Page 32 of Claimed By the War Brute
He stares straight at the camera. I feel it tipping my spine inward. The vibration slithers through the wall, into my fingers. This is my man. This is the warrior I love.
He’s not struggling to survive. He is declaring war—on Aelphus, on my father, on the cosmos that thinks a fated bond can be crushed for a titan’s political seat.
My pulse floods like magma. Because I fought through that metal seam—that stale corridor—despite fear. Because he fought through that pit of death—despite odds.
Between the static and the roar, I feel the cuff give just a little under the circuit’s flicker. My breath hiccups.
I flex. It slips. An electric hiss sounds—might be the lock unlocking, might be my chest. My heart’s pounding in my ears, rattling my teeth. My hands shake as I peel the strap free. Sweat beads across my skin.
I sit there for a second. I made it. But if I stay… the guards will know someone’s alive in here. So I stand. I hook my foot under the belt of my tunic, yank it free as a scavenged blade. I slide out with one boot, then the other, leave them limp. My wrists are free.
The corridor smells of recycled air, stale plans, and possibility. I taste it all. There’s no time to be gentle. I crouch, fingertips skimming the walls, listening. Footsteps? Faint hum of distant cameras?
Yeah. Vent that's recording that feeds back up to the arena’s center platform. I slide a fingertip through it. The vent grate vibrates lightly. I twist it open just enough to slip mybody through. Not the most graceful exit—but I’m not graceful anymore. I’m determined.
The vent smells warm. Pulled air from the engine bay—salt, ozone, metal dust. I pass under cables that hum with life and uploading feeds. I dip one hand at the circuit board. I jam the datapad’s tail—the one Dad left behind—into the feed and destroy it. Archived lookup tables, relay loops, anchor to father’s signature commands—all gone. Retrieving access route. I flush it with a burst of static, destroying remote-link cascades. I’ll fry the trail before they know we’re even gone.
A knock. A voice. Guard talks about “clean up at the...” I creep back to my opening. It’s wide enough—the guard paces away. I slip out onto the corridor floor, moving like blood through crunching machinery.
I don’t know how many doors and halls I pass—but each storage room I duck through, each alarm I avoid, is reclaimed territory. My blood's still pounding, but it has purpose. I'm not fleeing. I’m reclaiming.
Then I see it—through frosted glass—his form in the arena sectors beyond the glass dome. They’re dragging dead bodies away. Garrus stands, alone, muscles swaying. He hears nothing else. He’s still there. He’s going to win this.
I don’t hesitate. I sprint toward the door that leads to the stairs up the dome platform. My bare feet pound on cool steel. My eyes sting with tears and sweat. My heart bleeds adrenaline. I reach the top. They scream. They stop. Everything stops.
I burst through, and he sees me. It’s not a moment of softness—it’s tectonic. His arm snaps out, gripping me in his armor’s shadow. No cameras—just survival.
He breathes my name. I taste his calloused palm under my cheek. I taste home.
Through the crowd’s cacophony, his roar begins again—war-cry calling a covenant. I hook hands with him. He drags mebeneath his arm. The arena doors crash shut. The crowd roars. Aelphus watches—respect turning into unspoken alliance.
I will never leave him behind.
We stand. Together.
The war has just begun. And this time, we’re the ones making history.
CHAPTER 26
GARRUS
The blood on my hands is still warm when the thick, gold-trimmed shackles clamp shut around my wrists again. This time, though, it’s ceremonial—chains etched with Vortaxian glyphs signifying glory and conquest. The metal gleams under the strobes of the obsidian corridor, banners bearing Aelphus Rex’s crest rippling overhead as two silent guards flank me. Their armor is polished obsidian, perfect and impenetrable, their presence designed to intimidate. Each footstep I take echoes back with cavernous purpose. I’ve stared into the abyss before; I walk tall now because I can.
I’m bared to the waist—no armor, no weapons, just strands of scars that write my history across my skin. My muscles twitch with the crashing urge to strike someone—anyone. Pain is my guide now: I’ve collapsed into puddles before, but I can still stand. I don’t fear death—I fear dishonor. Each step is a declaration.
The massive doors rumble open and I step into the audience hall. My eyes adjust to the cavernous space: Vortaxian soldiers stand in silent ranks, mercenaries and nobles line the galleries, their expectant faces a mosaic of gleaming curiosity and latentthreat. The air carries the faint sting of blood and ozone—this is not ceremony; this is a spectacle.
At the apex of a curved dais stands Aelphus. He’s not a kid behind a clipboard—he’s a king in gold armor, hands folded behind his back, emanating command. Yago stands beside him, his obsidian eyes pinched with distaste. He’s the shadow over the sun, covetous and cruel.
“You are troublesome,” Aelphus says, voice low but unwavering. My jaw locks. I don’t reply. I stare. If he wants braggadocio, he won’t get it from me.
Aelphus descends the dais slowly. Each step registers plain certainty. “Vakutans are bred for war,” he says, folding observation and accusation into the same breath. “But you… you are something else. You slaughtered twelve of my best. You crippled five more. You do not beg. You do not plead.”
I feel the old venom gusset through my veins. My lip curls upward in a half-snarl. “Because you don’t deserve my words,” I growl, letting the hatred stand on its own.
Aelphus inclines his head, intrigued. “You would have died, yet you walk. My adviser demands you perish.”
Yago steps forward with that sickening clipped posture. “He’s a liability, Exalted One. He will never yield. He’ll become a problem.”
