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T he skidder hummed beneath Zoak as he approached Kryla’s west gate, the small hovercraft kicking up wisps of dust as it glided over the cracked, sunbaked ground. He preferred it this way—quiet, unnoticed, slipping into the settlement like a shadow instead of drawing attention with a direct ship landing.

The desert winds howled in the distance, stirring the tall metal containment walls that loomed over Kryla’s perimeter, shielding it from the violent sandstorms that could rip across the region in an instant. The west gate was manned by two guards, but they barely glanced up as the skidder drifted past, the automated scanning system briefly flaring before allowing him entry.

He concealed his skidder behind a low wall, securing it, before he stepped out and adjusted his hood, tugging the fabric lower over his face. The streets of Kryla were alive with activity—traders, merchants, and travelers weaving through the market, the ground lights casting a dim, golden hue over the stone-paved walkways. It was a perfect hunting ground.

But not yet.

Not until Dorane LeGaugh arrived.

Zoak moved without hurry, his keen eyes sweeping the alleyways, balconies, rooftops—cataloging potential escape routes, ambush points, places to stage a kill. He memorized the settlement’s layout, mentally marking its choke points, shadowed corridors, and blind spots.

His plan was simple.

He would wait until Dorane and the female left the ship. Then he would destroy the vessel, using the explosion as cover. During the confusion, he would strike—knocking Dorane out, removing him from the equation before the female even knew what was happening.

Then, he would take Dorane somewhere private.

Somewhere he could make an example of him.

And when she came for him—because she would—she would walk straight into the trap.

He relished the thought of her face contorted in helplessness, forced to watch Dorane die first before he turned his attention to her.

The female would suffer last.

The thought sent a slow, dark pleasure curling through his chest as he moved through the crowded settlement.

He was halfway to the landing pads when it hit him.

A shift in the air.

The familiar, slow prickle down his spine.

Someone was watching him.

Zoak stilled, his gait subtly shifting into a predatory glide as he scanned the street. The marketplace was alive with bodies—Torrians, Tesla Terrans, Aetherialans, and other species haggling, arguing, laughing—but nothing seemed out of place.

Yet the feeling didn’t leave.

If anything, it grew stronger.

His upper lip curled slightly, exposing sharp teeth, but he didn’t react. Didn’t let on that he had noticed. Instead, he shifted course and moved toward the nearest bar, a low-lit den tucked into the side of a curved stone structure. Its entrance was half-hidden, the doorway framed with sheets of tight cloth and old metal lanterns that flickered dimly.

Perfect.

Without hesitation, he stepped inside.

The air inside was thick with the scent of spice, alcohol, and the musk of too many bodies in close quarters. A mix of traders, smugglers, and locals were scattered across the room, clustered at the long metal bar or hunched over wooden tables, their voices a low murmur beneath the hum of alien music.

Zoak claimed a table in the farthest corner, his back to the wall.

From here, he could see everything.

A server approached—a lanky Tesla Terran male with cybernetic implants running down his arm. Zoak barely looked at him.

“Drink?” the server asked, voice bored.

Zoak lifted two fingers. “Something strong.”

The server nodded and left, but Zoak barely noticed.

His attention had locked onto a conversation to his right, voices carrying over the ambient noise.

“The Legion’s mobilized.”

Zoak’s jaw twitched.

“They’re heading straight for Cryon II.”

A low growl started deep in his chest. He had been hired to kill Dorane, but if Andronikos destroyed Cryon II first, it would steal his victory.

His hand flexed against the table, claws itching to tear something apart.

He was about to snarl a comment at the fools discussing his prey when the chair across from him scraped against the floor. Zoak’s eyes snapped up. Someone had sat down across from him.

Uninvited.

His fingers twitched toward his concealed blade, but the moment he met the female’s eyes, the movement stilled.

She was smiling.

Dark. Amused. Unafraid.

Zoak’s entire body went still.

Mei studied Zoak as she settled into the chair she had pulled out.

Up close, he was larger than she’d expected, his scaled hide a dark, mottled hue of red, black, and tan that blended into the dim lighting of the bar. His cloak draped heavily over his broad shoulders, but Mei’s sharp eyes picked out the subtle bulges of concealed weapons. A throwing knife on his right thigh, a blade strapped beneath his forearm, something heavy at his back—likely a plasma pistol.

She wasn’t concerned.

Her own weapons were just as well-hidden.

She waved off the server with a flick of her fingers, keeping her gaze locked on Zoak as she leaned back in her chair. She wanted to see how long he would tolerate her silence.

It didn’t take long.

Zoak’s jaw twitched, the muscles beneath his scaled skin flexing with irritation. She could feel his anger simmering, barely held in check, like a beast ready to lunge. He expected her to speak first.

She didn’t.

Instead, she listened.

Around them, the low murmur of conversation continued. She tuned in to the threads of information drifting through the smoky air—Legion forces moving, freighters being paid to smuggle goods out of the sector, a small dispute between two traders over stolen merchandise.

The only useful information was about the Legion. The rest was insignificant. Out of her peripheral vision, she noticed the bartender watching them with a wary eye. He was smart.

Mei had positioned herself at an awkward angle to the assassin, making it difficult for him to attack her without giving away his intention. Her back angled toward the wall, not the crowd, and she was completely relaxed—something that seemed to anger him.

Her lips quirked when he finally spoke.

“You’re either the bravest fool I’ve ever met…” His voice was low, rough, laced with the promise of violence. “…or the dumbest.”

Mei tilted her head slightly, unimpressed. She had heard worse insults. Zoak leaned forward, his sharp teeth flashing in the dim light.

“Do you know what I am?”

Mei was silent, studying his face with a raised eyebrow as if she were truly contemplating his question. Her gaze swept over his face, noting the scales, the way they changed colors as his anger grew, his slanted eyes and pupils with the film of a lid that slid over them, and the tapping of his pointed claws on the table that he probably wasn’t aware he was doing.

“The ugly version of the Geico talking lizard?” she finally answered.

Confusion flashed through his eyes before they narrowed at her nonchalant insult.

“Do you know what I’m going to do to you?”

Ah. Here we go, she thought with amusement .

“Please, enlighten me,” she requested with a graceful wave of her hand.

Zoak leaned forward, his forked tongue flicking out between his sharp teeth, his slitted pupils narrowing as he studied her face with unhurried deliberation. Mei could tell he wanted to savor this part—the build-up, the anticipation, the slow unraveling of hope in his prey’s eyes.

“First,” he murmured, his voice low, velvety, and dripping with promise, “I will find your family and friends.”

His claws tapped against the wooden tabletop, a slow, deliberate rhythm.

“I will slaughter your family, taking my time. I will take them off-planet and release them one at a time into space after I’ve killed you. I want you to know that they are my captives and what their fate will be before your death comes. I believe the first of them that I’ll take is the dark-skinned one I saw on Cryon II.” He smirked as if he were telling her a great secret. “Yes, you care for him. He seems… durable. I will make sure he feels every slice of my blade.” His smirk widened, revealing rows of sharp teeth. “I imagine he will scream in that sharp, guttural language you speak as I strip the flesh from his bones, bit by bit, until there is nothing left but raw, glistening sinew.”

Mei kept her expression neutral, watching his movements as he spoke. Learning more about him and his thought processes. So far, what she was seeing and hearing made her feel like she needed a shower. She fingered the hilt of the knife strapped below her knee as he continued, his voice almost caressing the words.

“The woman—the Turbinta Master who thinks she is my equal—will be next. Kella.” His smile grew colder as he rolled Kella’s name across his lips. “Oh, I think I will break her mind first. She cares for the dark-skinned Ancient Knight. It will be a sweet pleasure when she sees what I have done to him.” He exhaled through his teeth. “She has forgotten what it truly means to be a Turbinta assassin. I will remind her and take her status as a Master away from her, just as she took it from Tallei.”

His eyes darkened as he tilted his head. “And your other Ancient Knights? I will string them up like the relics they are, shattered and unrecognizable, a warning to anyone foolish enough to hope.”

“Then,” he whispered, his breath warm with the scent of fire and decay, “there is Dorane.”

Mei’s gaze dipped to the table when Zoak’s claws flexed against the wood, sinking in, splintering it slightly. Well, at least the bartender can add a tourist draw of the idiot Turbinta assassin who clawed up his table.

“I will let him fight.” He chuckled, dark and cruel. “Oh yes, I will give him hope. I will let him believe that maybe—just maybe—he can stop what’s coming. He will want revenge once I tell him that it was I who destroyed Cryon II, not the Legion.” Zoak’s slitted pupils flared with delight. “Then, I will snap his bones, one by one. I will cut into his back, peel the skin away inch by inch, carving through muscle until he can no longer stand.”

Zoak sighed in mock sorrow. “And just when his pain reaches its peak, when he realizes there is no saving himself, no saving you…” He gave her a slow, predatory smile, his fangs gleaming in the dim light.

“… I will slice open his chest and take his heart.” He rolled his shoulders as if savoring the thought. “I want you to see it in my hands, still beating, still warm, the last piece of him… before it stops.”

His voice dropped even lower.

“Then… it will be just you left.”

Zoak leaned back in his chair, a pleased expression on his face. Mei followed his movement. She briefly pondered if he was even aware that she or anyone else were still there. He was so lost in his vision of gore, in his own delight of what he was revealing, that she seriously doubted it.

“I will start with your hands,” he said, his voice almost affectionate now. “You are too fast, too precise. I cannot have that. The tendons—yes, those will go first.” He mimed slicing across her wrist, his claws tracing the air. “The fingers will curl inward… useless. You will feel every snap, every fiber shredding beneath your skin.”

His voice took on a feverish edge, his words flowing like poetry.

“Then your legs. I could simply break them, but that would be too kind.” His forked tongue flicked out. “No, I will carve away the flesh first, slowly, methodically, until all that remains is raw bone.” His breath hitched. “I wonder, will you crawl to him? Even with nothing left?”

He let the silence stretch, basking in the image of her broken body reaching for the lifeless shell of Dorane.

Zoak smiled wider.

“And then—ah, your face.” His eyes gleamed as he tilted his head in the other direction. “It is almost a shame, but I find that people look so much more honest when their skin is peeled away.” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “I will make sure you see it, every inch, before I take your eyes last.”

His fingers drummed against the table, a slow, expectant rhythm. Mei stared back at him, her lips twitching, her expression mocking and bored. She exhaled through her nose, slow, even. Then she tilted her head slightly, as if… thinking.

A beat passed and Zoak’s smile faltered.

Mei waved a dismissive hand, her lips pursed in mild irritation as she gave a slight shake of her head.

“You should really work on your delivery. It is very long-winded and boring.”

Zoak blinked at her response. A frown darkened his face. Mei decided seeing emotions on a lizard was more fascinating than his droning about the demise of herself and her friends.

Tiv and Yi are insectoid creatures and they are very expressive once you get to know them, she reminded herself. Still, they are insectoids, not lizards.

Mei shook her head again as she pulled back from her musing. Now was not the time to debate alien emotional responses. She let out a long, exaggerated sigh, shifting slightly in her seat.

“I understand what you were going for. The whole ‘I will tear you apart’ speech.” She gestured vaguely. “It was very dramatic. Very… drawn out. Somewhat creatively detailed, though a little repetitive and would be very time-consuming, not to mention messy.”

Zoak’s jaw twitched. She needed to know what would shake him to the point he would lose control. She needed to see how he fought. If given a chance, she would prefer not to do it in a crowded bar where innocent bystanders could be hurt. Hopefully, if he wanted to fight, they could take it outside.

Sitting back in her chair, she pressed what she hoped would be a button that would trigger the response she wanted—his loss of control.

Let’s see how an insult to his ego works.

“If you’re going to monologue, at least try to make it short and interesting. You’re just not that original and are trying way too hard,” she murmured, her eyes glinting with amusement.

Almost there, she thought when his nostrils flared.

“Do you always talk this much? Or are you just lonely? You should just get to the point,” she recommended. “It would save us both time.”

The corner of Zoak’s eye twitched. Mei was ready when he moved. She had reached his breaking point.

The flash of steel was fast—a knife flying straight for her chest.

Mei tilted back in her chair, the blade whistling past her, impaling into the wooden support beam behind her.

Zoak snarled and went for another.

Mei twisted the chair, shifting her weight with a smooth pivot, and he slammed his second knife into the leg of her chair instead of her body. Before he could react, she angled the chair, spinning the embedded blade out of his grip.

A hush fell over the bar.

Zoak’s sudden burst of violence had drawn unwanted attention. A few of the patrons began subtly shifting toward the exits.

Zoak’s lip curled. Mei could see that he wanted to kill her now. His gaze swept over the crowd. He didn’t understand why she was so confident. If this could be a trap.

Instead, he flipped the table.

Mei moved. She flowed like water; her cloak swirling as she twisted in an elegant dancer’s move, avoiding the crashing wood with ease. It was obvious Zoak was infuriated beyond rational thought by now. The colors of his skin were changing in a hue of reds and darker tans. He lunged, but she was faster.

She snapped her cloak outward and the flick of the material hit his face, forcing him to recoil just enough for her to slide out of reach.

The moment he reoriented, he changed tactics—going after a merchant who was too slow to get out of the way.

Mei closed the distance in two steps, her body moving in a blur.

Zoak’s right claw swung toward her ribs—she deflected it with an inside parry, redirecting his momentum downward. He swiveled and came around with his left blade up—she turned her hip, twisting her body just enough to avoid the lethal arc, then slammed her forearm against his wrist to knock it aside.

He tried to catch her with his tail—she anticipated it, dropping into a low stance, sweeping her leg under his, and forcing him off-balance.

As he stumbled, she used his momentum against him—pivoting and striking his knee joint with precision, making him stagger back.

Zoak hissed in frustration and pain. His movements were disconnected—dangerous, fast, but lacking a seamless flow. He relied on brute strength, overwhelming his opponents with relentless attacks, but he wasn’t efficient in close combat.

Mei had just learned everything she needed to know.

The shrill sound of whistles cut through the night, signaling settlement security forces approaching.

Zoak snarled, his eyes flashing. “This isn’t over.”

Mei watched as he turned and fled, vanishing into the back exit of the bar.

Mei exhaled slowly, collecting her cloak off the back of a chair and adjusting it to cover her body. She wasn’t worried about Zoak’s threat. She had what she came for.

She pulled her hood up, stepping aside and offering the bartender a quiet bow of apology before slipping through the shifting bodies.

Her gaze swept the area as she exited.

Zoak would retreat—at least for now. He would reassess, lick his wounds, and come back stronger. His ego had been wounded tonight, and his rage would only fuel his recklessness. If he was smart, he would try to eliminate them from a distance, but he wouldn’t. The fight tonight made the need for close contact imperative to his identity.

It also made him as dangerous as Andri Andronikos, because he would be unpredictable.

Mei let the thought settle as she faded into the shadows of the night.

Her path was clear. Now, she needed to share what she had learned and warn the others.