Page 36 of Sold to the Nalgar (Stolen From Earth #3)

T he war chamber thrummed with tension.

Iron sconces cast a red, flickering glow against the obsidian walls.

At the center of the chamber stood the war table—carved from the spine of a stonebeast and lacquered in the black blood of a hundred victories.

Around it, the high commanders sat or loomed—battle-scarred, hulking Nalgar warlords, each dangerous in his own right. But only one ruled them.

Zarokh stood at the head, silent.

Velkar entered without flourish, dust streaking his crimson armor, eyes hard.

“We followed the eastern ridge down to the old chasms,” he said. “Vuvak’s numbers have tripled.”

The room stirred—grunts, curses, murmurs.

Velkar continued, “He’s recruited the Bone Claws. And the Skarn horde.”

A shift of weight from the warlords. Even Zarokh raised a brow.

“He’s not just gathering strength,” Velkar said flatly. “He’s positioning himself. Waiting. He wants your seat.”

Zarokh remained quiet for a moment, letting the heat rise. Letting them wonder.

And then he spoke—soft, low, lethal. “He may want it. He’ll die trying to take it.”

Across the table, Bokut shifted, folding his massive arms. His scarred lip curled.

“There was a time,” Bokut drawled, “you’d have crushed such a rebellion before it began. Before you were distracted.”

The air in the chamber went still.

Zarokh didn’t blink. “Say that again.”

Bokut sneered. “You’ve gone soft, warlord. Ever since you brought that little Earth-bred thing into your sanctum. Whispering about her. Keeping her locked away. We’ve seen the signs.”

A low growl rippled through the room—not from Zarokh, but from Velkar.

Zarokh didn’t growl.

He moved.

One moment, he was still. The next, he was across the table.

Bokut never stood a chance.

Zarokh seized him by the throat, lifting the hulking warrior clean off the ground. Bokut’s boots kicked the air, hands scrambling, the cartilage in his neck crunching beneath Zarokh’s fingers.

“I have spilled blood before your ancestors ever hatched,” Zarokh hissed, eyes glowing like coals. “Do you think a human could dull my blade? Do you think desire weakens me?”

Bokut gargled.

“I could fuck her on this table and still tear your spine out before I finish.”

With one sharp movement, Zarokh crushed Bokut’s throat.

The body hit the stone with a wet thud.

The chamber was silent.

Zarokh turned slowly, sweeping his gaze over the council. “Anyone else feel I’ve grown... soft?”

No one answered.

He looked at Velkar. “Have his remains burned. Feed them to the spinebeasts.”

Velkar bowed his head. “As you command.”

Zarokh returned to his place at the head of the table.

“The next time one of you questions my judgment,” he said, voice calm again, “remember what I am. I do not lose. I do not bleed without permission. And I do not forget.”

He leaned forward, placing his hands flat against the stone.

“Vuvak is a gnat. When I choose, I’ll crush him like one. But for now... let him gather. Let him hope. His fall will be that much sweeter.”

No one spoke as the council adjourned.

And when Zarokh left the chamber, it was in silence—his dominance absolute, his throne undisputed.

But even as the doors sealed behind him, Velkar’s words gnawed like bone-shard.

Distracted.

Perhaps. But she was no distraction.

She was the beginning of something else.

And that... was far more dangerous.