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"The northern grain storage," she says at the exact same time I do.

Our eyes meet across the table, the shared tactical insight creating a connection that goes beyond alpha/omega biology. Something shifts in her gaze—recognition, maybe, of how completely our thinking has aligned despite coming from such different worlds.

"Evacuate the water project workers as a distraction," I order Thorne. "But position our archers along the northern ridge. Triple the guard on the grain storage."

"The dragons will have the advantage in the air over the ridge," Thorne points out.

"Not if we use the cave network." Aria's finger traces a path across the map, showing features no official maps have documented. "There's a system of connected caves that runs under the northern ridge. The vent holes are too small for dragons to enter, but perfect for positioning archers. They'd never expect attacks from below."

Thorne looks to me for confirmation, clearly surprised by both her suggestion and the fact that I'm actually considering it. Five weeks ago, I would have dismissed any tactical input from a recently claimed omega. Now, I find myself planning how to implement her idea.

"Show me these caves," I demand, pulling a blank piece of parchment forward.

Her hands move confidently across the page, sketching the underground network with the precision of someone who's been through it many times. As she works, I notice changes in her that go beyond tactical cooperation. The omega who once feared everything about me now stands comfortably at my side, no longer flinching when my tail moves in her peripheral vision or when my claws extend to point at map positions.

More importantly, she smells of territorial protection—that distinctive scent when someone defends what they considertheirs. Not just survival instinct, but active investment in our collective security. She's defending Shadowthorn and Blackridge not as a reluctant prisoner, but as someone who has claimed this place as home.

"The main passage can easily fit your scouts," she explains, indicating the larger caves. "But the advantage comes from these smaller offshoots. They create perfect firing positions with almost complete cover."

"You know these caves extremely well," I observe, studying both the map and her face. "Potential escape routes, perhaps?"

She doesn't flinch from the implied question. "Yes. I mapped every possible way out of feline territory after my claiming." Her honesty surprises me. "But I'm showing them to you now, so what does that tell you?"

What indeed. The question hangs between us, loaded with implications neither of us is ready to fully address. The omega who planned escape routes now reveals them to better defend the territory she once tried to flee. Evolution, adaptation... or something else entirely?

My strategic assessment shifts to include a dimension I've previously refused to acknowledge—the growing connection between us that goes beyond heat-driven biology or commander/subordinate practicality. It creates a vulnerability I can't afford, yet can't seem to suppress.

"I need to see these caves firsthand," I decide, watching her reaction carefully. "The information is valuable, but I need to verify it myself."

"I'll guide a scouting unit tomorrow," she offers immediately.

"No." The word comes out sharper than I intended, my protective instinct flaring beyond tactical necessity. "Too dangerous with dragon activity increasing."

Her chin lifts in that stubborn angle I've come to recognize. "I'm the only one who knows these passages completely. Partial knowledge gets your scouts lost—or worse, trapped if dragons detect them."

"Then provide detailed maps."

"Maps don't show the false passages, the unstable sections, the places where sounds carry to the surface." Her tone stays respectful but firm—not directly challenging my authority, but asserting her expertise with growing confidence. "You need me there in person."

The problem becomes painfully clear. Her knowledge gives us invaluable tactical advantage—the kind that changes battle outcomes and saves lives. But using that knowledge means putting her at risk, directly in dragon path if our movements are detected.

"Commander," Thorne says carefully. "The omega's knowledge could mean the difference between successful rescue and more losses. We can provide enough protection with a specialized unit."

I recognize the wisdom in his assessment, but something primal in me rejects the cold calculation that would risk Aria's safety, no matter how tactically sound. This isn't just commander's protectiveness toward a valuable asset. The barbs of possessiveness dig deeper than that, tearing at the professional distance I've maintained through decades of military service.

"You'll stay behind protective lines at all times," I finally agree, my tail giving away my discomfort with a single sharp lash. "First sign of dragon activity, you get out immediately. No heroics, no exceptions."

"Understood." Her acceptance comes too quickly, too easily.

"I mean it, Aria." I use her name deliberately, forcing her to meet my eyes. "Your safety is non-negotiable."

Something flashes in her eyes—surprise at my directness, maybe, or recognition of the concern beneath my tactical considerations. "I understand, Commander."

Thorne leaves to start preparations, leaving us momentarily alone in the command chamber. The silence stretches between us, filled with unspoken complications neither of us seems ready to address directly.

"They really use omegas as bait?" she finally asks, her voice quieter. "Not as mates?"

"Dragons view omegas as resources, not partners," I confirm, letting genuine regret color my voice. This disillusionment was inevitable, but I take no pleasure in watching her face it. "Their dual biology makes human omegas unsuitable for long-term claiming. The damage is... extensive."