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Nyssa's expression shifts slightly at my unconscious use of Fritz's given name, though she makes no direct comment. "A sensible approach. One I've suggested to previous commanders without success." She studies me with an uncomfortably perceptive gaze. "You'll present these proposals to the full council?"

I nod, grateful for a return to professional concerns rather than personal circumstances. "I've brought documentation and schedule projections for review. Commander Clawe authorizes provisional implementation pending council approval."

"And what does Fritz authorize beyond official protocols?" Nyssa asks, using his name with a deliberate emphasis that makes heat rise in my cheeks.

"Nothing," I snap, irritation flaring at her insinuation. "The claiming was a tactical necessity, nothing more. A biological chain to ensure territorial security."

"If you say so." Her tone suggests she hears the defensive protest for what it is—a reaction too strong for a simple statement of fact. "Though most tactical necessities don't result in an alpha using a given name with a claimed omega, nor granting a position of responsibility requiring trust."

Before I can formulate a response, shouting erupts outside the council chambers—the distinctive cadence of warning calls I recognize from settlement drills. Nyssa rises with surprising speed for her age, moving toward the windows overlooking the northern ridge.

"Dragon scouts," she states flatly, pointing toward distant figures silhouetted against the morning sky. "The third sighting this week. They've grown bolder since the territorial reassignment."

I join her at the window, breath catching as I glimpse the distinctive forms perched on a rocky outcropping above the settlement borders. Even at this distance, their majestic presence sends complicated emotions spiraling through me—the lingering fascination I'd harbored for years now tainted by Fritz's graphic descriptions of omega treatment in dragon territories.

"Are they... observing the settlement?" I ask, studying their positioning with a newfound tactical awareness Fritz would probably approve of.

"You specifically, I suspect," Nyssa replies with a bluntness that sends a chill down my spine. "An unclaimed omega escaping toward their territory, then returning claimed bya feline commander? You represent a political curiosity at minimum, a potential intelligence asset at worst."

The assessment transforms the distant figures from objects of fascination to a genuine threat. Fritz's words echo uncomfortably in my memory:Their breeding program views omegas as disposable resources, not potential mates.For the first time, I consider the possibility that his warnings contained truth rather than mere propaganda.

"You should return to Shadowthorn," Nyssa advises, watching my expression with uncomfortable perception. "The council can review trade protocols without a formal presentation today. Your presence creates unnecessary complications while dragons observe."

The suggestion triggers immediate resistance—return to captivity without completing my assigned task, crawl back to Fritz with failure rather than accomplishment. Yet Nyssa's assessment aligns uncomfortably with the growing knot of unease in my stomach as I watch the distant dragons shift positions for better vantage.

"I'm not afraid of them," I insist, though the claiming bite throbs with increasing intensity, as though responding to a potential threat Fritz himself can sense through our bond.

"Perhaps you should be," Nyssa responds quietly. "Your claiming mark protects you from most alphas, but dragons recognize few boundaries beyond their own. A claimed omega with settlement knowledge and fortress access represents a tempting target regardless of biological status."

The warning lands with unsettling weight. Not the romantic rescue I once fantasized about, but potential abduction for intelligence value rather than personal desire. The reality of my current political position emerges with sudden clarity—neither fully human nor truly Prime, but a dangerous hybrid of both that makes me valuable beyond mere breeding capacity.

When I finally exit the council chambers an hour later, trade protocols handed to a secondary council member for review rather than formally presented, I find myself scanning surrounding ridgelines with newfound wariness. The distant dragon scouts have vanished, but their absence provides no comfort.

Lieutenant Thorne straightens as I approach the gates, reading my expression with surprising accuracy. "Trouble?" he asks, hand dropping casually to the weapon at his side.

"Dragon observers on the northern ridge," I report, the information flowing naturally despite my continued resentment of feline authority. "Elder Nyssa suggested an expedited return to the fortress."

Thorne's tail goes perfectly still behind him—the hunting posture I've learned indicates focused attention rather than relaxation. Without comment, he shifts position to place himself slightly before me as we exit the settlement gates, creating a defensive formation that would once have irritated me but now registers as an appropriate precaution.

The walk back to Shadowthorn passes in tension-filled silence, my awareness extending to every rustling leaf, every distant bird call, every shadow that might conceal a threat. Not just to me, I realize with unsettling clarity, but to the feline lieutenant whose duty includes my protection. The thought that I might genuinely prefer Thorne's survival over dragon intervention represents a shift in perspective I'm not prepared to examine too closely.

As fortress walls appear ahead, the massive stone structure built into the mountainside with an intimidating presence that once represented prison but now registers strangely as sanctuary, I notice my posture has changed without conscious thought. Back straighter, senses alert, movements measured anddeliberate—unconsciously adopting a more vigilant stance when outside protected walls.

The realization brings uncomfortable insight—my body recognizing Fritz's claiming as safety rather than simply captivity, the bond between us providing security alongside restriction. The claiming bite at my throat pulses with the thought, as though acknowledging a truth I refuse to voice aloud.

When Thorne reports directly to Fritz upon our return, I find myself watching the commander's reaction with a new perspective. The slight bristling of fur along his spine, the momentary stillness of his tail before it lashes once with controlled aggression, the narrowing of golden eyes to vertical slits—all signs of genuine concern rather than merely territorial possessiveness.

"You will not return to the settlement until dragon patrols relocate beyond observation range," he informs me, voice brooking no argument. "Trade protocols will proceed via messenger rather than direct liaison until the security assessment changes."

I should feel resentment at the restriction, at freedom granted then immediately revoked. Instead, understanding of the political complexities Nyssa illuminated creates reluctant acknowledgment of legitimate security concerns beyond mere alpha possessiveness.

"The settlement remains vulnerable to observation," I point out, the tactical assessment emerging before I consider how it might sound. "If dragons target claimed omegas for intelligence value, other settlement residents with fortress connection face similar risk."

Fritz's gaze sharpens at my analysis, something almost like approval flickering across his normally impassive features. "A valid assessment. Security protocols for settlement contacts will be reevaluated immediately."

The moment passes quickly, professional distance reasserting itself as he returns attention to the territorial maps spread across his desk. Yet the brief connection—the sense of being genuinely seen and heard rather than merely commanded—lingers uncomfortably as I retreat to my assigned quarters.

The claiming bite at my throat pulses with each step, a reminder of a bond I did not choose but increasingly cannot deny serves purposes beyond mere captivity. As I pass a reflective surface in the corridor, I catch a glimpse of myself—feline uniform, claimed mark, alert posture—and barely recognize the woman staring back.