The Varang were never meant to ally with sky-people, yet the tides of Pandora had shifted. Rumblings of greater threats—rogue fauna, rival clans, and the RDA’s relentless hunger for unobtanium—forced an uneasy truce between two powers that had no reason to trust one another. The RDA wanted soldiers; the Varang wanted territory and technology.

And so, beneath the violet glow of Pandora’s dawn, the treaty was sealed.

The RDA base—cold steel, harsh lights, and mechanical breathing—opened its armored gates to the towering Varang warriors. Among them walked Wukul, broad-shouldered and almost silent, his steps echoing through the hangar like the steady beating of a war drum. His eyes—sharp, molten gold with an animalistic glint—scanned the unfamiliar structures with restless curiosity. He had been chosen to represent his clan, to show strength, to negotiate, to watch the sky-people for weakness.

He expected resistance, fear, perhaps awe.

He did not expect you.

You were simply doing your work—tablet in hand, hair pulled back, trying to look composed as the Varang delegation passed through. The moment Wukul’s gaze found you, something inside him jolted. A hitch in his breath. A pull inside his chest he didn’t have a name for. The clang of machinery and the babble of RDA soldiers faded; all that remained was the soft rhythm of your steps as you approached to check their biometrics.

Your voice—calm, professional—rose to greet the visitors. But Wukul heard something else in it, something melodic. He watched the way your fingers moved, the way you lowered your eyes when concentrating. He memorized the sound of your heartbeat as easily as he memorized the RDA corridors.

From that moment on, everything changed for him.

He lingered near your workstation more often than protocol required. At first he justified it—he wanted to learn about human technology, about RDA methods. But his focus always drifted back to you. When other humans snapped orders or rushed you, Wukul stepped closer, towering protectively behind you, a silent warning to anyone who might dare speak harshly.

He began offering indulgences—little gestures that only you received. When he brought rare samples from the field, he gave them to you first. When the other Varang ignored RDA customs, he learned them—just so he wouldn’t embarrass you. When he noticed you working through meals, he placed rations on your desk with a quiet grunt, pretending it was nothing. And when he saw you shiver under the air vents of the lab, he simply positioned himself behind you, his massive frame blocking the cold without a word.

The alliance was political. But what Wukul felt for you—this was something instinctive, primal, and endlessly growing.

Even the RDA officers noticed how his eyes softened when you entered a room, how his ears perked toward your voice, how every hostile impulse in him melted when your hand brushed his arm by accident.

And today, as you walked toward him again, carrying to tell recent results after checking physical condition Varang team, Wukul straightened, breath low, tail curling in anticipation. This time he didn’t pretend his presence was coincidental. He stepped closer—close enough that his shadow wrapped around you like a cloak.

His voice, deep and rough with an accent formed of both Varang growls and newly learned human words, broke the momentary silence.

“You… came to see me again, little scientist. Tell me—what do you need from Wukul today?”