Draka Ashfang roamed the wilds alongside her feathered companion. The night sky stretched above in its usual majestic sweep. It was a vast canvas of stars glittering cold and distant. She had only been the war leader for a short time. Enemies amassed to the north, and living among monsters had earned her few allies. Her system, the Beast Tide, held a sacred belief in unity among all lifeforms with the potential for sentience. Excluding dirt worms, every beast was considered an unawakened child deserving respect. At B-rank, most animals attained full awareness, and it was the gravest crime to deprive them of that.

  An explosion erupted from the plains three miles to the south. Draka mounted Veyra, the Cinderhawk, and rode for the spire that appeared out of nowhere. She could see the Cogborn soldiers already swarming the disturbance.

  News rarely reached the Beast Tide, so it was luck that she had been close enough to respond. Below, a man stood defiant on shaky legs, his eyes showed rage and determination. This was common among former slaves, but Draka sensed he was only a weak C-rank and should not possess enough power to stand against the level of suppression of three A-ranks.

  “You reek of the Imperium,” Sylas Arden’s voice cut sharply from behind the towering Macabe Mechas. “What business have you here on the Shattered Reach?”

  Sylas was a small man from a race Draka had never encountered in the vastness of the cosmos, but was pretty standard in the megalopolis. His owl’s head sat atop a lycanthropic body. Draka, a Dragonkin who evolved from serpents, had no room to judge him, but the fragility of the King gnawed at her. The Beast Tide despised those who turned from nature’s gifts to become spell-casting abominations. Still, she could not deny that in a straight fight, she would likely lose to the King of the Shattered Reach.

  “I am Dane McAllister.” The wobbly man declared before blood spouted from his nostrils, and he crumpled face-first into the scorched earth.

  Draka couldn’t make out what faction he belonged to. She felt a resonance, but he was not of the Beast Tide, the Circle, or even the Gilded Thorn. It had been some time since a newcomer tried to join the fray. She leapt from the large bird and approached the gathering of leaders.

  “What do you suggest we do with him?” she asked Sylas.

  Silence followed as the man pondered. Seraphine Veil from the Gilded Thorn met Draka’s gaze and spoke directly in her mind. “I think we should wake him.”

  “That would only anger the King.”

  “He could take all day. Besides, I was hoping to get some rest,” Seraphine replied with an exuberance that stood out, mind speak rarely carried such flavor unless it was deliberate.

  Sylas exhaled deeply and tilted his head unnaturally to the left, finally seeing Draka fully. “Draka Ashfang. I hadn’t expected you here.”

  Draka met his gaze steadily. “An explosion is better than any messenger you could send.”

  Sylas nodded toward Dane’s crumpled form. “This intruder reeks of the emperor.”

  Draka crouched beside the man, brushing a scaled finger gently across his cheek as she studied him. “There is a hunger in his system. But he’s not from the Imperium. He’s... something else. I feel fate bending in strange ways around him.”

  Sylas arched an eyebrow. “We should kill him then, before he twists ours even more.”

  “That would be unwise.” Her voice was soothing and calm, but her raised scales betrayed her demeanor.

  Sylas’s lips curled into a faint, wry smile. “Caution has never been your strength, Draka.”

  She stood firm. “Nor recklessness yours. Danger has a way of bringing out what is needed in the moment.”

  Their eyes locked, then Sylas exhaled slowly. “We must gather the others.”

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  They chained Dane up and loaded him into the cargo bay of a ship, setting course for the council tower.

  Draka strode toward the spire rising above the Howling Steppes. Passing two figures, she didn’t recognize them but could tell by their bearing and garb that one belonged to the Legion, while the other seemed devoted to the Machine God.

  A prickling sense of dread rose within her as she grew closer to the tower. She was trespassing and should turn back. But she ignored the warning and touched the door to the tower.

  Caution: You are now entering the Dungeon Chronowell, recommended level 340.

  She stepped back slowly. She had made A-rank at level 250, which was every system’s cap. Nothing came beyond that. Draka mounted Veyra once more, and she soared toward the capital. Dane was a mystery. And she needed answers.

  The faint hum of the council tower seemed distant as Draka entered the cold, dimly lit holding cell. Dane sat chained to the wall, his posture rigid, but his opal eyes calm, like a man who had faced far worse and come to terms with it. The faint scent of scorched earth clung to him, mingling with the sterile chill.

  “I have never seen a human with eyes like yours,” Draka said as she approached.

  He looked up as she approached, the weight of the chains evident in his tense shoulders. His voice was steady, and low.“What do you intend to do with me?”

  Draka met his gaze, reading the quiet strength beneath his restraint. “The council will judge you soon.”

  He nodded, as if that answer was both expected and insufficient. “What of my people?”

  It clicked now for Draka that the two on the ground back by the spire were his people. “They were left near that dungeon. How is it that you have come to have followers from the Legion and the Cogborn?”

  Dane looked at her with confusion. But refused to answer her question.

  He held her gaze evenly. “I am not going to waste my breath explaining myself before you judge me.”

  Draka straightened. “Few would.”

  He allowed himself a weary smile. “Let’s get this over with.”

  The hall was too quiet for its size. Vaulted stone and smooth obsidian caught the light from flickering scounces and low-burning panels. Dane walked at a measured pace, flanked by two armored guards from the Reach, the weight of chains resting heavy on his wrists and ankles. The sound they made as the iron kissed stone echoed unnaturally in the silence.

  Draka walked a few steps ahead, her crimson cloak trailing behind her like a war banner. She hadn’t spoken since they pulled him from the cell. “You’re calm for a man in chains,” she said finally, not looking back.

  Dane kept his gaze fixed on the semi-circle of thrones ahead. “I’ve worn worse.”

  The comment drew a shift of posture from the Cogborn guard, a figure half-consumed by chrome and filament, who murmured something through a filtered vox-grill that could’ve been a chuckle, or a diagnostic error.

  Draka stopped at the center of the tribunal floor, turning to face him now, her voice sharpening like the edge of a blade. “One of your companions bears Cogborn plating. The other wears the Legion's crest. Are you here on their behalf?”

  Dane tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “I don’t know what those are.”

  Whispers stirred among the gathered faction heads, some incredulous, others intrigued. A flicker of annoyance passed through the snake woman’s golden eyes.

  “You expect us to believe that?” she asked, her voice a half-growl. “You arrive through a rift gate no one can account for, with warriors branded in our image, and you feign ignorance?”

  “I'm not feigning anything,” Dane said. “Jason did that to himself before a dungeon trial. Amelia’s tattoos were a gift from the imperial system before she joined my system.”

  Silence followed, the kind that always felt like the drawing of breath before a storm.

  “Your system?” asked the Cogborn. “What is its name?”

  “It is called the Earthbound System,” Dane replied.

  That earned Seraphine’s discomfort, the representative of the Gilded Thorn. Her fingers tapped against the armrest with practiced elegance, but her gaze was sharp. Her voice cut through the noise, speaking for the first time, addressing not just Dane but the room itself. “That system is not recorded in the Registry.”

  Sylas turned to Dane. “Do you understand what you are to us?”

  “I didn’t come here to threaten anyone,” Dane answered. “I came because this was the only path that didn’t lead to death.”

  Draka watched him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. “Then why tie yourself to strangers?”

  “They’re not strangers,” Dane said. “They’re my friends.”

  The words carried more weight than chains. Sylas spoke up once more and asked the question that they had all wanted to know.

  “Have you been sent here by the Imperial System as a spy?”

  Dane blinked twice. “No, I was cast here after I assumed control of his dungeon on my home world.”

  The Legion’s representative, Rolan Thaylor, finally stirred. Leaning forward, one gauntleted hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

  “Words can be forged to deceive, but a blade never lies,” he said.

  Dane’s chin lifted, looking at the Human.

  “Are you willing to put your story to the test in the ring?”

  The silence fractured at the edges, and low mutters resumed, along with glances towards the knight.

  “Nonsense, he must be scanned; combat only would serve to prove that he is strong, not innocent,” the Cogborn said in a synthetic voice.

  Sylas raised his hand, silencing everyone. “Dane McAllister, I have made judgment.”

  The room was so silent now that Dane could hear the slight hum of the lights that illuminated the room.

  “You claim to be the progenitor of a system; all are welcome in Shattered Reach. But you must prove your value through the crucible. You may go back to your holding and prepare; an escort will arrive in one solar cycle to see if you are worthy.”

  Dane received a notification from his interface.

  The King of Shattered Reach has challenged you. You have 3 Earth months to prepare for his crucible or find a way off this planet. Good luck, Baron.