Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
“I guess it’s a fine fucking day to be summoned like a damn hoxud.”
As if protesting my muttered complaint, my furry companion casts me a sideways look. It isn’t far to glance—he’s the tallest of his kind. As high as my hip—and I’m also the tallest of my kind.
Or so I like to believe.
Sighing, I reach down and pat his muzzle, careful to avoid the rows of sharp teeth.
“Not you, old friend,” I assure him. “I could obviously never summon you. Just don’t tell the others, eh? I’m supposed to be in charge around here.”
The creature sniffs in haughty agreement, flattening pointed ears over his magenta mane. Long claws dig up sparkling earth as he trots alongside me.
In a moment, I’ll get on a transfer craft, and he’ll be stuck here on solid ground. But he can stay with me until then. Stelaris knows I need the distraction.
A bloody fucking summons. From that embarrassing waste of wings?
My own rustle behind me, twitching instinctively as blood-soaked recollections seep into my mind. An unfortunate side effect of thinking about the king and his now-missing appendages.
Maybe I should feel some sympathy for the miserable fucker.
But who am I kidding?
I would have done the Shearing myself, if I could have.
Of course, there was only one person allowed to exact such revenge—and she did.
Thoroughly.
You’d never know it now, though. And as annoying as sisters can be, I never truly loathed mine until she forgave our worthless Zortaire.
As if sensing my disapproval, Norabi snaps up straighter the moment I come into view. She’s formidable, damn her. As terrifying as her lost mate and our former king, Zazt.
As my best friend and Zolkan’s twin brother, Zazt was an extremely good match for my sister. They were both intense warriors with all the political smarts I lack—each with hearts a tick too big.
Not anymore.
Now, my sister wears her loss like any honored war hero—with hard eyes and a harder body.
To another observer, the former king’s betrothed probably looks like a gods-sent image of ideal Roktusian femininity—her long form wrapped in hard-earned muscle and pale pink scales, covered by the “appropriate” attire.
Little do other planets and people know; all our clothing, even those worn by royalty, is made for battle. Which is why our female higher-ups dress in thin, close-cut fabric that merely pools in the necessary places, leaving two leg-length slits up the front of their “skirts.”
It’s hard to think of them as such when I’ve seen my sister choke a male with one.
Like I said: to the few Roktusian citizens scurrying around this small, circular departure point, I’m sure Norabi appears elegant and important.
But I see how she favors her left foot—because there’s a blade tied to her right.
I notice the way her hand twitches toward it when she reads the fury on my face. How her eyes flash as her jaw hardens.
“Little brother.”
I ignore her not-so-subtle insult, turning to my hoxud. “Are all females this infuriating?” I ask aloud. “Perhaps our race is better off dead.”
I hate how much I don’t mean that—and Norabi knows it. The state of our planet has been a source of strain on all Roktusians for at least a dozen orbits. My sister understands the dilemma more than anyone—she was supposed to be the one to solve it.
Now, she’s nothing more than a widowed almost-queen.
And, apparently, the current king’s favorite fucking pet.
Her silver eyes narrow as I stop in front of her. “Whatever you’re thinking,” she grunts, “take it straight to Morfu, where you belong. Or shove it up your ass. I honestly have no preference.”
My teeth grit, but I still glance back at my hound, knowing it will piss Norabi off to be ignored. “See?” I tell him, “This is what I was talking about.”
Norabi twines thick arms over her broad chest, tossing her purple braid over her shoulder. The dark color is one stark difference between us. My own braid was always closer to pearly white than anything else—before I cut it off.
It’s a Roktusian battle custom to chop your hair after your general has been Sheared. I think it’s meant to be an act of solidarity. In my case, it was more of a reminder.
I will never forget what he did or forgive him for the shame it brought on our entire army. On our entire planet.
My silver-white hair has grown back during the last few orbits, but I keep it shorter than I used to. Not daring to lose the reminder I keep close at hand for moments such as this.
The wind blows my uncombed strands around my bare shoulders. I don’t feel them—my scarred, scaly hide can hardly sense the wind, at this point. Thanks to years of walking around in the preferred uniform for a Roktusian warrior: a leather kilt. Along with, on special occasions, a linen loincloth.
And no, this is not a special occasion.
Norabi casts a critical eye over my attire, trailing her light gaze over the skin and scales that nearly match hers. “You’ll need a breastplate.”
I balk. Solid metal or leather plates are reserved for proper royal Roktusians, worn as a symbolic gesture to unite the two regions of Khanos—the warriors of the South and the North, respectively.
Though I’d argue the ninnies in the North aren’t real warriors.
And that’s my professional opinion as their General.
Not at all to do with my own status as a Southern Roktusian.
Obviously.
It’s easy to tell us apart, and not just because the Northern clans are weaker. Both factions evolved to blend into their environments—the pink sands of the South and the crystal-blue ice in the North.
Our physical forms have also adapted. While pure-blooded Northerners tend not to possess wings, they have fur to guard against the cold—and an extra tail. Southerners pride themselves on their wings and taillessness, along with the scales that help us survive the desert heat of our homeland.
The third group on Khanos is an amalgam, born of centuries of Roktusians breeding as Stelaris deemed fit.
Our goddess has always been an artist, with a beloved gift for blending hues.
Producing all manner of purple, rose, lavender, indigo, magenta, and blush Roktusians.
Some with wings, some with tails, some with both or neither.
When we still had mated couples, most of them settled in the middle band of the planet, stretched through the villages that spawned off our capital city. Living here is an honor; it’s said the first clan of our kind was crafted from the pearlescent opal earth under our very feet.
Anything that resembles the shimmering dirt found in our sacred city is still believed to be auspicious. Touched by the gods themselves—most especially Stelaris, who infused the birthplace of our race with her own starlit sparkle. She’s long been my secret favorite of our many gods.
Or maybe not-so-secret.
“A new one, huh?” Norabi smirks, ignoring the sour, confused look on my face as she lifts my branded arm to her nose for further inspection. “Yet another ode to Stelaris? The goddess of matehood. Aren’t you supposed to be a warrior?”
“Stuff it,” I snap, ripping my limb from her clawed grasp. “And explain why I have to put on a fucking plate.”
Her expression brightens with evil delight. “Not just any plate. This one.”
The holographic metal clangs when she launches it at my chest. Aghast, I gape at the royal seal emblazoned on the cold, polished surface. Disbelief and indignation rise in my chest, burning spectacularly. A low growl rumbles in my lungs.
Norabi watches with her glinting gaze, all too aware of the insult she just dealt me. Our fucked-up failure of a Zortaire, summoning me? Forcing me on a mission he only deigned to explain to my sister? After getting her mate killed? And now, expecting me to wear his crest?
I suppose it wouldn’t do to strangle my own sister. No matter the bloodlust boiling in my veins. My poor mam has lived through enough.
Instead of freeing the axe at my hip, I shove the armor back at her. “Tell Zolkan to fuck himself with his own tail.”
I whirl on my heel, wings spread to give me momentum. Once I’m clear of the city center, I’ll take off, I decide. I can return to the battlefields on the other side of the mountain. And then, hopefully, find someone else to kill.
I make it three paces before her reply reaches my ears.
“The mission is a Selection.”
Both of my hearts jump, then drop.
Gods-damn it.
Omegas.
My shoulders go slack on another defeated sigh. The hoxud looks up at me with pitying, black eyes, agreeing with my curse before I even mutter, “Fucking females.”
They’ll truly be the death of me.
Possibly today.