Page 76 of Claimed By the Vykan

“Vykan,” he said, voice sharpening. “Disturbance detected in upper mist. Pattern consistent with… multiple ships entering local space. Vector approaching from the northeast arc.”

Kyrax’s eyes narrowed.

Isshyr’s quadrant.

“Magnify,” he ordered.

The main display rippled and then zoomed out, focusing on the upper layers of Vyranth’s mist fields. Dark shapes flickered against the hazy strata—ships, emerging from higher orbit, angling toward his domain.

Another alarm chimed—this one deeper, tied to his shield network.

“Enemy fleet incoming,” Nuar confirmed. “Markings match Isshyr’s sigils.”

Of course.

There was the wounded pride. The lost hand. Public humiliation.

And now, this.

“Raise full shields around the Bastion,” Kyrax said. “Pattern Kethran sequence. Reinforced thresholds on the northern face.”

Nuar didn’t hesitate. “At once.”

Energy lines flared across the projection as the Bastion’s shield layers unfolded, each one slotting into place around the physical structure like a luminous exoskeleton. They had strengthened the shields after Isshyr’s last intrusion; any penetration tech he had used before would find a different reception now.

Above them, the incoming fleet slowed, wings adjusting as they scanned the shield dome.

Kyrax reached for the bond with Morgan.

She was there. Alert now, the calm of her earlier contemplation sharpened into wary focus.

Something’s wrong,her thought brushed his: a clear, human imprint, carrying her scent of ocean and bright electricity.I can feel it. Are we under attack?

He closed her out gently, not entirely, but enough to mute what he did not want her to feel.

Stay in your chambers,he told her.Trust me.

He did not want her to see what came next through his eyes. Not yet.

With a final sweep of the projections, he turned away.

“Ready the fleet,” he said.

By the time he strode out of the war chamber and into the launch tower, his military commanders were already assembling—armored, masked, silent. Outside, through the transparent segments of the tower wall, the upper atmosphere crackled with distant flashes of weapons fire.

Isshyr had opened hostilities.

Again.

Kyrax stepped onto the command platform of his primary cruiser as it descended to meet him, the boarding ramp locking perfectly against the tower edge. The ship’s hull gleamed in the muted light: sleek, angular, etched with the sigil of the Void Bastion.

TheVorath’s Edge.

Nuar moved to the pilot’s station as Kyrax took the central command throne, plugging his armor into the ship’s systems. Information flowed into his suit, merging with his awareness—shield status, weapon arrays, squadron positions.

The fleet rose as one, engines roaring. Sleek black shapes cut through the mist, forming a spearhead around his cruiser.

“Lock onto Isshyr’s lead vessels,” Kyrax said. “Standard formation. Do not let them breach the shield perimeter.”