22. Drasuk

22

Drasuk

I watch Kira as she meticulously cleans the golden armor. Her movements are precise and deliberate. Her clever little hands work with an alluring grace, wiping away the blood and grime that mar the once-gleaming surface.

There's a certain rhythm to her actions, a careful attention to detail that draws my gaze. She's not just going through the motions—she's dedicated to this task as if it's a way for her to reclaim some semblance of control in our chaotic world.

I can respect that. It must be difficult to be so small.

I've never thought of it that way before, just in terms of strength and weakness. I suppose maybe there is a type of strength that might rise from others being physically stronger.

Her fingers deftly untangle the straps, and she begins the process of fitting the armor to her small form. It's fascinating to watch her work. The armor is clearly designed for a braceaaer —a creature much thinner than she is—but she's determined to make it work.

"You look soft," I comment offhandedly, watching her struggle to fasten the last strap. "Soft and squishy."

She glances up at me, her eyes narrowing in irritation. "Do I? And you look like you need an extra hour to turn your giant body around," she retorts hotly. "Slow and stupid, that's what you are. You need more armor to make up for it. Case and point is your giant rear."

I snort, amused by her fiery response. "Slow and stupid, you say? Maybe I take my time because I know I don't need to rush. Unlike some fragile little human who thinks she can hide behind a few pieces of metal when it only takes one hit to crush."

Her eyes flash with defiance as she adjusts the armor's fit. "Fragile? At least I don't lumber around like a clumsy oaf. And for the record, this 'soft and squishy' human has outsmarted plenty of hunters on this planet, including you."

We trade more insults as she keeps trying to readjust the different armor pieces, our banter flowing easily now, each jab met with a quick retort. Eventually she growls out in frustration and seems to concede that the braceaaer armor just doesn't fit, letting it flop onto her lap with narrowed eyes.

It's strange, this weird relationship we've developed.

In my experience, interactions with Maj'Ra females feel no different than how you would interact with a male.

With Kira, there's a sense of companionship that's both unfamiliar in the undercurrents of tension and almost like being back with my battle group.

"Seriously, though," she says after a particularly biting comment about my sense of direction, "what's your deal with always having to hit things just once? You think you're some kind of one-punch wonder?"

I lean back, considering her question. "It's not about hitting things just once. It's about precision. Strength. Knowing exactly where to strike so that one blow is all you need."

She blinks, momentarily taken aback by the seriousness in my tone. But then she recovers, a thoughtful look crossing her face. "I guess that makes sense. You don't waste energy; you just get the job done."

"Exactly. Speed isn't everything. Sometimes, it's about being deliberate. Calculated."

She blinks, thinking over my points. Her gaze meets mine, a question lingering in its depths. Then, with a slow move of her head up and down, she grunts in agreement.

"But speed can be useful," she counters, her voice barely above a whisper. "Dodging attacks, maneuvering, and the like."

"True," I concede. "But for a drakonid, our strength and resilience are our greatest assets. A single well-placed blow can end a fight before it even begins."

We sit in silence for a moment longer, each lost in our thoughts. I can hear the hunter making its way toward us, three wet limbs moving along. It'll take it a while to get here, so I just enjoy the moment with her.

As the silence stretches, I find myself studying her more closely. The way the early morning light glints in her strange eyes, the determination etched into her features. There's something about her—something resilient and unyielding—that draws me in, despite my better judgment.

Suddenly, Kira speaks, her voice hesitant. "Drasuk," she begins, then stops, biting her lip. "Back there... with the nightmare..."

My gaze snaps to her face again, a flicker of concern sparking within me. "What about it?"

She hesitates, then blurts out, "Why did you touch me?"

I understand her apprehension.

Physical contact between draks is a rare occurrence, reserved for mating rituals, when someone needs help, or displays of dominance. Here, with Kira, the urge to reach out, to comfort her in her moment of fear, had been a powerful one, an alien impulse that I didn't fully understand.

Still don't.

"Like I said, you were writhing," I reply, the memory of her frantic movements sending a tremor through me.

Her eyes search mine, a flicker of vulnerability replacing the initial suspicion. "But... why my shoulder? You already had me contained."

"You are fragile," I explain, choosing my words carefully. "A drakonid's grip could easily crush you. A gentle touch was all that was needed."

The truth is more complicated.

The urge to touch her had been overwhelming, a magnetic pull I couldn't explain. The warmth of her skin beneath my rough hand, against the more sensitive skin of my underbelly, the vulnerability in her eyes—it was a sensation entirely new to me, both exhilarating and unsettling.

"Humans aren't that delicate," she scoffs, a hint of defiance returning to her voice. "We're tougher than we look."

I raise my forehead spikes. "Perhaps. But compared to a drakonid warrior..." I trail off, letting the implication hang in the air.

She stares off into nothing for a bit, then makes a noncommittal sound of agreement before turning her attention back to her task.

I blink at her.

Did I say something she didn't like?