Page 2 of Savage Bond

And it’s wrong.

“Don’t stop,” Lieutenant Vale barks, not even turning.

I blink and force my legs back into motion. But I glance again—just once. The glow flickers, like it knows I’m watching.

“What is that?” I ask, voice low but not quite steady.

Vale’s footsteps don’t even hitch. “Precursor relic. Eyes front, Marlowe.”

“I’ve never seen one before.”

“And you won’t be seeing this one again if you have any common sense.”

I stare harder, trying to memorize every curve of it through the glass. “Why is it on a prisoner transport?”

He stops. Turns.

His eyes pin me to the floor. “You’re not cleared to ask that question.”

I press my lips together. Nod once.

He exhales through his nose, slow and disappointed. “This isn’t academy anymore, Junior Lieutenant. You don’t get points for curiosity. You follow orders, you keep your head down, andyou stay the hell out of compartments with red warning panels. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

He studies me like he’s waiting for me to slip up again. Like I will.

Then he turns and keeps walking.

The glow from the artifact pulses once more, casting a ripple of color across the floor like a second shadow.

I tear my eyes away and follow him.

But the image stays burned behind my eyes like a brand.

He doesn’t speak again as we wind through another corridor, the hum of the ship growing louder, deeper, more alive with every step. A pressure change tells me we’re near the barracks deck—quarters, supply, and the nerve center for personnel too low-ranked to get private rooms.

When he gestures toward the crew hall and mutters, “You’ll find your rack listed on the rotation,” it’s clear our welcome tour is over.

I nod, sharp and clipped. “Understood, sir.”

Vale disappears into a side corridor without a backward glance.

The moment he’s gone, I let out a weighted breath. My muscles ache from how tightly I’ve been clenching every part of myself.

The crew quarters are a lot less polished than the rest of the ship. Narrow bunks stacked like shelves, lockers jammed tight against the walls, and the tang of too many bodies in too little space. I drop my gear on the top rack assigned to me and start the mental checklist: boots stowed, uniform crisp, weapons locked, spine straight.

Then the voice behind me—easy, light, uninvited.

“First mission?”

I don’t flinch. I’ve practiced that too.

When I turn, he’s leaning against the doorway like it’s his natural habitat—one boot crossed casually over the other, a protein bar half-unwrapped in his hand, and a grin like he’s seen enough to find everything amusing.

“Depends who’s asking,” I say, deadpan.

“Kyeen Marlo. Communications, Deck Two. And before you ask, yes, I’m probably the least intimidating person on this ship. But I’ve got great aim and even better gossip, so people tolerate me.”

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