Page 15 of Sold to the Nalgar
Zarokh turned his head slowly, the movement deliberate, predatory.
The room chilled with the shift in his gaze, a palpable drop in temperature.
“That is my business,” he said, each word cut with steel, cold and precise. “And she belongs to me.”
Velkar inclined his head slightly, a subtle acknowledgement of the power dynamics at play. Not an apology, but a strategic retreat. He had known Zarokh long enough to read the lines he should not cross, the boundaries that could not be breached.
“Of course,” he said evenly, maintaining his composure. “None will touch her, or speak against her. Not while she wears your claim.”
Zarokh’s jaw flexed once, a subtle display of possessive tension, but he said nothing more on the matter, letting the unspoken threat hang in the air.
Velkar cleared his throat, shifting the focus back to more pressing matters. “We’ve detected a disturbance in orbit. A flicker: sensor ghosts, cloaked ships perhaps. Nothing large, but… irregular. It could be smugglers, opportunistic scavengers preying on the fringes of our territory. Or something else, something more calculated.”
Zarokh’s attention sharpened, his mind refocusing on the strategic landscape.
“Take a ship,” he said, his voice commanding, decisive. “Monitor it. Do not engage unless provoked. If it reveals itself to be hostile, burn it, eradicate it without mercy. The Dukkar transport is en route. I will not have interference.”
Velkar nodded, his gaze unwavering. “Understood. I’ll handle it, personally.”
Zarokh gave a short nod of approval, trusting Velkar’s competence and loyalty.
But Velkar lingered, hesitant to leave, sensing the underlying tension.
“…Vuvak is making noise again,” he added, almost offhandedly, as if it were a trivial matter. “The Hvrok encounter humiliated him, a public display of his incompetence. His surviving warriors returned broken and blood-soaked, their morale shattered. He’s begun to gather numbers, rallying his forces. Fewer soldiers, more noise, a desperate attempt to regain face.”
Zarokh exhaled slowly through his nose, a subtle display of irritation.
“Another minor disturbance, an irritating distraction.”
He stood, the movement slow, deliberate, lethal, a predator rising to meet a challenge.
“If Vuvak makes the mistake of turning that noise into action…” Zarokh's voice cooled like descending ice, a chilling pronouncement, “...then we will crush him, utterly and irrevocably.”
Velkar’s mouth curled faintly at the edges, a subtle hint of satisfaction. “I will make preparations, ensuring our readiness.”
Zarokh turned back to the feed one last time, his gaze drawn back to her as if by an invisible force.
The image of her, still seated, still eating, still defiant in her quiet way, glowed in the low light, a beacon in the darkness.
Let the planet burn. Let the lesser warlords posture and bleed, consumed by their petty ambitions.
She was coming, and nothing would interfere with that.
CHAPTER 8
The door opened again.
Cecilia didn’t flinch anymore. Or rather, she still felt the fear, but she’d learned to bury it, to breathe through it, to stand tall even when her heart thundered in her chest.
Two of them entered.
The tall, silent ones. Slender, helmeted, gliding rather than walking. She still didn’t know what they were. They never spoke. Never reacted. Just smooth, black suits stretched over inhuman frames and those blank faceplates that seemed to lookthroughher.
Behind them came the squat green one—the one with the translator stone. Her captor.
He motioned toward her.
She stood, stiff and tense, the soft alien robes clinging uselessly to her skin. There was no choice but to follow.
