Commander Thrak moved like clockwork.
Not metaphorically. His movements had the precise, mechanical quality of something that had performed the same actions so many times they'd become automatic.
Every step the same length. Every turn the same angle. Even his breathing seemed measured, controlled, optimized for efficiency.
Three hundred years of warfare had turned him into a machine that happened to be made of flesh.
He stopped exactly five paces from Liam—close enough for conversation, far enough to draw a weapon if needed. His eyes, a pale yellow that reminded Liam of old parchment, swept over the captured western rampart with clinical assessment.
"Acceptable casualties," Thrak said. His voice was flat, devoid of inflection. "Three dead for forty-seven enemy killed and strategic position secured. Ratio: fifteen-point-six-seven to one. Within acceptable parameters."
Not 'thank you.' Not 'well done.' Just calculations.
"Acceptable," Liam repeated, letting the word hang.
