8. Isolde
ISOLDE
I wake to a fire that smells like ash and old wood and something sweet beneath it.
The glow is soft—a ragged flame dancing against the vines above, throwing flickers across the fungal stalks, making the glowing moss pulse beneath us as if it’s breathing.
I blink, trying to clear the fog in my brain—the adrenaline hangover, the exhaustion, the weird comfort of being alive when I thought I might not be.
He’s there.
Garokk kneels near the fire, a battered cooking pot perched over the coals, steam curling upward in ghostly ribbons.
His silhouette is monstrous and somehow gentle in the flicker, scales colored by the firelight in bronze and crimson.
He glances up and meets my eyes. His expression—surprisingly soft. Maybe relieved. Maybe just aware.
“Morning,” he says, voice low, gravel‐rough but warm.
“Morning,” I manage, pushing myself upright. My ribs ache where One Horn got me, and I’m sore all over. But here… I feel safe. Nestled in this wild ruin, a wreck of a starship, but safe.
“Eat,” he says, nodding toward the pot.
I slide off the moss‐bed and cross the gap.
My boots crunch softly on leaf-litter and broken tile.
I sit on a chunk of flat rock, the warmth of the fire pressing gentle relief into my flesh.
I inhale the scent—wood smoke, fungus, metal corrosion, and him.
All mixed together. I never thought I’d find a scent I could call home, but maybe I just did.
He ladles something into a bowl—grainy mush, off‐white with little flecks of herbs. I wrinkle my nose. “What is it?”
“Old reserve,” he says. “Bland but edible.”
I snort. “Gourmet enough for a survival meal.”
He cracks a half‐smile—barely. “Eat.”
I taste it. Warm. Soft. Doesn’t explode with flavor, but that’s fine. I’m starving. I shovel more in. The moss glows in the dark around me, vines whispering in the hush as if they’re gossiping about the intruders, the shooters, the chase. The Hulk is alive. And so are we. Temporarily.
He sits opposite me, the pale firelight catching something in his eyes—the scar, the yellow gold, the war-worn hardness. We eat in silence for a moment. I watch him. He watches the fire. I decide I like this version of him—silent, unhurried. Not savage. Guarding me.
Finally, I push my bowl away. “So…” I start, running a hand over my hair where the purple strands catch the flame. “I guess we got a weird truce going.”
He doesn’t answer.
“I’m Isolde Verrix,” I continue. “Public face. Holonet star. Famous for being fearless while absolutely terrified.” I laugh, short and sardonic. “I’ve been flying into volcanoes, diving into black-hole fragments, crashing moons. It’s what I do. Likes. Shares. Clicks.”
His hand tightens around his hilt. I feel the shift. The tension beneath the calm. “Stop.”
“Okay,” I admit. “But the truth is—I’m tired.
I’m so tired of being media perfect. I wake up every morning and the first thing I do is check how many viewers I lost overnight.
I’ve got brand deals, follower counts, filters, but I don’t have…
real.” I sniff, looking away so he doesn’t see the moisture.
“I don’t have someone who sees me and doesn’t want a selfie. Someone who just… sees me.”
He’s still. Watching the fire again. I wonder what he hears me say. If he even understands “brand deals”. Probably not. Doesn’t matter.
“I knew when I stepped on this ship that it would be big. That I’d blow up. That I would be the one . But I didn’t think I’d be the one fighting for survival.” I trace a ring of soot around the bowl. “Maybe I just wanted a headline. Something daring so nobody could say I was just pretty. ”
He nods. “You are more than pretty.”
I lift my gaze. “Thanks.” Then I pause. “If you don’t mind me asking—what’s jalshagar?”
He stiffens. The silence hollows between us.
I keep talking. “Everyone in my broadcast feed, they call you: Beast of the Hulk. Ghost king. Warrior legend. Vakutan. Jalshagar. They don’t know what that word means. I don’t either. But I heard it once. And it stuck.”
He looks at me—a long look. Not mocking. Not dismissive. Concerned. Guarded.
“I cannot explain,” he says quietly.
“Okay.” I nod slowly, although I hate it. I want him to explain right now. But I also recognize the weight behind the refusal. I respect it.
“Can I rest now?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says.
I lean back, resting my head against a vine-covered wall.
The glow above is soft, the fungus light bathing me in pale green.
There’s a breeze—cool—carried by the vents high overhead.
I feel it in my hair, the low hum of the Hulk beneath my feet.
The smell of blooming spores and metal and his watching presence swirls around me and I close my eyes.
I drift part-way into sleep, comforted by the fact neither of us leaves.
The last words I hear before the darkness claim me:
“Don’t wake unless it’s death or they arrive at the gate.”
And I think: he’ll kill for that.
The bioluminescent vines glow faint and steady in the arboretum-dome above us.
I trace one with my fingertip—its luminescence pulses gently, like a heartbeat.
Or like the start of one I don’t have words for yet.
The air smells like warm moss, wet earth, and something metallic—a reminder of the ruin around us, of the ship we’re in.
I’m lying on the patch of glowing peat while he crouches a little distance away, blade laid across his lap.
His silhouette is steel and muscle and scars, wound tight from three days without rest—but not weakened.
I want to talk. But something bigger than conversation hangs in the air, and I’m not sure how to handle it.
“So,” I say lightly. “Space wife?”
I’m lying on purpose. Trying to break the weight of the moment. The phrase bounces around the dome like a dropped stone in dead water.
He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even shift immediately. He closes his eyes for one slow exhale. The blade in his hands gleams dimly. The vines above stir with a whisper of static wind.
“Fate doesn’t joke,” he says.
I blink. “Excuse me?”
He says nothing at first. Just looks at me with those golden eyes so sharp they might cut light. “I am not your joke,” he finally says. “I am not your adventure. I am?—”
“Your dinner date? I know.” I sit up, flop awkwardly, trying to lean back but my ribs complain. “Look, I get it. I make a shitty fantasy. Glam-girl meets big scary alien warrior who broods so hard he looks like a volcano waiting to erupt. Clickbait gold, right?”
He doesn’t flinch. He just watches me. And in that watching there’s something raw. Something open.
“You don’t know me,” I continue, voice softer. “Not really.”
“I know enough,” he says.
“So do I,” I say. “I know I’ve spent my whole career masked behind lights and camera angles and filters.
I know I’m a highlight reel with a broken reel backstage.
And I know I also didn’t expect to be in a fungus graveyard with a war-scar monster who can kill a fleet. That was not on my sticker price.”
He shifts. The steel of his knee plaque squeaks faintly as he moves on the stone. He stands and steps closer. Each stride echoes soft in the quiet.
I watch his shadow approach, trailing along the moss-floor. My heart tries to spasm at the sound of his boots.
“Space wife,” he echoes, voice low. “Do you know what that word means?”
“I invented it,” I say, trying to lighten it. “It’s flippant. It’s a joke.”
He crouches. So that his height still looms and his face is level with mine. The firelight glints in his scar. “I have one word,” he says. “Jalshagar.”
I stiffen. The word again. The one I asked about yesterday. The one he still won’t explain. My stomach jumps.
“So what does it mean?” My voice wobbles. Fear, hope, and desire all tangled.
“It means what I cannot give you lightly.” He doesn’t move closer. But I feel him there. Blade still in hand, but lowered.
I look at my own hands. They’re clammy. My chest feels too tight. The vines hush. The fungus light pulses.
“Then don’t give it,” I whisper. “Give me something I can own. A moment. A memory. A breath.” My words spill, unfiltered, real. “Don’t give me out-of-budget, epic, fantasy hero partner that demands I get kidnapped weekly. Give me something normal. Something I can still hold when the cameras die.”
He glances away. The garden hums. I lift my head, meet his gaze. “You watch me sleeping,” I say, soft. “You guard me when I’ve been broken. You didn’t have to. But you did. That means something.”
He studies me. Doesn’t answer.
I shift closer to him. The moss below is warm. I feel safe and open at once.
“So,” I say louder now. “Space wife can wait. But you.” My hand moves unconsciously toward his knee. “You… you’re not safe.”
He looks at me, face drawn. “And you?”
“All I’m good at is making things dangerous look fun.” I smile fragilely. “But I want safe now.”
There’s a pause. Long.
Then he stands. Steps back two paces. Places his blade carefully across the stone floor. Picks up the cooking-pot lid. “I will watch,” he says. “And you will rest. Then when it is time—we move.”
“Thanks,” I say. “That’s fair.”
He nods. “You sleep. I’ll keep the shadows away.”
I lie back down. The glowing vines cast soft blue fingers across my skin. I close my eyes.
His presence stays. I feel it like a shield. The scent of metal and fire and moss drifts through the space. The distant hum of the ship’s guts throbs low, a heartbeat I share.
I drift again and feel safe. For now.