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Fritz's hand covers mine where I've unknowingly reached for the enhancer controls, as though adjusting the view mightsomehow change the reality below us. His touch is surprisingly gentle despite the tension evident in his rigid posture.

"Don't look if you don't want to see," he says quietly. "But this is what they are. What they've always been."

I should take his advice. Should turn away, preserve the last remnants of my dragon fantasies against the brutal reality unfolding. But some masochistic compulsion keeps my eyes fixed on the scene, needing to witness the truth I've spent years denying.

With a casual indifference that makes the act somehow more horrifying, Pyrax brings his glowing hand to the struggling human's chest. There's a moment of awful stillness before flames erupt, not from an external attack but from within the man's body—fire spreading beneath his skin, illuminating him from inside like some grotesque lantern as he screams.

The sound carries across the valley, raw human agony that tears through me as viciously as a physical attack. The other captives fall to their knees, either forced down by guards or collapsing in terror as they witness their companion burning from the inside out.

When it finally ends—the man's body falling to the ground as a charred husk that crumbles to ash upon impact—Pyrax turns to address the remaining prisoners. Though too distant to hear the words, I can see the cruel smile that stretches across his face, exposing teeth designed for rending flesh rather than human speech.

"Why?" I manage, voice cracking on the single syllable. "The man was no threat. Just a trader who took a wrong turn."

"Entertainment," Fritz answers with a blunt honesty that feels like a physical blow. "A demonstration of power. An establishment of dominance hierarchy. Choose whichever explanation makes most sense to you, but the outcome remains the same."

As though the casual execution wasn't horrifying enough, the dragons begin separating the remaining prisoners—moving the women to one side, men to another. I focus the enhancers on the women's faces, noticing for the first time the distinctive flush of heat-influencing hormones on one's skin, the subtle posture changes that mark early omega presentation.

"That woman—the younger one," I say urgently. "She's presenting. Early stages of heat."

Fritz's entire body tenses beside me, fur bristling visibly along his exposed forearms. "This operation just became time-critical. Their intent becomes clear."

Before I can ask what he means, one of the dragons—a slightly smaller male with burnished copper scales—approaches the presenting omega. He circles her slowly, inhaling deeply, before turning to address the larger group with evident satisfaction. Again, the words are lost to distance, but the predatory anticipation in his stance requires no translation.

"They're using her as bait," Fritz explains, his voice dropping to the dangerous register I've only heard during our most intense claimings. "A presenting omega's scent carries for miles. Any unmated alphas in the vicinity will be drawn to investigate, creating an opportunity for additional captives."

"Or a territorial challenge," I realize with sudden clarity. "They're staging this barely inside feline territory. If you respond..."

"Exactly. A provocation disguised as an opportunity." Fritz's tactical assessment carries cold precision despite the obvious anger building beneath his controlled exterior. "They win regardless of the outcome—either capture additional humans and omegas, or trigger a territorial confrontation on ground they've prepared."

I watch with growing horror as the dragons position the presenting omega at the clearing's edge, deliberately exposingher to open air currents that will carry her scent farther. The cruel calculation of it—using desperate biological need as a tactical advantage—creates cognitive dissonance against everything I once believed about dragons. The majestic creatures I'd fantasized about claiming me with passion and power now revealed as calculating predators with no concern for the suffering they cause.

"We need to move now," Fritz says, shifting into military commander mode so completely it's like watching a different person emerge from within the familiar form. "The northern extraction route is compromised by their positioning. We'll need to use the river canyon approach."

"That's at least twenty minutes longer," I point out, understanding the implications immediately. "She'll be in full heat by then."

"Which means we'll have one chance at this." Fritz meets my eyes directly, his golden gaze holding mine with an intensity that makes breathing difficult. "I need your complete cooperation. Not a settlement trader with dragon fantasies, but a terrain guide who knows every rock and shadow between here and those captives. Can you be that for me?"

The question strikes deeper than he likely intends, cutting to the heart of the identity crisis that's been building since my claiming. Who am I now? A settlement trader turned fortress captive? An unwilling mate to a feline commander? Or something else emerging from trauma and adaptation?

"Yes," I answer simply, surprising myself with the conviction in my voice. "I know a route through the karst formations that will bring us up beneath their position. It's tight—designed for human passage—but it's completely sheltered from aerial observation."

Fritz studies me for another heartbeat before nodding once. "Lead on."

What follows is the most terrifying forty minutes of my life. Guiding an elite feline strike team through treacherous mountain terrain while dragon forces patrol overhead, knowing the slightest mistake means death or worse for the captives below. Through it all, Fritz stays close behind me, his presence simultaneously intimidating and reassuring as we navigate crumbling limestone passages and near-vertical descents.

The assault, when it comes, happens with a precision that leaves me breathless. One moment the dragons stand confident in their superiority, the next they're fighting for their lives as feline forces emerge from seemingly impossible angles. Fritz himself moves with a lethal grace I've never witnessed before—his massive form somehow both fluid and devastating as he engages Pyrax directly.

From my concealed position, I watch the battle unfold with conflicting emotions churning through me. The dragons I once admired now appear monstrous even in their beauty—a dual nature revealed in wings that catch sunlight while claws disembowel, scales that shimmer like jewels while jaws crush bone. The felines I once feared fight with disciplined coordination—protecting humans rather than simply securing territory, creating extraction paths rather than pursuing personal glory.

The moment Fritz breaks through the dragon line to reach the captives, I see something I hadn't expected—the commander yielding tactical advantage to prioritize human safety. With Pyrax momentarily stunned from a particularly vicious counterattack, Fritz could have pressed forward to potentially eliminate the dragon commander. Instead, he turns immediately to the presenting omega, wrapping her in a specialized cloak designed to mask pheromones before organizing a retreat formation that places rescued humans at the protected center.

The extraction proceeds with controlled urgency—feline forces providing covering fire while we guide traumatized humans through the concealed retreat path. The presenting omega stumbles frequently, heat symptoms accelerating under stress. Each time, Fritz pauses to ensure she's stabilized before continuing, his behavior toward her revealing a patience and concern I hadn't thought him capable of.

By the time we reach the secured transport waiting at the predetermined extraction point, the omega has collapsed completely into heat-delirium, whimpering with a need that cannot be satisfied under current circumstances. The medical officer administers an emergency suppressant—a stronger formulation than anything settlement healers possess—while explaining treatment protocols to the other female captive with a calm professionalism that seems surreal after the violence we've just escaped.

"She'll require monitoring through the full cycle," the officer tells Fritz as they secure the transport for the return journey. "Heat triggered by trauma often resists standard suppressant protocols."

Fritz nods acknowledgment, then turns to me with an unexpected question. "Will you stay with her? Your presence as a female omega might provide comfort during transport."