Page 27 of Yasmin and the Yeti (Alien Abduction #25)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
T he journey back to the clan caves passed in a blur of fury and purpose.
Rhaal took the surface route, moving like a ghost through the snowy mountains, his big body cutting through drifts that would have stopped lesser beings.
His mind was a cold, focused blade, replaying everything he had seen in that hidden laboratory.
The desecration.
The poison.
The casual disregard for all his people held sacred.
He had slipped away unseen, fighting the urge to tear apart every scientist in that facility with his bare hands. It would have been satisfying—gods, it would have been satisfying—but also foolish. This was not a threat that could be eliminated by one warrior’s rage, no matter how justified.
This required the clan.
As he crested the final ridge overlooking the clan caves, he paused. The concealed entrance looked so small, so unassuming, concealing the richness of life in the caves. For the first time in years, he was not approaching as an exile, but as a returning warrior bearing critical intelligence.
And for the first time in years, he felt no hesitation about his welcome.
The sentries spotted him immediately. They straightened, recognizing his silhouette against the evening sky. One of them raised a horn to his lips, sounding three short blasts—the signal for an urgent arrival.
He descended the slope in long, powerful strides.
His eyes glowed with an intensity that made the younger warriors step back as he approached.
They had heard the stories of the shadow-dweller, the exile who had returned with a human mate.
But none of those stories had prepared them for the cold, controlled fury that radiated from him now.
“The Elders,” he growled, his voice a low rumble that brooked no argument. “Now.”
The sentries nodded, one breaking away to lead him through the network of tunnels. He followed, his senses automatically cataloging changes since he’d left—new carvings on the walls, different arrangements of the communal spaces, the unfamiliar scents of cubs born during his absence.
But one scent cut through all others—Yasmin. Faint but present, her unique sweetness called to him, pulling at something deep in his chest. He wanted nothing more than to follow that scent, to find her, to see with his own eyes that she was still alive, still fighting.
Instead, he clenched his jaw and continued toward the council chamber. Time enough for reunions after he had delivered his report.
The formal council chamber was a vast, circular cavern, its walls polished to a gleaming smoothness over generations.
Crystal formations had been carefully cultivated to provide light, casting a blue-white glow over the gathering.
The Elders sat in a semicircle on raised stone seats, their faces solemn as he entered.
Njkall occupied the central position, his massive frame somehow even more imposing in this formal setting.
To his right sat Broc, his status as a respected hunter evident in his position among the Elders despite his relative youth.
The sight of him sent a flicker of old pain through his chest, quickly subsumed by the greater urgency of his mission.
“Rhaal returns to us with news,” Njkall announced, his deep voice filling the chamber.
He moved to the center of the chamber, standing tall before the assembled leaders of his clan. He did not bow or offer formal greetings. This was not a time for ceremony.
“I have found the source of the poison in our waters,” he said, his voice a controlled growl that carried to every corner of the room. “Offworlders. They have established a hidden laboratory in the mountains.”
A murmur ran through the Elders, quickly silenced by Njkall’s raised hand.
“Where is this laboratory?” the clan leader asked.
Rhaal’s eyes flicked briefly to Broc before answering. “They have tunneled into the sacred Valley of Echoes.”
The chamber went utterly silent. Even the subtle sounds of breathing seemed to stop as the full implication of his words sank in.
“Impossible,” one of the older Elders finally whispered. “The valley is protected by our ancestors. No offworlder would dare?—”
“They have done more than dare,” he cut in, his control slipping for just a moment, revealing the rage beneath.
“They have carved tunnels through our burial grounds. They have set up their machines and their chemicals where our dead rest. They are seeking the source of sothiti, experimenting with our plants and fish, and dumping their failures directly into the river.”
He turned to face Broc directly now, his next words aimed like a spear at his former brother’s heart.
“Their main tunnel passes directly beneath Ayla’s resting place.”
Broc’s face transformed. The permanent lines of sorrow that had marked him since Ayla’s death deepened into something harder, colder.
His eyes, usually dulled by grief, sparked with a fury that matched Rhaal’s own.
He rose slowly to his feet, his injured leg causing him to sway slightly before he caught his balance with his staff.
“You are certain of this?” Broc asked, his voice dangerously quiet.
“I saw it with my own eyes. They have maps. They know exactly what ground they violate. They simply do not care.”
Broc’s knuckles whitened around his staff. For a moment, he thought he might snap the wood in two.
“Then they must be removed,” Broc said, each word precise and final. “Immediately and completely.”
“Wait,” cautioned one of the older Elders, raising a gnarled hand. “These are offworlders with Imperial technology. We must consider?—”
“Consider what?” Broc interrupted, turning his fierce gaze on the Elder. “That they poison our waters? That they defile our sacred dead? That they threaten the source of sothiti itself?” His voice rose with each question. “What is there to consider except how quickly we can destroy them?”
Njkall’s deep voice cut through the tension. “Broc speaks with the heat of personal grief, but his conclusion is correct. This is not merely an encroachment on our territory. This is an attack on our very existence. Do you know who is behind the lab?”
He shook his head. “I saw a Kaisarian demanding progress. My initial assumption was that the Empire was behind it, but…”
“But there are many who seek that knowledge,” Njkall agreed. “How many personnel?”
“I counted twelve scientists, perhaps five security personnel. Their defenses are minimal—they rely on secrecy, not strength. They believe themselves undetected.”
“And their equipment?” asked another Elder, a female with practical, assessing eyes.
“Advanced, but focused on research, not defense. They have energy shields at the entrance, but once past those…” His lips pulled back, baring his fangs. “They are soft creatures in a hard place.”
Njkall nodded slowly, his expression grim. “Then we have an advantage in numbers and strength, if we can neutralize their technological edge.”
“We have something else,” he added, his voice dropping lower. “Righteous fury. They desecrate what is sacred to us. They poison what sustains us. They threaten what we love. No technology can match that.”
A murmur of agreement ran through the chamber. Even the cautious Elders were nodding now, their initial hesitation overcome by the enormity of the violation.
Broc stepped forward, moving with painful deliberation until he stood directly before Rhaal. For a long moment, they simply looked at each other, years of shared grief and mutual blame hanging between them like a physical barrier.
Then Broc did something that sent a shock through the entire chamber. He placed his hand on Rhaal’s shoulder, the gesture both a warrior’s acknowledgement and a brother’s touch.
“You found them,” he said simply. “You tracked the poison to its source when others failed. You saw what they did to…” His voice caught briefly. “To her resting place.”
He stood very still, afraid that any movement might shatter this fragile moment of connection.
“We will remove this stain together,” Broc continued, his voice strengthening. “Side by side, as we once fought. For Ayla. For your mate and unborn cub. For all our people.”
Something ancient and wounded inside his chest eased slightly at those words. He raised his own hand and placed it on Broc’s shoulder, mirroring the gesture.
“For Ayla,” he agreed, his voice rough with emotion. “And for all our people.”
Njkall rose to his feet. “It is decided, then. We strike at this abomination with all our strength. We will travel to the Valley tomorrow and strike when darkness falls tomorrow night.”
His eyes came to rest on Rhaal and Broc, standing together in the center of the chamber. “You two will lead the assault. Your personal stake in this makes you the most motivated, the most dangerous. Plan your approach. Choose your warriors. Leave none of these defilers alive.”
He inclined his head in acknowledgment, a cold satisfaction settling in his bones. This was right. This was necessary. This was justice.
“Before we disperse,” Njkall added, his tone softening slightly, “Rhaal, your mate has been asking for you. The Healer says she is stable but weak. The sothiti helps, but…”
The Elder left the sentence unfinished, but he understood. Time was not on their side. Not for Yasmin, not for their unborn cub, not for their people.
“Go to her,” Broc said quietly. “We will begin planning. Join us when you can.”
He nodded, grateful for the understanding. Without another word, he turned and strode from the chamber, following the scent that had been calling to him since he arrived.
As he moved through the tunnels toward the Healer’s cave, he felt a strange sense of completion. For years, he had been fractured—exiled from his clan, estranged from his brother, haunted by his failure. Now, in the face of this new threat, those broken pieces were aligning once more.
He was a warrior of the clan again.
He and Broc stood as brothers once more.
And he had a mate and cub to protect, a purpose that burned brighter than any guilt or grief.
The offworlders who had dared to defile his sister’s resting place and threaten his mate’s life would soon learn what it meant to face the full fury of a Hothian warrior with nothing left to lose and everything to fight for.