Chapter 68: Zeynn Finds His Place

Evelyn ended the standoff by placing one hand on Vykhor’s chest and the other on Zeynn’s shoulder.

“Gentlemen. You can tear each other apart later. Right now, it’s breakfast time. And Zeynn, if you want to test something, start with the coffee machine. It’s been making weird noises lately.”

Vykhor stared at her, then gave a slow nod. Zeynn raised an eyebrow but obeyed. He stepped back, not without throwing a final sideways glance at Vykhor.

Provocative to the last claw.

Vykhor returned to his seat, grabbed his cup, and raised it slightly toward Zeynn. “Wanna be useful? Clean this room. Military standard.”

Zeynn snorted. “Keep dreaming, Tav’Boss.”

“What?” Evelyn blinked, baffled.

“Well, if you call him Tav’Ren, I figured your muscular Alpha needed a nickname too.”

Vykhor growled. Evelyn stifled a laugh. And Blue, half-asleep, gave a lazy paw-swipe into the air, like he was trying to swat away the tension.

**Narak’Tharr Training Room — A few hours later**

The synthetic floor absorbed impacts well—less so tension.

Vykhor wore black combat pants and a simple strap across his torso, revealing the glowing blue veins of his dormant prosthesis. Every stretch was slow, controlled, quiet. Across the room, Zeynn was poking at a control pad, browsing the available simulations. Curious. Not just about the programs—but about what a Kael’tarien could teach him. Or not.

“I started program seven,” Zeynn announced, ears tilted back and flashing a toothy grin. “Sure you're not too old for this?”

Vykhor didn’t respond at once. He finished his stretch, then stood, tall and still like a steel monolith.

“You want to settle this now?” His voice was calm. Too calm. Dangerously calm.

Zeynn chuckled, bouncing back a step. “I just want to see how your metal arm handles real claws.”

Oh, so that’s how it’s gonna be.

The simulator activated. A ring of light circled them, and a wave of drones appeared, projecting decoys and adjusting the terrain in real-time.

Zeynn moved first. Fast. Unpredictable. Feline. He slid under the first projected shot, climbed a module, then dove straight at Vykhor. But the Kael’tarien barely moved—just pivoted and slammed into him with a perfectly timed shoulder. Zeynn hit the ground and rolled until he hit the wall.

“First lesson, Nytherian. Don’t strike before you understand your opponent’s style.”

Zeynn growled, but his slit-pupiled eyes sparkled with mischief. He pushed off the floor, tousled hair bouncing.

“Second lesson, Kael’tarien: don’t count out a cat who still lands on his feet.”

They clashed again—a brutal, fluid rhythm. Vykhor: brute force and strategy. Zeynn: instinct, speed, defiance. One struck like a collapsing wall. The other dodged like a gust of rebel wind.

Eventually, they broke apart, breathing hard, both keeping distance.

“Not bad... for a half-starved stray,” Vykhor admitted, arms crossed.

Zeynn shot him a look, part smug, part respectful. “Not bad yourself—for an Alpha dragging too many hearts under his wing.”

Hit.

Vykhor stepped closer and placed a firm hand on Zeynn’s shoulder.

“You stay because Evelyn said so. Not because I need you.”

Zeynn didn’t flinch. His voice was low. “I know. But one day, you’ll see I’m more useful than you think.”

Vykhor stared at him for a long beat. Then, just barely, his lip twitched into a smirk.

“We’ll see.”

He walked off, calm and composed. Zeynn watched him go, eyes half-lidded. Then turned to Blue, who’d been observing from the doorway, letting out a gruff approving noise.

“You saw that, furball? Not bad, huh?”

Blue meowed. Maybe in praise. Maybe in judgment.

**Lower Deck Hallway — A few minutes later**

Zeynn emerged from the training room, rubbing his shoulder, clothes slightly wrinkled, hair messy, breathing uneven. He moved like a satisfied predator, muscles aching but alive.

Evelyn leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, watching him with a curious smile. Blue lounged lazily at her feet.

“No blood. That’s a good sign,” she teased.

Zeynn shrugged. “I’ve had worse. Besides... wasn’t really a fight. More like a mutual punching contest of respect.”

She tilted her head, amused. “You hunters really are carved from the same stubborn stone.”

Zeynn smirked, his eyes gleaming. “Maybe. But there’s something different about him. He doesn’t hit to prove he’s the strongest. He hits to see if you belong.”

Evelyn smiled. “So... do you think you do?”

He looked away slightly. “I think... you want me to. And that’s enough to make me try.”

Her chest tightened. She stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder—right where Vykhor had struck earlier—and met his gaze.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me, Zeynn.”

He nodded. Slowly.

“Then I’ll prove it to him.”

She let out a quiet laugh. Not mocking—fond. She grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the mess hall.

“Come on. You must be starving.”

“Always,” he grinned.

Blue followed silently behind, every inch a noble feline.

And somewhere, inside the now-empty training room, Vykhor stood still by a monitoring terminal. He’d seen it all.

And for the first time, in a murmur of his native tongue, he said to himself:

“Maybe...”

**Narak’Tharr Mess Hall — Late Morning**

The clatter of utensils and heated rations filled the small space, punctuated by the soft hiss of an old adaptive stove mounted along the back wall. Officially, this room was designated “Secondary Operational Mess”—a pompous label for a cramped nook that originally held nothing more than a protein block synthesizer. The kind of appliance that spat out bland, lukewarm cubes with the same enthusiasm as an overworked admin drone.

Evelyn had never liked it. The flavor was passable, the texture bearable—but it was still survival food. Designed for tired soldiers, rushed mercs, and pilots between jumps. Not for her. Not for the life she was slowly crafting aboard the Narak’Tharr, strange and improvised as it was.

So, slowly and persistently, she’d made a suggestion to Vykhor. A kitchen. A real one—or as close as they could get. A space where she could cook, choose ingredients, control flavors, feel what she was creating.

And against all expectations, Vykhor had agreed. No arguments. No questions. He’d simply repurposed a section of the mess, rerouted some power lines, and installed an old culinary module salvaged from a half-dead orbital station. He hadn’t understood the need at first. But he’d seen the stars in her eyes during that first try, heard her quiet laugh when the pot boiled over.

And that had been enough.

Now, the kitchen had a kind of raw charm Evelyn had come to love: polished metallic corners softened by use, warm light filtered through Kael’tarien filters, and the faint scent of spices from Iskaara clinging to the walls like memories.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t even a proper kitchen by Earth standards.

But it was theirs.

And that was more than enough.

Zeynn was already at the central table, hunched over a steaming bowl, posture low like a hunter at rest. He devoured the food with impressive efficiency, eyes alert—as if expecting someone to snatch his meal away at any moment.

Evelyn watched him, amusement and affection mingling in her gaze. She’d made this meal herself: a bowl of protein-enriched broth, a few slices of upgraded ration bread, and a strange green vegetable mash that looked far too neon to be natural.