.

“Deeds can be as much a weapon as words. Cross me, and your bones will join the trophies you so eagerly covet.” The air in the hall seemed to still, the weight of Krull’s warning hanging like a blade poised to fall.

Razhor chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that carried a hint of amusement and challenge. His mandibles twitched faintly, the scars on his face shifting with the motion.

“You haven’t changed, Krull,” he said, his voice smooth but edged with steel. “Always teeth before tongue. But I respect that. It’s what makes you the Bloodseeker.”

His sharp eyes flicked momentarily to Lyra, and she could feel the weight of his gaze like a predator sizing up its prey. The tension in the room didn’t ease; if anything, it thickened as the two warlords locked eyes, their unspoken rivalry simmering beneath the surface.

Lyra shifted uncomfortably on Krull’s lap, her skin prickling under the heat of his body and the oppressive atmosphere of the hall. She leaned slightly toward him, her voice barely above a whisper but carrying enough weight to break the silence.

“May I be excused?” she asked, her tone careful but firm. “I would like some fresh air.” Her dark eyes met his for a brief moment, daring to hold his gaze despite the storm she knew brewed within him.

Krull’s yellow eyes narrowed, his mandibles tightening as he studied her. For a moment, it seemed he might refuse, his grip on her waist tensing almost imperceptibly. But then he let out a low, rumbling sigh, his massive chest rising and falling with the effort.

“Fine,” he growled, his voice thick with reluctance. He released her slowly, his talons grazing her skin in a way that was both possessive and almost tender—if such a word could ever describe him.

“But you will return to me,” he added, his tone sharpening with warning. “Do not be too long, Lyra.”

As she stood, Lyra nodded, her expression a mix of defiance and resigned obedience. She shot him one last glare, her eyes blazing with a fire that seemed to amuse rather than anger him. He loves it, she realized bitterly, my resistance, my anger. It’s all part of the game to him. Krull’s low chuckle followed her as she turned away, the sound vibrating through the hall like the growl of a beast savoring its prey’s struggles.

She walked toward the arched exit, her bare feet silent against the cold stone floor. The eyes of the Yautja in the hall followed her, their gazes heavy with curiosity, disdain, and something darker that made her skin crawl. Razhor’s voice carried behind her, a low murmur that she couldn’t quite make out, but she could feel his attention lingering on her long after she had stepped into the corridor beyond.

As she wandered through the dimly lit corridor that led to the balcony she had found earlier, Lyra allowed herself a moment of respite from the oppressive atmosphere of the Great Hall. The night air on the balcony was cool against her skin, a welcome relief from the suffocating weight of Krull’s presence and the tension that had filled the room like a storm waiting to break.

She gripped the railing, her fingers curling around the jagged stone as she stared out into the endless sprawl of jungle beneath the fortress cliffs. The canopy stretched endlessly, a sea of green alive with the distant cries of beasts and the shimmer of moonlight dancing on leaves. Here, there were no eyes on her. No chains. No cruel voices speaking of her as though she were an object.

Lyra closed her eyes and drew in a long breath, filling her lungs with the humid scent of moss and wet earth. For just a moment, she pretended she was free—that she could climb down the jagged stone and vanish into the jungle, leaving Krull and his madness behind. Her shoulders eased. Her trembling hands steadied.

But the tranquility didn’t last. A flicker of movement near the edges of the fortress caught her attention. Lyra’s sharp eyes narrowed as she leaned over the railing, straining to make out the figures moving in the shadows. These Yautja were unfamiliar—their armor crude and unadorned, their movements furtive and deliberate.

They weren’t part of Krull’s clan, she realized, her pulse quickening. Nor did they resemble the visiting members of the Shattered Fang. Something about them set her on edge, a primal instinct screaming that danger was near. Before she could process the implications, a deafening explosion shook the fortress to its core. The ground trembled beneath her feet, the force of it nearly knocking her off balance. Smoke and debris erupted from one of the lower levels, the acrid smell of burning filling the air.

Lyra didn’t hesitate. She turned and fled back into the fortress, her heart pounding in her chest as the sounds of chaos erupted around her. Shouts and roars echoed through the halls, the unmistakable clash of weapons ringing out as the Bloodseekers and Shattered Fang warriors rallied to defend their stronghold.

She ducked into a side corridor, pressing herself against the wall as a group of unfamiliar Yautja stormed past, their weapons gleaming in the flickering torchlight. This was an attack—a coordinated strike by a rival clan, one bold enough to challenge both Krull and Razhor. Krull, she knew, would be consumed by the battle, but she also knew he would come for her. Her safety was too much a part of his twisted obsession for him to ignore.

Her mind raced as she navigated the labyrinthine corridors, her familiarity with the fortress giving her an edge. She couldn’t stay here. If Krull found her now, there would be no escape. But if she could find a way out amidst the chaos… Her steps quickened as she followed the trail of destruction left by the explosion. The thick stone walls had been breached, leaving a gaping hole that opened into the jungle beyond. This was her chance. With a final glance over her shoulder, Lyra plunged through the opening, the cool night air rushing to meet her as she disappeared into the dense foliage.

Krull’s massive frame filled the balcony as he burst through the doorway, his yellow eyes scanning the area with predatory intensity. The air around him crackled with barely contained rage, his mandibles twitching as he took in the empty space where she should have been. His fear for her safety was a rare crack in his composure, a vulnerability that only fueled his fury. His roar tore through the fortress like a thunderclap, a primal sound that sent shivers down the spines of even his most hardened warriors.

The battle still raged below, the clash of weapons and the guttural roars of Yautja filling the air, but Krull’s focus was singular now. Find her. He turned sharply, his heavy footsteps shaking the ground as he descended into the chaos. Bodies littered the halls, both Bloodseekers and the unfamiliar attackers who had dared breach his fortress. Blood splattered the walls, pooling on the stone floor, but Krull paid it no mind. His claws flexed at his sides, his chest heaving with a mix of rage and hunger.

Finally, silence fell over the fortress, broken only by the wet crack of armour splitting underfoot and the last dying cries of the fallen. Krull strode across the blood-slick stone, his every step deliberate, his mandibles flexing with barely restrained fury. Around him, his warriors cheered their victory, their voices rising in a cacophony of triumph. Razhor laughed deeply from somewhere in the shadows, amused by the carnage, but Krull ignored them all. His towering form loomed over a group of hunters who knelt before him, their heads bowed low in submission.

“Find her,” he commanded, his voice deep as a quake, each word sharp enough to cleave through stone.

One of the hunters hesitated for only a moment before speaking, his voice trembling with reverence and fear. “Warlord… I found signs. Footprints. Small. Human.”

He paused, his gaze flickering up to meet Krull’s for the briefest second before dropping again. “They lead from the breach—into the jungle.”

Krull’s mandibles twitched, his yellow eyes narrowing as he turned toward the jagged opening in the fortress wall. The jungle beyond was a vast, impenetrable sea of darkness, its depths alive with the distant cries of unseen beasts. She had escaped.

She left him.

The realization burned through him like wildfire, igniting a rage so fierce it seemed to set the very air ablaze. “She runs,” he growled, his voice low and guttural, each syllable dripping with menace. “But she will not get far.”

The fortress trembled again—not from explosions this time, but from the roar that tore from Krull’s chest. It was a sound of raw, unfiltered fury, a declaration of war against anyone or anything that stood between him and what was his.

“LYRA!” he bellowed, her name echoing through the jungle like a hunting call.

The warriors around him froze, their cheers silenced by the sheer force of his wrath. Krull’s fists clenched at his sides, his talons digging into his palms as he stared into the abyss of the jungle. She would pay for this, he swore to himself, and when he found her, she would never dare to run again.