The air in the throne room was thick with the scent of incense and the heavy, metallic tang of Necromonger blood. Silence, absolute and crushing, reigned as the massive ranks of the armored faithful knelt. At the front, his head bowed lower than the rest, was Vaako.
“You keep what you kill,” the mantra echoed in the stillness, though no one spoke it aloud. It was the law.
Riddick sat on the throne, his goggles pushed up, his silver eyes reflecting the cold light of the Underverse. He looked less like a king and more like a predator that had finally found a comfortable place to watch the world burn.
“Lord Riddick,” Vaako’s voice was steady, though it lacked its usual arrogance. “The Necromonger fleet is yours. My life, and the lives of every soul under the star-cross, are bound to your will. I swear my fealty.”
Riddick tilted his head, a slow, predatory movement. “Fealty,” he rasped, the word catching in his throat like gravel. “Strong word for a man who was ready to slide a blade between my ribs an hour ago.”
He leaned forward, his gaze locking onto Vaako. “Tell me, Commander… what happens if I give the order for your execution right now?”
Vaako didn’t flinch. He looked up, his face a mask of stoic discipline. “Then I shall be executed, My Lord. By your hand or the headsman’s. It is the Way.”
A cold, mirthless smile tugged at the corner of Riddick’s mouth. It wasn’t a smile of approval; it was the look of a man who had found a new way to pull the wings off a fly.
“And what,” Riddick purred, his voice dropping to a dangerous vibration, “if I decide I want you in my bed instead?”
The color drained from Vaako’s face instantly. The stoicism he had held in the face of death wavered. His eyes widened, a flicker of genuine shock—perhaps even horror—crossing his features before he swallowed hard. The silence stretched, agonizingly long.
“Then…” Vaako’s voice was raw, sounding as if it had been dragged over broken glass. “Then I shall obey.”
Riddick didn’t push. He didn’t laugh. He simply stared for a moment longer before waving a dismissive hand at the gathered masses. “Out. All of you. I’ve got work to do.”
The following days were a blur of cold efficiency. Riddick didn’t lead like the Lord Marshal; he didn’t preach and he didn’t demand worship. He took control of the fleet like a captain seizing a stolen ship. He learned the systems, the logistics, and the kill-codes. He stayed in the shadows of the command deck, watching the gears turn.
Vaako, as First Commander, was at his side constantly. They worked in a silence that was taut, like a wire pulled to the snapping point. Vaako was a ghost of his former self—efficient and lethal, yes, but gripped by a permanent, rigid tension.
Every time Riddick’s silvered eyes drifted toward him, Vaako felt the weight of it. He felt like a man walking a tightrope over an abyss. He knew how this worked. Riddick was a survivalist; he needed Vaako now to navigate the intricacies of the empire. But soon, the threads would all be in Riddick’s hands. Soon, the First Commander would be redundant.
The uncertainty was a slow poison. Vaako lay awake in his quarters, wondering which fate Riddick had chosen for him. Would it be the quick mercy of a blade? Would it be the public degradation of being kept as a concubine to break his spirit? Or would it be something far more creative and agonizing? The Furyan wasn’t known for mercy, and he certainly wasn’t known for forgetting a grudge.
On the fifth evening, the suns of the system they were passing were setting, casting long, bloody shadows across the command sanctum. Riddick stood by the viewport, his back to the room.
“Commander,” Riddick said. His voice was no longer gravelly; it was silky, deceptively soft—a sound that made the hair on the back of Vaako’s neck stand up.
Vaako straightened his posture, his heart hammering against his ribs. “Yes, My Lord?”
Riddick turned slowly, the light catching the unnatural shine of his eyes. “Tonight. My quarters. Don’t be late.”
Vaako arrived precisely when he was told, the chime of his approach echoing in the hushed corridor. The door slid open silently, revealing Riddick’s personal quarters. The room was spartan, as expected, but the low lighting cast long, unsettling shadows. Riddick was leaning against a console, his arms crossed, a lazy, predatory smile playing on his lips. It was the smile of a cat watching a mouse, waiting to see which way it would scurry.
“Commander,” Riddick purred, his voice barely a whisper, yet it filled the room. “Remove your armor.”
Vaako swallowed hard. So, this was the beginning. Humiliation, perhaps rape. His hands, usually so steady with a blade, trembled slightly as he began to unfasten the intricate clasps of his Necromonger suit. Each piece clanged softly as it hit the floor, the sound impossibly loud in the tense silence. His helmet was last, revealing his pale, strained face. He shed the final layer of his undersuit, standing before Riddick completely naked, vulnerable. The cold air of the quarters seemed to bite at his skin.
Riddick’s gaze raked over him, lingering for a moment before he gestured with a flick of his chin. “The chair, Commander.”
Vaako’s eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat, as he followed the direction of Riddick’s gaze. In the corner, next to a data-slate loaded with star charts, stood a chair. But it wasn’t an ordinary chair. Bolted securely to the seat, pointing upwards, was a dildo. Its tip was slender enough, a size Vaako knew he could easily accommodate, but it quickly thickened in stages, each section growing wider, until the base was something far beyond anything he had ever considered.
Riddick’s smile deepened, a chillingly sweet expression. “Sit, Commander.”
Vaako understood. Riddick wasn’t just demanding submission; he was demanding self-inflicted torment, a profound and intimate violation. He wanted Vaako to participate in his own breaking. The air suddenly felt too thin to breathe.
Vaako’s legs felt like lead as he forced himself toward the chair. Every step was an admission of defeat, a slow march toward a degradation he had never imagined possible. He positioned himself over the seat, his thighs spread wide, the cold air biting at his exposed skin.
The chair was a skeletal thing—a high back but no armrests to grip, no ledge to catch his weight. There was nothing to hold onto but his own resolve, and even that was fraying at the edges.
He looked down. The first few tiers of the device were manageable, a dark, polished threat that his body could accommodate. But then came the fourth and fifth stages. They were brutal, expansive swells of heavy silicone that defied the natural limits of his form.
Vaako closed his eyes as the sheer brilliance of Riddick’s cruelty took hold of his mind.
To reach the base, he would have to squat low, his knees bent at an agonizing angle. He knew his own anatomy; he knew the limits of his endurance. By the time his body reached those widest points—the parts that would require slow, rhythmic stretching and absolute stillness—his muscles would already be screaming. His thighs would begin to tremor. The lactic acid would burn, his balance would falter, and the involuntary shaking of exhausted nerves would take over.
He wouldn’t be able to lower himself with the precision required to avoid injury. Instead, there would come a moment of inevitable failure. His legs would give out, his control would shatter, and gravity would do the rest. He would be impaled with the full, unchecked force of his own falling weight. The wider tiers would not slide in; they would punch through, his entrance forced open and torn asunder by the very momentum of his collapse.
Riddick watched from the shadows, his silver eyes tracking the frantic pulse in Vaako’s neck. He didn’t say a word, merely waited for the First Commander to begin the descent that could only end in blood.
Vaako began the slow, agonizing descent. The device had been slicked with lubricant—a mocking gesture of mercy that both men knew was a lie. No amount of synthetic slickness could prepare a body for the final, brutal expansions. It was a taunt, a reminder that Riddick had thought of every detail.
Vaako took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing his lungs to expand even as his heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He lowered himself inch by inch. The tip was wide, a blunt intrusion that filled him instantly, but he accepted it without a sound. It was a familiar discomfort, a pressure he could master.
To preserve the strength in his thighs, he didn’t linger. He forced himself deeper, bypassing the first ridge to take the second stage. Now, the sensation changed. His entrance was stretched taut, the skin protesting as it was pulled toward its limit. It was painful, a sharp, stinging heat that radiated through his hips, but it was still within the realm of the possible. He was a soldier; he knew how to breathe through pain.
But as he reached the third stage, the true torture began.
His legs began to betray him. To accommodate the growing width of the device, his knees were forced into an unnatural, wide-angled squat. He had no armrests to take even a fraction of his weight; every pound of his muscular frame was supported solely by his quivering quadriceps. The strain was immediate and immense.
He could feel the fine tremors starting in his muscles—the precursors to total failure. He knew he was racing against a biological clock. If he moved quickly, if he forced himself to open for the fourth stage now, he might—just might—seat himself before his strength vanished. But speed required a relaxation his body was screaming against.
Sweat beaded on his forehead, stinging his eyes, as he hovered over the fourth swell. His muscles burned with a white-hot intensity, and the widening silicone loomed beneath him, ready to claim what his failing strength could no longer protect.
Vaako’s jaw was clamped so tight his teeth felt ready to shatter. He centered his weight, bracing every fiber of his being to descend onto the fourth stage, prepared for the agonizing stretch.
“Stand up, Commander.”
The voice was deceptively soft, cutting through the silence like a silk ribbon. Vaako’s eyes flew open, staring at Riddick in disbelief. Behind the dark tint of his goggles, Riddick’s expression remained an unreadable mask of predatory calm.
“Stand. Up,” Riddick repeated, his tone devoid of any emotion.
A wave of dizzying relief washed over Vaako. He began the slow, shaky ascent, lifting himself off the device. The burning pressure in his rectum receded, and the agonizing fire in his quads flickered toward a duller ache. For a fleeting second, he allowed himself to believe the torment was over—that Riddick had seen enough.
As soon as Vaako stood fully upright, his legs trembling from the exertion, Riddick spoke again, his voice a low vibration.
“Again.”
Vaako froze, staring at him. Then, the brutal brilliance of the tactic settled in his gut like lead. Riddick wasn’t showing mercy. He was resetting the clock. By forcing him up, he was denying Vaako’s body the chance to adapt to the stretch, ensuring that every centimeter of progress had to be fought for anew. Worse, he was draining the strenght from Vaako’s muscles.
His breath came in ragged, shallow hitches as he lowered himself a second time. This time, there was no grace. His thighs were already screaming. He took the first two stages quickly, his entrance protesting the sudden, repetitive intrusion. As he reached the third stage, his balance wavered. His muscles were reaching their limit.
“Stand up,” Riddick commanded again, just as Vaako reached the threshold of the fourth.
A choked sound, half-sob and half-gasp, escaped Vaako’s throat as he forced his protesting body back into a standing position.
Riddick stepped closer, the faint light catching the cruel, satisfied curve of his mouth. He looked at the panting soldier before him and whispered a single, devastating word.
“Again.”
Vaako began the descent once more, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. His legs were no longer just burning; they felt as though they were being flayed from the bone. His entire body was a map of rigid, involuntary spasms, and his entrance was being brutally forced open.
He reached the third stage, his breath coming in shallow, panicked wheezes. He braced his core, prepared to push through to the fourth, when the voice cut through the air again.
“Again.”
Vaako’s whole frame shuddered. He obeyed, but it was a clumsy, desperate struggle to find his footing. His knees nearly buckled before he could lock them, his muscles twitching with fatiguel. As he began to lower himself he knew, it would be the final time. His strength was nerly gone.
Riddick slowly reached up and pushed his goggles onto his forehead.
He leaned in, his gaze boring into Vaako’s with a terrifying intimacy. In that shimmering, predatory stare, Vaako saw the truth mirrored back at him: Riddick knew exactly what he had done to Vaako.
He knew Vaako was at the edge, and he was waiting for the fall.
Vaako’s breath came in panicked, ragged hitches as he began the final descent. His control was gone; his body that had reached its absolute breaking point. His thighs didn’t just burn—they gave way. With a sickening lurch of gravity, his muscles failed, and he slammed down onto the seat with the full, unchecked force of his weight.
He braced for the end. He expected the sensation of being split open, the white-hot agony of tearing flesh, and the metallic scent of his own blood filling the room. His entire body convulsed, his fists clenched until his knuckles turned white, and his teeth ground together in anticipation of a scream he wouldn’t be able to suppress.
But the shattering pain never came.
Vaako sat, chest heaving, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He felt the device deep inside him, filling his core with a solid, unyielding presence. He waited for the shock to fade and the agony to register, but as the seconds ticked by, all he felt was… fullness.
There was no tearing. No warm trickle of blood. The stretch was firm, but it was entirely bearable. It was the sensation of a normal, well-sized object occupying his body—nothing like the monstrous instrument he had been forced to ride.
Distraught and utterly bewildered, Vaako looked up. His vision cleared of the sweat and the haze of exertion, and he sought out Riddick’s gaze.
Riddick hadn’t moved. He stood there with his goggles still pushed back, his silver eyes glowing with a calm, predatory intelligence. He watched the confusion ripple across Vaako’s face, his expression devoid of mockery.
“The size was an illusion.” he explained.
Vaako stared at him, his mind reeling. He swallowed against a dry throat, his voice barely a rasp. “Why?”
Riddick remained silent for a long beat. Finally, he spoke, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous rumble. “A man who just betrayed his Lord Marshal kneels and swears me fealty. Tell me, Vaako… what am I supposed to do with a man like that? Trust him? Keep him at my side?”
Vaako’s eyes didn’t leave Riddick’s. The predator continued, “I’m no fool. To be clear, Commander… I ordered you to my rooms tonight intending to kill you.”
Slowly, with a deliberate, metallic shirr, Riddick drew a curved Ulak blade from his hip. Vaako’s breath hitched as the cold, biting edge of the steel was pressed firmly against the pulse point of his throat. His body went limp, the fight finally draining out of him as he felt the bite of the metal. He closed his eyes, the logic finally clicking into place: the chair had been Riddick’s vengeance, and this was his final judgment.
Riddick leaned closer still, his voice filled with curiosity. “I can’t figure you out, Vaako. You turned on the last Lord Marshal the moment you saw an opening. But for me? You kneel. You endure that chair without a word of protest. And now…” He pressed the blade a fraction deeper, just enough to sting. “And now you offer me your throat for my steel.”
Vaako’s voice was heavy with a bone-deep weariness as he spoke. “The previous Lord Marshal… he betrayed us first.”
Riddick’s eyes narrowed, his head tilting in that predatory way. “What?”
“He betrayed the faith. He betrayed the Necromonger soul,” Vaako continued, his gaze fixed on a point in the shadows. “As First among Commanders, it was my duty to challenge him. It was my duty to try and kill him—even though it was clear I stood no chance against his power. I knew the moment I stepped onto that dais that I was dead. Without you… he would have ended me.”
Vaako looked directly into Riddick’s silvered eyes, his expression tired.
“I am a soldier of the faith, Riddick. The law is ‘you keep what you kill.’ You killed the rot at the heart of our empire. Now, it is my duty to serve you. To obey you. Whether you choose to torture me, humiliate me, or take my life here and now… it makes no difference. I am the First among Commanders, and you are my Lord Marshal
Riddick stared at Vaako, the silence in the room stretching until it felt like a physical weight. In all his years running from mercs and rotting in triple-max prisons, he had never encountered loyalty like this. It was a comlpetely foreign to him.
He looked down at the man before him—exhausted, defenseless, and still impaled upon the dildo he had accepted into his body under the terrifying belief it would tear him apart. There wasn’t a spark of defiance in Vaako’s eyes, only steady acceptance.
Riddick realized then that Vaako would receive the bite of the Ulak blade with the same obedience he had shown the chair.
The realization hit Riddick with the force of a physical blow. This wasn’t just honeyed words or a desperate ploy for survival. This wasn’t the slippery deception of a political climber. Vaako’s loyalty was absolute. It was a cold, hard fact of his existence. As long as Riddick didn’t betray the core of what the Necromongers stood for—as long as he remained the predator who had earned the throne through blood—Vaako would serve him with every fiber of his being, even unto his own destruction.
Riddick slowly pulled the blade away from Vaako’s throat
Riddick reached down, his large hands surprisingly steady as they gripped Vaako’s shoulders. He didn’t pull; he guided, slowly and cautiously helping the Commander rise from the chair. Vaako’s legs were useless, trembling violently under the weight of his own body, but Riddick bore the brunt of it. He moved with a deliberate care, ensuring that the dildo slid out of Vaako’s body without causing further harm.
Supporting the naked, shivering man, Riddick led him to a plush, low-slung armchair across the room. He eased Vaako into the cushions and immediately turned to retrieve a heavy, thick blanket, wrapping it tightly around the Commander. A moment later, he returned with a cup of a steaming, dark liquid. He placed it in Vaako’s hands and sat down directly across from him.
Vaako endured it all with wide, incredulous eyes.
“I’m not gonna apologize for what I did, Vaako,” Riddick said, his voice low. “I didn’t trust you. We’ve been at each other’s throats too long for trust.”
Vaako nodded silently, his gaze fixed on the steam rising from the cup. He understood. He didn’t expect an apology; in his world, power owed nothing to the weak.
But then Riddick leaned forward, his silver eyes locking onto Vaako’s with an intensity that demanded attention. “But I’m gonna make you a promise right here. As long as you keep your word to me… I’ll keep mine to you. From this moment on, I’ve got your back, First among Commanders.”
Vaako stared at him, the weight of those words sinking in slowly. It took a moment for his mind to bridge the gap between the execution he had expected and the alliance he was being offered. Riddick wasn’t just letting him live; he was validating his position, his rank, and his worth.
A single, violent shudder racked Vaako’s frame, and then, like a dam breaking, all the bone-deep tension that had gripped him since the fall of the previous Lord Marshal finally dissolved. When he had challenged the former ruler, he had accepted his death. When Riddick had taken the throne, he had prepared for a slow, agonizing end.
But now, the uncertainty was gone. Riddick had seen him at his most vulnerable and, instead of destroying him, had named him his First among Commanders. His life, his rank, and his honor—everything Vaako believed he had lost—had been restored by the man who could have taken them all.
Riddick’s voice was a low, steady hum in the quiet of the room. “Drink. Rest,” he commanded, gesturing toward the steaming cup.
They sat in a silence that was no longer jagged with threat, but heavy with the weight of mutual recognition. Vaako took small, hesitant sips, the warmth of the liquid slowly thawing the icy knot of shock in his chest. His eyelids grew heavy, the flickering shadows of the room dancing behind his lashes. He hadn’t slept more than an hour at a time since the Lord Marshal fell, and the sheer exhaustion of the night—the physical strain, the psychological terror, and the final, crushing relief—was finally claiming its due.
Eventually, Riddick stood. He didn’t loom; he simply moved into Vaako’s space and held out a hand. With a grunt of effort, Vaako took it, and Riddick hoisted him to his feet, keeping a steadying arm around his waist when the Commander’s knees threatened to buckle again.
Riddick led him toward the massive, dark-draped bed at the center of the chamber. Vaako’s entire body went rigid, his earlier fear resurfacing. He looked at the sheets, then back at the Furyan, his breath hitching.
“Just for sleep, First among Commanders,” Riddick said calmly. “In the state you’re in, I’m not letting you walk through this ship unprotected. Too many eyes. Too many blades.”
The realization hit Vaako with a warmth that had nothing to do with the drink. Riddick wasn’t keeping him there to claim a prize or to fulfill the threat he’d made in the throne room. He was keeping him there to guard him. He was protectim him, shielding the Vaakos vulnerability from the fleet that would love any sign of weakness.
Succumbing to the overwhelming weight of his fatigue, Vaako slid beneath the heavy covers. The furs were warm. He was out before his head fully hit the pillow, sinking into a deep, dreamless sleep.
A short while later, the mattress shifted as a second weight settled into the darkness beside him. Riddick didn’t touch him, but his presence was a solid beside him.
When Vaako woke the next morning, the first thing he registered was the unfamiliar texture of the linens and the heavy, still air of the Lord Marshal’s sanctum. Then, he felt the presence beside him.
Years of training kicked in instantly. He remained perfectly still, his breathing shallow and rhythmic, feigning sleep while his mind raced to piece together the fragmented memories of the previous night. The throne room, the chair, the blade at his throat… and then, the blanket and the unexpected protection.
His memory returned. He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t broken.
Slowly, Vaako pushed himself up, the furs sliding down his chest. He turned his head and found Riddick already awake. The Furyan was lying on his back, hands behind his head, watching him with those unblinking, silver eyes. A small, almost imperceptible smile played around the corners of Riddick’s mouth.
Riddick sat up with a slow, fluid grace. “How you holding up, Commander?” he asked, his voice a low, morning rasp.
Vaako hesitated. He performed a silent, internal inventory of his body. The depp exhaustion of the previous days had vanished, replaced by a strange, calm clarity. He felt a lingering heat—a dull sting at his entrance—but there was no sharp pain, no throbbing, and certainly no damage. His muscles were stiff, but the tremors were gone.
He looked Riddick straight in the eyes, meeting that shimmering gaze. For the first time without fear.
“I am well, My Lord,” Vaako said, his voice regaining its steady, soldier’s resonance.
Riddick nodded, the smile deepening just a fraction.
Riddick watched him for another long moment. “The fleet is waiting, Vaako. Are you ready to take your place at my side?”
Vaako didn’t hesitate. He stood, his nakedness no longer felt like a vulnerability, but a shedding of his old life. “Yes,” he said, his voice clear and unwavering. “I am ready.”
They dressed in a companionable silence. Vaako donned his armor, the familiar weight of the Necromonger plates settling onto his shoulders like a second skin. Riddick slid into his dark, rugged gear, finally snapping his goggles into place over his silver eyes. Before they left, Riddick signaled for a meal to be brought to the sanctum. They ate quickly and efficiently.
When the massive, ornate doors of the Lord Marshal’s quarters finally hissed open, the guards stationed outside snapped to a rigid salute. They had expected many things to emerge from that room—a corpse, a broken slave, or a lone, blood-soaked Furyan.
Instead, they saw two men walking in perfect, lethal synchronicity.
Riddick led the way with his effortless, predatory stride. And beside him, his head held high and his hand resting comfortably on the hilt of his blade, walked Vaako.
The atmosphere in the corridors was electric, charged with a mixture of awe and toxic speculation. The Necromonger fleet was a hive of gossip, and the news that the First Commander had spent the entire night in the Lord Marshal’s sanctum had spread like a virus. Eyes followed Vaako everywhere—some filled with questions, others with naked contempt.
As Vaako made his way toward the secondary armory to oversee the redistribution of resources, he found his path blocked. A group of four Sub-Commanders, led by a man named Irksos—a soldier known more for his ambition than his discipline—stood in a tight semi-circle.
Kiros didn’t bow. He smirked, his eyes raking over Vaako. “The fleet is talking, Vaako,” Kiros sneered, loud enough for the surrounding soldiers to hear. “We heard the Furyan didn’t take your head. Instead, he took your body. Tell us, why should the faithful take orders from the Lord Marshal’s concubine?”
The air seemed to freeze. The soldiers in the hallway held their breath, expecting Vaako to falter or explain.
They were wrong.
Vaako didn’t waste breath on words. In a movement so fluid it was almost impossible to track, his hand fell to his belt. The sound of steel clearing leather was followed instantly by the wet thud of a blade finding its mark. Vaako’s dagger buried itself under Kiros chin, driving upward into the brain.
Kiros eyes rolled back, his smirk dying in a gurgle of blood. Vaako stepped forward, catching the man’s falling body and shoving it contemptuously to the floor. The other three Sub-Commanders recoiled instinctively, their hands flying to their own weapons, but they stopped dead when they saw the look in Vaako’s eyes.
It wasn’t the look of a victim. Nor a concubine.
Vaako wiped the blood from his blade on Kiros cape, a cold, sharp smile touching his lips. He looked at the remaining officers, his voice echoing with absolute authority.
“There is no room in this empire for Commanders with so little understanding,” he said, his tone as biting as the vacuum of space. “If any of you believe the Lord Marshal has diminished me, step forward. Otherwise, get back to your posts before I decide you are as redundant as he was.”
The Sub-Commanders bowed their heads low, their defiance shattered. They scrambled to obey, leaving Vaako standing alone over the corpse.
From the shadows of the upper walkway, Riddick watched the scene, his silver eyes shimmering with dark approval. He didn’t say a word; he didn’t need to. His First Commander was exactly where he needed to be.
In the weeks that followed, the dynamic of the Necromonger fleet shifted from chaotic conquest to a precision machine. Riddick watched it happen from the center of the storm, and his silent admiration for Vaako grew with every solar cycle.
The man was flawless.
Riddick had spent his life around killers, mercs, and cowards, but he had never seen a mind like Vaako’s. As they stood over holographic star charts, Vaako demonstrated the reach of a brilliant strategist. He didn’t just see the next battle; he saw the ten after that, calculated the logistics of a hundred-ship fleet and knew exactly where to strike.
In the training circles, Vaako proved himself as a tactician and a fighter. He didn’t lead from the rear. When ambitious officers challenged, Vaako met them on the sands. He moved with a refined, lethal elegance that complimented Riddick’s raw, animalistic power. He didn’t just win; he dismantled his opponents.
But what truly caught Riddick’s attention was the loyalty Vaako commanded. He was a true leader. Riddick saw the way the soldiers straightened their backs when Vaako entered a deck. He saw the way they looked to him for more than just orders. They were men who would walk through fire if Vaako gave the word, not out of fear, but out of respect for the man who led them.
Riddick leaned against the cold metal of the command deck, watching Vaako coordinate a complex docking maneuver with three capital ships. The First Commander was focused, his profile sharp against the glowing screens, his commands crisp and undisputed.
Riddick realized he hadn’t just found a subordinate to run his errands. He had found the one thing he never thought existed in this galaxy: a partner who was his equal.
As Riddick’s admiration for Vaako deepened, a different, more primal hunger began to stir. He had always been aware that Vaako was a handsome man—possessed a sharp, aristocratic beauty that stood out among the Necromongers. But now, seeing the man’s brilliance in action and his absolute lethality, that physical attraction was nearly irresistible.
He caught the way Vaako’s eyes lingered on him when they were alone in the war room—the way the Commander’s breath would hitch just a fraction of a second when Riddick stepped too close into his personal space. The attraction was mutual; the heat between them was becoming a physical weight in the air.
Yet, Riddick stayed his hand.
In his weeks of absorbing the history and rigid hierarchy of this death-cult, Riddick had learned enough about Necromonger customs to understand the trap they were in. Among the faithful, power was everything. If Riddick took Vaako to his bed as a lover, the fleet wouldn’t see a partnership. They would see a conquest.
In their eyes, Vaako would cease to be the First among Commanders. He would be branded a concubine—a plaything used to satisfy the Lord Marshal’s whims. His authority would evaporate, his men’s respect would turn to pity or scorn, and his political standing would be ruined beyond repair. To claim Vaako physically would be to destroy the man.
Riddick watched Vaako across the command table, the flickering light of the star charts reflecting in those dark eyes, and felt a rare pang of frustration.
Riddick began taking other lovers—ambitious officers and high-ranking acolytes whose standing was elevated by the mere association with the Lord Marshal’s bed. It was a calculated move, to keep the fleet’s wagging tongues away from the man who actually mattered.
But even as he shared his time with others, Riddick’s eyes never truly left Vaako. And the more he watched, the more a cold, hard truth began to crystallize in his mind.
Vaako wasn’t just a commander. He held the threads of the entire empire in his hands. Every supply line, every troop movement, every whispered loyalty among the rank and file—it all flowed through Vaako. Riddick saw the way the soldiers looked at the First Commander. Their oaths were to the throne, but their hearts belonged to the man.
Riddick leaned back in the shadows of the balcony, watching Vaako dismiss a legion on the parade grounds below. A grim realization settled over him. Should Vaako ever decide that Riddick was no longer fit for the crown, he wouldn’t repeat the mistake he made with the previous Lord Marshal. There would be no desperate, suicidal duel on a raised dais.
This time, Vaako wouldn’t fight alone.
He would simply turn the tide. He would raise his hand, and ten thousand soldiers would turn their blades toward the throne. Against that kind of coordinated, absolute loyalty, even a Furyan wouldn’t stand a chance. Riddick was the Lord Marshall, but Vaako had the power —and Riddick realized he was sitting on a throne only as long as the man beside him allowed it.
The evenings spent togehther in the Lord Marshal’s quarters had always been calm discussions of strategy , but tonight, it was different. The heavy silence was charged with a tension that had been building for months.
Riddick gestured for the Commander to sit, handing him a drink before settling back into the shadows. Vaako met his gaze, his posture as impeccable as ever, though there was a slight, telltale tension in the set of his shoulders.
“When you said you belonged to me,” Riddick began, his voice a low, rough vibration, “did you mean it?”
Vaako didn’t blink. “Yes, My Lord. Without reservation.”
Riddick leaned forward, the light of the glowing embers in the hearth catching the silver of his eyes. “And if I told you I wanted you in my bed… what would your answer be?”
The question hit Vaako like a physical blow. His hand tightened around his glass and he swallowed hard. To say yes was his political execution. He would be stripped of his respect, his command, and his honor in the eyes of the fleet. He would become nothing, a concubine. He wanted Riddick, would go to his bed in a heartbeat, but it meant giving up who he was.
Riddick watched the conflict play out across the Commander’s pale features. “You’re a brilliant First among Commanders, Vaako. Flawless. But there are others who could fill that chair, manage the logistics, and lead the men.”
He paused, his voice dropping to a silken, dangerous whisper. “But there isn’t anyone else I want in my bed. Just you.”
Vaako closed his eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath.
When he opened his eyes, the conflict was gone, replaced by a terrifyingly clear surrender. He looked at Riddick, his voice raspy but absolute.
“I belong to you, My Lord,” he said, the words a final, total offering.
The night was a blur of heat and surrender, a profound crossing of boundaries that could never be uncrossed. When the artificial dawn light filtered into the sanctum, Vaako sat on the edge of the massive bed, his gaze fixed on his armor. The charcoal plates, scarred by a hundred battles, sat in the corner like the husk of a dead man. He knew, with a hollow ache in his chest, that he would never wear them again. A commander does not lead from the Lord Marshal’s sheets.
Riddick moved behind him, silent as a shadow. He didn’t offer the armor. Instead, he reached for a set of robes laid out on a nearby bench—garments of heavy, midnight silk and intricate silver threading. They were beautiful.
Vaako’s hands trembled as he took the fabric. He was no longer the First among Commanders; he was being draped in the finery of a favorite. When he was finished, the silk felt heavy and alien.
“Ready?” Riddick asked. His voice wasn’t mocking; it held a strange, grounding weight.
Vaako couldn’t find his voice. He merely nodded, his face deathly pale.
The doors to the private quarters hissed open. Vaako stepped out at Riddick’s side, and the transition was instantaneous. Riddick walked beside him, holding his hand in his own.
As they moved through the corridors, the atmosphere changed. The rhythmic clank of boots seemed to falter as they passed. Soldiers froze. Sub-Commanders stared, their eyes widening as they took in Vaako’s new attire. The silk, the lack of a sidearm, the lowered head—it told the story more clearly than any proclamation could.
The whispers began almost immediately. Concubine. Favorite. Broken.
Vaako kept his eyes on the floor, the polished metal reflecting his own shame. He had made his choice—he had given his life to his Lord Marshall—but the loss of his identity as a warrior was a wound that cut deeper than any blade. He felt every stare like a lash, yet he remained at Riddick’s side, the most powerful man in the fleet reduced to a beautiful ornament.
Riddick’s grip on Vaako’s hand was unyielding. He lead him, as they ascended the steps of the throne platform. The height of the dais usually commanded respect, but today, as they turned to face the assembled court, the air was thick with a different kind of energy. It was a poisonous mixture of shock, and dark, hungry amusement.
Riddick scanned the sea of faces. He didn’t sit. He stood beside Vaako, keeping their joined hands visible for every commander and priest to see.
“From the first cycle I took this seat,” Riddick began, his voice low but carrying to the farthest corners of the hall, “Vaako has been at my side. As First among Commanders, he has been my right hand. He led the legions and executed my will without a single stumble. He was flawless.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd—a low tide of uncertain agreement.
Riddick’s expression didn’t change, but his voice took on a sharper, more intimate edge. “And now, Vaako has seen fit to grant me the highest honor a man can give. He has chosen to become mine. Body and soul.”
The silence that followed lasted only a heartbeat before the room erupted in a chaotic wave of sound. There was shocked gasping from the faithful, but louder was the derisive, hämische snickering of the ambitious younger officers. They looked at Vaako—standing there in his silks, his armor gone, his warrior’s pride abandoned.
Vaako felt the mockery like physical blows. He pressed his eyes shut, his jaw trembling as he fought to maintain his composure. The shame was suffocating. He was not longer the First among Commanders, he was nothing but a trophy.
Riddick’s voice cut through the derisive murmurs, growing deeper and more resonant. “Such an honor, granted by a man like him… how could I do anything less than return that honor in kind?”
The sneers in the crowd faltered, replaced by a confused, wary tension.
Riddick turned fully toward Vaako, releasing his hand. “Vaako,” he said, his voice dropping to a gravelly, intimate tone that carried across the silent hall. “Will you swear the Warrior’s Oath with me?”
A collective gasp hissed through the chamber, followed by silence. Vaako’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and disbelief.
The Warrior’s Oath was the most sacred bond in Necromonger history. It was far more than a marriage or a contract of service. It was a total merging of two lives. To swear it meant that everything—rank, reputation, power, and their very bodies—was shared equally. If one was insulted, both were insulted. If one commanded, he spoke with the voice of both.
It was a bond of absolute equals in the eyes of the law, and it was so rare it had become a legend.
Vaako stared at Riddick, his heart hammering against his ribs. By offering this, Riddick wasn’t making him a concubine; he was making him a Co-Ruler. He was using the most ancient law of their people to elevate Vaako’s new status into something holy, something that no one in the fleet would dare to mock without committing the highest sacrilege.
The shame that had been crushing Vaako only moments ago vanished, replaced by a blinding, fierce heat.
Vaako’s eyes locked onto Riddick’s, the shock in them hardening into a fierce, crystalline resolve. He stepped forward, closing the distance until their chests almost brushed. Without a word, he reached out and took the curved dagger from Riddick’s side. With a swift, unwavering motion, he drew the blade across his forearm, the silver steel parting skin to reveal a deep, crimson line.
He didn’t flinch. He simply offered the hilt to the Furyan.
Riddick took the blade, his silver eyes reflecting the dark blood on the steel. He didn’t hesitate; he mirrored the motion, cutting a matching path across his own muscular forearm. Then, in the center of the dais, under the watchful gaze of the entire empire, they crossed their arms.
Wound to wound. Blood to blood.
The heat of their mingled life force flowed between them, sealing a bond that transcended law and custom. It was the ancient alchemy of the Necromonger soul—the joining of two into a single, unstoppable force.
The silence of the hall shattered. The warriors in the room broke into a deafening, thunderous roar of approval. They slammed their gauntlets against their chest plates, the rhythmic pounding shaking the very foundations of the ship. This wasn’t the coronation of a favorite.
The Lord Marshal had honored Vaako in a way that hadn’t been seen in generations.
Vaako was no longer the First among Commanders. He was no longer a subordinate to be commanded or a rival to be feared. He was Lord Marshal. He stood now with the same rank, the same absolute authority, and the same terrifying power as Riddick. Together, they turned to face their empire.
That evening, they returned to their shared quarters.
The silence in the sanctum was heavy, vibrating with the echoes of the day’s monumental shift. Vaako stood by the table, the fine silk of his robes a stark contrast to the dried blood still staining his forearm. He took a slow sip of the amber liquid, his eyes fixed on the flickering shadows dancing across the wall, before turning to face the man who was now his equal.
“Why?” he asked, the word barely a whisper.
Riddick didn’t need further explanation. He knew exactly what the question meant. Vaako wasn’t asking about the honor of the oath; he was asking about the cruelty of the transition. He was asking why Riddick had forced him to walk that gauntlet of shame—stripped of his armor, draped in the silks of a plaything, and exposed to the mockery of the court—only to lift him to the highest possible rank moments later.
Riddick stepped closer, the glass in his hand catching the light. He took a drink, his silver eyes never leaving Vaako’s. “Because I couldn’t trust,” he admitted, his voice a low, jagged rasp. “Despite everything you did… despite every proof of your loyalty… I couldn’t let go of the doubt.”
Vaako’s frame went rigid, a flicker of pain crossing his face.
“I’ve been betrayed more times than I can count,” Riddick continued. “I’ve lived in the dark too long. My heart wanted you as a Warrior Mate, Vaako. It wanted you for a long time. But my head… my head wouldn’t let me believe it was real. I know you didn’t deserve it. But I had to test you one last time. I had to see if you would still stand by me when I took everything from you—your rank, your pride, your very identity.”
Vaako remained silent for a long beat, the weight of the confession settling between them.
“And now?” Vaako asked softly.
Riddick didn’t answer with words. Instead, he reached for the Ulak blade at his side and drew it with a slow, deliberate ring of steel. He didn’t point it at Vaako. He took Vaako’s hand, pressed the hilt into his palm, and then guided the sharp edge until it was resting firmly against his own bared throat.
“A final test,” Riddick whispered, his voice steady. “If this was all a trick… if you want the throne for yourself and the oath was just a means to an end… you’ve won. You’re the Lord Marshal. You have the men. And you have my life in your hand.”
Riddick let go of Vaako’s hand, dropping his arms to his sides and standing completely defenseless. “Take what you want, Vaako.”
Vaako let his hand drop, the blade clattering harmlessly onto the cold floor. He didn’t speak; Instead, he reached out, his fingers tangling in the collar of Riddick’s tunic, and pulled the Furyan into a kiss that was hard, hungry, and utterly dominant.
It wasn’t a kiss of gratitude. It was a kiss of possession.
As Vaako pressed him back toward the massive bed, Riddick remained a willing captive. He didn’t want to fight. He offered no resistance as Vaako’s weight bore him down into the furs.
In the shadows of the sanctum, the roles of ruler and servant dissolved completely. Vaako took what he desired with a fierce, unyielding intensity.
He took Riddick’s body and claimed his heart.
The morning air in the sanctum was still, but the atmosphere had shifted into something profoundly new. Vaako reached for his armor, the familiar weight of the plates feeling like a homecoming.
As he fastened his gauntlets, he turned to find Riddick reaching not for his rugged combat gear, but for the very same fine, flowing silks Vaako had worn the day before.
Vaako froze, a heavy pauldron halfway secured. He watched in stunned silence as Riddick calmly donned the elegant garments—the unmistakable attire of a favorite. Riddick smoothed the fabric over his powerful frame, his movements fluid and devoid of shame.
When he finished, he turned to meet Vaako’s gaze. A small smile played on his lips, though his silver eyes remained steady and serious.
Vaako’s breath hitched in his throat. He understood the gravity of the gesture instantly. By stepping out of these chambers in those clothes, Riddick was making a proclamation to the entire fleet. He was telling every soldier, every priest, and every ambitious commander that he had been the one to yield in the dark—that he had been the one to serve Vaako’s pleasure.
He was taking the same social brand, the same shame Vaako had endured the day before.
Riddick walked over to the door, waiting for Vaako to join him. As they stood side by side, the final wall between them crumbled. Vaako realized that Riddick wasn’t just sharing his throne; he was protecting Vaako’s dignity by sacrificing his own.
He was showing the universe that they were truly equal, not just in command and blood, but in the most intimate depths of their partnership. There was no master and no servant—only two men who belonged to each other.
With a surge of fierce, protective pride, Vaako reached out, gripped the door lever, and threw the portal open. Together, they stepped out into the light of the corridor to face their empire, united in a way the Necromongers had never seen and would never dare to challenge again.