Page 49 of Alien Assassin's Heir

CHAPTER 12

KRAJ

For a few stolen hours, I let myself believe. Her warmth pressed against me, her breath tickling my chest, the soft weight of her leg draped over mine—those things felt like a promise, like proof that the war and the lies and the years hadn’t taken everything. I almost convinced myself I could stay in that quiet, breathing beside her until the suns burned out.

But peace doesn’t last. It never does.

The terminal blinks at me when I get back to my hideout, its pale green glow stuttering across the cramped metal walls. The encrypted channel hums to life the second I tap the pad. My scales prickle before I even open it. Targen.

The message is short, clinical, and cold, like all the worst ones are.

“High-level Combine executive en route. Assessment: Possible Alliance sympathizer. Prepare contingency.”

Contingency. That’s the word they always use when they mean kill. I bare my teeth at the screen, a low snarl vibrating in my throat. The air tastes like iron and ozone, sharp and sour.

So that’s it, then. They’re putting me back on the leash. Setting me up like the old days—find the target, slit the throat, disappear into the shadows before the blood cools. Onlythis time, it’s not a nameless bureaucrat or a general buried deep behind enemy lines. It’s someone right here, on Arkosh. Someone Luna might’ve filed a supply order for last week. Someone Solie might pass in the plaza.

And if the Combine swings toward the Alliance because of my blade? The Coalition keeps its stranglehold on this sector. Arkosh becomes another pawn in their endless war.

I press both hands against the table, claws digging furrows into the cheap composite. My reflection in the screen glares back at me—golden eyes burning, scales shadowed like blood under low light.

I don’t want to be that man anymore.

The man who lied to Luna. The man who left her alone. The man who killed because someone higher up thought his claws were better used spilling blood than building a life.

No. I won’t.

I power down the terminal, the message burned into my skull whether it’s on screen or not. Then I start moving. Old habits kick in. Not the obedient soldier’s habits—the survivor’s.

I dig out the battered comms slate buried under a pile of smuggler junk. Its surface is cracked, its interface glitchy, but it still hums to life after a few hard taps. The old codes are there in my head, buried deep. Smuggler channels, black-market frequencies, markers left for people like me—outcasts who survived by knowing where to knock.

I ping three. One in the asteroid belt. One dirtside, a trader who owes me favors he’d rather forget. One drifting out near the mining rigs, the kind of man who’ll deal in secrets faster than ore.

The responses don’t come quick. They never do. But I can feel the net stretching, threads tugging, lines reconnecting after years of silence. I don’t even know what I’ll ask for yet—safe passage, forged papers, weapons off the grid—but I know I’llneed them. Because if Targen pushes this order through, Arkosh will bleed. And I won’t let Luna or the kid get caught in it.

The kid.

I shove a hand through my hair, pacing the narrow length of the hideout. Every time I think of her, it cuts deeper. Her laugh still rings in my ears, high and bright. Her little hand still presses against mine, warm and trusting.

No matter who her father is.

My gut twists at the thought, but I force it down. Doesn’t matter. Human, Grolgath, Alliance, Coalition—none of that matters. She’s Luna’s. And that makes her mine, whether the universe agrees or not.

I mutter it under my breath, a vow I never thought I’d make. “They’re mine now.”

The console pings. One of the smuggler contacts bites. A coded response flashes across the screen:

“Old debts don’t die. Tell me what you need.”

A grim smile pulls at my lips. Good. The net is alive.

I start sketching a shadow plan, the way I used to back when missions always ended with me betrayed by my own handlers. Fallback routes through Wildwood’s underbelly. Hidden caches in the canyons outside town. Disguise kits, safehouses, stolen access keys. If Targen thinks I’ll just play along while he strings me like a puppet, he’s forgetting who I am.

I’m not his weapon anymore.

The comm hisses suddenly, the encrypted line sparking to life. Targen’s voice slithers through, rough with static but sharp enough to cut.

“You got the order?”