Chapter nine
IMOGEN
My skin still tingles—not just from the residual pleasure of Krak’zol’s touch, but from something deeper: the venom working its changes through me.
I can feel it in the way water now feels like a second skin, in how the currents whisper secrets against my newly sensitive scales, in how the darkness of the Abyss no longer blinds me but reveals its hidden contours.
I’ve barely had time to process what just happened between us—that earth-shattering, universe-altering joining that’s left me feeling both impossibly stronger and terrifyingly vulnerable—before we’re racing through the palace corridors, following Zorath’s urgent lead.
“The Heart of the Deep,” Krak’zol explains as we swim, his powerful tail propelling him forward while I struggle to match his pace.
“It’s the source of all power in the Abyss—a crystal formation older than time itself. If Rynor corrupts it—”
“Let me guess. We all die horrible deaths, and he gets to rule whatever’s left?” I finish for him, surprised at how easily I’m slipping into the rhythm of his movements, my body instinctively mimicking his undulating pattern through the water.
“Worse,” he growls, silver eyes flashing.
“The Heart doesn’t just power the Abyss. It maintains the balance of the entire oceanic ecosystem on Sanos. If corrupted, it could poison the currents, kill the reefs that sustain our people, and collapse the underwater kingdoms that have existed for millennia.”
Well, shit.
That escalated quickly from “secure a new home for humanity” to “prevent ecological catastrophe across an entire planet.” The thought of all those ocean realms—places I’d barely glimpsed but had already begun to marvel at—reduced to dead zones makes my stomach clench.
If Rynor succeeds, there won’t be any safe harbor for the USS Legacy.
No future for the thousands of sleeping humans counting on me.
Just another poisoned ocean, like the one we left behind on Earth.
I didn’t cross galaxies just to watch history repeat itself.
We enter a vast chamber where several of Krak’zol’s warriors have gathered, their expressions grim.
Tension thickens the water, making it feel heavy against my skin.
I notice how they part for us—for me—with a mixture of curiosity and something that looks suspiciously like respect.
One warrior’s gaze lingers on my neck, where Krak’zol’s mark pulses with a faint luminescence.
He immediately drops his eyes and inclines his head.
That’s.
.
.
new.
“Report,” Krak’zol demands, his voice reverberating through the chamber.
Vara, the female warrior I’d met briefly before, steps forward.
“My King, Rynor breached the outer sanctum through the western corridor—a passage that should have been impenetrable. Our defenses were compromised from within.”
“How many guards were stationed there?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Vara’s eyes widen slightly, surprised at my interruption, but she answers promptly.
“Four of our strongest warriors, Lieutenant Vance. All found unconscious, not killed.”
Interesting.
I frown, military training kicking in.
“That’s... specific. Unconscious means either Rynor didn’t want to kill his own kind, or he needed to preserve something. Information, maybe?”
Krak’zol turns to me, one eyebrow raised.
“What are you thinking?”
I move forward, studying the holographic map Zorath has projected into the water.
It shimmers with glowing detail, showing the palace’s labyrinthine structure.
“In my experience, when someone knows exactly where to hit and how to disable specific defenses, it’s because they have inside information.” My finger traces the path of Rynor’s attack.
“These aren’t random strikes. They’re surgical. Precise.”
The warriors exchange glances, and I catch the subtle shift in their posture—a newfound wariness that spreads through the room like ripples in still water.
“You suggest treachery within my court?” Krak’zol’s voice drops dangerously low.
“I’m saying the evidence points that way.” I meet his gaze steadily.
“Rynor knew exactly which corridors to target, which guards would be where, and precisely how to disable your security measures. That’s not luck or even good reconnaissance. That’s someone feeding him information.”
A murmur ripples through the gathered warriors.
Krak’zol’s jaw tightens, the ridges along his spine flaring slightly—a tell I’m starting to recognize as agitation.
“If what you say is true,” he rumbles, “then the traitor could be anyone.”
“Not anyone,” I correct, studying the pattern of breaches more carefully.
“Someone with access to your security rotations, someone who knows the palace intimately.” I pause, noticing something.
“These attacks all happened during shift changes. Who would know exactly when those occur?”
The room falls silent.
I can practically hear the mental calculations happening as each warrior considers the implications.
“Only the high council and my personal advisors have access to that information,” Krak’zol says slowly, his silver eyes narrowing.
I scan the faces around me, training kicking in.
Years of reading micro-expressions during interrogations has made me sensitive to the tells of deception.
Most of the warriors look appropriately concerned or angry.
But there’s one face that stands out—not for what it shows, but for what it carefully doesn’t.
Nira, the gentle healer, stands slightly apart from the others.
Her expression is perfectly composed, but her fingers twist nervously around a pendant at her neck.
When Zorath moves to examine another section of the map, her eyes follow him with a flash of.
.
.
something.
Fear?
Concern?
“What about communications?” I ask, keeping my tone casual.
“Has anyone been sending messages outside the normal channels?”
Zorath stiffens almost imperceptibly.
If I hadn’t been watching for it, I would have missed it entirely.
“Our communications are secure,” he responds, a touch too quickly.
“I personally oversee all outgoing messages.”
Perfect position to filter information, I think but don’t say.
Instead, I nod thoughtfully.
“Then perhaps we should use that to our advantage. Feed false information through the official channels and see where Rynor strikes next.”
Krak’zol’s eyes meet mine, understanding dawning.
He catches my subtle glance toward Zorath and inclines his head slightly.
We’re on the same wavelength.
“An excellent strategy,” he agrees, his voice betraying nothing.
“Zorath, prepare a security briefing indicating that we’re moving additional forces to protect the eastern chamber. Make it appear as though we’re anticipating Rynor’s next move there.”
“At once, my king.” Zorath bows and moves to leave.
“And Zorath,” Krak’zol adds, his tone deceptively casual, “bring Nira with you. Her healing skills may be needed for the wounded.”
Nira’s head snaps up, her eyes widening fractionally before she schools her features.
“Of course, my king.”
As they leave, I move closer to Krak’zol, lowering my voice.
“You saw it too?”
“The way she watches him? Yes.” His hand finds the small of my back, a light touch that sends warmth cascading through me.
“And the way he carefully avoids looking at her. There’s history there.”
“More than history,” I murmur.
“Did you notice her pendant? It contains a fragment of the same crystal type as his ceremonial dagger. In human terms, that’s practically wearing someone’s class ring.”
A low rumble of amusement vibrates from his chest.
“Your eyes miss nothing, little warrior.” There’s pride in his voice that makes something flutter in my chest.
“Now we wait.”
We don’t wait long.
Within an hour, our scouts report Rynor’s forces mobilizing toward the eastern chamber—exactly where our false information indicated we’d be reinforcing defenses.
“The trap is sprung,” Krak’zol growls, satisfaction evident in his voice.
“Vara, take your warriors and intercept Rynor’s forces. Keep them occupied, but do not engage directly. I want them distracted, not defeated.”
Vara pounds her chest in acknowledgment and departs with a contingent of warriors.
“And now for our traitor,” I say quietly.
We find Zorath in his private chambers, frantically gathering what appears to be travel provisions.
He freezes when we enter, his expression cycling rapidly through shock, fear, and finally resignation.
“My king,” he says softly, lowering his head.
“I expected you sooner.”
“Did you?” Krak’zol’s voice is deadly calm.
“Just as Rynor expected our forces in the eastern chamber?”
Zorath flinches but doesn’t deny it.
“You don’t understand—”
“Then explain,” I interject, stepping forward.
“Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you betrayed your king, your people, and everything you’ve sworn to protect.”
His eyes flick to mine, surprise evident at my intervention.
“It’s not that simple, human.”
“It never is,” I agree, crossing my arms.
“So make it simple.”
Before he can respond, the door opens again, and Nira enters.
She stops short at the sight of us, her hand flying to her mouth.
“No,” she whispers.
“Zorath, no.”
The look that passes between them confirms everything.
It’s not just guilt I see in Zorath’s eyes—it’s anguish, love, and desperation.
“He has her sister,” Zorath says finally, his voice breaking.
“Rynor captured Nira’s sister months ago. He threatened to—” He can’t finish.
Nira moves to his side, her hand finding his.
“We were bonded in secret,” she explains, her voice trembling.
“Against tradition, against protocol. Zorath was your advisor, and I was just a healer. Such a union would never have been sanctioned.”
“So Rynor discovered your secret and used it against you,” Krak’zol concludes, his expression unreadable.
Zorath nods miserably.
“He promised to release her sister if I provided information. Just small things at first—guard rotations, security protocols. Then larger things. Each time, he swore it would be the last.”
“But it never is with blackmailers,” I murmur, familiar with the pattern from countless hostage situations back on Earth.
“I knew what I was doing was unforgivable,” Zorath continues, his shoulders slumping.
“But I couldn’t—we couldn’t—let Bethra die. She’s all Nira has left of her family.”
The chamber falls silent.
I watch Krak’zol, curious how he’ll respond.
In his position, many human commanders would execute the traitor on the spot, regardless of motivation.
The cold calculus of leadership often demands such harsh justice.
But there’s more at play here than simple betrayal.
I can see it in the way Krak’zol’s gaze shifts between Zorath and Nira, in the subtle softening around his eyes.
He understands what it means to be driven by a bond, to be willing to sacrifice everything for the one who holds your heart.
He’s feeling it now, with me.
“Where is Bethra being held?” I ask, breaking the tense silence.
Zorath looks up, confusion evident.
“In Rynor’s fortress, beneath the Sundered Reef. But why—”
“Because we’re going to get her back,” I state simply, as if it’s already decided.
I turn to Krak’zol.
“Rynor’s forces are currently engaged with Vara’s warriors, which means his fortress is likely undermanned. If we move quickly, we could extract Bethra and turn this situation to our advantage.”
Krak’zol studies me, his silver eyes gleaming with something that looks suspiciously like admiration.
“And what advantage would that be, Imogen?”
I allow myself a small smile.
“Zorath has been feeding Rynor information for months. Rynor trusts that information implicitly. If we control what Zorath tells him...”
“We control Rynor’s next move,” Krak’zol finishes, a predatory grin spreading across his face.
“Clever, little warrior. Very clever.”
Zorath looks between us, disbelief etched on his features.
“You would... use me as a double agent? Rather than execute me for treason?”
“Death is easy,” I shrug.
“Making amends is harder. This way, you get a chance to right your wrongs and save Nira’s sister. Seems like a better outcome for everyone.”
“The traditional punishment for treason is execution,” one of the elder warriors interjects, his voice hard with disapproval.
“Our laws are clear.”
Several others murmur in agreement, their gazes fixed on Krak’zol, waiting for his judgment.
This is a test, I realize—not just of Zorath’s loyalty, but of Krak’zol’s leadership and my influence over him.
Krak’zol straightens, his massive form seeming to fill the chamber.
The ridges along his spine flare, his tail lashing once with barely contained power.
When he speaks, his voice carries the weight of ancient authority.
“Our traditions exist to protect our people and preserve our way of life,” he states, each word measured and deliberate.
“But a king who cannot adapt, who cannot show wisdom in the face of new challenges, is no true king at all.”
He moves to stand beside me, his hand finding the small of my back in a gesture that feels both protective and declarative.
The message is clear: we stand united.
“Zorath has committed treason, yes. But his motivation was not malice or ambition—it was love. A bond as sacred as any in our traditions.” Krak’zol’s gaze sweeps the room.
“I will not punish loyalty to one’s mate with death. Instead, I offer redemption through service.”
A ripple of surprise moves through the gathered warriors.
Some look uncertain, others approving.
I notice how they look at me differently now—not as an outsider, but as someone with influence, with power.
As their queen.
The thought should terrify me.
Instead, it settles over me with surprising rightness, like slipping into water that’s the perfect temperature.
“Prepare a strike team,” Krak’zol commands.
“We move on Rynor’s fortress at nightfall. Zorath and Nira will accompany us—their knowledge will be essential.”
As the warriors disperse to carry out his orders, Krak’zol turns to me, his expression softening slightly.
“You’ve changed the course of Leviathan justice today, Imogen. Not many could have done that.”
I shrug, trying to ignore the warm glow his approval kindles in my chest.
“I just applied a little human diplomacy to an underwater problem. Besides, executing your best intelligence asset seems like a waste of resources.”
His laugh is a low rumble that I feel more than hear.
“Always the tactician.” His clawed hand gently tilts my chin up, his silver eyes searching mine.
“But there was more than strategy in your advocacy. There was compassion. It’s... not a quality prized among Leviathans. Yet I find myself valuing it in you.”
The admission feels weighty, significant.
Before I can respond, he continues, his voice dropping to a whisper that sends shivers across my skin.
“We move against Rynor tonight. The battle ahead will be dangerous, possibly deadly. If there is anything left unspoken between us, Imogen, now is the time.”
My heart hammers against my ribs.
There’s so much unsaid, so much I’m still processing: The changes in my body, the bond between us, the way I’m starting to think of the Abyss as home rather than hostile territory, the terrifying reality that I might be falling for him—this alien king who claimed me as his own.
But what comes out is much simpler.
“Just don’t die,” I tell him, my voice rougher than intended.
“I’m just starting to like you, and I’d hate to have to rule this underwater kingdom all by myself.”
His answering smile is fierce and possessive, full of promise.
“As my queen commands.”
Later, returning to my chambers to prepare for the mission, I find a small, luminescent pearl resting on my pillow.
It glows with an inner light that shifts and pulses like a tiny captured star.
No note accompanies it, but I don’t need one to know who left it there.
I lift it carefully between my fingers, marveling at how something so small can feel so weighty with meaning.
The pearl’s surface catches the light, refracting it into tiny rainbows that dance across my palm.
Whatever this is, it’s not just decoration—it’s something precious, something meaningful.
My throat tightens unexpectedly as I close my fist around it.
I’ve received medals, commendations, even the occasional token of appreciation from comrades, but nothing has ever felt like this—like holding a piece of someone’s heart in my hand.
I don’t know what this pearl means in Leviathan culture, but I understand what it means coming from him.
This is Krak’zol—fierce, domineering, ruthless Krak’zol—acknowledging my judgment, thanking me, perhaps even telling me he’s proud.
“Damn you,” I whisper, but there’s no heat in it, just a strange, unfamiliar warmth spreading through my chest that I’m not quite ready to name.
I slip the pearl into the small pocket near my heart, where I can feel its gentle pressure against my skin as I move.
It shouldn’t matter this much.
It shouldn’t make me feel this way.
But it does.