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"The Council of Nine directive doesn't require?—"

"I know what the directive requires." The snarl escapes before I can stop it, my fangs flashing. "I also know what happens when Prime forces abandon settlements to dragon incursion."

My claws score the edge of the tactical display, leaving deep gouges in the reinforced material. Suddenly I'm back there—walking through the smoking ruins of settlements leftunprotected, the stench of charred flesh, the hollow eyes of survivors who flinched away from us as much as they had from their attackers. The sound of a child crying beneath collapsed rubble, too late to save...

I force the images back, digging my claws deeper into the table to anchor myself in the present. The memory burns like a brand I can never escape, a failure that wasn't even mine but haunts me nonetheless. My chest tightens with an old, familiar ache.

"Conquest without protection is just destruction," I tell Thorne, my voice dropping to a register that vibrates through my chest. "I won't become what I despise."

The statement hangs between us, revealing more than I intended about principles I usually keep buried beneath the commander's mask. Thorne studies me, his scent shifting through surprise into something like respect before he nods once.

"I'll adjust patrol rotations," he says, professional again. "We'll need additional munitions at the forward positions if we're extending coverage that far."

A new scent catches my attention—sweet spice with underlying notes that have become as familiar to me as my own. Aria stands in the doorway, her green eyes slightly widened. How long has she been there? How much did she hear? The claiming bond pulses with her proximity, sending an unbidden wave of possessiveness through me that I ruthlessly suppress.

"Do you need something?" My voice comes out sharper than intended, fur bristling along my spine as I try to recover my composure.

She approaches the tactical display with that careful confidence that still catches me off guard. She's changed since the rescue mission—holds herself differently, watches me with more assessment than fear.

"I was scheduled to review the trade reports," she explains, holding up her data tablet. "But this seems more urgent."

I nod once, trying to keep my tail from betraying my discomfort at her having witnessed that momentary crack in my control. "Dragon forces approaching from North Pass. We're adjusting defense to include settlement protection."

"Why?"

The bluntness of her question catches me off guard. No careful phrasing, just direct curiosity that demands an equally direct answer.

"The settlement has no strategic value to fortress operations," she continues, moving to stand across from me at the display. "Most Prime commanders would secure their assets and leave human territories to defend themselves."

My ears twitch in surprise at her understanding of military thinking. Another piece of her I'm still discovering.

"I'm not most commanders," I mutter, turning back to the map to avoid the intensity of her gaze. "Tactical advantage isn't the only consideration in deployment decisions."

"What Lieutenant Thorne said," she presses, stepping closer. "About becoming what you despise. What did you mean?"

The claiming bond pulses between us, stronger with her physical proximity. The practiced responses rise automatically—classified information, need-to-know basis, none of your concern. The armor I've worn for decades.

But something shifts in my chest, and instead, I find truth spilling from my mouth. A momentary hesitation grips me—this vulnerability feels more dangerous than any battlefield—but I push through it.

"My reassignment to Shadowthorn wasn't a demotion," I say, forcing myself to meet her eyes directly. "It was punishment for refusing to slaughter innocent settlements during resistance purges."

Her scent shifts—surprise, disbelief, confusion swirling together. "The official report called it 'strategic redeployment to secure contested border territories,'" she says quietly.

A bitter laugh escapes me. "The official report lied." Old anger rises hot under my fur, making my tail lash once before I force it still. "I was ordered to eliminate three settlements suspected of harboring resistance members. No evidence, no confirmation—just suspicion based on anonymous reports. The directive included all inhabitants, regardless of status or involvement."

I move away from the table, suddenly needing space as memories crowd in. "When we arrived at the first settlement, I found exactly what I expected—ordinary humans trying to survive. Farmers, craftspeople, families with children. Not resistance fighters, not threats to Confederacy security."

The scene burns behind my eyes, as fresh as the day it happened. The small cluster of buildings against the forest edge. The humans freezing in terror as feline forces surrounded them. The children hiding behind parents who couldn't possibly protect them. A small girl clutching a cloth doll, her eyes wide with fear that still haunts my dreams.

"I refused the order." My voice drops so low I'm not sure her human hearing will catch it. "Recommended targeted investigation instead of mass elimination. When Command insisted, I withdrew my forces rather than comply."

Aria's eyes widen, understanding what such insubordination means in military hierarchy. The claiming mark at her throat pulses visibly with her quickened heartbeat. "And they let you live?" Real confusion colors her voice, not accusation.

"My combat record provided certain... protection." I bare my fangs in a grim smile that feels strange on my face. "Too valuable to execute, too dangerous to court-martial publicly. So theyburied me here—remote outpost where my 'problematic ethics' wouldn't interfere with Confederacy objectives."

I turn back to face her, finding her expression transformed. The wariness is still there, but something new has joined it—consideration that borders on respect.

"You could have followed orders," she says slowly. "Secured your position, advanced your career. Most would have."