Page 30

My voice rises, my control slipping. “On my world, Jaro, we have a name for relationships based on ownership and control. It's not called mating. It's called slavery.”

The word hangs in the air between us, ugly and sharp. He flinches as if I have physically struck him. The golden light in his eyes dims, leaving them a flat, wounded amber. He sees my horror, my rejection, but the cultural chasm between us is too wide for him to cross. He is a warrior-prince, raised in a world of dominance and hierarchy. I am a scientist from a world that, for all its flaws, values consent and equality as fundamental rights.

“It is the only way,” he says finally, his voice gutted of all emotion. “The elders have decided. The ceremony will be at the next setting of the twin suns.”

He has made his choice. His tribe, his leadership, his traditions... they come first. My feelings, my values, my fundamental right to choose... they are secondary. A political inconvenience to be managed.

A cold dread begins to seep into my bones, more chilling than any Xylosian poison. Preparations for the ceremony begin that very cycle.

Jaro's dwelling, my gilded cage, is suddenly filled with the artifacts of my subjugation. Two elderly females, their faces impassive masks, arrive with bolts of fine, woven cloth. They are a deep, blood-red color. The binding cloths. They hold them up to me, measuring me with their eyes, their silent judgment a heavy weight in the room. They speak to me in low, instructional tones, their words a stream of commands that my translator renders with brutal clarity.

[You will wear this ceremonial shift. You will kneel when the chief speaks. Your eyes will remain lowered in deference to your mate's new status.]

I say nothing. I let them measure and drape and instruct, my body a mannequin, my mind a fortress of cold, analytical rage.This is a social control mechanism. The ritual is designed to reinforce the existing power structure by publicly demonstrating the subjugation of the female. The color of the cloth, red, is likely symbolic of fertility or sacrifice. The kneeling posture is a universally recognized display of submission.

Jaro brings the paints himself. He enters the dwelling carrying a carved wooden box. He doesn't meet my eyes. He places the box on the central table and opens it. Inside are pots of pigment, and a small, wickedly sharp ceremonial blade.

“My blood will be the base for the marking paint,” he says, his voice a low monotone. “It signifies that you are of my bloodline now. Under my protection.”

I look at the knife, at the empty pots. I think of my own blood, my own DNA, unique and sovereign. The idea of being marked by him, literally branded with his genetic material as a sign of ownership, is a violation so profound I feel a wave of nausea.

I feel him watching me, his internal conflict a palpable force in the room. The bond between us is a torment, a live wire connecting his reluctant determination to my growing dread. I can feel his anguish, his sense of being trapped by his own culture. But I can also feel the unyielding core of the warrior-prince, the part of him that will do what he believes is necessary for his tribe, for his honor.

He thinks he is choosing the only path available. He thinks this is a sacrifice he must make, and that I must endure.

He is wrong.

As the twin suns begin their slow descent on the eve of the ceremony, staining the sky in hues of orange and violet, I standby the window, looking out at Vara-Ka. I feel the weight of a thousand alien eyes on this dwelling, on me. I am the focal point of their political drama, the pawn in their power games.

But I am not a pawn. I am Dr. Kendra Miles. I survived a crash-landing on a hostile world. I survived predator attacks. I survived a poison that should have killed me. I will survive this.

Jaro enters the chamber, dressed in the formal leathers of a warrior about to undertake a sacred duty. He looks magnificent, and the sight of him, so proud and determined and utterly wrong, breaks my heart.

He comes to stand beside me, not touching, the space between us a roaring silence.

“Kendra,” he says, his voice soft, almost a plea. “Tomorrow, it will be over. We can begin to build something... new.”

I turn to look at him, and I let him see the cold, clear resolve in my eyes. I will not kneel. I will not be bound. I will not be claimed.

“No, Jaro,” I say, and my voice is steady, a scientist stating an undeniable fact. “Tomorrow, it ends.”

I will resist. Even if it means severing this bond that has become a part of my very cells. Even if it means facing the wrath of this entire tribe alone. I will not be property.

I will make my own choice.

Chapter 15: BETRAYAL

The ceremonial attire is a cage of fabric. It feels both alien and restrictive, the woven material heavy on my shoulders, the intricate clasps cool against my skin. I stare at my reflection in a polished metal plate on Jaro's wall. The woman looking back is a stranger, her face painted with subtle, swirling blue lines, her hair bound in a complex braid interwoven with metallic threads. This is not Dr. Kendra Miles, xenobotanist. This is a sacrificial offering.

Kyra enters the dwelling silently, her presence a small comfort in the suffocating quiet. She carries a small, velvet-lined box. Her amber eyes are filled with a sorrow that mirrors the ache in my own chest.

“It is time,” she says softly.

I nod, my throat too tight for words. She opens the box. Inside, resting on dark cloth, is not a piece of jewelry, but a shard of polished black obsidian, its edges honed to a wicked sharpness. It's beautiful and deadly.

“The elders say this is a traditional charm,” Kyra explains, her voice barely a whisper as she presses it into my palm. Her fingers close over mine for a moment, a gesture of solidarity that feels like a lifeline. “To ward off ill omens during the ceremony.”

I look from the shard to her face. We both know its true purpose. This is not a charm. It is a tool. A potential weapon. An escape.