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"I'm begging you." The words strip away every pretense of dignity I've maintained since my capture, leaving me naked in ways that have nothing to do with clothing and everything to do with the complete demolition of my pride. "These are people who trusted me. Omegas who believed the ghost smuggler would save them. I can't protect them anymore, but you can."

Through our psychic bridge—because apparently regular emotional manipulation wasn't thorough enough for the universe's taste—I feel his internal conflict like a storm system moving through his consciousness. Every action in kraken politics gets weighed against political survival, each decision calculated against the cost of appearing weak to rivals who circle like sharks scenting blood in the water.

"The Council will see this as contamination," he warns, voice carrying the weight of political realities I'm only beginning to understand. "My standing already suffers because of our arrangement. Some lords think I've gone soft, letting a human influence territorial policy."

"Then don't do it for them." I press closer, my transformed body responding to his proximity with that familiar biologicalheat that no longer feels like betrayal but somehow like coming home to a place I never knew I was looking for. "Do it for us. For what we're building together."

His tentacles brush against my swollen belly where our child grows like a living symbol of impossible possibilities, a bridge between species that were supposed to be natural enemies. "If I do this, you need formal recognition. The Council only respects authority they understand, and right now you're just my claimed mate. Consort status would give you legal standing to negotiate on behalf of omega refugees."

The implications hit like a series of depth charges, each one sinking deeper than the last. Consort status means legal standing within kraken society, the authority to speak for those who can't speak for themselves. But it also means permanent integration into underwater civilization—final abandonment of any pretense that this captivity might be temporary, that someday I might return to the surface world and breathe air that doesn't taste of salt and submission.

"Do it," I say without hesitation, maternal instinct overriding every other consideration like a tidal wave made of pure determination. "Whatever it takes. Whatever the cost."

The baby kicks against my ribs as if it approves of the decision, consciousness settling through mine with primitive satisfaction that feels like purring made of thoughts.

---

The Sovereignty Council convenes in an abyssal dome that crushes souls at impossible depths, the kind of place that makes you understand why ancient humans feared the ocean and told stories about monsters dwelling in the deep. The architecture itself seems designed to intimidate—ancient coral formations twisted through the structure like fossilized screams, while bioluminescent displays translate the assembled lords'thoughts into cascading waterfalls of light that speak of political calculation and barely restrained violence.

I float beside Neros in the specialized apparatus that keeps my hybrid physiology functional at pressures that would crush a normal human like a grape, my pregnant form obscene in its swollen vulnerability. The formal robes marking consort status feel heavy as burial shrouds, weighted with the significance of permanent transformation and the kind of irony that would be funny if it weren't happening to me.

The baby responds to the environmental pressure with agitated kicks that ripple visibly across my distended belly like tiny earthquakes announcing their displeasure with the situation. Through our connection, I sense its primitive awareness of predatory attention, survival instincts inherited from both species warning of environmental threat with the clarity of a fire alarm in a library.

Vexar dominates the opposition with his pale green bulk and that prosthetic eye glowing with unnatural intensity as he catalogs my human contamination like some kind of racist accountant keeping track of genetic infractions. His faction views my very existence as evolutionary pollution, regression disguised as adaptation, and they're not shy about broadcasting that opinion to anyone within telepathic range.

"This human thinks she speaks for omega trash," his mental broadcast drips with contempt that tastes like rotting kelp mixed with expired hatred. "What's next—voting rights for surface scum? Representation for the cattle we harvest?"

Scattered agreement ripples through conservative factions, their bioluminescent patterns flickering with disdain that makes the water itself feel hostile. But other lords remain carefully neutral, calculating political advantage in supporting or opposing Neros' unprecedented request with the kind of mathematical precision that would impress a computer.

"I call for formal recognition of my consort," Neros announces, his voice carrying through the water with the authority of someone who's never been told no and doesn't plan to start now. "Isla Morgan has proven her value through intelligence that has strengthened our territorial expansion and eliminated threats to Sovereignty security."

The assembly's reaction hits like a sonic boom made of pure scandal. Conversations halt mid-thought, bioluminescent patterns freezing in expressions of shock that paint the dome in stuttering light. A human consort—not just a claimed breeding vessel but an equal partner with legal standing in kraken hierarchy.

"She speaks with my authority," Neros continues, patterns flaring to royal intensity while tentacles spread in territorial display that screams alpha dominance to anyone with functioning eyes. "Her tactical knowledge has allowed us to identify and eliminate unauthorized trafficking operations that were stealing from official breeding programs."

Through our psychic connection, I feel his mixture of genuine pride and cold political calculation. This public elevation serves multiple purposes—protecting me from rival claims while demonstrating his bloodline's successful adaptation to post-Conquest realities. But the cost becomes immediately apparent as I watch opposition coalesce around traditionalist resistance like bacteria around an infected wound.

"You contaminate pure kraken genetics with human filth," Vexar's response carries poisonous authority that makes my skin crawl with the urge to scrub myself clean. "This creature represents evolutionary pollution, not progress. A step backward disguised as adaptation."

The baby kicks sharply against my ribs, its consciousness sharing my awareness of psychic hostility with the kind of clarity that suggests it's going to be way too smart for anyone'sgood. Through our bond, I sense its basic understanding of threat—predators circling, survival endangered, fight-or-flight responses inherited from both species screaming warnings.

"Look at what she carries," Neros' voice cuts through growing tension like a blade made of pure conviction and parental pride. "A hybrid stronger than either species alone. Evolution in action, not contamination."

"Abomination," Vexar snarls, his thoughts broadcasting with enough venom to kill fish at fifty yards. "Genetic degradation that weakens both bloodlines."

"Adaptation," counters Lord Threnod, his deep purple skin shimmering with calculated interest. "The offspring shows unprecedented abilities. Enhanced telepathic capacity, dual environmental adaptation, accelerated development patterns that suggest hybrid vigor rather than weakness."

The debate fractures along predictable lines—progressives recognizing evolutionary necessity versus traditionalists clinging to genetic purity like drowning sailors clutching driftwood. But underneath the formal political maneuvering, I taste deeper currents of existential fear about species transformation, resistance to changes that threaten established power structures.

"The question before us," Lord Kythara interjects, her ancient voice carrying the weight of centuries, "is whether this human can speak with authority the Council recognizes. Consort status requires unanimous consent from territorial lords."

"Impossible," Vexar declares immediately. "I will never consent to elevating surface trash to positions of authority."

"Then perhaps," I say, finding my voice despite the crushing pressure and predatory attention focused on my swollen form, "you should hear what I have to offer before dismissing the value of surface knowledge."

Every golden eye fixes on me with intensity that could probably ignite seawater. Speaking in the Council dome as anything other than decoration is unprecedented, but Neros' claim of consort status gives me that right—if barely.

"I want safe passage for omega refugees," I declare, my voice carrying through the water with authority I never possessed as a human resistance fighter. "Protected routes between territories where they can't be hunted like animals. Designated neutral zones where those fleeing forced claiming can find sanctuary."