Chapter 2
KENRON
Dawn hits Novaria Prime like a whisper through steel, not a sunrise like on the homeworld.
The sky doesn’t burn here—it glows. Pale gold, smeared violet, a touch of green reflecting off the upper atmosphere like the city’s wearing warpaint made of light.
I like it quiet like this. No vendors yet.
No echoing traffic. Just the low thrum of life waking up slow.
My claws sink into pliant dough, folding and turning, working rhythm into breakfast bread like I’m shaping fate.
The smell of it—yeasty, nutty, with a hint of that sweet-smoke spice we ferment in-house—wraps around me, settles into the scales of my forearms. It mixes with the simmer of bones in broth, the slow roast of morning meat slabs, and the tang of firefruit I just sliced open.
The kitchen breathes like a second heart.
I hum. Quiet at first. One of the old songs. Not the marching ones—that’s for funerals. This one’s for keeping hands busy and minds still. The kind we used to sing in the mess halls before dawn raids. Not for glory. Not for honor. Just to drown out what came after.
Father doesn’t say a word. He never does about the humming. He just glances up from his spice rack, one eye ridge twitching like a warning. His silence means: don’t bring the war in here. And I don’t.
But it’s hard, sometimes. Especially lately.
The breakfast rush is steady. Two humans, a Drevia couple with their tendrils wrapped together, a pair of Sereen traders who tip well and never speak above a whisper.
We serve. We clean. We nod. Father doesn’t smile, but he gives respectful bows.
I do the grinning, the banter, the flair. We play our parts.
Still, something feels... off.
Not in the kitchen. Not in the food. In the air.
I catch myself checking the door too often.
Listening for a certain kind of boot heel.
That human woman from yesterday—hair soaked to her scalp, eyes like glacial knives, posture military even if she never wore armor.
She hated being here. Every twitch of her mouth, every dart of her gaze screamed it.
But she stayed.
She ate. She finished the tea.
She looked at me.
That last part stuck.
I don’t know why it’s rattling around in my skull like a lost round in a gun chamber. I’ve had plenty of humans in here—curious types, hungry types, even the brave xenophiles who want to be seen eating alien food like it’s a moral victory. But she was none of that. She didn’t want to be here.
And yet she sat through a full bowl.
She looked like a woman with knives under her skin and steel in her spine. But when our eyes met, something cracked. Not big. Not loud. Just enough.
“Your mind is wandering,” Father mutters, not looking up.
“I’m allowed to think,” I grunt back, hands rolling out more dough.
“You are allowed to work.”
I don’t argue. Mostly because he’s right. Also because arguing with my father is like shouting at a mountain—no echo, no give, and you’ll be sore in the throat before you move it an inch.
Still, I find myself slicing the firefruit a little thinner.
Stirring the broth a bit longer. I catch myself staring too long at the empty booth she sat in.
I don’t know her name, but I remember how she wrapped the towel around her hair like she didn’t want it touching her skin, how her fingers hovered over the bowl like it might bite her before she took the first bite.
She was waiting for the food to disappoint her. It didn’t.
And maybe that’s the thing that’s messing with me now. Not her face. Not her glare. But the way she stayed in spite of every instinct telling her to bolt.
I don’t want to be thinking about her. But I am.
Father doesn’t mention it. He never does. But I see the way his eyes flick to the empty seat. The way his jaw tightens.
He sees it too.
And that, somehow, makes it worse…when she walks in like the door owes her money.
Same stiff spine. Same wary glance sweeping the room like she’s clocking exits and threats instead of checking for an open table.
She’s dry this time, thank the suns, but no less armored.
Not physically—today she’s in a long slate-gray coat that fits too snug across the shoulders and boots meant for kicking, not walking—but emotionally.
It’s all in her jaw. In the tension she carries like it’s standard issue. Like she’s waiting to be challenged.
I don’t greet her like a stranger.
“Hey, I'm Kenron, corner booth’s open,” I say, voice low but carrying.
She blinks, just once, and for a heartbeat, her guard drops. Then it’s back up—full shields online. She hesitates in the doorway like she’s weighing her odds, like stepping further in might trigger some kind of trap.
“I’m not here for your hospitality,” she mutters, voice tight.
“Good,” I say, sliding a thin black card onto the counter. “I wasn’t offering it. Just food.”
She eyes the card. Doesn’t touch it. Doesn’t move.
“It’s a menu,” I clarify. “A different one. Not for everyone.”
“What makes you think I’m an ‘everyone’?” she fires back.
I grin, slow and toothy. “Because you came back.”
That does something. I can’t name it, but it twists the air between us. She doesn’t like being seen. Especially not for what she doesn’t understand herself. But instead of bolting, she steps forward and plucks the card from the counter like she’s defusing a bomb.
I don’t follow her to the table. That’d be a mistake.
She’s the kind that needs space to think.
To convince herself she’s not being lured into something.
I stay behind the line, hands busy, eyes elsewhere, but my focus anchored on the way she moves—like a soldier in hostile territory.
Like someone who’s tasted betrayal and decided it would never happen again.
She slides into the same booth. Her fingers hover over the menu card before flipping it open. I can see the tension in her shoulders ease half a notch. Just half. That’s all I get.
I head over with a glass of ice-laced shara cider, nothing too strong, nothing too sweet.
“Try this,” I say, setting it down without fanfare. “Cuts through walls.”
She glances at the glass like it might sprout teeth. “I’m not thirsty.”
“You are,” I say. “But not for that.”
Her gaze snaps to mine, sharp enough to draw blood. But I don’t back down. I just shrug and retreat.
Let her chew on that.
In the kitchen, Father grunts without looking up. It’s the grunt of disapproval seasoned with curiosity. He’s noticed her. Of course he has. He notices everything. But he doesn’t interfere. Not yet. This is my dance.
I watch her read. She goes still, then her brow creases.
The menu’s handwritten. No holos, no translations.
Just Vakutan glyphs with phonetic cues in Standard and cryptic descriptions like “burned breath of the mountain” and “salted echo.” She’s trying to decipher them, not just the food, but what the act of offering this list means.
She calls out, “What’s the ‘blackened hush’?”
“Smoked eel with fireroot glaze,” I call back. “And a fermented chili drizzle. It bites.”
She snorts. “Figures.”
“You’ll like it,” I say.
“You don’t know what I like.”
“I know you came back.”
Silence. Then, softly, “I was hungry.”
“Same as yesterday.”
This time, no response.
Ten minutes later, I bring out the dish myself. She watches my every movement like I’m carrying a weapon instead of a plate. When I set it down, her eyes don’t leave my face.
“You always serve off-menu to strangers?”
“You’re not a stranger anymore.”
She scoffs. “Right. I’m a regular.”
“No,” I say, settling across from her, uninvited. “You’re curious.”
She stiffens. Her fingers curl around the fork like it’s a handle for retreat. “Curious gets people dead.”
“Not here,” I say. “Here, it gets you fed.”
For a moment, we just sit there. The scent of fireroot hangs between us—hot, earthy, bold. She takes a bite. I watch her not enjoy it on purpose.
But her eyes close.
Just for a second.
Then she opens them, glares at me, and keeps eating.
“You always stare at your customers like this?” she asks, chewing.
“Only the ones who scowl when the food’s good.”
She huffs, a sound like a laugh that got lost in her throat.
Progress.
I get up before she can toss another verbal grenade. Go back to the kitchen. Let her sit with the food and her own disapproval. It’s safer that way. But I’m not done.
No. Not yet.
After she finishes half the eel, I send out a plate of root cakes drizzled with honey scorch and dusted in cracked pepper blossom. No explanation. Just a plate and a nod.
She stares at it like it insulted her grandmother.
Carefully, suspiciously, she lifts one with her fingertips and takes the smallest bite imaginable.
I pretend not to watch.
I hear it instead. That low sound. That barely-there exhale of surprise.
And then… she smiles.
Not wide. Not bright. Just the ghost of one, curling her lips for half a heartbeat.
But I see it.
And that’s it. That’s the moment I know.
I’m going to make her laugh.
Not just once.
Not just today.
I’m going to make her want to stay.