Kyldak stands in the shadow of the tower—shirtless, sweat-slick, bruised from the pit fight. His red eye glows faint in the gloom.
“How long have you been?—”
“Long enough.”
His voice is quiet. He walks toward me slow, like I’m something wild.
I shift my body between him and the drone.
“Scavenger relay,” I lie. “Old habit. I always scan for tech I can sell.”
He doesn’t blink. “You always rig scavenger relays with solar pulse encryption and Alliance weather codes?”
I open my mouth. Close it.
The upload completes.
The drone lifts off with a whine and vanishes into the haze.
He watches it go.
I brace.
But he doesn’t stop me.
He just stands there, bare-chested, battle-worn, and unreadable.
“Thank you,” I say softly.
He doesn’t move.
After a long moment, he says, “Whatever this is—you can tell me. I’m not the same man they locked up.”
I swallow.
Hard.
My throat burns with everything I want to say—He’s yours. He’s dying. I need your blood to save him.
Instead, I say, “I know.”
And lie.
The sun bleeds out slow across Jurtik’s sky, painting the dunes in bruised orange and ash-gray. Smoke from the engines curls into the air like prayers the gods forgot to answer. I sit alone on the edge of Kyldak’s warcamp, hands raw, nerves shredded, stomach a tight knot of guilt and dread.
But when the drums start—metal on bone, timed with the distant roar of returning scouts—I force myself to stand.
Tonight’s a celebration. A convoy raid came back heavy. Supplies, water cores, engine fuel, even a half-box of real protein bricks. A miracle haul for this wasteland. The crew hoots and hollers, passing jars of something that smells like engine degreaser and tastes worse. Laughter echoes off the canyon wall.
And in the middle of it all, him.
Kyldak stands near the main fire pit, shirtless again, warcoat slung loose on his shoulders, armor plating reflecting the flames like shattered gold. His red eye glows dull tonight—less predator, more wounded king.
He sees me the second I step into the light. Doesn’t say anything. Just...softens. Like something in him unclenches when I’m near.
I walk slow, careful, every step feeling like I’m walking toward a cliff’s edge.
He pats the stone beside him.
