Page 6 of Ravaged By the Reaper

HAKTRON

The moment our eyes lock, my blood erupts to life.

It’s not adrenaline—it’s something deeper.

Primordial. It’s like my veins light on fire and my heart begins its own war-drum beat.

At that one glance, I know she’s real. Flesh and bone, not specter or dream.

Everything my dreams whispered about, this woman is more.

Her silver hair is plastered to her face, tangled with sweat, darkened with dried blood, yet she holds it like armor. Her ice-blue eyes are molten with fury—a blaze in human form. Beneath the violence in them, though, I see something that pulls at me: steel-willed defiance laced with fury.

She’s not a fragile thing crafted for companionship. She’s forged of storm and iron.

The corridor around us is littered with bodies.

Coalition soldiers—some cleaved open, others melted into the walls, still twitching in convulsions of death.

The acrid stench of burned plasma, half-charred flesh, and ozone fogs the air.

Around me, flames flicker and wail, licking at the bulkheads, casting strobing shadows through smoke-thick darkness.

But she moves through it like a dancer in a blood-red waltz.

She steps forward first. It's not hesitation—it’s recognition. The way her blade flashes in her hand shows she’s already hunted and not uncertain. She’s here, utterly aware. And my gaze doesn’t stray to the dying forms around us; instead, it stays locked on her.

I’ve never fought beside anyone—not ever. I like clean chaos, bloody interrogations, solo raids where fear is the only partner I ever needed. But something in her, right now, changes that fundamental truth. It shifts the ground under me. Her presence promises something I didn’t know I craved.

She flicks the tip of the blade. Sparks of blue plasma reflect in her eyes just as the lights up the hellscape around us.

Blood spatters across her cheek, glowing red in the firelight.

Bodies part before her, as if the corpses sense her will and stand aside—either that, or they’re already indistinguishable from slag.

I step forward. My scythe swings through the air, chain rattling like war music. I hear the central bone spurs in my shoulder chafe through my armor—they’re always present. Pain is no distraction. Now, pain is focus.

One soldier charges, weapon clawed at an odd angle.

I don’t pause. I sidestep, halfway turning my head to watch her.

She ducks low, power blade arcs upward—it’s a brutal strike.

I’m still watching her through the corner of my vision when I unleash Bloodfont, chain whipping around the soldier's neck, dragging him down until the sound is not a man’s cry, but a scream of torn meat.

She’s still poised. Her grip is tight. Her breathing steady—just quick enough. Judging from the way she doesn’t look at me but at the battlefield beyond, I know she’s checking for threats. Yet I feel her awareness includes me. She senses my shifting presence.

I advance. Her silver hair burns streaks of starfire in the dim red light. She’s drawing power from chaos—not overwhelmed by it. She exudes calm amid the storm.

Her eyes flick to me briefly. Just once. It’s a full beat, but it fractures time.

I don’t hear orders in my brain. Just a deeper, powerful call tethering me to her. It isn’t a word yet. Not love. Not 'mate'. Something older and more dangerous. An ignition.

I clear a throat, low and gravelly. “Your name,” I rumble. Not loud, but steady.

Her chin lifts, shoulders tightening. She meets my gaze, ice blue against red static.

Now she knows I’m here.

We stand in the rupture of chaos. I taste sweat and ash in my mouth. My hands glisten with the sheen of spilled blood and spent energy. The metallic tang of it seeps into bone and muscle. I breathe it in.

I don’t wait for her to respond. We don’t need words yet.

I take the first strike—not at her, but at the swirling enemies beyond. Power blades clash. Plasma arcs. Metal screams.

I fight beside her, not in front, not behind, but beside. Our rhythms align seamlessly. She flows, I follow. I push, she parries. She slices, I shield. The blade she holds isn’t delicate. It's precise, brutal. My scythe is savage, unstoppable.

Every flick of her wrist, every muscle tension… I see it all. I match her strikes. Not because she needs saving, but because I need her. And I know now—I’ll go to hell’s door and back just to stand beside her.

Soldiers fall. Sparks rain. Bodies clatter down the corridor like heavy raindrops. The roar of the inferno behind us fades under the thunder of battle.

She cuts down one with a graceful arc. He drops. She doesn't break pace. She eyes me again, this time not with surprise but recognition.

I think I see a smile—but then she’s moving on, drives her blade forward and I follow with Bloodfont’s hook to finish the job.

We fight. Not as predator and prey. Not even as lovers. As a single violent storm given shape.

I don’t know her name.

But I know I’m hers.

We move like a storm unleashed, as if we’ve rehearsed this on battlefield astral planes before our souls ever met.

My scythe, Bloodfont, arcs through the air—its chain humming a predator’s tune.

It plunges clean through a guard’s chest. Rip.

Warm mist and gore arcs out, salty and metallic.

I taste it, nearly gag, but the fight propels me forward like addiction.

The chain of Bloodfont whips taut beneath her boots, and she pushes off my shoulder with the graceful strength of a trained dancer. She soars, blade raised, and two more soldiers crack in half with one brutal slash each. The second’s scream is cut short and wet, dissolving into the roar of war.

Her back lands squarely against my shell.

We spin—in perfect synchrony. My head whips to track her motion, and for the length of a breath, the world fractures around us.

Sparks from overhead wiring rain like embers.

Alarm lights flicker red. Smoke coils through the corridor in lazy waves.

I taste ozone and gunpowder. My legs are shaking, blood pounding behind my ears.

The truth crashes in: This is home. The primal joy in battle—once a solo song in my soul now becomes a duet. I grin, revealing rows of fangs. It’s savage, hungry, intoxicating. I’ve known lust. I’ve known rage. And I’ve known hunger. But this… this is something holy in its ferocity.

Soldiers collapse. Their weapons fall in puddles of steam and blood. Bodies litter the floor like toys abandoned mid-fight. Yet we don’t slow.

She jerks backward, flipping her blade in a sweeping half-circle. The flat of the power sword collides with a charging laser trooper’s breastplate—again, lights flicker red as it comes undone. Her smile is feral, fierce.

I taste steel and sweat. My tongue presses between my teeth.

“You fight well,” I breathe, voice low but cracking with disbelieving awe.

She doesn’t answer, doesn’t look at me. Her eyes flick to the next threat—another guard blocking our exit, jump pack flaring.

I let out a guttural laugh. The sound echoes. Nobody interrupts.

Her blade glows. She cleaves downward. The body joining the ground feels like fallen stone. She turns—half to me—blade raised and shining like truth.

I swing Bloodfont high, chain thrumming. We converge on the guard. He attempts to fire but doesn’t—starts gurgling instead as broken metal collapses over him.

The silence that follows is heavy. Just the hiss of smoke. The crackle of a dying fire.

I pull Amara close—no soft apologies, just the pressure of bodies entwined in shared survival. She leans in, glowing with soot and blood and firelight.

“You’re different,” I murmur—no question. Statement.

She tilts her head and smiles again, but it’s quiet. Tender, almost. Then she turns and strides forward, blade still humming.

I follow.

We emerge into another war corridor. The hallway branches toward life-support and control arrays. Alarms still shriek. The air is brittle. Burning metal flakes drift in the halo of strobe lights like blood-snow.

“Where to next?” I ask, voice rough with fire.

She holds out a finger and points down the west wing. Not speaking, but intent on the path.

Then she looks at me again. Not with question, but confidence. Permission. And I nod.

We move as one.

Every step, every turn, every swing is a living bond. A beating prayer. I feel her heart thrumming against mine—and it matches.

I’ve never known peace before this moment. Not among blood, not on burning fronts, not beneath the distant lull of the Void.

But this, this is what peace feels like.

Fury shared with a partner who doesn’t break under war’s weight.

I grip Bloodfont tighter. My body hums.

I’m home.

The world explodes around us—but I catch it all in a crimson slow-motion surge. A blue-white bolt of plasma tears into Amara’s shoulder. Her blade slips from her fingers. She staggers. The world tilts—gravity bending, the corridor tilting, everything bleeding into every other second.

I don’t even think. Instinct floods me like molten iron.

I roar—a guttural sound that rattles ribs and reverberates off blood-slick walls—as I throw my body between her and the blast. Flesh and bone armor smolder and fuse where flame sears across my back. I taste burnt hair and ozone. The flames crackle—hungry, roaring.

Every step is agony, every heartbeat reverberating more than the blast just was.

“I—that—” I gasp, breath ragged. Words are wasted beneath the heat.

Outside, soldiers falter. Four of them charge blindly through the light, and I swing Bloodfont. The chain arcs wide. The blade rips through the first, shimmering in the hazy red lights as armor and bone fracture.

I drag her backwards, pressing her closer. Even wounded, she breathes steel. Her blood, still warm, drips onto my forearm. The scent is copper-heavy and scented with iron—a corporal jolt to my senses.

She meets my gaze. Pain is carved into her features, but she doesn’t wilt. She doesn’t falter. If anything, her eyes snap steel. The cut across her shoulder bleeds and smoke curls where plasma ignited the clothed flesh, but she stands. Whole.

I realize how much I need that sight.

We move together again—less dance, more natural reckoning.

She wields her blade like a living thing, sharp precision honed in the fire.

When a Coalition trooper raises a guard dog at us, she wrenches left and slashes.

The dog shrieks, gushing black bile as its legs buckle.

We pivot around the shriek, armor slamming, concrete shuddering beneath our feet.

I backtrack through debris—wires, sparks, the heavy scent of burn oil. Everything I step on seems to hiss.

An offhand grunt of surprise reaches me—another squad trying to regroup. I snarl. My blood hammers in my ears, every nerve on edge—alive.

I shove the girl behind me—still bloody, still deadly. Her breathing is ragged. Her blade hums. The buzz of electricity lingers in the air—a suspended charge.

“Tell me your name,” I rasp, kneeling beside her and catching her gaze. The corridor’s red light paints her face scarlet—her wild, frustrated fury scattering across her cheeks.

She simply angles her jaw at me. No words—just a locked glare of pride and pain stitched together with resilience.

I nod—like that’s all I need.

A corner busts open. Rebel engineers emerge—terrified, halfway toward surrender. I raise my blade at them. Instinct says, kill them. But another thought—softer, deeper—hammers inside.

I lower Bloodfont.

But keep it drawn.

They scuttle back—the scream of shattered metal behind them. We continue.

The corridor opens into a junction. Panels flicker. Ventilation systems choke in soot. Pressurized ducts gush steam. Heat pours out—it’s like standing inside a star.

The roar behind us returns—amplified. Not just alarms. Not failures. Something else.

The station’s center is collapsing.

This hallway is moving, effervescing, burning.

I gather Amara’s arm. “This way.” I can’t tell where ‘this way’ actually is, but that fire behind us is relentless.

She nods, still without words. She trusts the pull between us.

Pain and adrenaline course through me in red waves. I can almost taste her blood on my lips—salt, copper, human fire. It should disgust or distract me—but it doesn’t.

It anchors me.

There’s no soft landing here. No happy reunion.

Just a battlefield—red, smoky, brutal.