Chapter 55: Anatu Prime, Second Attempt

The Narak’Tharr’s airlock hissed shut with a soft hydraulic sigh.

Silence.

Then Kryna’s annoyingly cheerful voice echoed through the central corridor:

"Olfactory contamination level: 92%. Activating priority decontamination protocol. Destination: Gamma wash room."

Vykhor narrowed his eyes. “Priority?”

Evelyn, still half out of breath from laughing too hard, caught her breath.

“I think Kryna’s trying to say you reek of temple incense.”

“I do not reek.”

Blue sniffed the air… then sneezed again.

“Biological confirmation,” Kryna chimed in mercilessly.

A few minutes later, the decon room opened up in front of them—wide, minimalistic, with soft lighting and two sleek shower compartments, separated by a thin translucent energy field.

Vykhor, arms crossed, stared at Evelyn.

Evelyn, hands on her hips, stared right back.

“You wanna take your sweet time, or should I just keep making fun of that golden swirl on your right shoulder?”

Vykhor stepped inside.

Evelyn followed.

Steam began to rise slowly, carrying with it the scent of clay and peppermint—Kryna’s idea of a joke, apparently.

Vykhor dropped his gauntlets on the bench with his usual precision, methodical as always. Evelyn, meanwhile, unzipped her suit with something resembling reverence. Almost.

When he stepped under the high-pressure jet, the sacred paint began to melt from his chest, golden rivers trailing down his cobalt skin.

Evelyn made a noise.

A snort.

Then she just burst out laughing.

“You look like a damn supernova!”

Vykhor closed his eyes as the water pounded across his back, and muttered,

“My’Lari…”

“Yes, Tav’Ren?”

He tilted his head slightly, droplets streaming from his temples.

“If you don’t shut up, I swear… I’ll strangle you with a sacred prayer garland.”

She stepped closer to the field between them.

Slowly. Smiling. Teasing. Gorgeous.

“Promises, promises…”

And like the feline she was—or maybe a hidden Blue lurking in some vent—she deactivated the field.

Steam swallowed them whole.

The decon shower instantly became a far less official ritual… and a far more memorable one.

Steam cloaked everything in a dreamlike haze. A veil. A barrier between them and the rest of the universe. The Narak’Tharr could’ve collapsed, imploded, or been swallowed by a black hole—Vykhor wouldn’t have moved.

Evelyn, naked as an unspoken truth, stepped forward slowly. Wet hair clung to her shoulders, her skin gleamed under condensation, and her blue eyes burned with mischief.

But it wasn’t mockery.

It was an offering.

A reminder.

She was his.

And he hadn’t forgotten what she’d said back in the temple. Not the laughter. Not the garland. Not the spark in her eyes when she saw him turned into a divine, glitter-covered joke.

Vykhor let her come to him. Let her raise her hand to touch his cheek.

Then he grabbed her wrist.

Not rough. But firm.

She didn’t flinch.

If anything, she shivered.

He leaned in, their breath mixing in the warm, fragrant air.

“You remember what you said, My’Lari? In front of everyone?”

His voice was low, gravelly. Controlled, like the pull of a bowstring right before the release.

Evelyn bit her lip, almost smirking. “Hmm. Not really… you might have to refresh my memory.”

Bad choice of words.

Vykhor pressed her back gently—unmistakably—against the smooth cabin wall. His hands slid to her hips, bracketing her with heat and strength.

“All right then. Want me to help jog your memory?”

She nodded, breath hitching, voice barely a whisper. “Yes.”

His lips brushed her neck, her jawline, her ear.

“You mocked your Tav’Ren. You snickered. You laughed at me, Evelyn.”

“I didn’t laugh at you…”

“No?”

His fingers traced her spine with excruciating slowness. Evelyn arched a little, caught between the cool wall and the molten heat of her Kael’tarien.

“You said I was a supernova.”

“Technically true.”

His mouth hovered over hers, but didn’t kiss her. Not yet.

“Then let me show you what a supernova does… when it explodes.”

And then he kissed her.

Not softly. Not this time.

It was a claim.

A firestorm of a kiss—controlled but raw. All his feelings poured into it. His hunger. His loyalty. The sweet, burning irritation from her teasing.

Evelyn responded with the same feverish intensity.

She didn’t apologize.

She didn’t hold back.

She surrendered.

And in that humid, steamy enclosure, Vykhor settled the score.

Thoroughly.

When they finally exited the decon chamber, Vykhor had resumed his cold, dignified posture. More or less.

But Evelyn? Evelyn wore the unmistakable grin of a woman satisfied, glowing… and just a bit smug.

Blue was waiting for them at the door, head tilted, like he knew exactly what had just happened.

Vykhor stared at him.

Blue blinked. Then yawned.

Score’s even. Game on.

But Vykhor still had one more score to settle—with Anatu Prime.

He stood at the command console, golden eyes fixed on the holographic mission file, still glowing red:

Status: Incomplete.

He hadn’t moved in ten minutes.

Evelyn entered, half-asleep, still warm from their “decontamination,” wearing an oversized tank top—probably his—and loose rest pants. Blue padded along behind her, tail high.

She stopped in the doorway. “You’re brooding.”

He didn’t answer.

She stepped closer, arms crossed. “Vykhor. It was a fetch quest. Not a siege on a fortress. No one’s gonna blame us.”

He finally turned his head, slow and deliberate.

“Status: Incomplete.”

“…You’re not letting this go, are you?”

“It would be my first official failure,” he said coolly. “And you know how the network works. Every mission, every rating, every review feeds the algorithm. One screw-up, and I get flagged as unstable or inconsistent.”

“Because of some dusty relics and a half-naked priest?”

He raised a brow.

“Yes.”

Evelyn snorted. Blue leapt onto a console and tapped the red file with one paw.

Vykhor growled. “Don’t start, furball.”

But Evelyn was already sinking into a seat, grinning. “Okay, Tav’Ren. We go back. But this time? We play by their rules. We dress like locals, blend in… and we do not laugh at the dancing spirit shamans, even when they call you ‘Luminous Kael’tarien.’”

Vykhor closed his eyes. For a long moment.

Then sighed.

“Fine. Get ready. We’re going back to Anatu Prime. But this time…”

He tapped the holopanel, revealing a full schematic of the temple.

“…we do it my way.”

Blue meowed.

Evelyn tilted her head. “I think he wants to come.”

Vykhor looked at the feline.

Then sighed again, defeated.

“Fine. But if he starts wearing flowers again, I’m leaving him in a jungle.”

The Narak’Tharr landed at the edge of the village under a blazing sunset, where the foliage shimmered with sweet scents and overly cheerful music filled the air.

Evelyn stepped out first, cloaked in a robe of local fabric—midnight blue embroidered with golden thread—looking way too good for a simple disguise.

Blue trotted behind her, proudly sporting the feather necklace a local kid had given him last time, like he’d already been adopted by the whole tribe.

And Vykhor…

Oh, Vykhor.

He descended the ramp like a war general on a diplomatic mission. Or at least, he tried. Because this time, he wore a flowing tunic in sea-green and gold, split at the sides and cinched with a belt of clinking beads. The fabric slid across his skin like a lover’s caress.

And his boots?

Replaced with sandals.

Sandals.