Page 45 of Sold to the Nalgar (Stolen From Earth #3)

T he great hall erupted into chaos. Red-armored soldiers surged forward like a living tide, energy blades humming and flashing in the smoke-streaked air. But Zarokh—Zarokh didn’t move like a man. He moved like something carved from fire and fury.

Cecilia had never seen anyone fight like that.

No, not fight. Destroy.

He wove between his enemies with inhuman speed, every strike precise, brutal, final.

A soldier lunged—Zarokh sidestepped, caught the man’s wrist, and shattered it with one twist before driving his claws through the soft seam of his helmet.

Another soldier came from behind, blade raised.

Zarokh pivoted, caught the blade barehanded, and used it to slice the man in two.

And all the while, he was silent. Focused. Terrifying.

Cecilia’s breath caught in her throat. She wanted to look away—wanted to remember who she was, who she’d been before this—but she couldn’t. Watching him fight was like watching a storm rip through the earth. It was beautiful.

“You see?”

The voice came from her side. One of Zarokh’s soldiers, a tall Nalgar with black hair braided tight, leaned toward her. His voice rumbled through the translator pendant around her neck. “This is why we follow him. He is the strongest. Always has been. Always will be.”

She swallowed hard, unable to answer. Her pulse roared too loud in her ears.

But she understood. There was no need for speeches or politics.

Zarokh commanded loyalty because he was loyalty’s living, breathing definition.

Every movement said it: I will protect you.

I will kill for you. I will burn the world before I bow.

Cecilia’s gaze snapped back to him as the last of the red guard fell, screaming, clutching a torn-open throat. Zarokh stood alone in the center of the carnage, blood slick on his chest, his breathing steady as if he hadn’t just slaughtered a dozen men.

And then Vuvak stepped forward.

The old warlord was massive, his body weathered by age and battle, but his arrogance rolled off him like smoke. He wielded a long, crackling energy blade that hummed with lethal promise.

“You’ll die here, Zarokh,” Vuvak spat. His voice was thick with fury.

Zarokh only tilted his head, a ghost of a smile curving his mouth. “Try.”

The clash was blinding. Sparks screamed where their blades met, energy singing in the air. Vuvak roared, swinging with the weight of someone desperate to prove something. But Zarokh—he was faster. Every strike was measured, merciless.

For a moment, Cecilia thought Vuvak might last.

He didn’t.

The fight ended almost comically —with Zarokh ducking one clumsy swing and burying his claws into Vuvak’s chest, ripping the blade from his hand. The old warlord gurgled, staring down in shock as blood poured from him. Then he collapsed like a felled tree.

Silence fell.

All that remained was Velkar.

Cecilia’s gaze shifted to the traitor—Zarokh’s once-trusted second. Velkar stood near the throne, his face pale, his hand shaking on the hilt of a blade he didn’t dare raise. His eyes flicked from Zarokh to the corpses strewn across the floor, and fear rolled off him like a stench.

Zarokh moved toward him, slow and deliberate. His voice was low, almost pitying.

“It is a shame I have to kill you. You were a good subordinate. You should have stayed that way.”

Velkar’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

“You were a fool not to see it,” Zarokh continued, his tone like steel scraping bone. He turned his head slightly, just enough for his red eyes to find Cecilia through the haze. “She didn’t weaken me. She made me stronger.”

Cecilia felt her breath stutter. The words cut through her like fire.

Velkar’s lips parted as if he meant to beg—meant to crawl, to plead for his treacherous life. But Zarokh did not give him the chance.

With a blur of motion, Zarokh surged forward. His claws flashed, a dark arc through the air.

Velkar’s head separated from his body in a clean, brutal slice. It rolled across the stone floor with a dull thud , coming to rest at the base of the shattered throne.

Silence fell.

Cecilia stared at the head, at the lifeless eyes that had once glared at her with disdain, and waited for the familiar jolt of horror. For the sharp breath and the cold nausea she should have felt.

It didn’t come.

Instead, there was only a stillness inside her, a strange clarity that felt like both power and surrender. She wasn’t shocked. Not really. Because this—this blood, this violence—was life here. On this world. Amongst these creatures. It was survival, and it was brutal, and it was honest.

And she was one of them now.

Her gaze shifted to Zarokh as he stood in the middle of the carnage, chest heaving, his black hair soaked with blood and sweat. He looked every inch the warlord—the predator, the ruler—and yet when his crimson gaze slid to hers, something dark and protective burned there.

A wild realization bloomed in her chest.

She would protect him too.

With equal ferocity.

Zarokh turned toward his gathered warriors. His voice, low and edged like a blade, cut through the silence:

“Any who dare stand against me will meet the same fate.” He gestured briefly to Velkar’s head. “But loyalty—” his voice hardened, deepened, “—loyalty will always be rewarded.”

A murmur rippled through the hall. Knees bent. Heads bowed. The blood-soaked warriors of the Nalgar dropped to one knee as one, their gazes fierce and unwavering.

Cecilia felt her heart pound. She wasn’t one of them—not in blood, not yet—but something in her stirred at the sight. Because loyalty meant everything here. It meant survival. And she understood that now.

Zarokh’s gaze found hers again. There was something like pride there, something raw and consuming. He reached out, the gesture subtle but commanding, and she stepped toward him without hesitation.

She was his. And somehow, impossibly, this blood-streaked hall, this world of fire and ruin, felt like home.