Page 2 of The Warlord's Secret Heir

Nobody who shouldn’t even know me.

And now I’m definitely awake.

“Absolutely not,” I say before the words are even all the way out of Commander Rolth’s mouth.

He’s got that I’m-tired-of-your-shit face on—the one with the deep crease between his brows and that little twitch in his left eyelid that means he’s deciding whether I’m worth the paperwork. Again.

“I’m not asking, Stonmer. It’s already assigned.”

“I specialize in post-limb loss psychokinetics, not babysitting homicidal alien POWs.”

“Alliance war hero,” Rolth corrects sharply. “And he’s not a prisoner. He’s flagged for PTSD risk, not criminal containment.”

“Oh good,” I deadpan. “So just a casual risk of being folded in half like a paper crane. Excellent.”

Rolth leans forward, hands steepled like a therapist about to tell me I have unresolved father issues. “This Vakutan—Kyldak—isn’t like the others. You know what that means.”

“Let me guess: he’s special. Exceptionally dangerous. Incredibly traumatized. And you’re handing him over to me with all the enthusiasm of a man tossing raw steak into a bear enclosure.”

“Your words, not mine.”

I huff, crossing my arms. The office smells like sterile desperation and overused recirc air. Rolth’s coffee is too strong; it punches through my sinuses like a sledgehammer. “Fine. But if he bites me, I’m getting hazard pay and a bottle of something expensive.”

“No biting,” he says. “He’s barely conscious. You’ll be easing him out of sedation in ninety.”

“Lovely. Wake the dragon.”

The lights in Bay Six are dimmed to reduce neural overload, but it doesn’t make the place feel any less ominous. The air in here is thick with the scent of medfoam, scorched metal, and something darker—old blood and burned ozone. It clings to my skin, metallic and bitter.

Kyldak lies in the center of the room like a fallen god, surrounded by beeping monitors and IV lines that pump a cocktail of sedatives and regeneration accelerants into his wrecked body. His golden scales are dulled, cracked in places like dried lava. The missing limb ports are covered in shimmering cyber sheaths, interfaces waiting to be activated.

I stand at the edge of his medbed, looking down at him.

“Alright, Goldilocks,” I murmur, reaching for the neural reactivation pad. “Let’s see what kind of monster you really are.”

The system whirs to life. His vitals spike. His remaining eye twitches.

He’s awake.

His chest heaves like he’s surfacing from deep water. The red eye snaps open, wide, wild. He jerks, tries to sit, snarls—a low, guttural sound that shakes through the room like a warning tremor before a quake.

“Easy,” I say, lifting my hands, keeping my tone dry. “You’ve had some work done. Try not to snap the cables.”

He lunges.

Or tries to. His limbs don’t respond the way he wants. The cybernetic leg twitches. The arm—missing. The eye—burns into me.

“Where—what is this?” His voice is rough gravel, shaking with fury. “Where is my arm?”

“Gone,” I say bluntly. “Blew off in your shuttle explosion. Same with the leg. And part of your face, but hey, you’ve still got your charming personality.”

He snarls again. “You mock me.”

“Not yet,” I shoot back. “You’re just catching the baseline sarcasm I use to survive twenty-hour shifts and war vets who think rage is a substitute for recovery.”

His eye narrows. “You pity me.”

“Nope. You’d have to be pitiful for that.”