Page 4 of The Warlord's Secret Heir

Patient: KYLDAK, Commander

Species: Vakutan

Status: Phase 3 Recovery (Limbs Lost: L Arm, L Leg; Ocular Implant Pending)

Notes: High Aggression Flag. High Pain Tolerance.

I grunt. They always slap that “high aggression” tag on us like it explains everything. Maybe they’re right.

I flick to the personnel roster and scroll down to her name.

Jaela Stonmer

Lead Cyber-Physical Therapist

Certifications: Kinesiology, Psych Engineering, Biomech Mechanics, Interfacing Systems

Patient Retention: 98.7%

Discipline Notes: 3 (Sarcasm in Reports, Unauthorized Modifications, Called Rear Admiral “An Inflatable Meat Sack”)

A low laugh shakes out of me. “Inflatable meat sack,” I mutter.

I thumb open her intake notes. No fluff. Her handwriting’s neat, efficient, like she slices through bullshit for fun. One line jumps at me:“Vakutan subject presents with resistance. Disarm with challenge, not comfort.”

“She studies war machines like they’re puzzles,” I growl.

Another voice answers. “She studies you.”

I flinch. The voice is mine, but not mine. That part of me that’s been watching her since she waltzed into my rage like it was just another chore.

I dismiss the file. My fingers twitch—metal-tipped, humming from the interface. I hate the tingle. Hate the absence of heat from flesh. The quiet static it makes in my brain.

Ping.

A message lights red in the corner of my vision.

Marnik, 2nd Legion Commander (Ret.)

Encryption Verified.

[URGENT]

Kyldak—keep your mouth shut. You want to protest? Do it with a shovel. The Alliance is rounding up anyone who speaks out. Last week? Ghedak disappeared. No trial. Just gone. Delete this after reading.

I don’t delete it. I burn it into memory.

My fists clench. Heat erupts in my chest. Ghedak was vocal. Peace was his obsession. And now he’s dust.

A sound builds in my throat—deep, guttural, volcanic. I shove off the cot. The synthetic leg skids slightly on the smooth tile, whining in complaint. My whole balance shifts and I slam a hand into the wall to stay upright.

“Cowards,” I snarl. “Silence us while we bleed for them.”

The tray by the wall gleams like a challenge. Nutrient gels, interface calipers, a sleek diagnostic tool that smells faintly of ethanol and plastic. Too clean. Too smug.

I seize the tray and hurl it with everything I have.

It smashes against the wall with a crash that rings in my bones. Steel and synth crack apart. Bits scatter, skitter across the floor like fleeing bugs.