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“My Prince,” Kael says, his hand already moving to the hilt of his hunting axe. He is a solid warrior, dependable and direct.

“Kael. Roric,” I say, my voice clipped. “We leave now. Standard hunting gear, full patrol kit. Three days' provisions.”

They exchange a brief, questioning glance. “My Prince?” Roric asks, his brow furrowed. He is younger, more prone to questions than Kael. “What threat do we face? Is it the Ridge-Backs again?”

“An energy flare on the western sensors. Unidentified,” I repeat the same story I gave the council. “We investigate.”

“The elders seemed... concerned by your departure, Prince Jaro,” Kael says, his gaze steady. He is not questioning mycommand, but he is noting the political fallout. It is his duty as my second.

“The elders' concerns are noted,” I say, my tone leaving no room for further discussion. “My command is to move. Now.”

“Yes, my Prince,” they say in unison, their training overriding their curiosity. They move with the swift efficiency I expect, gathering their gear, alerting two other warriors to join our party.

While they prepare, I stand at the edge of the settlement, staring into the dense, violet-tinged forest. The scent is a river, flowing directly to me, wrapping around me, pulling me in. It promises... everything. It promises a cure for a sickness I never knew I had.

What is this madness?

I am Jaro, son of Torq. Warrior-Prince of the Vara-Ka. I am control. I am discipline. My beast is a weapon I wield, not a master I serve. Yet this compulsion is shredding a lifetime of training. It is a primal need that overrides duty, reason, and honor.

This is weakness.

I cannot show it. To my warriors. To Vex. To my father. I will frame this as a hunt, a patrol. I will find the source of this disturbance, and I will eliminate it. I will prove that these ancient legends are nothing but dust and whispers.

The hunting party assembles behind me, five of my best warriors, silent and ready. They carry spears and bows, their navy-blue skin marked with the symbols of our tribe. They are the strength of Vara-Ka, and they are loyal to me. For now.

I give the signal, a sharp, downward chop of my hand, and we move. We pass through the great, living gates of our settlement, the interwoven branches pulling back to allow us passage. The guards on the wall nod as we leave, their faces impassive masks.

The moment my feet touch the soft, mossy earth of the forest floor, the scent intensifies. The burning over my heart flares into a bonfire. The beast roars in triumph, a silent explosion of pure, possessive instinct inside my skull.

Close. So close.

I break into a run, my warriors falling into formation around me. We move as one, a silent, deadly current flowing through the alien trees. They think we are hunting a territorial threat. They are wrong.

I am being hunted. And I am running directly towards the trap.

Chapter 5: BEAST AND BEAUTY

The red dwarf sun crests the jagged horizon, painting the violet leaves in bloody hues. Dawn on Xylos is not a reprieve. It is an indictment. The night was a siege, and I am the last, exhausted soldier in a fortress of scrap metal and desperation.

The flame-torch sputters in my hand, its brilliant white light shrinking to a pathetic, flickering orange. My arm aches from holding it aloft for hours, a ward against the darkness and the things that move within it. The volatile paste I concocted is nearly gone. Another ten minutes of fuel. Maybe fifteen, if I'm lucky.

Luck is not a quantifiable resource, Kendra. Rely on data. And the data is clear. My defensive perimeter is failing.

They are back. The hex-ocular predators. The pack. They didn't retreat far, and their confidence has returned with the morning light. They are smarter this time. They no longer charge the flame. They circle, their movements a coordinated, intelligent dance of death. They test the perimeter, using theterrain for cover, their amber eyes glowing from the shadows of the alien foliage. They are learning.

“Log entry, cycle three,” I whisper, my voice a dry crackle. The recording is for a ghost, for whoever finds this data long after I've been rendered into nutrient paste for this planet's ecosystem. “Predator pack has returned. Exhibiting adaptive hunting strategies. Defensive measures are at... five percent efficiency. Subject is experiencing extreme physical and psychological fatigue. Survival probability is approaching zero.”

A heavy thud against the western wall makes me flinch. A claw scrapes down the metal, a sound that vibrates through the ground and up my spine.

They're testing for weaknesses. Isolate, probe, exploit. It's a sound tactical approach.

I grip the energy blaster, its cool, smooth weight a pathetic comfort. Four shots left. Against a pack of four. The math is simple and brutal. I can take one with me. Maybe.

Is that the goal now? Not survival, but a final act of defiance? A last, angry data point in my own extinction event?

Another thud, closer this time, at the main breach I've been defending all night. A segmented snout, dark and wet, pokes through the gap. Six amber eyes fix on me, blinking in the dim light of my dying torch. There is no malice in them. Only a chilling, intelligent hunger.

My breath hitches. The torch sputters again, the flame shrinking to the size of my thumb. The creature sees it. It lets out a low, chuffing sound, a call to its packmates.The magic is fading. The prey is vulnerable.