Chapter 2
Makrath was summoned before the recall alert finished cycling.
He did not slow.
The shuttle cut through Ythra's upper defenses and descended into the jungle canopy without deviation. Shields parted. Transit lanes opened. The planet breathed around him—heat, moisture, the layered green density of growth so ancient it resisted mapping.
Above the forest floor, the city lived.
Khar stretched through the treetops in sprawling suspension: organically grown dwellings wrapped around trunks wider than ships, bridges arcing between them like living bone, transit systems threading through leaves and mist in smooth, silent lines.
The Hyrakki moved there in instinctive order, a civilization suspended in growth rather than stone.
Below it all lay Drenn.
Stone rose where the jungle gave way—administration towers, bunkers, armories, command vaults. The places where law was enforced, where violence was regulated, where creatures like Makrath were deployed and restrained.
He descended toward it without hesitation.
Makrath remained fully armored as he entered the stone corridors. He always did.
Administrators pressed themselves to the walls as he passed. Sael aides lowered their eyes. No one challenged him. No one spoke.
It was simply how others adjusted around Makrath.
The pressure in his chest tightened as he walked. Not fear. Not uncertainty.
Resignation.
He reached the High Arbiter's chambers and waited as the doors parted.
Zhoren was already pacing.
The chamber opened onto the jungle beyond, shielded only by a transparent barrier that allowed sound and scent to bleed through. Somewhere below, a river thundered through rock and root. Heat rolled in slow waves. The world lived beyond the law's reach.
Zhoren turned sharply as Makrath entered.
The High Arbiter's skin was deep grey, lined by age and responsibility rather than weakness. His silver eyes were bright with fury. Long black-green hair, silken and thick, was drawn back into a low tail that moved with him as he stalked the chamber, mirroring the tension coiled through his body.
"Do you have any idea," Zhoren said, voice clicking low in his throat, "what you have done?"
Makrath stopped three paces inside the threshold and waited.
"One civilian dead," Zhoren continued. "Five injured. The entire Khelar delegation eliminated. Surveillance footage already circulating through neutral systems before arbitration could intervene."
Makrath said nothing.
"Who will trade with us now?" Zhoren demanded.
Makrath's shoulders lifted in a minimal shrug. "There will always be a market for our gemstones."
Zhoren's growl slipped free—low, resonant, dangerous. It was a sound that froze lesser Hyrakki where they stood.
Makrath remained unmoved.
"You violated the Code," Zhoren snapped.
"I performed my duty."
"You killed civilians."
"They should have stayed out of the way."
The words settled between them.
Makrath felt the familiar tightening beneath his armor. He knew—objectively—that it could have been avoided. He had the capacity. He always had.
He had also known, in the moment, that he would not stop.
He said nothing.
Zhoren stared at him, chest rising and falling, hands flexing at his sides. His claws remained retracted—Zhoren was Sael, not warrior—but his flat, dark nails dug briefly into his palms as he fought for control.
At last, he turned away.
"You cannot continue like this," Zhoren said more quietly.
Makrath's voice remained even. "You continue to send me."
Zhoren stopped pacing.
"Yes," he said. "And that is the problem."
Silence stretched.
"You need the Hunt," Zhoren said at last.
The words struck deep.
"Yes," Makrath agreed.
There was no hesitation.
"But no female on Ythra will have me."
Zhoren did not deny it.
Makrath lifted one clawed hand and gestured toward his armor-covered face. Toward what lay beneath. Toward what he had been shaped into.
"This," he said. "Of what you made me."
The accusation required no elaboration.
Zhoren exhaled slowly. "It cannot be undone."
Makrath's mouth curved beneath his mask, sharp and humorless. "Nor can I be contained."
"You can be challenged," Zhoren said.
Makrath shifted his weight. "You can try."
They both knew what that would cost.
Zhoren pressed his fingers to his brow, massaging as if to ease the tension building there. His hands bore no weapons—only responsibility.
"There may be… an option."
Makrath tilted his head, slow and incredulous.
"I have heard reports," Zhoren continued. "The Marak of Luxar—Karian—has taken an offworlder as his mate. As has the last Hvrok. A Nalgar warlord. A Vykan."
Makrath drew in a sharp breath through his teeth. "None of those are enemies I would seek."
"Exactly," Zhoren said. "And yet they have all taken humans. Willingly, by every account."
Makrath felt his armor ripple, betraying interest before he stilled it.
"Humans," he said flatly. "I doubt one could participate in a Hunt."
Zhoren's silver eyes narrowed. "You are the one who warns against assumptions."
Makrath did not answer.
"I will learn more," Zhoren said. "If an arrangement is possible, I will make it. Until then, you are stood down from active duty."
The words landed harder than any reprimand.
Makrath felt the absence immediately—the loss of motion, of sanctioned violence, of purpose. He wanted to argue. Wanted to demand assignment. Wanted Zhoren to send him into something lethal enough to burn this pressure out of him.
He knew it would not be enough.
"This is your Hunt," Makrath said finally.
Zhoren scoffed softly at the audacity, but he did not rebuke him.
Makrath knew why.
"I will meet with the Marak," Zhoren said. "If a suitable female can be found, she will be Chosen."
He straightened. "You are dismissed."
Makrath inclined his head once and turned to leave.
The pressure in his chest did not ease.
Without the Hunt, he would descend.
He had known that longer than he cared to admit.