Page 8 of Claimed By the War Brute
The guards whisper behind me—“Not worth the effort. Auction her on the next cell-run.” They spin the bed back and escort her out. I don’t flinch. Not yet.
When she’s gone, I press my forehead to the glass. That’s when I understand: we’re being sculpted by the same force.She’s problem-solving, risk-taking. I’m stalking her savior path. Neither of us asked for this. But we’re here.
My reflection stares back—gold eyes hard with intention. I taste iron in my mouth, blood from old wounds, adrenaline fresh on my tongue. I should turn away. Should wait, covertly, quietly, until opportunity. But I don’t.
I whisper, voice flat: “I’ll free you.”
Back in my cell, I sit against the wall, night lighting dim. The other mercs grunt and shift. I don’t answer them. I replay the stolen key-card flash, the sedation, the way she locked eyes with me. It’s our invisible signal—our spark in the dark. Everything shifts.
I close my eyes. I don’t know how to save her. I only know I will. Even if it means I burn this fortress from the inside.
I taste desperation. And hope.
As the bay hums around me, I finger the forged Karrux ID in my pocket—code to get me out of here. But tonight, it belongs to a promise. A vow.
I’m her weapon now—and I’ll sharpen myself until I am.
CHAPTER 7
SYD
The camera above me doesn’t blink, but I know it’s watching. Its mechanical eye follows the curve of my silhouette, notes each breath. I’ve been playing its game long enough—eating when they feed me, pacing when they expect restlessness, and sitting on the cot staring through the door with a carefully blank stare. So far so good. I look resigned. Boring. Benign. But inside, my brain fires off algorithms–escape plans, guard rotations, weak points in the armor plating. This is showtime.
Each thud against the wall echoes through the cell. I hurl my shoulder into the panel, hard enough to split my lip again, crimson seeping as despair and determination bleed together. I can feel the sting of flesh, salty-sweet, and it grounds me. It reminds me I’m alive.
I strike again. This time, I bite my lower lip until the metal taste floods my mouth, mixing with recycled air and antiseptic. I scream—deep, guttural, wild. It isn’t a plea; it’s a defiance. A signal. A message to anyone listening from behind cold doors: I am not broken.
My tongue spits nonsense; three languages tumble out in babbled confession. English: “They whisper!” Trade Standard:“They… no!” Vortaxian—glossy consonants bursting out like gunfire. I convulse across the floor, thrumming tremors contained enough to look like instability, not strategy. Then the door hisses.
Two guards barrel in, weapons at the ready, mouths taped over with tight respirators. The younger one hesitates when he sees me clawing at my arms like someone possessed. “I—I’m hearing… voices!” I sob, voice cracked, head lolling.
The veterans shift uneasily. One reaches for a tranquilizer dart, needle tip glinting. Good.
My fingers flick, faster than blood and breath can register. I palm the card from the belt–slick metal, engraved letters. I let the dart hit–not the shoulder, but just under the collarbone. It numbs my chest, drags my heartbeat down to a crawl. Paradoxically, I collapse with a gasp. Enough to seem sedated. Not smothered. I taste menthol-cold air go blurry, but I fight the descent.
They drag me onto a biobed in the medbay. It’s weirdly bright, stark as a morgue. White lights bounce off metal panels and glass shields. I scan it quickly. It’s across the hall from the mercenary bay—the armory, the pit, where they parade the likes of him. I register that data, slow and steady. The guards step back. They’re talking among themselves, low tones.
“He’s not worth the effort.”
“Feed her to the auctioneers.”
Their dismissive murmurs hang in the sanitized air.
Life drains out like sand, but I focus on throttling my breath—to just enough. When the guards leave, I lie still until I sense the ward doors unlatch behind me. Then I open my eyes, arranging them around the room so it seems like I’m foggy, but really I’m ready.
That’s when I see him.
Behind the transparent force-field—deep red armor scorched, streaked, and jagged with history—he stands. He’s colossal, a predator in stasis. Golden eyes lock onto mine, and I swear time fractures. Every nerve thins to a razor’s edge. Every throbbing drop of blood feels like a beat in this morbid symphony.
He doesn’t blink. He watches me—the defiance, the split lip, the debris of performance. I feel a tremor of relief surge through me. I’m not alone anymore.
“Yeah,” I whisper, just loud enough for one set of golden eyes to hear. “That’s right.”
They own this ship, but we own moment. I let the weight trail off. I close my eyes. I let my breathing become a lullaby for his attention.
They haul me out again, but I don’t fight. Not yet. My lips are tapestried with dried blood. My heartbeat clatters in my ears like war-drums. I drift back to the cell, buoyed by a strange calm.
Back in the transport cage, I sit on my cot. Tongue tastes brackish with iron. My chest clenches with the echo of his gaze. I don’t know his name. I don’t know his agenda. All I know is that his reflection haunted that glass for a second—and in that second, he saw me. Not as Malmount—that name means nothing now—but as me. A catalyst. A threat. Someone unfuckwithable.
