Chapter 20 Takhiss
TAKHISS
The light never turns off.
It hums, steady and soft, the color of bone. My cell is ten paces wide, five deep, four high. The walls are cold enough to numb the claws when I touch them. I count breaths. I count hours. I stop when both start to feel like lies.
Footsteps echo down the corridor. A mechanical hiss precedes every door cycle. The guards wear sealed helmets. I can’t smell them — only the faint sting of disinfectant and ozone.
The door slides open. A man walks in with a pad. Thin. Pale. Unafraid. His uniform gleams white, same as the light.
“Sergeant Takhiss of the Coalition,” he begins, reading. “You stand charged with the destruction of an Alliance research vessel, unauthorized possession of military-grade weapons, and assault during boarding operations.”
I sit on the slab that pretends to be a bed. “And survival,” I say. “You forgot survival.”
The man doesn’t look up. “Do you acknowledge these charges?”
“I acknowledge that you talk too much.”
He exhales through his nose — a soft, condescending sound. “You’re in no position to posture, soldier.”
I lean forward. “Neither were the ones who dragged me here in cuffs. That didn’t stop them either.”
He finally looks at me. “We can make this easier if you cooperate.”
“I already told you everything.” My voice grates in my throat — too many days of silence and recycled air. “The Seeker’s experiment caused the singularity. I tried to contain it. Your people fired on us. I lived. That’s all.”
He tilts his head, studying me like a specimen behind glass. “And the human woman?”
The muscles in my jaw tighten. “Ella.”
“She’s been debriefed. She’s alive. For now.”
I stand before I realize it. The man doesn’t flinch, though I tower over him. “What does that mean?”
“It means she’s being evaluated for contamination, both biological and… psychological.”
I take a step closer. The guard outside shifts, weapon ready. “You touch her mind, and I’ll—”
The man cuts me off, calm as a frozen lake. “You’ll do nothing, Sergeant. You’re in our custody. You’ll answer our questions, and if you behave, maybe—maybe—you’ll get to see a courtroom before you’re sent home.”
Home. That word burns worse than acid.
I lower myself back onto the slab. “Home doesn’t exist anymore.”
He watches me for a few seconds, like he wants to understand but doesn’t have the framework for it. “Tell me, Sergeant,” he says quietly. “What is she to you?”
I laugh once. It sounds wrong. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
“She’s the reason I didn’t let go.”
He scribbles something, then taps his pad twice. The guards step in. “Session concluded.”
As they cuff me again, I mutter, “Tell her I’m alive.”
The officer glances back once. “That information is classified.”
Then the door closes, sealing me back in the hum and the cold.
I lose track of time. Meals come in through a slot. The food tastes like paste and metal. My dreams taste worse, blood, smoke, her name echoing through the hull. I wake with my claws digging into the wall.
Sometimes I hear voices in the corridor. Human guards joking about prisoners — the “lizard,” the “monster,” the “thing that flattened five marines before they shocked him.” I let them talk. They don’t know I can hear every heartbeat through the walls.
One night the light flickers. A shadow cuts across the glass wall. A voice follows. Female. Calm. Sharp.
“Sergeant Takhiss.”
I know that tone. Not Alliance. Smooth, deliberate. The sound of someone getting their way.
“Who are you?” I ask.
“I’m your advocate,” she says. “Assigned by the Coalition Embassy to ensure your fair treatment.”
I laugh. “The coalition doesn’t care about fairness. Only control.”
“I’m not a Coalition command,” she says. “I'm an Ataxian clergy.”
That makes my spine stiffen. “A priestess?”
“Priestess Autrua,” she confirms. “You will address me with respect.”
“I respect what’s earned.”
Her chuckle is low. “Then perhaps I’ll earn it. You are valuable to us, Takhiss. You survived what no one else did. That makes you both dangerous and… useful.”
“What do you want?”
“Your cooperation. Your loyalty. And eventually, your return.”
I step close to the glass, claws brushing against the transparent barrier. “You think I’m going back? To them?”
“You belong with your people,” she says smoothly. “Not in a human cage.”
“I belong where she is.”
A pause. Then, almost tenderly: “The human? Ella Corleone.”
“Say her name again,” I growl, “and I’ll show you what belonging means.”
She smiles, I can hear it in her voice. “You care for her deeply.”
“She saved my life.”
“That’s not all, is it?”
I say nothing.
Autrua steps closer to the barrier, so close that her reflection overlays mine.
Her eyes gleam pale gold, reptilian but serene.
“There is more to your connection than you understand. The jalshagar bond is rare across species. Dangerous. But powerful. You are fated, Takhiss. The universe seldom makes mistakes.”
“Fate’s cruel,” I mutter.
“Cruelty can be shaped into strength,” she counters. “You will see.”
Her footsteps fade. The door slides shut. The hum returns.
Hours—days—later, I sit in darkness after another failed attempt to sleep. My chest aches in rhythms that don’t match my own heartbeat. Hers, maybe. I feel her even here — the echo of the bond pulsing like heat beneath my skin.
She’s alive. I know it. I can taste her breath in my memory — warm, metallic, human. I can still smell her hair: static and ozone. Every inhale feels like reaching for something already gone.
I press my claws to my sternum and whisper to the empty room, “I’m coming back, Ella.”
The walls don’t answer.
But the bond flares once — soft, faint, like a pulse under distant stars.
And I know she hears me.