Page 90 of Zayrik

We both knew what I would become to get her back.

I crossed the cockpit on autopilot.

Dropped into the pilot’s seat.

Slapped the comms open with a force that rattled the panel.

Every movement precise. Controlled. The calm before destruction.

No hesitation. There were no options left.

No more playing by rules that didn’t protect what mattered.

“Direct line. The Velean,” I growled.

The Protectorate flagship.

Warship-class.

My friend, and Commander of the ship, Raxor. A Tulian with rage in his blood and loyalty carved into his bones. I watched him fight alongside his fated mate. He was the kind of warrior who understood what it meant to lose something vital.

The signal pulsed.

Once.

Twice.

Each moment without her a physical ache through our stretched bond.

The comms crackled. “Velean. Identify.”

I didn’t let my voice betray how close I was to shattering.

“Protectorate warrior Zayrik. Code 25165.”

A pause.

The line clicked again, deeper now. A private channel.

Secure. Protected.

Raxor’s voice, familiar and commanding.

“Zayrik. Report.”

I stared at the screen.

My voice came out flat.

Calm. The kind of calm that preceded violence.

“This isn’t a mission, Raxor.”

A beat.

Tension spiked, hot and immediate.

Through our faint bond, I felt Nyla’s fear spike. Not for herself. For what was coming.

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