Page 26

The settlement guards recognize me immediately, surprise and complicated emotion crossing their faces as they take in my uniform and, more significantly, the claiming mark visible at my throat. One of them—Daven, who I've known since childhood—steps forward with an uncertain gesture that falls somewhere between a greeting and a condolence.

"Aria," he says, eyes darting between me and Thorne. "You're... back."

The hesitation speaks volumes. Not returned home butback—visiting rather than belonging, an outsider now rather than a community member. The realization stings more than I expected, despite my preparation for precisely this reception.

"Official trade liaison," I explain, keeping my voice professionally neutral. "I'm here to meet with Elder Nyssa and the council regarding new exchange protocols between Blackridge and Shadowthorn Outpost."

The formal language feels foreign on my tongue, as though someone else speaks through me—a stranger wearing my face, using my voice, occupying the space where Aria Copenhagen once belonged. The settlement guards' expressions shift from uncertainty to something closer to suspicion, the wariness of people confronting something that appears familiar but has fundamentally changed.

"I'll escort her from here," Daven tells Thorne, clearly uncomfortable addressing the feline directly. "The council chambers are off-limits to Prime forces without special authorization."

Thorne's tail sways once behind him, measuring his thoughts in a way I've begun recognizing from observing Fritz. "I'll wait at the gates. Commander Clawe expects her back by sundown."

The casual reminder of my captivity—couched in professional courtesy but clear in its meaning—sends a flush of humiliation up my neck. Not free to determine my own schedule, my own movements, but a pet on an extended leash expected to return obediently to a master's call. Only the claiming bite's throbbing presence reminds me that the leash extends much further than Thorne's watchful gaze—the bond itself ensuring I cannot stray beyond Fritz's reach regardless of distance or intention.

As I follow Daven through familiar streets that suddenly feel alien, I become acutely aware of eyes tracking my progress—settlement residents pausing in their daily activities to stare at the marked omega in their midst. The claiming bite might as well be a brand burned into my flesh for how visibly it announces my status to everyone we pass.

Some look at me with naked pity, expressions softening with sympathy for a fate they've spent lives avoiding. Others observe with thinly disguised envy, noting the quality of my clothing, the healthy glow of my skin, the privileged position of trade liaison rather than common laborer. Most disturbing are those whose eyes narrow with suspicion or outright hostility, as though my claiming represents collaboration rather than captivity, choice rather than coercion.

"Ignore them," Daven advises quietly as we pass a cluster of women whose whispers aren't quite low enough to escape notice. "They don't understand."

"What's to understand?" I ask with a bitterness I can't entirely suppress. "The bite speaks for itself."

"Does it?" His sideways glance holds unexpected insight. "There are worse fates than being claimed by the fortress commander. Everyone knows Commander Clawe maintains stricter standards than most feline officers. The settlementquotas remain reasonable, the punishment for infractions proportionate."

The observation surprises me, though I'm careful not to show it. During my years in Blackridge, I'd barely acknowledged the feline presence beyond avoiding their patrols and fantasizing about dragons instead. The idea that settlement residents might have developed a nuanced understanding of different Prime leadership styles had never occurred to me.

The council chambers appear ahead—a circular stone building with a distinctive red-tiled roof that serves as Blackridge's administrative center. Unlike every other structure in the settlement, it predates the Conquest, one of the few original buildings permitted to remain standing when Primes reorganized human territory. The ancient stone feels strangely comforting as we approach, a reminder of continuity despite world-changing upheaval.

"I'll wait outside," Daven informs me, gesturing toward the carved wooden doors. "Elder Nyssa requested a private meeting before the council convenes."

I nod thanks before squaring my shoulders and entering the familiar space. The central chamber maintains a traditional circular design, with stone benches arranged in concentric rings around a central fire pit. Morning light filters through high windows, illuminating the intricate tapestries adorning the walls—each one telling a story from settlement history, continuing a tradition of record-keeping that predates written language in these mountains.

Elder Nyssa awaits beside the banked fire, her silver braids catching light as she turns at my entrance. Her weathered face reveals nothing beyond polite welcome, though her experienced eyes immediately locate the claiming mark at my throat.

"So," she says simply, gesturing for me to approach. "You survived."

The blunt assessment startles an unexpected laugh from me—the first genuine amusement I've felt since the claiming. "Barely," I admit, moving to join her beside the fire. "Though not as I'd planned."

"Few do." Her gnarled fingers reach toward my throat, pausing with an unspoken question. When I nod permission, she examines the claiming bite with a professional detachment that speaks to experiences I hadn't known she possessed. "Clean healing. Proper placement. No infection or neurological complications." Her head tilts slightly, reassessment in her gaze. "You survived intact. That one controlled himself better than most felines would."

The observation triggers a cascade of contradictory emotions—defensive anger that anyone would suggest Fritz showed restraint during the violation, alongside uncomfortable acknowledgment that the claiming could indeed have been worse. The barbs that reshaped my inner walls, the knot that stretched me beyond what should be possible, the extended claiming that left me sobbing beneath him—all brutal in their execution yet executed with a precision that prevented lasting physical damage.

"He was... efficient," I manage, the word inadequate yet least complicated option available.

Nyssa's expression suggests she hears what remains unspoken. "And now you return as a trade liaison rather than a breeding facility transfer. An interesting choice for a commander known to maintain emotional distance from claimed omegas."

The comment startles me. "You know him? Personally?"

"I've negotiated with Commander Clawe since his assignment to Shadowthorn five years ago," Nyssa replies, lowering herself onto a stone bench with a slight grimace that betrays aging joints. "Before you presented, before you wereeven assigned to trading expeditions. The settlement council maintains necessary relations with whatever Prime species claims our territory."

Another revelation I hadn't expected—that Blackridge leaders navigated a complex political landscape while I dreamed of dragon rescues and romantic claimings. My ignorance feels suddenly childish, my years of dragon fascination embarrassingly naive.

"He's cold," I say, unsure why I feel compelled to offer assessment. "Calculating. Everything reduced to tactical advantage and resource allocation."

"Yet you wear his mark rather than a facility transfer band," Nyssa observes neutrally. "And return as a liaison rather than a breeding omega. Curious decisions for one supposedly ruled entirely by tactical considerations."

I have no response to an observation that strikes uncomfortably close to questions I've avoided examining. Instead, I change subject to safer territory. "The trade protocols Fritz—Commander Clawe—proposes would actually reduce tribute requirements while establishing a more consistent exchange schedule. He believes settlement cooperation improves with predictable expectations rather than arbitrary demands."