Epilogue
The warball field stretched out below the garrison like a dusty scar, and Raaze watched the warriors warm up, a sneer twisting his lip. His jaw ached from clenching it so tight.
Holy trall. He'd been the highest-paid warball player in three generations.
His face had been on billboards from Tarviisa to the outer colonies.
Females of every species had thrown themselves at him after matches, and he'd had his pick.
Now he stood on this gods-forsaken rock, watching amateurs fumble through basic drills while pretending he gave a draanth about their form.
"Keep your spacing wider!" He barked the instruction without thinking. The warriors adjusted, and he hated how naturally the coaching came to him. Like his body hadn't gotten the message that his career was over.
A warrior stumbled over the practice sphere, they called it a ball but it was more like a twenty-pound cannon shot, and Raaze's lip curled. These idiots couldn't last thirty seconds in a real match. I've seen better coordination from drunk mining crews.
He ignored the cutting voice in his head.
The diagnosis was wrong. It had to be. Blood Rage, they'd said.
Exile to Parac'Norr. All for nothing. He'd never lost control, never felt the legendary fury that supposedly marked a feral.
One bad game where he'd gotten too aggressive, one referee with a grudge, and his entire life had been ripped away.
Just like that.
His enhanced senses were just part of being an elite athlete. The slight elongation of his canines meant nothing; half the league filed their teeth for intimidation. The way his eyes sometimes caught the light was a trick of stadium lighting, nothing more.
But try explaining that to the Latharian Genetics Council. They'd looked at the referee's report, run their tests, and condemned him without letting him speak. Now instead of signing autographs and counting his millions, he played babysitter to warriors who thought they understood violence.
What a draanthing joke.
The whine of approaching engines pulled his attention from the field.
Construction shuttles descended toward the landing pad adjacent to the training ground, their hulls gleaming despite the dust that coated everything on this miserable planet.
He'd seen dozens of these deliveries since he’d arrived.
Same efficient movements, same protocols.
Except this time, something made him look closer.
The lead shuttle's canopy slid back, and a small figure climbed out.
Female, obviously… the body shape was unmistakable even in the bulky flight suit.
She moved with precision that came from years of practice, hands flying over the shuttle's external controls as she powered down the engines. No wasted motion, no hesitation.
Another shuttle landed beside the first, and another pilot emerged. This one was taller, her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun that did nothing to hide the elegant line of her neck. She called out something to the first pilot, who laughed and gestured at the garrison.
And that's when Raaze's mind shifted gears.
These weren't the construction grunts he'd dismissed before. These were pilots. Trained, skilled, with access to ships that could leave the planet's atmosphere.
The realization hit him like a warball to the chest. He'd been thinking about this all wrong. Human females would be easier to manipulate than males, and if charm failed, they'd be easier to physically handle.
The shorter pilot pulled off her helmet, revealing a cascade of red hair that caught the afternoon light.
Young, from what he could tell. The way she kept glancing at the garrison suggested nervousness…
maybe her first time on an alien planet.
Nervous people made mistakes. Nervous people could be manipulated.
"Raaze!" One of the warriors called from the field. "You joining us or just going to stand there?"
"Supervising," he shot back, not taking his eyes off the pilots. "Someone needs to make sure you draanthic don't hurt yourselves."
The warrior muttered something that was probably an insult, but Raaze had already dismissed him.
His focus narrowed to the two females as they began unloading cargo containers.
The taller one directed the operation calmly, but the redhead kept stopping to stare at the garrison's architecture, at the warriors on the field, at everything alien and new.
Tourist syndrome. Perfect.
He'd seen it a thousand times in his playing days. Newcomers to the big arenas, overwhelmed by the scale and spectacle. They wanted to belong, to be part of something larger. They were easy marks for anyone who knew how to play the game.
The redhead struggled with a container's lock mechanism, her fingers slipping on the controls. The older pilot didn't notice, busy with her own tasks. Raaze filed that away. The younger one wasn't getting support from her colleague and isolated people were vulnerable people.
His warball instincts took over. The dusty field below faded. He no longer saw warriors; he saw targets, weaknesses, angles of attack.
Soft. Untested. She'd probably signed up for the hazard pay without understanding what hazard really meant out here.
The taller pilot was different. She moved like someone who'd seen combat, or at least its aftermath. She'd be harder to approach, harder to manipulate… but she also carried exhaustion, the kind that came from too many long flights and not enough rest.
Overworked people made poor decisions. Exhausted people missed warning signs.
A third shuttle landed, and Raaze's pulse quickened.
Another pilot, this one older. She moved with the careful precision of someone nursing chronic pain—the way she favored her right knee, the slight hunch to her shoulders.
Medical discharge from military service, he guessed.
Now flying cargo runs to pay for treatment that never quite worked.
He smiled.
Desperate people made the easiest marks of all.
Thank you so much for reading Zeke!