Page 20 of Legacy for the Alien Warrior

CHAPTER EIGHT

Thraxar sat in the dimly lit lounge, contemplating his bare arm. The intricate patterns that covered it extended to the rest of his body, but battle scars interrupted the symmetry—each one a memory, each one a lesson. The ship hummed quietly around him, its familiar vibrations usually comforting, but tonight they failed to soothe his restlessness.

He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching it catch the low light. The Partallan liquor was a rare indulgence, something he drank occasionally when the solitude pressed too heavily upon him. Tonight seemed an appropriate occasion to deplete his small supply.

His tail flicked restlessly, betraying his unsettled thoughts. Kara and Rory had disrupted his carefully maintained isolation. He had not shared his ship with anyone in… years? Decades? Time blurred when each cycle resembled the last.

The sweetness of Kara’s scent alerted him to presence, even before he detected the soft patter of bare feet and she appeared in the doorway. She stood hesitantly at the threshold, her slender frame draped in one of the garments she’d fashioned from his old clothes. The sight of her wearing something of his stirred an unexpected warmth in his chest.

“I apologize for disturbing you,” she said, her voice low. “I couldn’t sleep.”

He straightened, suddenly conscious of his bare, scarred. He’d removed his shirt before attempting to rest, and hadn’t bothered to replace it when he’d abandoned his quarters for the lounge.

“The apology is unnecessary.” He gestured to the seat across from him. “Join me, if you wish.”

She crossed the room and settled into the chair, tucking her legs beneath her. The posture made her appear even smaller, more vulnerable, yet he’d seen the steel in her spine when she’d faced down the guard on the asteroid.

“Is Rory sleeping?” he asked.

“Yes. He falls asleep quickly once he feels secure.” She glanced around the lounge. “Your ship feels safe to him.”

“That is… gratifying to hear.” He hesitated, then offered her his glass. “Would you care for some? It is Partallan liquor.”

She accepted the glass, taking a cautious sip. Her eyes widened slightly. “That’s amazing. That’s what you were selling on Jellix V?”

“I sold a crate of Partallan liquor, but this is much older and rarer. You find it acceptable?”

“More than acceptable.” She took another small sip before returning the glass. “Luxury.”

They sat in silence for a moment, surrounded by the gentle hum of the ship, and he found himself studying her features—the curve of her jaw, the alertness in her eyes even at this late hour, the slight tension in her shoulders that never fully dissipated.

“May I ask about Rory’s sire?” The question emerged before he could reconsider its propriety.

Kara’s expression hardened slightly. “What about him?”

“Is he deceased?”

“No.” Her fingers twisted together in her lap. “He left us.”

His tail lashed as a growl escaped him. “He abandoned his offspring?”

“He never really wanted a child to begin with but he eventually agreed.” Her voice remained steady, but her eyes reflected old pain. “When Rory was diagnosed as neurodivergent—when we learned he processed the world differently—his father decided he couldn’t handle it. Said he hadn’t signed up for a ‘defective’ child.”

His fingers dug into the armrests of his chair. “He considered the child defective?”

“Those were his exact words.” Her jaw tightened. “He was a surgeon. Brilliant, according to his colleagues. But he wanted a perfect child to showcase his perfect genes. When he didn’t get that, he left.”

“He was unworthy of you both.”

She gave him a startled look, clearly surprised by his vehemence.

“Among the Cire,” he continued, “our children are sacred. To abandon one’s young is… unthinkable. At least it was when we could have children.”

“Even if they’re different?”

“Of course. Rory’s differences would be valued, not rejected.”

A small, sad smile touched her lips. “That’s a kinder view than most humans take.”

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