Page 7 of Sold to the Nalgar (Stolen From Earth #3)

T he chamber was shrouded in dimness, the only light emanating from the soft red glow of the interface stones embedded in the desk before him.

Ancient curix metal formed the walls, silent and impenetrable, a sanctuary blocking out the ceaseless noise of Daxan beyond.

In here, the outside world ceased to exist. Only thought held sway. And command.

Zarokh leaned back in his chair, one arm braced across the edge of the table, the other tapping silently at the control pad. He scanned the latest movement reports from the outlands, noting the usual skirmishes, border infringements, and resource disputes. A tedious litany of lesser concerns.

But there was something else.

Something interesting.

A flagged entry.

His gaze sharpened, honing in on the anomaly.

A Hvrok, sighted in the northern ranges.

High in the snow-capped mountains, near the fractured spines of Dros-Kav.

A place rarely touched by civilization, a desolate expanse of ice and rock.

One of Vuvak’s scoutships had picked up wreckage—twisted metal buried in the frozen wastes—and visual confirmation of a winged figure moving through the storm.

Presumed crash. Presumed survivor.

His brow rose slightly, a flicker of intrigue.

The Hvrok had been thought extinct, a legend relegated to the dusty annals of history.

Their brutal civil war had left only wreckage and bones in its wake, a senseless self-annihilation.

Zarokh remembered the stories: winged assassins, unmatched in precision and power, destroying themselves in a clanless bloodbath.

That was decades ago, a forgotten chapter in the violent tapestry of their world.

Yet now, here, one of them had surfaced.

And not alone.

The report confirmed it: the Hvrok was seen with a human. A female. Shielding her. Carrying her.

Claiming her.

Zarokh dragged a clawed finger along the line of his jaw, his expression unreadable, a mask of controlled indifference.

Of course, Vuvak had sent a small strike force. Arrogant, impulsive, always chasing blood he didn’t know how to bleed. A predictable display of brute force over strategy.

There had been a battle. Short. Brutal. Inconclusive.

The Hvrok escaped on another ship—smaller, sleek, likely stolen from one of the ancient mining stations that dotted the region, hidden relics of a bygone era. The wreck was left behind, a testament to the failed ambush. The snow turned black with Nalgar blood.

Tch. Zarokh shook his head slowly, a subtle gesture of disdain.

A Hvrok still breathing was no accident. If one had survived this long, there was purpose behind it. Force. Rage. Will. And if such a being had claimed a human, there was reason beyond simple possession.

Let the lesser warlords burn themselves on that fire. Zarokh had other plans, more intricate schemes brewing beneath the surface.

A soft chime pulled his attention back to the present, a gentle intrusion.

Private feed. Internal channel. Urgent.

He activated it with a flick of his hand, a fluid motion of power.

And there she was.

His human.

Seated in her quarters, bent over the small table, slowly consuming the food placed before her. No restraints, no guards in sight. No visible fear.

He leaned in, eyes narrowing, his focus intense.

Every movement was foreign, alien in its grace. The way she lifted the spoon, measured, deliberate, almost hesitant. The way she sat, upright, steady, controlled. She wasn’t trembling; she wasn’t broken. Not yet.

She was adjusting, adapting, a testament to her unexpected resilience.

Most creatures would have crumbled by now, reduced to whimpering shadows of their former selves. But not her.

She’d made a choice, a conscious decision to survive.

A calculated one.

She wanted to stay conscious, wanted to remain in control. Even here, in alien space, in a place where nothing made sense, she was thinking, assessing, preparing.

He admired that.

Humans moved differently, spoke with more than words. There was tension in her spine, alertness in her fingers. She was soft, yes, but not weak. A dangerous combination.

He watched the curve of her body beneath the robe, the delicate angles of her face, the contrast of her pale skin against the hard metal of her surroundings. Her dark hair spilled around her shoulders like silk, a captivating cascade of darkness.

Rare. Beautiful.

And entirely his.

He studied her in silence, absorbing every detail, cataloging her essence.

What would she sound like when she spoke to him, her voice echoing in the silent chambers of his fortress? When she cried out, whether in fear or something else? What would she smell like beneath those robes, beneath his hands, her scent a foreign allure?

What would her blood taste like?

The thought coiled through him, a slow burn of heat rising from the depths of his being. Intentional. Controlled.

This was not lust, a base, fleeting desire.

It was ownership, a possessive claim that resonated in his very bones.

It was curiosity, a fascination with the unknown.

And, perhaps, something more dangerous, a seed of something unexpected taking root in the barren landscape of his heart.

The feed flickered, a minor disruption.

Still, he watched, transfixed.

Still, he did not look away, his gaze a possessive brand.

The feed hovered in the still air, casting a soft, shifting glow against the black stone walls. Zarokh’s gaze remained fixed on her—his human—long after the last of the footage played, the image burned into his mind.

She was not what he had expected.

She moved with composure, but not submission.

A quiet flame pulsed behind her eyes, a spark of defiance that intrigued him.

She wasn’t just enduring her captivity; she was thinking through it, strategizing, subtly probing the boundaries of her prison.

That made her dangerous, a force to be reckoned with.

But it also made her far more… compelling.

He barely registered the sound of the door sliding open until the presence made itself known, a subtle shift in the energy of the room.

“Forgive the interruption,” came Velkar’s voice, smooth and measured, careful not to overstep.

Zarokh didn’t turn, his attention still caught in the lingering echo of her image. “Speak.”

Velkar stepped into the chamber, his boots silent against the curix floor. He stopped just short of the projection, his eyes flicking once to the suspended image, his gaze sharpening as he took in the soft-clothed figure on the table. The human.

A long pause, a pregnant silence.

“Is it the case,” Velkar said at last, his voice carefully neutral, a delicate dance around a dangerous subject, “that you are… actually fascinated by that creature?”

Zarokh turned his head slowly, the movement deliberate, predatory.

The room chilled with the shift in his gaze, a palpable drop in temperature.

“That is my business,” he said, each word cut with steel, cold and precise. “And she belongs to me.”

Velkar inclined his head slightly, a subtle acknowledgement of the power dynamics at play. Not an apology, but a strategic retreat. He had known Zarokh long enough to read the lines he should not cross, the boundaries that could not be breached.

“Of course,” he said evenly, maintaining his composure. “None will touch her, or speak against her. Not while she wears your claim.”

Zarokh’s jaw flexed once, a subtle display of possessive tension, but he said nothing more on the matter, letting the unspoken threat hang in the air.

Velkar cleared his throat, shifting the focus back to more pressing matters.

“We’ve detected a disturbance in orbit. A flicker: sensor ghosts, cloaked ships perhaps.

Nothing large, but… irregular. It could be smugglers, opportunistic scavengers preying on the fringes of our territory.

Or something else, something more calculated. ”

Zarokh’s attention sharpened, his mind refocusing on the strategic landscape.

“Take a ship,” he said, his voice commanding, decisive. “Monitor it. Do not engage unless provoked. If it reveals itself to be hostile, burn it, eradicate it without mercy. The Dukkar transport is en route. I will not have interference.”

Velkar nodded, his gaze unwavering. “Understood. I’ll handle it, personally.”

Zarokh gave a short nod of approval, trusting Velkar’s competence and loyalty.

But Velkar lingered, hesitant to leave, sensing the underlying tension.

“…Vuvak is making noise again,” he added, almost offhandedly, as if it were a trivial matter.

“The Hvrok encounter humiliated him, a public display of his incompetence. His surviving warriors returned broken and blood-soaked, their morale shattered. He’s begun to gather numbers, rallying his forces.

Fewer soldiers, more noise, a desperate attempt to regain face. ”

Zarokh exhaled slowly through his nose, a subtle display of irritation.

“Another minor disturbance, an irritating distraction.”

He stood, the movement slow, deliberate, lethal, a predator rising to meet a challenge.

“If Vuvak makes the mistake of turning that noise into action…” Zarokh's voice cooled like descending ice, a chilling pronouncement, “...then we will crush him, utterly and irrevocably.”

Velkar’s mouth curled faintly at the edges, a subtle hint of satisfaction. “I will make preparations, ensuring our readiness.”

Zarokh turned back to the feed one last time, his gaze drawn back to her as if by an invisible force.

The image of her, still seated, still eating, still defiant in her quiet way, glowed in the low light, a beacon in the darkness.

Let the planet burn. Let the lesser warlords posture and bleed, consumed by their petty ambitions.

She was coming, and nothing would interfere with that.