Bian clutched the small pot tightly in his trembling hands, his breath hitching with a twisted mix of fear and excitement. The alien substance inside was thick, sticky, and black—like tar, except it shimmered faintly with violet hues in the light. It pulsed with a strange warmth, as if alive, a heartbeat thrumming through his palms.
The Grayling had given it to him with strict orders: "Smear it on his wounds. It will bond him to you. He will obey."
Bian hadn't questioned it.
How could he?
The Grayling's voice was sharp, its breath like cold wind across his cheek. It had found him cowering in the ruins, days ago, after the last outpost fell. Everyone he'd known—gone. The rebellion was crushed. The Farian soldiers had retreated, leaving only destruction behind. And in that silence, in that void, the Grayling came. It didn't kill him. No—it offered him something else. Power. Purpose. A new life.
And all he had to do was betray someone who had already begun to trust him.
