Page 2

Elder Nyssa's dwelling sits apart from others, built against the settlement's eastern wall where twisted juniper trees provide natural shelter. The small garden surrounding it grows herbs most settlers can't name—plants that can temporarily mask human scent from Prime detection, if you know how to use them.

I've always suspected the old woman maintains contact with resistance networks, though I've never had proof. Not that it matters now. What I need from her isn't rebellion but confirmation and advice.

"I wondered when you'd come," Nyssa says before I can knock, pulling her door open with gnarled fingers. Her silver braids catch morning light, the intricate patterns woven through them signifying her authority. The scarification patterns across her cheekbones—ritual markings from before the Conquest—seem to deepen as she frowns at me. "Sooner than I expected, though. Come in, girl, before you announce yourself to every Prime within ten miles."

Inside, her dwelling smells of dried herbs and wood ash. The single room serves as living quarters, council chamber, and healing space depending on need. I've been here countless times—bringing trading reports, seeking treatment for minor injuries,listening to pre-Conquest stories when the settlement children gather for lessons—but never for this.

"You're certain?" she asks, though she clearly already knows the answer.

I nod anyway. "It started last night. The heat, the sensitivity..." I gesture vaguely at my body, unwilling to detail the more embarrassing symptoms. "You've known, haven't you? That I would present eventually?"

Nyssa's weathered face reveals nothing as she circles me, her experienced eyes noting changes I'm only beginning to understand. "Suspected. Your mother showed late too—twenty, almost twenty-one. But we hoped..." She shakes her head. "Your timing couldn't be worse, child."

"What do you mean?"

She gestures for me to sit at the small table dominating the room's center. From a chest near her sleeping pallet, she withdraws a bundle wrapped in faded cloth. The Council of Nine emblem stamped into leather binding glints dully as she unwraps an official decree.

"This arrived three days ago. The Council has redrawn territorial boundaries." Her finger traces new lines on the accompanying map. "Blackridge is no longer contested territory. We've been placed under feline jurisdiction."

The room seems to tilt sideways. My stomach lurches as though I've missed a step in darkness. For weeks, I'd heard whispers among the traders about border negotiations, but I'd dismissed them as routine posturing.

"No," I whisper, staring at the map where bold lines slash through everything I've planned. "That's not possible. We've been neutral ground for years. The dragons?—"

"Have lost this territory in the latest Council negotiation." Nyssa's voice carries the finality of a closing tomb. "The FelineConfederacy now claims everything east of the Razorback Ridge, including Blackridge Settlement."

I stand so quickly the chair topples behind me. "Then I need to leave. Now. Before?—"

"Before your heat fully manifests?" She laughs, a harsh sound without humor. "And go where, exactly? Dragon territory is at least three days' hard travel through mountain passes, and that's for someone not beginning their first heat cycle. You wouldn't make it halfway."

"I have to try," I insist, panic rising alongside the persistent heat in my blood. "I've studied the paths, mapped the patrol patterns. I know the hidden trail through Serpent's Pass that even the traders avoid. If I leave today, before the symptoms worsen?—"

"To what end?" Nyssa demands, suddenly looking every one of her seventy years. "What do you imagine awaits you in dragon lands, girl? Some majestic creature who'll treasure you as mate rather than breeding stock?"

"They're different from the felines," I argue. "More civilized, more?—"

"More prone to burning their claimed omegas from the inside out," she cuts me off sharply. "Their dual anatomy isn't compatible with human physiology. The few who survive claiming are never the same afterward."

A flicker of doubt snakes through me before I crush it. "You don't know that," I shake my head in denial. "Those are just stories the felines spread to keep us afraid."

Nyssa's expression softens into something worse than anger—pity. "I treated three omega women who escaped dragon territory during the last border dispute." Her voice drops to a whisper. "One girl, Aria, barely older than you were when you first started dreaming of them... they used her for target practiceafter they were done with her heat. Said her screams were... musical."

My throat tightens. "That's—that can't be?—"

"I know what I saw," Nyssa says quietly. "The burns went soul-deep. What they did to her..." She shakes her head. "The felines may be predators, but at least most understand their own strength. Dragons view humans as toys to be used until broken."

A treacherous part of me whispers that she might be right, but I push it away. I can't afford doubt now. Another wave of heat floods through me, momentarily stealing my ability to speak. This one brings a cramping sensation, an emptiness that demands to be filled. My thighs press together unconsciously against the sudden slick dampness between them.

"It's progressing quickly," Nyssa observes clinically. "Given your age, that's not surprising. Late presentations often accelerate once they begin."

She moves to her collection of dried herbs, selecting several bundles before crushing them in a mortar. The bitter scent makes my newly sensitive nose wrinkle.

"This will help mask your scent temporarily," she explains, "and this—" she adds another herb to the mixture, "—will slow the progression somewhat. But understand me, Aria. These are temporary measures at best. Within three days, perhaps four, you'll experience full heat. Nothing will stop it then."

I accept the mixture with shaking hands. "And if I'm found before then?"

"The Feline Confederacy has strict policies regarding newly presented omegas. You'll be taken to Shadowthorn Outpost for processing." Her voice remains carefully neutral. "Commander Clawe will determine whether you're claimed or sent to a breeding facility."

The name sends a chill through me despite my rising temperature. Everyone in Blackridge knows of CommanderFritz Clawe—the scarred, battle-hardened feline whose fortress overlooks our settlement from the mountainside. I've glimpsed him exactly twice during mandatory settlement inspections: a looming presence with cold golden eyes and a long, muscular tail that lashed behind him like a separate entity. His face, marked by three parallel scars running from temple to jaw, had featured in settlement children's nightmares for weeks afterward.