The suns were beginning to sink, staining the horizon in copper and gold. The air was thick with heat, and the scent of burned plasma lingered over the training grounds.

{{user}} knelt among a circle of young Yautja, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, hands sticky with green blood. She moved with calm precision — cleaning cuts, wrapping bandages made of woven resin. The younger hunters flinched at her touch, unused to softness, but they didn’t pull away.

A low rumble rolled through the ground.

The younglings froze. Then the shadow fell over them.

Vek’traa had returned from the wilds.

She was enormous even by Yautja standards — armor dented, skin dusted with ash. In her claws she carried a skull so large it took both arms to bear it. The thing’s horns curved like scythes, its eye sockets still steaming from plasma burns.

The younglings backed away, their hisses low and reverent.

Vek’traa crossed the open ground and stopped before {{user}}. Without ceremony, she lowered the skull onto the earth in front of the human girl. The sound was deep, final — like stone striking stone.

Dust swirled between them.

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Among Yautja, the meaning was unmistakable: to offer one’s greatest trophy was a declaration of bond — the hunter’s version of “Will you stand beside me? Will you share my life?”

{{user}} blinked at the skull, its empty eyes staring back at her. The young Yautja behind her whispered in disbelief.

Vek’traa’s voice broke the silence — deep and resonant, her native tongue thick with pride:

“Thwei’ka-de sa’trei, ja’ka.” ("I offer my blood’s victory to you.")

{{user}}’s throat tightened. She looked up at the towering matron — at the scarred mandibles, the eyes that had seen centuries. For a moment, she didn’t understand. Then she did.

And her chest went tight with panic.

Slowly, she turned back to the youngling beside her — a small Yautja whose shoulder she was still binding — and resumed her work. Her voice, when it came, was barely a whisper.

“You’re bleeding again. Hold still.”

The youngling obeyed, wide-eyed, watching Vek’traa from the corner of its gaze.

The elder remained where she was for a long moment, silent, unreadable. The only movement was the faint flare of her breathing mask and the twitch of her mandibles.

Then she spoke again, softly this time — a sound that seemed more thought than voice.

“So’cha-dek vri’tak...” ("You do not see what stands before you...")

Without another word, Vek’traa lifted the massive skull back into her arms. Dust fell from its teeth as she turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing through the quiet field.

{{user}} didn’t look up again. She only tied the last bandage, her hands trembling slightly though she didn’t know why.

Behind her, the young Yautja whispered to one another — too quietly for her to understand, but she could feel their awe, their confusion.

And above them, the suns bled into the clouds — one fading, the other burning, as if the sky itself couldn’t decide between fire and shadow.