Claimed By the Vykan (Stolen From Earth #4)

Chapter 1

The mist curled against the hull of the Nhaelor like drifting fingers, brushing over the metal as though scenting what approached. Vyranth’s outer fog always moved this way: alive with memory, restless at the edges of the world.

The ship was flying slowly over a vast expanse of ocean, patrolling and scanning for the usual intruders.

Poachers. Slavers. Profiteers who exploited the flesh in return for credits.

Kyrax Sagarnis, Vykan of the Saelori, Vhar’ek of the Inner Veil, stood at the center of the command chamber, still and immense, encased head to toe in armor the color of burnished ore.

The plates overlapped like forged scales, each segment carved with the markings of the Vykan.

His thick gauntlets were ridged with age and battle use.

His helm—always sealed, always on—glowed with two narrow red slits where his gaze burned outward.

His presence filled the room.

Even without a sound, everyone felt him.

“Movement on the outer flank,” the ship’s captain, Nuar, murmured.

The young Saelori male did not raise his eyes.

His skin carried the natural luminescence of their kind—a soft blue sheen that shifted subtly with each breath.

His hair fell white and fine past his shoulders, light-catching without any earthly parallel.

His eyes, white-sclera’d with black irises, reflected the shifting sensor displays.

Kyrax felt the disturbance before the sensors mapped it. It was a pulse in the mist, a foreign vibration, barely detectible.

An image appeared on the holo display.

A Majarin vessel.

Kyrax’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.

Majarin?

Surely, the Marak’s people wouldn’t be so foolish.

But it was far too deep into Saelori territory to be accidental.

“They are testing the mists,” Nuar whispered.

“No,” Kyrax said. The helm deepened the resonance of his voice into a metallic growl. “They are hunting.”

The room stilled.

The Saelori did not fear him—he had never turned his venom against his own people—but they respected what he was. A Vykan did not patrol lightly. He was the blade drawn only when a threat needed to be answered.

A proximity flare rippled across the viewing screen. Heat signatures sharpened into shapes.

“Majarin crew. Three confirmed,” an attendant reported.

Fools.

Kyrax kept a respectful distance from the dominant Marak, Karian, but if his people were behind this…

They would pay.

Kyrax lifted one massive gauntlet. The ship obeyed immediately, sliding through the fog in a perfect arc, drifting like a predator cloaked in silence.

The Majarin vessel jerked in panic, thrusters flaring erratically.

“They know they’ve been seen,” Kyrax said.

The mist thickened at his approach, clinging to the outer hull of the intruder, slowing its desperate movements.

“They will not leave,” Kyrax said.

His hand closed into a fist.

The disabling blast hit with surgical precision, violently distorting the Majarin craft’s hull as systems collapsed inward.

Engines flickered. Power died.

Disabled, the ship hung in mid-air, tilting downward as its anti-gravity mechanisms began to fail.

He gave the command.

Metal cables extended downward from the much larger Nhaelor, and powerful metal clamps attached to the Majarin ship’s body, suspending it beneath Kyrax’s vessel.

Caught, just like the Saelori they’d intended to enslave.

Now, the hunter became the prey.

Kyrax boarded the alien vessel alone, dropping from a lower hatch, using a plasma blade to cut through the roof panels and force entry.

Inside, the corridor was stale with the scent of sedatives and containment fields.

He followed the trail to a dimly lit chamber, where spheres lined both sides—each holding a motionless Saelori, their luminous skin dulled by sedation.

Their hair floated slightly inside the stasis fields, their faces slack, their bodies limp.

Living cargo.

His people.

Anger surged through him. The Majarin should know better. At least, the Marak, Karian, should. Was he so lax in controlling his people?

Kyrax stepped forward, his armored boots striking metal in heavy, steady beats. The red glow from his visor washed across the floor and the trapped Saelori bodies.

A Majarin officer stumbled into view, half staggering, still affected by the impact of Kyrax’s blast. His eyes widened when he saw the towering gold-armored figure.

“You…” he gasped. “A Vykan? Impossible. This region is—”

Kyrax simply walked toward him.

The officer backed into the wall, trembling, breath hitching. “These creatures… their saliva alone sells for more than a starship,” the Majarin rasped. “Distilled, it drives clients mad with desire. You don’t understand what people will pay for Saelori essence. Cruxar kept the trade alive—”

Kyrax’s eyes narrowed behind the mask. As if he didn’t know.

He had seen the aftermath of those dens: bodies collapsed in heaps, minds hollowed out by a desire not their own, entire outposts ruined because someone had paid for a vial of Saelori essence and lost themselves in it.

The traders had turned Saelori saliva into a commodity. Into a vice. Into a weapon.

Ah. That explained it. This Majarin had nothing to do with Karian. He was a subordinate of the other Majarin—the boastful one whom Karian had killed.

He should return this creature to Karian and let him deal with it, but he was angry.

Kyrax reached out, gripping the man’s throat with armored fingers. The Majarin kicked against him, uselessly.

Kyrax did not breathe venom freely.

He activated it.

A click echoed from within his helm.

Vents along the jawline split open in thin, precise seams.

A measured pulse of vapor exhaled in a narrow, deliberate stream, directed only at the Majarin’s face. This amount wouldn’t affect the trapped Saelori, but it was more than enough for his target.

The officer convulsed once, nerves collapsing. His body dropped lifelessly when Kyrax released him.

The vents sealed again with another mechanical click.

“There are captives. Come.” He summoned his attendants with a simple order, activating the comm in his visor. They would arrive promptly to release the imprisoned Saelori.

Kyrax stared at the dead Majarin, noting the insignia burned into his collar.

Cruxar’s symbol.

The mark of a fallen lord whose corruption still lingered long after his death.

Kyrax turned away.

“Nuar, prepare a channel,” he said through the comm.

His second-in-command paused. “To whom, Vykan?”

“Karian,” he said. “Marak of Luxar.”

Kyrax continued, each word unhurried, shaped by iron certainty.

“Tell him his fallen subordinate’s remnants trespass on my world,” Kyrax said. “Tell him his people were captured and meant to be sold.”

He walked out of the chamber, icy fury coursing through his veins. Whether it was Karaian’s doing or not, the Majarin would have to pay.

“And tell him,” Kyrax finished, “that I demand restitution.”