Page 78 of Claimed By the Vykan
Alarm klaxons blared. Crew members shouted in panicked voices. Kyrax ignored all of it. He stalked down the corridor, following the pull of instinct and the faint trace of Isshyr’s venom in the air.
The bridge doors loomed ahead.
They tried to seal them.
They failed.
He forced them open with a slow, relentless push, stepping through the warped metal into a chamber full of frozen motion.
The bridge crew went silent.
Every eye turned to him.
Isshyr stood at the central command station, armor less pristine than before, mask turning toward Kyrax with a jerk of disbelief.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then Kyrax drew his sword.
The blade sang as it left its sheath, a low, lethal tone that cut beneath the wail of alarms.
Isshyr’s own sword came up in answer, angles sharp and practiced. “You are insane,” Isshyr hissed, voice transmitted through his helm. “You’re tearing down everything we were built to protect.”
“No,” Kyrax said. “You did that when you tried to take what is mine.”
He stepped forward.
The crew scattered back, some tripping over consoles, others simply collapsing as a faint leak of his venom seeped into the air with a subtle, controlled exhale. He kept it minimal, eventhough he knew it wasn’t enough to kill any Saelori. Isshyr’s crew slumped where they stood, sliding bonelessly to the floor.
Only Vykan could stand in a cloud of Vykan venom.
The duel began.
Isshyr was older, his style rooted in centuries of tradition. Predictable patterns, calculated counters. Kyrax had learned all of them… and then taught himself how to break them.
Metal clashed, sparks cutting bright arcs through the dim bridge. Isshyr struck hard, aiming for gaps that did not exist. Kyrax turned each blow aside, letting his opponent feel the difference between them.
Attunement had altered his center of gravity. His movements felt cleaner. Anger existed, yes, but threaded through it was a deeper focus, grounded by the quiet, steady presence waiting for him back in the Bastion.
Morgan.
This was what she had given him.
Isshyr faltered as their blades locked again, pressure driving him to one knee.
Kyrax’s boot came down, pinning his chest to the floor.
With his free hand, Kyrax seized the edge of Isshyr’s helm and tore it away.
He saw him at last: blue skin, sharper features than most, eyes burning with fury and fear. The moment the mask came off, Isshyr’s unfiltered venom spilled into the cramped space, thick and sharp in the air.
The remaining conscious crew dropped instantly.
It rolled over Kyrax like heat.
It did nothing.
“You cannot kill me,” Isshyr rasped, struggling against the weight pinning him. “I am Vykan of Drath Var. Protector of the Iron Veil Bastion. Our laws?—”
