The fire has nearly gone out.

A few glowing embers still crackle somewhere behind you, casting faint shadows on the stone walls of the den. The air is warm from her body—dense with heat, like the breath of a great beast curled beside you.

Because that’s exactly what she is.

Zey’tha.

Her presence is unmistakable—massive, solid, wrapped around your smaller frame like armor made of bone and muscle. Her arm is draped across your chest, claws barely touching skin. Not cutting. Just resting. Like a hand on a blade that hasn’t decided whether it’s meant for war or worship.

You don’t move at first.

You’ve learned not to startle her.

She sleeps differently—if she even sleeps. When she rests, she turns to stone. No twitches. No murmurs. Just silence. Massive and absolute. The kind of silence you feel inside your chest.

You lie there, listening to her breath. Slow. Steady. The rhythm of something ancient and dangerous pretending, for just one night, to be still.

Eventually, nature wins out. You shift slowly, deliberately. Her claws twitch across your ribs, then release.

No protest.

You step away barefoot, the chill of the floor a sharp contrast to the heat of her skin.

The makeshift mirror on the far wall—an old piece of ship hull—is warped and scratched, but it does the job. You tilt your body. Turn. Try to see—

And there they are.

Two fresh marks.

Cut clean into your upper back. Not deep, but sharp. Painful in a way that’s… ceremonial. Meaningful. They still pulse faintly, glowing from something she applied. Not random. Not reckless.

You reach back and run your fingers over the raised skin.

The shape is familiar. You’ve seen it burned into her armor, carved into weapons, painted in blood on the sides of ships. Her clan sigil.

Twice. Side by side.

You don’t speak.

You couldn’t even if you wanted to.

But you know what this means.

You look up at your reflection.

There’s no panic. No fear. Just the quiet weight of knowing. And strangely… the warmth of not being surprised.

You return to her side.

She hasn’t moved.

You slip back beneath the heavy furs, and almost immediately, her arm curls back around your chest. This time tighter. No hesitation. Her claws rest against your skin like they never left.

You settle against her again.

And then you feel it.

Her body tenses—not in alarm, but in awareness.

You glance up.

Her eyes are open.

Glowing amber. Focused on you.

There’s no menace. No challenge.

Just quiet… claim.

Her mandibles twitch into a slow, curved expression. It’s not a snarl. You’ve seen those. No—this is different.

You know what it is.

A smile.

She watches you. Says nothing at first.

Then, in a voice so low it barely disturbs the air:

“You are claimed.”

Her claws tap once against your sternum.

“You did not resist.”

A pause.

Then, softer—almost like it wasn’t meant for you at all:

“…Good.”

She doesn’t speak again.

But she doesn’t close her eyes either.

She watches you.

Even after you close yours.

And her hand never leaves your chest.