“…But still there was about him a suggestion of lurking ferocity, as though the Wild still lingered in him and the wolf in him merely slept.”
-Jack London (White Fang)

The cloak wrapped the IKS Hegh’ta in a low, predatory hum that one didn’t hear so much as feel.  A vibration in the bones, a demand that the universe look somewhere else for just a little while.  The stars hung indifferent and cold to the soft distortions that played along their surface.  But inside that pocket of stolen, invisible existence was something coiled tight, waiting for permission to bite.

On the command deck, HoD Kravgh stood with the rigid patience of a man who had spent far too long these past months being told not yet.  His hands clasped behind his back, knuckles whitening just enough to betray the eager pressure building underneath his surface.  The sensor display that currently dominated the screen of the main viewer painted faint ghosts in motion.  Two contacts, slipping through the Werterken system like scavengers combing over a battlefield that had long been picked clean.

A Manasa-class and an Astika-class.

Vaadwaur.

A low growl rolled through the bridge.  Not a literal sound from any one throat in particular, but rather a feral, energized charge that emanated from the crew as a whole.  A shared recognition.  A shared memory.  Hunger.

Ever since their consignment to the Federation, Kravgh and his warriors had been ordered to leash that hunger.  Ordered to patrol the Federation shipping lanes like some glorified merchant guard, ferrying supplies to broken Federation rimworlds and standing watch over reconstruction efforts that reeked of compromise and half measures.  Worlds of exhausted colonists, hollow-eyed survivors.  The weak looking to Starfleet and its allies like infants as they suckled from the teats of their betters and waited for them to fix what had been shattered.

He’d done it, even when it tasted like cowardice and restraint.  Because that was his penance.  The cost of that one soft moment, nearly a year ago, when he’d let pity get its hooks in him and he pulled that beleaguered group of broken humans out of a situation they’d allowed themselves to fall prey to.  That choice had chained them all to this.

He’d executed this choice in such a way that House V’ghal could not deny it without shaming themselves.  So they honored it.  Publicly.  Completely.  And then they’d turned this blade that he’d thrust into his own flesh to begin with.  If he’d wanted to save those humans, then he could keep on saving more of them.  Escort them.  Supply them.  Babysit them until the debt was wrung dry.  They gave him what he’d demanded.  And then made sure he lived with it.

And so once all the dust with the Vaadwaur had settled, the Hegh’ta had been given over to the Federation to escort convoys.  To chase pirates in their shipping lanes that scattered the moment they caught a glimpse of the Klingon battleship.  But always forced to hold back while Starfleet debated ‘protocols’ and ‘escalation thresholds’ like they were negotiating over dinner instead of battle.

The Vaadwaur were supposed to have been driven back.  Forced out of their hidden corridors, their Underspace strongholds burned out one by one until the blackout curtains they’d drawn across the galaxy were ripped down and cast aside.  There had been no signs of re-emergence.  No distortions in subspace.  No trace of corridors reopened, no whisper of the pathways the Vaadwaur had once used to slip between the systems like wraiths unseen.  These two particular contacts they now chased had not arrived in any way that made sense.  They had simply… appeared.  Their impossibility wanted to nag at the edges of Kravgh’s mind, insistent and unwelcome.

He dismissed it.  Not out of ignorance, but choice.  The why of it was a question for Starfleet.  For their analysts and their unwavering appetite for explanations.  They could spend entire sleep cycles chasing the shape of it, trying to fit it into a model that would let them rest soundly at night.

Kravgh had no such interest.  What mattered was that they now stood before him and would be dealt with.  The Hegh’ta would have her chance to dispense the sort of death her name cried, once again.

“Contacts confirmed.” The low voice of his tactical officer, Sogla’ Kethra said.  Her words carried the same shared itch in the blood that they all felt.  Its anticipation scratching at the inside of the skull, demanding something violent to answer its call.  “Two Vaadwaur vessels.  Emissions masked.  Running dark.”

Running.

Of course.  These were not the great waves of their first incursion, not the screaming storm that had poured out of the Underspace to black out entire sectors and wash them in fire and blood.  No.  These must be the leftovers.  Ones who’d slipped through the cracks while the galaxy at large had been too busy congratulating its self.  Ones who learned when to hide.  When to starve.  When to wait.  Hunters reduced to shadows, scavenging the edges of a war they had already lost.

And yet…  Still dangerous.  Still worth earning a warrior’s death.  Still a worthy adversary to return a measure of glory to the crew of the Hegh’ta.  A slow smile crept across Kravgh’s face, thin and sharp.

“Maintain cloak.” Kravgh said, his voice settling into a tone that was both low and dangerous.  Eager, like a man gripping the handle of a bat’leth and enjoying how badly it wanted to be used.

On the overhead display, the Vaadwaur ships adjusted course.  Slipped deeper into the system with a quiet sort of precision.  Not wandering, nor searching.  Hunting.  These starved, timid animals whose desperation finally gave way to boldness.  They moved towards the planet.

Towards two Federation vessels.  The registries of the USS Fresno and the USS Valley Forge were painted across their hulls.  Bright.  Exposed.  Preoccupied with the quiet, careful work of rebuilding something the Vaadwaur had nearly erased.  Kravgh watched it unfold with something that might’ve bordered amusement.  The things the Federation had failed to finish were finally coming back to remind them of their mistake.  But the warriors of the Hegh’ta were here to intervene.

“Helm,” he said, stepping forward now.  “Bring us in.  Intercept course.”

Below them, the Vaadwaur committed.  They dropped from warp like blades drawn clean from their scabbards.  Polaron bursts flaring to life in sharp, vicious blooms as they opened fire on the unsuspecting Federation ships.  No warning, no challenge given.  Just the cold efficiency of an ambush carried out by things that had long abandoned any sense of honor.

Kravgh’s eyes narrowed to slits, whatever trace of amusement drawn across his visage vanished.  “There,” he rumbled softly.  “That is the nature of what they are.  Prepare to decloak.”

A beat passed.  A moment.  A breath.  The universe its self seemed to pause, just enough to appreciate what was about to take place.

“Now.  Attack configuration!”

The cloak around the IKS Hegh’ta was ripped away with a violent shimmer, the B’rel-class cruiser tearing itself out of the void like a Jej’taj being drawn across its surface.  Kravgh stepped forward, his hands resting on the shoulders of his tactical officer.  Eyes ablaze, his voice rang with a bloodlust of finally being allowed after so long to do what they were meant to do.

“baH!” he cried.  Fire!