27. Garokk
GAROKK
T hey’ve taken my ship.
I feel it in the air the moment my boots hit the deck—the wrongness. Like coming home to find someone’s moved the furniture and pissed on the floor. Like blood on wedding sheets.
They’ve painted over my name.
Literally.
The command wall that once bore the sigil of the Crimson Raider—the jagged starburst wrapped in flame—is now slashed with Vrek’s crude, jagged scrawl: DEBT REPAID.
Bastard even did it in red. Mine.
Reflector’s gone dark. Isolde’s on her way to the docks, Pyramus likely in Vrek’s claws. I trust her fire. But this? This part’s mine.
This is personal.
The lights are low. Emergency mode. Most of the bridge crew’s abandoned post, holed up or drunk on power in the lower decks, where the real violence festers. But some of them—Snarl included—are still inside.
I stalk the corridors like a ghost of myself, each step measured, each breath shallow and cold. My tail twitches with anticipation. The overhead piping drips in rhythm with the beat in my skull.
Then his voice crackles through the corridor feed.
Vrek.
“To all hands on Orbimall One—this is your captain speaking. I know some of you’ve heard whispers. Rumors. About your beloved ‘Crimson Raider’ crawling back like a dog.”
His voice is slick. Gloating.
“Let me be clear. Garokk is done. He turned tail. Let a woman leash him. Let her cut his fangs out. That’s no pirate. That’s a coward. A myth.”
The speakers vibrate under my claws as I tear the nearest panel off the wall. Rip the wires. Smash the node. Silence.
“No,” I snarl. “I’m Garokk. ”
I storm the auxiliary command corridor, teeth bared. The door sensors are fried—manual only. Just as I slam my shoulder into the bulkhead, a shadow moves in my periphery. Too fast. Too close.
I spin.
Blaster fire slices past my cheek—sings like a violin string across scaled skin.
“Snarl,” I growl.
She grins from the access hatch above, crouched like a spider, limbs coiled, twin pistols glinting in the flicker-light.
“Long time, boss,” she purrs.
“You always did like the air vents.”
“They’re cleaner than your sense of loyalty.”
She fires again.
I duck. The bolt hits the console behind me, exploding sparks across my back. I roll under the panel, draw the blade from my boot, and throw it.
She dodges—barely. The knife scrapes her side, slicing fabric and skin.
She hisses. “Should’ve aimed for the throat.”
“I never miss on the second try.”
She drops from the vent with a snarl that earned her the name, blades out now, teeth gleaming.
We clash in the narrow hallway—feral, brutal. She’s faster. I’m stronger. Her twin daggers flash, but I’ve wrestled beasts with more grace. I block one strike with my forearm, spin, elbow her in the ribs. She grunts, stumbles, recovers.
“Vrek offered us freedom! ” she spits.
“No,” I growl, slamming her against the wall. “He offered you permission. There’s a difference.”
She twists free, slices my arm. Blood trickles, hot and sticky. I don’t flinch.
“You gave up the stars for a woman! ” she shrieks.
I lunge.
We crash into the engine corridor, bodies smashing into grates, wires tearing loose. The engine hum roars around us, the thrum of energy filling every crevice like a war drum. The heat makes the sweat roll down my back. The blood makes my grip slick. Her foot catches my knee. I stumble.
But she hesitates.
That’s all I need.
I grab her by the wrist, twist, and slam her to the deck with all the fury of two years lost.
She coughs. “He’s got the boy, y’know.”
“I know.”
“He’ll trade him.”
“No,” I whisper, breath ragged. “He’ll bleed for him.”
Her eyes go wide.
And I drive her own blade into the metal floor beside her skull.
Hard enough to pin her braid to the deck.
“Stay down.”
She doesn’t move.
I step over her, blood still dripping from my arm, fury humming in my bones.
They want the Crimson Raider?
They’re gonna get him.
The bridge doors open with a hiss that feels like a blade drawn in slow motion.
He’s waiting.
Vrek stands dead center under the glow of the primary display, haloed by the galaxy map rotating above. It paints his scarred skin in blue and gold. Regal. Like he belongs here. My ship, my command, my stage—and he thinks it’s his now.
In his left arm, he holds a blaster.
In his right?
Pyramus.
The boy’s tiny shoulders are squared like armor, but his eyes—those bright, stubborn eyes—dart across the room the second I step inside. He doesn’t cry. Doesn’t flinch. Just stares at me.
My blood, that one. All steel and flame and too much pride.
My throat tightens.
“Garokk,” Vrek sneers. “The fallen king finally graces us.”
I don’t answer.
I walk.
Slow.
Measured.
Unarmed.
The hiss of the doors behind me echoes like judgment.
Pyramus squirms—barely. Vrek’s grip tightens. The blaster shifts.
“I wouldn’t take another step if I were you,” he growls.
“That’s my son.”
The words don’t just come out—they rip free.
Vrek laughs. “Oh, now he admits it.”
“You put a claw on him,” I say, voice low, shaking not with fear but with the weight of a storm I’ve held too long, “and I will not just kill you.”
I step forward again.
“I will unmake you.”
His sneer flickers. “Big words from a leashed lizard.”
“Try me.”
The ship hums around us. The Crimson Raider isn’t silent. She remembers her true captain. She remembers me.
I raise my hands. Palms empty. Open. “You wanted this seat. You wanted command. Then take it. Let the boy go, and we settle this.”
“No,” Vrek snaps. “You’re going to kneel. In front of your crew. In front of her. And you’re going to admit that you lost. That you gave everything up for a pretty face and a kid.”
I meet Pyramus’s eyes.
He doesn’t speak.
He doesn’t need to.
I take one more step. Close enough now to see the pulse in Vrek’s throat. To hear the slight warble in his breath.
“Do it,” I whisper. “Pull the trigger. Let the whole galaxy watch you murder a child on a stolen bridge. That’s the kind of legend you want, isn’t it?”
His jaw clenches.
He twitches.
That’s all Reflector needs.
A pulse of white-hot light crackles from the far wall. A single, surgical EMP dart—aimed like a scalpel.
Vrek’s blaster shorts in his hand, the charge exploding back across the grip.
He screams.
Pyramus drops.
I move.
Before Vrek can react, I’m there—between them. Shielding the boy. My body coiled, hands ready.
“Get behind the console,” I bark.
Pyramus scurries.
Vrek charges.
But I’m not angry now.
I’m clear.
This is what I was born for.
Not war. Not raiding. Not vengeance.
Justice.
We collide. Fists. Elbows. Claws. He’s faster, but I’m focused. Every blow I land is a promise. Every breath I take is a vow.
He tries to talk. Tries to shout orders. I cut him off with silence.
With inevitability.
I drive him back toward the command dais—toward the edge. Every light on the bridge flares in sync with the rhythm of our fight. The Raider knows who I am.
I spin him.
I drop him.
My claws at his throat.
He gasps. “You wouldn’t…”
“I told you what I’d do.”
He claws at me. I lean in close.
So close he can hear the grief in my growl.
“You took what was mine. You threatened him. You threatened her. ”
The stars burn behind my eyes.
“And now,” I whisper, “you’re nothing.”
I press just enough.
And let him feel the ending.
Not the scream. Not the blood.
Just the fall.
His consciousness fades long before the crew stumbles onto the bridge to see him slumped like waste beneath the console.
And I turn to them—not with triumph.
But with truth.