Page 13 of Sold to the Nalgar
The chamber was shrouded in dimness, the only light emanating from the soft red glow of the interface stones embedded in the desk before him. Ancient curix metal formed the walls, silent and impenetrable, a sanctuary blocking out the ceaseless noise of Daxan beyond. In here, the outside world ceased to exist. Only thought held sway. And command.
Zarokh leaned back in his chair, one arm braced across the edge of the table, the other tapping silently at the control pad. He scanned the latest movement reports from the outlands, noting the usual skirmishes, border infringements, and resource disputes. A tedious litany of lesser concerns.
But there was something else.
Something interesting.
A flagged entry.
His gaze sharpened, honing in on the anomaly.
A Hvrok, sighted in the northern ranges. High in the snow-capped mountains, near the fractured spines of Dros-Kav. A place rarely touched by civilization, a desolate expanse of ice and rock. One of Vuvak’s scoutships had picked upwreckage—twisted metal buried in the frozen wastes—and visual confirmation of a winged figure moving through the storm.
Presumed crash. Presumed survivor.
His brow rose slightly, a flicker of intrigue.
The Hvrok had been thought extinct, a legend relegated to the dusty annals of history. Their brutal civil war had left only wreckage and bones in its wake, a senseless self-annihilation. Zarokh remembered the stories: winged assassins, unmatched in precision and power, destroying themselves in a clanless bloodbath.
That was decades ago, a forgotten chapter in the violent tapestry of their world.
Yet now, here, one of them had surfaced.
And not alone.
The report confirmed it: the Hvrok was seen with a human. A female. Shielding her. Carrying her.
Claiming her.
Zarokh dragged a clawed finger along the line of his jaw, his expression unreadable, a mask of controlled indifference.
Of course, Vuvak had sent a small strike force. Arrogant, impulsive, always chasing blood he didn’t know how to bleed. A predictable display of brute force over strategy.
There had been a battle. Short. Brutal. Inconclusive.
The Hvrok escaped on another ship—smaller, sleek, likely stolen from one of the ancient mining stations that dotted the region, hidden relics of a bygone era. The wreck was left behind, a testament to the failed ambush. The snow turned black with Nalgar blood.
Tch.Zarokh shook his head slowly, a subtle gesture of disdain.
A Hvrok still breathing was no accident. If one had survived this long, there was purpose behind it. Force. Rage. Will. Andif such a being had claimed a human, there was reason beyond simple possession.
Let the lesser warlords burn themselves on that fire. Zarokh had other plans, more intricate schemes brewing beneath the surface.
A soft chime pulled his attention back to the present, a gentle intrusion.
Private feed. Internal channel. Urgent.
He activated it with a flick of his hand, a fluid motion of power.
And there she was.
His human.
Seated in her quarters, bent over the small table, slowly consuming the food placed before her. No restraints, no guards in sight. No visible fear.
He leaned in, eyes narrowing, his focus intense.
Every movement was foreign, alien in its grace. The way she lifted the spoon, measured, deliberate, almost hesitant. The way she sat, upright, steady, controlled. She wasn’t trembling; she wasn’t broken. Not yet.
