Page 2

Chapter 2

Cirdox

I prowl the edge of the docking bay, my wings twitching with a restlessness that goes deeper than mere impatience. The emptiness inside me grows with each passing day—an ache that even the freedom of deep space can't ease anymore. Orion Outpost's sterile atmosphere burns my senses. The bay churns with its usual chaos—cargo loaders whining their protests, crew members from a dozen species barking orders in competing languages, and beneath it all, the suffocating weight of regulations that makes my wings itch for open space.

This sanitized hellhole is the last place I want to be, but necessity drives us here. We need supplies, information—and most importantly, a safe route for our cargo. Still, every moment spent in this bureaucratic prison sets my teeth on edge. I flex my talons, fighting the urge to tear through something. The sooner we finish our business here, the better.

The lower level repair bay's a far cry from Kyor's top-tier Engineering Dock facilities. I watch a Croakan mechanic struggle with an outdated plasma torch, the tool sputtering and dying in his webbed hands. The sight brings back memories of that human engineer, Tasha, whom Kyor helped frame for attempting to murder the Morcrestian High Chieftain. Look where that got him—rotting in a prison cell when his political games finally caught up to him. Now I'm stuck balancing his responsibilities, trying to keep the Brotherhood intact while maintaining our legitimate courier contracts with the STI. This is what we're reduced to—unreliable parts and second-rate equipment that could leave us stranded in deep space. The thought sends another wave of restless energy through my wings. We can't afford weakness, not with the Black Eclipse circling like vultures, waiting for any sign of vulnerability.

My talons click against the grimy floor as I survey our options. The Croakan working on our shield couplings at least seems to know what he's doing, his methodical approach suggesting experience despite the subpar tools. Still, beggars can't be choosers when you're flying with the wrong side of the law.

"Void Reaver's ready for departure, Captain," Zara announces, materializing at my side. Her russet fur bristles with barely contained energy, tail twitching in a way that betrays her own unease. My first officer's been with me long enough to read my moods, and lately, she's been watching me more closely than usual. "Cargo's secured, systems check out. We can leave this glorified tin can whenever you give the word."

I straighten from the engineering console. "Good. The sooner we're back in open space, the better." I pause, studying the subtle signs of wear in her usually immaculate fur. She's been pushing herself hard since Kyor's arrest, trying to compensate for our dwindling resources. "But first, get down and verify those shield coupling repairs. That Croakan seems competent enough, but I want your eyes on the final check. Last thing we need is another burnout mid-jump."

The familiar hum of the ship's systems washes over me as I make my way to the command deck, my wings flexing instinctively as I pass through the doorway. The vibrations should be soothing—they usually are—but lately even this comfort feels hollow. The emptiness inside grows stronger each day, a primal warning I can't afford to heed. As I settle into the captain's chair, my hand brushes over the worn armrest, tracing grooves etched by years of command decisions—some I'm proud of, others that still haunt my dreams.

But lately that freedom feels more like a burden. Our last three shipments were intercepted by Black Eclipse fighters who seemed to know exactly where to find us. Routes that should have been secure, known only to Brotherhood captains, suddenly crawling with hostiles. The pattern is too precise to be coincidence. Someone is feeding them information—someone on the inside. I run a hand along my jaw, feeling the tension building there. With Kyor imprisoned and the Brotherhood already fracturing, a traitor in our ranks could destroy everything we've built. The thought sends a spike of discomfort through my blood. I need to gather the other captains, find out who's been compromised.

Ten minutes later, Zara's voice rasps through the comm, carrying an edge of static that sets my teeth on edge. "Captain, repairs are complete, but..." She pauses, and I can picture her running a hand through her hair—a nervous habit she's never managed to break. "Ren here says the power fluctuations in the aft section are still... unpredictable."

I rake my fingers across the worn arm of my command chair, the familiar texture grounding me as I push aside the weight of uncertainty. "Get it stable enough for jump. We're not staying in this cesspit any longer than necessary." A few months ago, we had access to the finest repair facilities in the quadrant. Now we're patching systems together with salvaged parts and sheer will. My gaze flicks to the empty co-pilot's seat, the hollow ache in my chest deepening. Every Kyvernian knows the stories—the mate-bond that either completes us or destroys us. I've seen warriors fade into nothing, consumed by bond-sickness when fate denied them. The thought sends a shiver down my spine. Shaking it off, I focus on the present. "Plot a course for the Nebula Nexus when you return—and Zara," I add, my voice softer, "double-check those shield harmonics yourself. I trust your eyes more than these dock rats."

I shake off the dark thoughts, though the emptiness inside seems to mock my attempts at denial. Out here in the lawless expanse, I'm safer than most. Pirates don't have the luxury of fate or destiny. We take what we need to survive, and leave the rest to the void. The Brotherhood needs my focus, especially now with Kyor imprisoned and the Black Eclipse circling like vultures. I can't afford the distraction of what I might be missing, what the growing emptiness in my chest might mean.

The bridge doors hiss open as Zara returns to her station. Her eyes meet mine, holding a note of concern she doesn't quite manage to hide. My first officer's known me long enough to recognize when something's off, and loyal enough to always mention it. "Sir? Are you alright?"

I force a smile, though the gesture feels stiff. "Just thinking, Lieutenant. Carry on." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but it's better than admitting to the strange emptiness that's been haunting me lately, the feeling that something's missing—something I can't quite name.

The ship lurches as we prepare to move to the open hatch. My wings rustle with restless energy. Lucky for me, being a pirate means I'm far from the civilized worlds where I might catch that fatal scent—the one that would start a biological countdown in my veins. A Kyvernian's fated mate might be poetic in the old stories, but in my line of work, that kind of vulnerability would be a death sentence.

Still, the need whispers sometimes, but I've learned to embrace the solitude and find strength in independence. No mate means no weakness. No ticking clock to drive me to abandon everything I've built here. Each successful heist, each clean getaway—proves I made the right choice leaving House Thar'Kal's suffocating protocols behind. The emptiness is a fair trade for freedom.

An alert chimes, drawing my attention to the cargo manifest. The luminore we're smuggling—worth enough to keep half Outer Orion's medical facilities running for a month. That's what matters now: the mission, the crew, the freedom to chart our own course through the stars. Not some biological imperative that would only end in disaster. The thought steadies me, gives me something concrete to focus on beyond the constant ache in my blood.

I allow myself a grim smile as we edge toward the launch zone. Better to be alone than chained to fate. Besides, what are the chances I'd find my mate out here among the star-scattered void? Nil. And that's exactly how I like it. The lie feels hollow even as I think it, but I've gotten good at ignoring uncomfortable truths.

The ship's console beeps another warning about proper departure protocols. I suppress a growl of frustration at Orion Outpost's endless bureaucracy. Even leaving this sterile hellhole requires jumping through hoops. I force my attention to the nav charts, fighting against both my instinctive disdain for their regulations and an unsettling restlessness that's been growing stronger lately. Something feels off, but I can't afford to dwell on it now. There's work to be done.

"Status report, Grig," I bark, my voice gruffer than intended as I address my first helmsman. The strange tension coursing through me makes it harder to maintain my usual control, but I refuse to let it affect my command.

The wiry Muspel looks up from his console, his fine features pinched with concern. His pale blue skin seems to shimmer under the bridge lights as his long fingers dance across the controls. "Captain, got a ping from our Driftspire contacts." He hesitates, mandibles clicking softly. "Black Eclipse ships have been spotted in Kyor's old territories. They're not even trying to be subtle about it anymore."

Through the viewport, the metallic walls of Orion's docking bay loom close, maintenance drones scuttling across their scarred surface like mechanical insects. "Any specifics on their plans?" I growl, gripping the back of his chair. The burning in my blood makes it harder to focus, but I force myself to concentrate on the immediate threat.

"Not yet, but—" A warning light flashes across his screen. "Power fluctuation in the port engine. Compensating." His fingers move with practiced precision, mandibles clicking in concentration as he adjusts our approach vectors.

"What's our current standing with the other captains?"

He hesitates, multi-jointed fingers dancing across the controls. "Shaky at best. Two supply routes gone dark since yesterday. Word is some of the smaller crews are talking protection deals with the Eclipse." His mandibles twitch. "Makes sense, way things are going. Eclipse has the numbers now."

The ship shudders as we clear the dock's magnetic field. I slam my fist against the nearest console, earning a startled look from my helmsman. "Dammit! We can't let those vultures destroy everything we've built. The Brotherhood isn't just about profit—we're the only ones standing between the Black Eclipse and total control of the luminore trade."

Zara's voice cuts through the tension. "Final systems check complete," my first mate reports, her fingers flying across the controls with practiced efficiency. "Ready for departure on your mark, Captain."

I'm about to give the order when a station-wide alert cuts through our comm system. The harsh buzz makes my wings twitch with irritation, the sound grating against my already frayed nerves.

"ATTENTION ALL VESSELS. THIS IS ORION OUTPOST SECURITY. ALL DEPARTURES ARE TEMPORARILY SUSPENDED. REPEAT: ALL DEPARTURES ARE SUSPENDED. WE ARE CONDUCTING A SEARCH FOR A CLASS-A FUGITIVE. MAINTAIN YOUR CURRENT POSITIONS AND STAND BY FOR INSPECTION."

"Well, that's inconvenient," Zara mutters from her station, ears flattening against her skull. Her russet fur bristles with barely contained tension. "This would never happen on Kyor's watch."

She's right, and the knowledge burns like acid in my gut. With Kyor imprisoned, our entire network is unraveling. The Brotherhood was meant to protect independent smugglers from the Black Eclipse's stranglehold. Now those same captains are running scared, signing away their autonomy for the Eclipse's false promises of protection. As if the syndicate won't bleed them dry with "protection fees" before forcing them to run illegal weapons or worse, trafficking alongside the luminore meant for those in need.

Through the viewport, I watch security drones swarm across the docking bay, their scanning beams cutting through the artificial twilight like predatory eyes. Armed Orion Security officers and Planetary Police prowl between the ships in their pristine white uniforms, methodically violating each vessel with their "routine" inspections. My wings flare instinctively, membrane stretched taut with ancient warnings of danger that even generations of civilization can't breed out. No matter how many times I visit legitimate ports, some part of me will always be the hunted, not the hunter.

"How long until they reach our section?" I ask, keeping my voice level despite the tension coiling in my gut.

Grig checks his display, long fingers moving with precise grace. "At their current pace... fifteen minutes, maybe less." His pale blue skin seems to shimmer with anxiety despite his controlled tone.

I drum my fingers against the armrest, talons leaving fresh marks in the worn material. The STI would love nothing more than to find our cargo hold full of unregistered luminore. Officially, they claim the strict control is to "prevent abuse"—but tell that to the desperate clinics in Outer Orion dying for supplies. The STI's chokehold on medical resources is just as cruel as the Black Eclipse's protection rackets. Both of them creating dependants—one through policy, one through force.

But making a break for it now would only paint a target on our backs. My talons dig deeper into the armrest. One wrong move and we'll have both the STI's corporate death squads and the Eclipse's hunters on our tail. Sometimes the hardest part of being a predator is knowing when to play prey.

"Sir," Zara's voice drops to barely above a whisper. Her tail has gone completely still—a sure sign she's spotted trouble. "Someone's in the Void Reaver's maintenance tunnels. They're heading for cargo bay three."

Grig reaches for his stunner, but I wave him down. "No." My voice comes out rougher than intended, hackles already rising at the thought of an intruder on my ship. "I'll handle this myself. We're running a skeleton crew, and I won't risk anyone else getting caught in Orion's security net. Besides, none of our contacts here know your faces—let's keep it that way."

The emptiness in my chest pulses with renewed intensity, making it harder to think clearly. "Zara, keep me updated on those security sweeps. Grig, warm up the engines—quietly. We might need a quick exit."

The corridor to the cargo bay seems longer than usual, emergency lights painting everything in shades of blood and shadow. My boots ghost silent against the deck plates, years of military training taking over despite the growing discomfort in my blood. Could be a Black Eclipse assassin, finally making their move. Or an STI agent, here to finish what they started with Kyor. Might even be one of those augmented hunters from the Rim worlds. Whatever the threat, picking this moment is the last thing I need.

"Security teams have cleared Bay 17," Zara whispers through my comm. "They're moving faster than expected."

The maintenance shaft access panel shows subtle signs of tampering—professional work, the kind that speaks of experience and technical skill. My finger tightens on the trigger of my blaster as I track the shadow of movement ahead. A refugee wouldn't have these skills. Neither would most bounty hunters.

"Bay 16 clear. Captain, they've doubled their sweep teams."

A whisper of movement catches my eye—there, in the shadows where the maintenance shaft curves. At first it's nothing, just a shift in the recycled air, but then—

The scent hits me like a plasma blast to the chest.

Sweet. Wild. Dangerous. My senses explode into overdrive, every molecule of that intoxicating fragrance searing through my bloodstream like liquid fire. The world around me crystallizes, shadows peeling back as my pupils blow wide, revealing details I shouldn't be able to see. That scent... it's impossibly complex, layers of information my brain can barely process, each breath drawing me deeper into a predatory focus I've never experienced before.

"Bay 15 clear. They're deploying scan drones now."

Tactical awareness shatters like glass in my mind. Think. Focus. Analyze. The words scatter like debris in a solar wind. This is older than thought, deeper than strategy—this is pure instinct crackling through my nervous system like lightning. My fangs extend with an audible click, filling my mouth with the taste of metal and need. The hollow ache that's been carved into my chest for so long suddenly blazes with terrible purpose.

Hunt. Chase. Claim.

The commands pulse through my blood like a war drum, each beat driving rational thought further into darkness. My muscles coil tight enough to snap, every fiber of my being oriented toward that scent like a compass finding true north.

"Captain," Zara's urgent whisper barely registers through the roaring in my ears. "They're entering Bay 14. Three minutes at most."

The scent slams into me again—a lethal cocktail of danger and sweetness that sets every enhanced nerve ending on fire. Female. Hunter. Each breath tells a story of predatory grace and deadly competence. But there's something else, something that makes my wings snap wide with a crack that echoes through the corridor, shredding years of careful control like paper.

The truth hits harder than a gravitational surge.

Mate.

The word detonates in my mind like a thermal charge, reducing decades of discipline to ash. My muscles lock, combat training warring with an instinct older than stars. This isn't happening. Can't be happening. Not when the Brotherhood balances on a knife's edge. Not when one wrong move means death.

But biology doesn't care about timing or tactics. The burning in my veins transforms into a supernova of completion, threatening to bring me to my knees. I grab the nearest support beam, talons carving trenches in metal as if it were flesh. The mate-bond pulses with each heartbeat, each breath, a siren song I can't silence.

Focus. The tactician in me still functions, barely, cataloging threats through the haze of need. Unknown intruder. Potential hostile. Security breach. The facts line up like targets, but each one dissolves under the assault of primal recognition. Deal with the danger first. Process the cosmic joke later.

If I survive that long.

"Bay 13 clear! Captain, they're bringing in bio-scanners!"

My hands shake as I holster my blaster. A soft scrape of metal, followed by an intake of breath that bypasses all reason and strikes straight at my core. Mine. The thought should terrify me. Instead, it feels like the first true thing I've ever known.

"Captain!" Zara's whisper turns desperate. "They're starting Bay 12. Orders?"

The imperatives clash like warships: The Brotherhood's survival. Our luminore cargo—medicine for thousands. Security forces closing in. And her presence, pulling at me with the force of a collapsing star.

The scent of her threatens to override strategy, but centuries of discipline hold—barely. She moves like a predator, even in hiding. The security response is too aggressive for a simple trespasser—bio-scanners, doubled sweep teams. They're hunting someone valuable, someone with information worth killing for.

With the Black Eclipse making power plays across the sector... this could be the advantage we need. Protection for her, intelligence for us. The thought helps cage the raging instincts, barely.

"Grig, maintain standard approach. Zara, prepare for inspection protocols." My wings flex as I force myself to think. "Have the Driftspire backup route ready."

"But Captain, the security teams—"

"NOW!" The word emerges as pure growl. "Vent atmosphere in cargo bay three and seal it. Anyone down there stays trapped until we land."

I sprint for the bridge as engines roar to life. Warning klaxons mean nothing compared to the pull toward cargo bay. My mystery passenger—my mate—isn't going anywhere. Not now. Not ever.

"Break dock! Get us out of here!"

The Void Reaver lurches free, warning lights flooding every console. Let them try to stop us. I've claimed countless prizes from space over the years, but this... this transcends possession. The bond pulses between us like a living thing, even through sealed bulkheads.

For now, I have a ship to command, a crew to protect, and a mate to claim—whether she knows she's mine yet or not.