Page 11 of Bound to the Marak

She approached the food warily.

It was art.

Sliced meats that glistened like precious stones. Spiral-cut vegetables in vivid colors she couldn’t name. Floating orbs of golden liquid suspended in crystal glasses. Tiny, trembling squares of some gelled delicacy that glowed faintly when touched.

She hesitated.

Then hunger won.

Each bite was strange: delicate, unfamiliar, but divine. The raw meat melted like butter. The blue-green root was cold and sweet. One sliver of pale fruit left a trail of cold sparks along her tongue.

“I really hope none of this kills me,” she muttered, voice dry and thin.

When she finished, she curled onto the bed, legs pulled to her chest. The fabric was soft as breath, but the ache inside her would not ease.

Her thoughts wandered.

To Alfie. To the flat. To the sound of her phone’s ringtone. To the friends who might still be calling. Searching. Hoping.

To Earth.

To everything she’d lost.

And inevitably… tohim.

The masked one. The lord. The shadow that now owned her. Who walked with reverence and made entire rooms fall silent. Who’d looked at her once and brushed her hair aside with a gloved hand like she was something precious. Somethingclaimed.

What do you want from me?

What are you?

And, most terrifying of all…

What will you do to me?

She closed her eyes, but there was no peace.

Only the soft, glowing silence of the alien chamber that held her.

And the certainty that her life would never be her own again.

Seven

The throne room of theVelthrapulsed with life, though no breath stirred the air.

Karian,Marak of Malvar, sat at the heart of it—still, watchful, immense. He was Majarin, yes, but not like the others. Not like the Yerak, who served him with tireless precision. No—Karian was one of the Seven. AMarak. The ruling caste. The apex. A biological anomaly born once in every century, forged by the depths of Luxar’s oceans and shaped for dominion.

He did not reign by politics. He did not command by vote. Hewas, by law and nature, sovereign.

The chamber acknowledged him.

The walls themselves—grown from living coralsteel and memory-glass—shifted subtly in rhythm with his breath. Lights shimmered along the vaulted ceiling, trailing across rune-carved columns like bioluminescent waves through dark water. Every inch of the room echoed with the past: battles won, treaties sealed, rebellions crushed. Generations of Yerak had inscribed their loyalty into this place.

And in its center, the throne—a living construct, grown specifically for him—cradled Karian’s massive form.

His seven tentacles lay coiled beneath him, gleaming obsidian-black, sheened with iridescence, lined with suckered ridges capable of splitting reinforced alloy. Even at rest, they radiated controlled violence. His upper torso remained perfectly still, arms folded across his armored chest.

Stillness, for a Marak, was not passivity.

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