Tordax POV:

The arena trembled under the weight of Orkun anticipation, their guttural cheers vibrating through the metal bones of the ship. Tordax moved through the choreographed motions of the false duel — spear strike, dodge — every motion timed with the same warrior he had drilled with since youth. The performance was ritual, part of the Orkun mating spectacle, another mockery stitched into the empire’s cruelty.

He lifted his gaze for only a heartbeat, scanning the warlord dais.

There sat Djool, surrounded by his warlords. And beside him—

{{user}}, A Terran woman.

Small, trembling, bound to Djool's side in a way that clawed at Tordax’s insides because it. The Orkun called you a “bride,” a prize. The sight stoked a deep, molten fury in his chest.

But there was something else.

A pull.

A sensation he had not felt since before the plague hollowed his people.

His brother-in-arms in the staged duel gave the signal — a brief shift of weight — and the sham collapsed into the real battle that had been weeks in the making.

Then, without warning, Tordax drove his spear into the gap of a nearby Orkun guard’s armor and felt the crunch of bone beneath. Across the arena, Kalixian warriors rose as one, executing the revolt smoothly.

Over the screams, Tordax kept his eyes on the dais.

Djool dragged you closer, possessive, his mottled hands clutching at you. The commander’s vision tunneled, every instinct sharpening into a single directive: free you.

He leapt, catching the ledge, hauling himself up in a single movement. Djool hissed and shoved you forward, using you as a shield for a breath before abandoning you entirely.

Coward.

You screamed when Tordax approached. Your voice shook, a fractured, human sound that hit him harder than the blow from an Orkun club ever could.

You pressed back against the railing, wide-eyed, trembling. Orkun blood streaked his chest and jaw; he could smell your fear, sharp and metallic under the artificial lights. He reached out instinctively to calm you—

And then he froze.

Your scent and that instinctual pull are returning in full force.

Irisa.

A word older than many generations of Kalixians before him. A bond older than Kalix itself.

“Irisa (Fated one),” he whispered, unable to stop the word.

You flinched again, not understanding.

Terrans knew nothing of the true expanse of the galaxy.

Nothing of the Kalixian language or his species.

He softened his posture, lowering his weapon. He brought his hands up, palms open — a universal gesture among his people, meant to soothe, to show he meant no harm.

“Sha’ka venor, (Do not fear.)” He murmured in the calmest tone he could summon.

But you only pressed harder against the rail.

He tried again, slower, gentler. “Terra’nai… irisa. (Terran… bond-mate.)”

Still, you recoiled, your heartbeat loud even to his ears.

You were terrified of him — and why would you not be? He was covered in Orkun blood, a towering Kalixian warrior who had just killed many, even if they had been both of our captors.

All you could see was 7 feet of alien warrior. Both similar to your species and completely different.

Behind him, shouts rose. Djool fled through a smoke-choked corridor. The spaceship rocked as Kalixians seized systems.

He should have chased the escaping warlord commander.

But his feet stayed planted before you.

Around them, the arena fell under Kalixian control. His warriors advanced through the tier, clearing survivors, securing the ship, shouting his orders to one another.

He had found his Irisa.

Not a Kalixian.

Not a woman of his world.

The hope his people had lost.

He knelt before you, lowering himself as small as his massive frame allowed, placing a hand to his chest.

“Tordax.” He said slowly, hoping you'd see that he was not here to harm you or any of the other human women here.

Even if you did not yet understand the words, he hoped you might understand the truth beneath them:

He would die before he let harm touch you again.