Chapter 67: Zeynn, the Provocateur

The Narak’Tharr’s kitchen wasn’t large, but it had become a warm, welcoming place—at least since Evelyn had added her personal touches: a strange plant she’d rescued from Iskaara, an old synth-cookbook in xeno-gastronomy, and above all, a low table where she loved to sit with a steaming cup in her hands.

Zeynn sprawled across a chair, feet up, one hand holding a grilled trakk thigh, the other clutching a handful of compressed fruit. He ate like someone who hadn’t had a proper meal in weeks—which, to be fair, wasn’t far from the truth.

“Seriously… this,” he pointed insistently at the thigh, “is better than anything I’ve eaten since I broke out.”

“How long were you on your own?” Evelyn asked, seated cross-legged, her notebook open beside her, a fork in one hand and Blue curled at her feet, head resting on her ankle.

Zeynn shrugged, chewed, then replied with his mouth still half-full,
“No idea. A long time. Lost count. I escaped a cage, fled a freight ship, stole food, slept in ducts… got caught nearly three times. Not by nice people.”

Vykhor stood leaned against the wall, arms crossed, listening in silence. His gaze was dark, calculating. Every word, every movement from Zeynn, he dissected—not to judge, but to understand. To grasp who this boy truly was. And who now lived beside Evelyn. Under his protection.

Zeynn kept talking, calmer now, sensing this was a place where words weren’t weapons.

“I’ve always been... different. Other Nytherians say I’m too urban, not instinctual enough. I can fight, but I prefer avoiding it. I sneak, I listen, I flip things back on people.”

“You never had a family?” Evelyn asked gently, her eyes shimmering with emotion.

Zeynn shrugged again. “Maybe. A mom, I think. Flashes. Scents. A laugh. It’s fuzzy. Mostly… it’s just been me.”

He grabbed another fruit, crushed it between his thin claws, and went on.

“Nytherians… we’re made to survive. Sharp senses. Night vision, ultra-sensitive hearing, perfect balance. We can hide in a vent and not make a sound for hours. If we’re well-trained, some of us even pick up on emotions—like fear spikes or anger, like echoes. I mostly sense lies. Don’t know how to explain it, but it’s like… tension in the air.”

Evelyn was jotting everything down, utterly fascinated. Blue barely flicked an ear before dozing off again.

“Do you want to learn?” she suddenly asked.

Zeynn looked up.

“Learn what?”

“Everything. What I know. What I’ve studied. What I can teach you. You’re staying with us—not just to survive. But to live. Grow. Evolve.”

Zeynn hesitated. Then slowly nodded.

“You know what? Yeah. I want that. I don’t wanna just be a street rat anymore. I wanna become someone. Like you.”

Vykhor didn’t speak, but a faint smile curved his lips. Fleeting as a shadow.

He’d never say it aloud, of course. But he knew.

This makeshift pack… it was growing.

And that kid? He might be more than he’d first seemed.

**Evening — Vykhor and Evelyn’s cabin**

Soft light glowed from a recessed panel, casting a warm orange hue across the cabin. The dark, metallic walls seemed almost cozy under that gentle illumination. A dark blue blanket, thrown carelessly over the bed, draped over their entwined bodies. Evelyn lay curled against Vykhor, her head resting over his heart—steady, reassuring.

At the foot of the bed, Blue slept soundly, curled into a ball on his custom-made cushion (Evelyn’s insistence after the Iskaara incident). Each breath made his fur twitch gently, as if even in sleep, he dreamed. Of a star, maybe. Or a spacefish. Who knew?

Evelyn traced lazy circles along the energy lines of Vykhor’s prosthetic, where metal fused seamlessly into skin. She loved that spot. That boundary between the man forged by war… and the man she had learned to love.

“You know,” she murmured, voice soft, dreamy, “I used to think life was just equations. Things to solve. Pieces to fit together.”

“And now?” Vykhor asked, his hand resting on the small of her back, both instinctive and possessive.

“Now… I think I’m learning to feel. To trust something I can’t analyze.”

A pause.
Approval, unspoken.

Vykhor let out a quiet breath, almost a chuckle. “You sound like a philosopher.”

“And you sound like a pragmatic Kael’tarien,” she teased, her voice smiling.

He turned slightly, his golden eyes gleaming in the dark.
“Zeynn. He adopted you in less than three hours.”

Evelyn nodded. “He’s brilliant. Maybe broken. But solid underneath. He just… needs time. Attention. And maybe a little love.”

“Hm. You want me to train him.”

“I want you to be yourself with him. The Vykhor who gave me two bracelets, a sanctuary, and a chance.”

Vykhor growled low in his throat—not angry. More like amused resignation.

“I was a prince. Then a ghost. Now I’m…”

“Tav’Ren,” she whispered tenderly.

The Kael’tarien closed his eyes for a moment. His My’Lari. She—the only being in the galaxy who could give him a name. A purpose.

“I suppose I’ll have to get used to it,” he muttered.

She lifted her head, met his gaze with those deep blue eyes he could fall into forever.
“You’re already used to it. You’ll never admit it, but you like it.”

A smirk tugged at his lips. He didn’t answer.
She knew him too well for that.

**Next morning — Narak’Tharr common room**

The coffee dispenser hummed softly, pouring a dose of black liquid into a mug marked with Vykhor’s handprint. Evelyn, barely awake but already curious, tapped away at her datapad, researching alien flora she’d dreamed of. Blue was sprawled on the bench, purring like a standby turbine.

And Zeynn…

Zeynn was standing on one of the chairs, trying to pry open a ceiling panel.

“What are you doing?” Evelyn asked, eyebrows raised.

“Heard vibrations. Loose maintenance conduit, I think. Wouldn’t want a military ship betrayed by a squeaky plate.”

“So… you’re dismantling the ceiling?” she asked, half-amused, half-alarmed.

Zeynn dropped lightly to the floor, bare feet making no sound.

“I’m helping. You should thank me.”

Evelyn stifled a laugh. But the moment froze when she heard the distinct clack of Vykhor’s boots in the hallway.

The Kael’tarien entered, shirtless, a towel over one shoulder, clearly fresh from training. His prosthetic still pulsed with faint blue heat.

He stopped in his tracks. His golden eyes took in the scene: Evelyn leaned against the table, Blue snoring. And Zeynn rummaging through kitchen drawers, apparently trying to “improve” breakfast.

“What are you doing?” Vykhor asked in a neutral tone. Which, coming from him, meant: explain yourself before I space you without a suit.

Zeynn, without turning around, shrugged.
“Testing the systems. You live in a warship—I assume you want everything running smooth.”

Vykhor didn’t answer. He walked forward slowly, as quiet as a shadow.

Zeynn finally turned, crossed his arms, and locked eyes with him. His slit pupils gleamed with mischief.

“You know, Vykhor, I never liked taking orders. Especially not from guys with metal arms.”

Evelyn swallowed. Oh no.

Blue lifted an ear.

Vykhor remained still, but the energy lines on his arm flickered—like a warning. He stood before the young Nytherian, arms folded.

“And I never liked mouthy kids who think they can make the rules on MY ship.”

Silence. Tense.

Zeynn didn’t flinch. He smiled. Slowly.

“Perfect. We’re gonna get along just fine.”