Page 56 of Claimed By the Vykan
Kyrax turned away before the feeling could intoxicate him more than it already had.
Armor responded to his summons as he crossed into the adjoining chamber. Segmented plates rose from the inlaid floor, unfurling like petals of dark metal. He stepped into them with the ease of long practice, letting his mind slip into the discipline of the ritual. Greaves sealed around his calves. The breastplate closed over his chest. Gauntlets locked into place.
The helm came last, lowering over his head with a muted hiss. The familiar restrictor field engaged, filtering his breath, blunting the reach of his venom. Where his skin had felt the open air of his chambers moments before, he now felt the contained pressure of the armor, the weight of duty sliding back over the part of him only Morgan had seen.
The Vykan Lord of the Void Bastion left that bare, unarmored self behind with her.
His human.
The communication summons pulsed through his inner display with impatient urgency—Council priority, encrypted to the Seventh Seal. He accepted it without outward reaction.
Light fractured around him.
The physical space of his strategy chamber bled into a ring of projected presence, the Council’s chosen mode when they could not, or would not, meet in person. Six thrones of dark metal formed a wide circle, each occupied by a towering figure in fullarmor, their masks casting them less as individuals and more as embodiments of power.
One seat remained empty.
Isshyr’s.
Good.
Vaelor spoke first, as Kyrax knew he would. The oldest of them, his mask swept back into horned arcs, its surface carved with deep, age-shaded sigils. His voice carried the slow weight of centuries.
“Kyrax Sagarnis,” Vaelor intoned. “You have been… busy.”
Kyrax took his place in the remaining projection seat, armor echo shimmering for a moment before solidifying. “Isshyr trespassed in my bastion and attempted to abduct what is mine,” he said. “I corrected the error.”
“You severed his hand,” another voice cut in—Selharyn, sharp as a blade. His mask was narrow, its eyes longer, angles predatory. “In the middle of your garden. Before witnesses.”
“Yes.” Kyrax’s tone did not shift. “I was generous.”
A low hum of discontent resonated through the circle.
“You are reckless,” Drava said. She was the only one of them whose mask bore a crest like layered feathers, etched with fine lines of light—remnants of some ancient ritual none of them recited anymore. “You know Isshyr will not forget this.”
“And he will think carefully before repeating it,” Kyrax replied. “The issue is not Isshyr’s pride. It is his violation of the Edicts of Sovereignty. You will address that before you address my response.”
“The issue,” Selharyn snapped, “is that you have bound yourself to a human.”
The chamber stilled.
The word hung between them like a dropped blade.
Kyrax felt the shift in their focus, the tightening of air, the way their attention converged on him with a weight that would have crushed anyone less than what they were.
Vaelor’s voice dropped. “We know what you have done.”
“Do you?” Kyrax asked calmly.
“The entire Veil felt your surge,” another Vykan said—Orath, his mask a brutal, angular construction with a single vertical slash of light for an eye. “We felt your venom field spike. We felt the resonance shift. You did more than allow the bond to deepen. You crossed a threshold.”
Kyrax did not deny it. “The attunement has progressed,” he said. “She endures. She thrives.”
Drava leaned forward, light catching in the carved grooves of her helm. “You mated with her.”
It was not a question.
Silence pressed in tighter.
