Chapter 2
VOKAR
Istand on the rim of the basalt terrace, feeling the wind of Storder’s twin moons whipping across my black skin and rattling the tattered banner I raised weeks ago.
The banner bears the mark of the Scarred Foot clan — a white skull over a pair of crossed bone-spurs.
Below me the fields stretch: rows of sturdy dark-green foliage, sprouts of root-vegetables, and newly planted saplings that have yet to harden their bark against the chill nights.
Back when I first claimed this moon, many sneered at the idea of crops instead of bones.
Today ... today some of those skeptics study the leaves and nod.
Maybe the future will not be only fire and carving scars in flesh.
Maybe there will be soil, and seed, and shade.
I grip the pommel of my war-axe (resting angled against the stone wall near me) and inhale — the sharp scent of alien earth mixed with the tang of solder and new metal from the greenhouse frames, the low hum of generators. The air tastes raw, like possibilities still breathing in the dust.
Below, the Scarred Foot clan works. Human contractors labor at the edges — carrying water-cans, checking the irrigation nanofeeds.
Reapers tend rows in silence, long bone-spurs scratching the ground as they weed.
Under the copper light of Storder’s closer moon, their shadows stretch long and lean across the soil. I watch. I wait.
“Boss,” a gravel voice murmurs behind me.
My second — Yorta — steps out from the tunnel that leads underground; ribs of the cliff still scarred from the old mining operations.
With him, a half-dozen of the clan’s young warriors.
They leave their tools at the stone threshold.
The smell of sweat and fresh metal — the standard scent of a working clan — drifts up.
Yorta’s gray-spurred scowl shifts like shifting bone. “The men ask what forgiveness tastes like. But I fear they are hungry for old flavor.”
I straighten my spine, letting the banner catch more wind. “Then we give them new flavor,” I say, voice low and booming — not a roar, but a promise. “Not blood. Bread. Not ashes. Shelter.”
One youth laughs, bitter and raw: “You feed us bread, warlord — and we become soft. Soft Reapers die like pups behind walls.”
I turn and fix him with red eyes, the bone-spurs along my jaw clicking softly. “Then let them wear your skull as a belt buckle,” I snarl, each word measured — heavy. “But I want none of that belt unless it earned with foresight, not hate. I will not build castles on graves.”
For a moment silence reigns. The wind shifts, lifting the scent of newly tilled soil.
I feel the clan’s gaze on me — some afraid, some curious.
Yorta steps forward, placing a hand on that youth’s shoulder.
“Come. Water the west field. The sprouts thirst,” he says gently.
The youth jerks away, but reluctantly turns and steps toward the lines.
I snort, letting the axe tilt. “Even blood begins as water, kid,” I say.
Yorta nods. “You ask patience of bones, warlord. That takes… discipline.”
I regard him, letting the truth hang between us. Discipline. Yes. I don’t question his judgement — he knows the clan’s temper better than I at twelve seasons old. But I also know what the bone-blood thirst feels like. I have felt it. I’ve tasted it. The memory is a brand under my skull.
But I do not intend to let the brand scorch this moon.
I step away from the wall, boots crunching the scrap gravel.
I walk down between the rows, the scent of damp earth rising — smell, sound, touch all reminder that life can sprout, not just perish.
I kneel by a green shoot, fingertips brushing the wet leaf.
The dirt is cool under my nails. I nod to a human contractor hauling water buckets.
He pauses, lifts his head to me, fear and recognition warring in his eyes.
I offer a nod in return. Not trust. Just acknowledgment.
He sets the bucket aside and bows his head before returning to work. That small gesture — that tiny tilt of respect — reminds me why I’m doing this. For more than bones. For more than raids. For stability. For unexpected mercy. For hope.
Then I feel it. The pulse in my comm-crystal — almost foreign compared to the steady hum of clan life. It’s not the steady beacon of home — no — it's jagged. An IHC signature. A summons. The kind that rattles teeth.
I stand, hand drifting to my hip where the crystal sits in a metal bracket. I press the glyph. The sky above darkens for a moment — dust kicked by wind, fieldworkers pause, even the humans still water-carrying glower upward.
The comm crackles. A voice — thin, polite, but edged with steel and expectation. “Vokar of the Scarred Foot clan? You are requested aboard the IHC vessel Stan Hansen. Diplomatic parleys. Immediate departure arranged.”
I close my eyes. The world tilts. Behind me, someone swears. Spray of earth flies. A human woman — a contractor — stumbles backward, drops a bucket. Water arcs in slow motion, splashing in muddy clumps. Reapers freeze. The scent of wet dirt spikes, sharp and alive.
“Stan Hansen,” I whisper. The name tastes unfamiliar on my tongue. Alien. Metal. Ships. The decks smell of recycled air and politics and fear.
Yorta curses under his breath. Yorta is silent for a moment — longer than usual. Then: “They send you to parley. Our clan will wait two cycles. After that, you decide: sovereignty or slaughter.”
I stand, dusting dirt from my gauntlets. “Two cycles,” I growl. “No less.”
The youth who earlier spoke — the one scared of softness — laughs, bitter. The other warriors glare at him. Not fear. Anger. Rejection.
I turn to them. I raise my axe, finger against bone-spur.
“Scarred Foot lives by honor, by tooth. But also by choice. We choose our path now. I choose this.” I sweep the axe in a slow arc, sunlight catching the steel — a reflection slicing across the proud faces of my clan.
“And I bring back opportunity. Wealth. Trade. Land. If they bargain again with blood, we bleed them till the pike is full. But if they bargain with words… we build.”
I feel a tremor — not in earth but in soul.
Every Reaper around me sees it. Some sneer.
Some nod. Some widen their eyes, afraid.
That’s fine. I don’t need them all. I need one.
Two. Enough to plant seeds that grow deeper than bone.
Enough to change the rhythm of claws and hunger to hands that plant.
Yorta steps forward. “Then we prepare. Load supplies, secure mounts. I’ll gather the loyalists.” He glances at the human contractors. “As for them,” he says coldly, “they go with you or stay. But no bleed-outs today.”
I nod. “No bleed-outs.” My throat tastes bitter with the word. But it’s necessary.
I pivot and walk away, axe on my shoulder. The wind takes the banner and ruffles it — a ghost waving over barren rock. Below me, water drips from upturned buckets. The field is quiet again, as if the world itself is holding its breath.
I stop at the edge of the cliff, looking out at the black horizon. The moons hang low — one fat and pale, the other a sliver red as dying blood. Their light grazes the metal plating of a distant shuttle on the landing pad. Waiting.
I close my eyes, feel the dust on my cheek, earth scent filling my lungs. For a moment I taste hope. And fear.
Hope that the Badlands might soften beneath new soil.
Fear that the soil might still thirst for blood.
I don’t care. I walk. I rise. I move toward the shuttle. I move toward the cage of the Stan Hansen.
Because power is nothing if it only rules the known. I aim to rule the possible.
And maybe... just maybe — this time I drain them dry of blood turns them full of something stranger. Something lasting.
Later, the meeting fires are low, banked to a dull red. Around them, warriors crouch on haunches or lean against rough-cut stone benches, shadows licking across their faces. The clan chamber echoes with every grunt, every shift of armor, every exhale.
I remain standing. At the center. Always the center.
The council of the Scarred Foot isn’t a polished court.
There are no robes here, no gilded thrones or embroidered banners.
There is only the crackling flame and the scent of sweat, leather, and iron.
The wall behind me is bare save for the black scars of burn marks — reminders of the last time blood boiled too hot for words.
Yorta stands to my right, bone-spurs dulled by time but eyes like molten stone. The others — war-mates, cousins, former rivals turned lieutenants — spread out in a loose semicircle, all eyes fixed on me. All except Arnab.
The little bastard’s already got his arms folded across his chest like a rebellious pup. He leans against the stone column like he’s lounging in a brothel instead of facing his clan warlord. His spur crest twitches like an animal scenting prey. And he smiles. Gods, that smug twist of a grin.
“Bread and shelter,” he says, voice slick as oil. “Next cycle, maybe we paint flowers on our armor and invite the IHC to afternoon tea.”
Muffled snickers rumble around the fire.
I say nothing. Not yet.
Arnab steps forward, daring. “You think they’ll respect us for planting roots? For tending to livestock like Terran swineherds?” He spits into the dust. “We’re Reapers. We take. That’s what we do. That’s what the galaxy fears.”
My jaw tightens. I let him dig.
“I remember when your name meant raids that broke cities, not… crop yields,” Arnab scoffs. “You call it vision. I call it cowardice.”
Now I step forward. Deliberate. Measured. Each footfall lands like a thunderclap.
The room goes still.
“Cowardice,” I echo, voice soft — far too soft for comfort. “You know much about that, do you?”
Arnab straightens. “I know how to keep our kind feared.”
“No. You know how to play at being feared,” I snarl, loud now. “You strut and roar and swing your little sword at patrol ships and think it makes you a warlord.”
Arnab’s face flushes, spurs twitching.
I advance, towering over him. Seven feet and change of muscle, bone, and fury, radiating heat. My voice drops to a growl. “You’ve never commanded a siege. Never held the line against Coalition steel. You’ve tasted blood, sure — but you’ve never swallowed the ash that comes after. I have.”
Silence. Not even the fire dares crackle.
Arnab opens his mouth — and I slap him.
Not a brawl. Not a bellow. Just one open-palmed strike that sends him crashing backward into the dust, his spurs scraping stone. Gasps erupt. Arnab’s pride hits the floor harder than his body.
I plant my boot on his chest before he can rise.
“You think I’m afraid?” I hiss. “You think planting grain is weakness? You mock what it takes to keep this clan fed, housed, and alive?”
He struggles — I press down.
“War is easy,” I snarl. “You take. You burn. You kill. Then what? What do you build with blood? What’s left when the last scream dies?”
Arnab wheezes.
I look up, letting the firelight cast my shadow long over the gathered warriors. “I do this not because I am weak — but because I am the strongest bastard in this moon’s gravity well. I am strong enough to know that fear fades. But legacy…” I glance down at the boy. “Legacy doesn’t.”
I step back, let him rise. His spurs are dull with dust now. He glares at me — but doesn’t speak.
Good. He knows what line not to cross. For now.
But this? This isn’t over. I can humiliate him in front of the clan, but resentment festers in the shadows. I feel it in his shoulders as he retreats. I see it in the way two of his kin eye me sideways as they help him limp off.
Yorta joins me near the fire once the meeting disperses, his expression unreadable.
“You won that moment,” he says. “But you didn’t win him.”
I grunt. “He’ll either learn or leave. Maybe both.”
“And if he takes half the pups with him?”
“Then we rebuild. Same as always.”
Yorta nods. Not agreement — understanding. It’s enough.
Many hours pass. In the small hours of night, I walk alone beneath the rock arches, deeper into the spine of the mountain.
The corridor is lit only by faint moss-glow and embedded crystals that pulse dim red as I pass. The air down here is different — dry, cool, filled with the memory of old power.
At the end of the corridor stands the statue.
Ten feet tall, forged from boneplate and jet-metal. The figure is hunched, spurs massive and twisted, its posture caught forever in a battle stance. It is old — older than this moon, older than this language. Some say it’s the last true warking of the Reapers before the great fracturing.
I believe it is truth made flesh.
I kneel before it, one knee clicking against the stone, and place my palm to its base. The texture is rough, ridged. Ancient. A heartbeat later, I open my mouth and sing.
Not a melody. Not a song.
A tone.
Low. Harmonic. Wordless. Carved into my memory by ritual and blood and tradition. It vibrates in my chest, swells behind my ribs, and resonates through the bones of the mountain.
The statue responds.
A tremor. Small. Subtle. The floor hums.
The power of the old ways isn’t in brute force — it’s in connection. In knowing the bones beneath your feet. In speaking the language of your ancestors not with words, but with purpose.
I rise, eyes locked on the statue.
Let the IHC come.
Let their diplomats smile with polished teeth and offer soft hands.
Let them try to barter, threaten, coax.
I’ll play their game. For now.
But I will never forget who I am. What I am.
And if they forget?
My red eyes glow faint in the chamber’s dark.
“I’ll give them something to fear,” I whisper.
And the mountain listens.