Page 1 of Ravaged By the Reaper
CHAPTER 1
AMARA
The sky over Grolgath Prime is the color of curdled blood—an ominous red with streaks of venomous yellow that stab through the clouds like warning flares. I step off the shuttle ramp with my chin lifted, posture perfect, every line of my body echoing the grace and poise drilled into me by the Companions Academy. My heels click against the metal deck with a deliberate cadence—elegant, unafraid.
I’ve faced kings and warlords. I’ve danced beneath chandeliers hung from the bones of extinct creatures. Grolgath Prime should be no different.
But it is.
The air here is different—thicker, heavier. Like it’s watching me. Like it resents me.
The docking platform, a sprawling half-circle of polished obsidian, should be lined with ceremonial banners and diplomatic greeters, per Coalition tradition. Instead, there’s a sparse group of armed guards—tall, expressionless Grolgaths with blunt facial ridges and skin like shale. Their armor gleams, but not with pride. With menace. Cold, efficient menace.
One of them steps forward. “Amara Destrier?”
His voice is sharp enough to flay flesh.
I incline my head, keeping my smile demure. “Of course. I’m here under Companion contract—registered with the Ataxian military commission. I assume my escort is delayed?”
The guard doesn’t blink. “Come with us.”
No titles. No welcomes. Not even a nod to my status. The bile rises in my throat, bitter and electric.
“Am I to be escorted to the Consul’s chambers?” I ask, gently.
No reply. Just a tightening of grip on a plasma rifle.
They flank me on all sides. A procession of threat instead of ceremony. My heels click against the obsidian again, faster now. Louder. Each step echoes like a gavel. The corridor smells like oil and gunmetal, and somewhere faintly, ozone. A storm’s coming.
We enter a narrow chamber—no more than a cell with sleek walls and one steel chair bolted to the center of the floor. That’s when I realize this isn’t an administrative delay.
This is an ambush.
A man—no, a wraith of a man—stands in the far corner. Cloaked in layered gray and black, his hands folded behind his back, eyes sunken but alert. He radiates stillness. Authority wrapped in skin so pale it’s nearly translucent.
“Amara Destrier,” he murmurs, like he’s greeting an insect. “I am Malem Karag.”
That name is ice down my spine. I know of him. Everyone does. The Coalition’s Inquisitor of Protocol. A man whose politeness is as feared as his rank.
“I’m sure this is a misunderstanding,” I say smoothly, forcing warmth into my voice like it isn’t made of glass. “My credentials are in order, if someone would?—”
“Your Compad has been confiscated,” he says gently. “Standard procedure. All foreign devices are considered potential espionage vectors until cleared. Surely the Academy prepared you for such precautions?”
“Yes, of course.” I bite down on my words before they get too sharp. “I’d simply prefer to speak to a liaison.”
Malem glides toward me, hands still clasped, voice syrupy soft. “You will find, Companion Destrier, that we are not overly fond of deception here. We do not shout. We do not beat our chests. We do not torture. Weextract.Truthfully. Carefully. Deliberately.”
I swallow hard. “I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve come here in service. Under contract.”
His smile is like a crack in marble. “We shall see.”
Two guards grab my arms. I try not to flinch, but they’re impossibly strong. A third steps forward with thick restraints.
“I must protest?—”
“You may,” Malem says. “But you will be ignored.”
The restraints click shut around my wrists and ankles—cold, too tight. I’m guided—no, forced—onto the steel chair. My head spins. This isn’t protocol. This isn’t legal.
