The Beauty of the Night

Beautiful Leader

The  rotund man had tried his best to cajole Morgan out of the transport vehicle, but when it became clear that her fear and tenacity kept her rooted where she stood, he suddenly gave a sigh that sounded more like a rumble and waved his hands. Moments later, two bulky beings stepped into the small space and lifted her by the arms like she weighed nothing. For all of her screaming and thrashing, they ignored her, carrying her deeper and deeper into the mouth of the cavern. 

Finally, they dropped her, her knees scraping on the hard red earth. Heaving, she pushed her hair out of her face and looked up to meet the eyes of the most powerful looking male she had ever seen. He was seated on a stool carved from the floor of the cave. He sat with the poise and composure of a man long accustomed to royalty. His chest was broad and deeply tanned, a golden breastplate hung loosely over his shoulders, doing little to conceal the ripple of muscle underneath. He wore what looked like a kilt fashioned from metal, that drooped like silk between his open legs. His hands were in fists, resting lightly on his knees. At his wrists, he wore two thick golden cuffs that looked like two of Morgan's arms could fit through. His feet were covered in a golden boot, trimmed with silver. 

And then there was his face. Great, terrible eyes pierced her, with a shade of black so deep it might have been torn from the night sky. He had a strong jaw, a wide mouth and full lips. His hair was free and unbound, and curled gently around his ears, hinting at his youth. He regarded her with a look so fixed, so hard, Morgan's protests died in her throat. She couldn't tear her eyes away. 

Before her, the rotund man dipped so low his belly skimmed the ground. A voice came from the left, and Morgan blinked hard and swallowed before she realized that another man sat on the floor beside the domineering man, cross-legged. He was clad in similar armor. His hair was long and tied at the neck by a leather cord. His eyes shone silver, with a similar mechanical click to their dilation and contraction.

"You bring a soft skin before the Kral," he said in a tone that suggested annoyance. Though he spoke, Morgan could only focus on the man seated on the stool. It was clear the man at his side spoke on his behalf.

"Forgive me Kralyeki," the man before her said, his words coming out sounding more like jelly than words. "It is only that she refuses the blood dens. She says she is not Kazor, and therefore-"

"Everyone who lives on Zix must pass through the dens. This is our way," the man said, his tone taking on an edge of steel that sent a cold shiver down Morgan's spine. Perhaps she shouldn't have put up so much of a fuss. Still...

"I don't belong here," Morgan said, her voice emerging from her chest more loudly and frantically than she'd expected. It bounced off the walls of the cavern, echoing accusingly back at her. The man who spoke looked sharply at her, and the man before her turned back to regard her with a wide, horrified gaze. Clearly she had done something wrong. She pulled her gaze from the two men and met the regard of the man on the stool. Clearly he was in charge here, and he had the power to help her.

"I'm from Earth," she said, her voice refusing to lose the gaspy, begging quality that it had taken on. "I don't belong here. I don't want to belong here, I never asked-"

The man stood suddenly, and Morgan froze. Slowly, he approached her, silent despite his size. The shuffle of the metal of his skirt was the only sign of his advance. The round man scurried - or rather, rolled - out of the way, and finally, he was before her, taking her in with a gaze that was both lightning and thunder.

"Stand up," he said in a voice that was impossibly deep, that rumbled through Morgan's core and curled her toes. Her heart beat wildly against her chest, demanding to be set free. His words left no room for anything but obedience, so trembling, she stood. He regarded her slowly, as if weighing the value of her life. She couldn't tell if he was going to help her or sentence her to death, so she remained silent, trying to get a grip on her nerves.

"You no longer belong to Earth," he said in a quiet tone that rung heavily in Morgan's ears. "You belong to Zix. You belong to me."

At that, annoyance chased away fear. Stacking her spine and lifting her chin, she said, firmly, "No. I belong to no one but myself. Send me back to Earth."

Quick, so quick Morgan thought she imagined it, a flare of fury sparked brightly in his eye before he tamped it down under an icy mask of calm. His features remained unchanged. Then, he turned and walked back to the stool on which he sat. The man at his left regarded her with a look Morgan couldn't decipher, but made her feel as small and as annoying as a cockaroach.

"The off-worlder enters the den like all others," he said, though it was clear that this decision came straight from the man who pinned her like a captured butterfly with his gaze. The Kral, they had called him. Who the hell was he? Before she could plead her case any further, her arms were yanked behind her and locked into what felt like manacles. Heavy ones, that threatened to pull her arms from her shoulders. She was whirled around, and with a prod poking sharply in her back, was forced to put one foot in front of the other, marching solemnly towards the unknown.