Page 24

CHAPTER 24

T he Lyxai was dying.

Smoke hissed from a cracked console as Kyhin wrestled with the controls, his armored hands flying over the interface, rerouting systems that were collapsing faster than he could stabilize them. The cockpit lights flickered and surged in violent bursts, casting jagged shadows over the curved black metal.

Outside, Anakris filled the viewport: looming, massive, hostile. Its thick atmosphere churned with violet and grey storm clouds, and below, the land was a cracked, volcanic maze of ash-black stone and jagged mountains. The red sun was sinking fast, its last angry light bleeding across the sky like the end of a war.

The holo screamed warnings: structural failure, engine core breach, atmospheric re-entry too steep.

He ignored them all.

The right engine was aflame. Plasma residue had eaten through the primary shield array. Emergency thrusters sputtered, then failed altogether.

He could feel the ship slipping from his control.

He growled, deep and low, locking the auxiliary dampeners and kicking the stabilizers into override. It jolted the ship hard, metal groaning, lights flaring, everything shaking as though the vessel itself was trying to tear apart in midair.

Too fast. Too hot. Too low.

He fired the reverse thrusters—nothing.

“Eject,” he barked, slamming the emergency command.

With a deafening crack , the burning engine detached, spiraling in a trail of fire. Seconds later, it exploded high above the atmosphere, a burst of light and debris that momentarily lit up the sky like a second sun.

Even without the failing engine, the descent was brutal.

They clipped the edge of a mountain, tearing through rock, ripping hull plating in a scream of metal. Sparks and smoke filled the cockpit. The ship pitched hard to the side—Kyhin slammed against the seat restraints as alarms wailed through his helm.

He gritted his teeth and dragged the Lyxai back under control, pulling her nose up with a force that strained the entire frame.

Outside, the terrain rushed up at them—black cliffs, narrow ravines, sharp stone spires reaching like claws.

There was no time to think.

Only act .

He rotated the ship into a controlled spin—blades of stone shearing along the hull—and aimed for the flattest surface he could find: a rocky basin wedged between two cliffs. He lowered landing struts manually, half-melted mechanisms groaning in protest.

And then— impact.

The ship slammed into the ground with bone-shattering force, skidding, dragging, and bucking against the earth. Metal screamed. Fire burst from a ruptured panel. One of the forward struts snapped, and the entire vessel listed hard to the side, almost flipping.

But it held.

Barely.

Smoke curled into the cockpit. Systems went dark.

The only sound was the deep, pulsing moan of the cooling core as the ship finally— mercifully —settled into stillness.

Silence.

Kyhin remained strapped in place, muscles tense, heart pounding with a rhythm that matched the dim emergency lights. Through the haze of smoke and the cracked forward glass, he could see Anakris in full now—its dark surface stretching into a hellish, mist-wreathed expanse. Thunder rolled in the distance.

The Lyxai was wrecked.

Maybe beyond repair.

And now they were on Anakris.

He knew the world by reputation alone— Nalgar territory . Blood-drinkers. Warlike. Highly dangerous. Creatures that moved in packs and tore apart anything they didn’t recognize.

He had no illusions.

If they’d seen his descent, they would come. Curiosity first. Hunger after.

But let them come.

He would destroy them if they stepped one foot near his ship.

Near her .

His thoughts turned sharply to his human. Still locked in her quarters. Still strapped to the emergency restraints. Fragile. Soft. Her fear would be rising now, sharp and hot, pouring into the air like a signal flare.

She was utterly defenseless.

But she was his .

And he would kill anything that touched her.

She would be frightened. She would cry. But he would go to her. He would comfort her. Touch her gently. Let her know: she had nothing to fear —because the most dangerous thing on this world had already claimed her.

He unstrapped himself, rising from the command cradle as the floor groaned under the strain.

He would send a signal. Contact his most trusted. Offer a fortune for retrieval and silence.

But until then…

They would survive .

And no one— no one —would take her from him.