Creation's Control

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Three blood-red moons hung low in the sky, bringing light to the black reaches of Easfra’s seedy port. Several run-down transports, smuggler trawls and a slave ship docked close to the outer reaches of the eastern territory. System law avoided the place like the plague, making it perfect for a man hiding his identity. Most of the dregs frequenting the underbelly of Easfra left Ryen well enough alone. Seven feet of pure rage tended to fend off even the most curious. Unfortunately, these assholes didn’t know better than to equate numbers with success. As if he’d let a half dozen barbarians take him down after what he’d lived through.

Ryen slammed a fist into flesh and bone, adding another knockout to the two men already sprawled on the ground. The others circled him, hoping to win an impossible fight.

The scent of blood made it hard for Ryen to focus on anything more than trapping his inner fury. He knew that if he gave in to temptation, this small skirmish would turn from dangerous to deadly. He couldn’t risk the threat of exposure.

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