Page 14

M y recovery is a political event. I hadn't anticipated this variable. My survival, a direct result of combining my scientific knowledge with their tribal medicine, has not gone unnoticed. It has, in fact, become a talking point, a piece of evidence in the ongoing trial of Jaro's judgment.

The faction anointing themselves as 'traditionalists,' led by Jaro's charming cousin Vex, has twisted my success into a new kind of threat.

I am no longer just a weak, foreign contaminant.

I am now a cunning foreign contaminant. One whose alien knowledge could corrupt their ancient ways.

It's a classic political pivot, and I have to admit, it's strategically sound.

“He says your bond has tainted Jaro's lineage,” Kyra tells me, her voice a low, worried hum.

We are sitting in Jaro's dwelling, the air thick with the scent of drying herbs from Neema's latest visit.

The healer has become a frequent, if still slightly grudging, visitor.

“Vex is using your recovery as proof that Jaro is turning from the ways of the tribe.

He argues that our prince's judgment is compromised.”

“My judgment is sound,” Jaro's voice booms from the entrance.

He strides in, his massive frame radiating a tension that has become his new normal.

He's been in and out of council meetings for cycles, his face growing more grim with each one.

“Vex is a scavenger, picking at old wounds to make new ones.”

He comes to stand behind me, his hands resting on my shoulders.

His touch is light, but I feel the coiled strength in his fingers, the low, anxious thrum of his beast just beneath the surface.

The heart-bond mark on my chest gives a sympathetic pulse.

He's losing this fight. The thought is not mine, but an echo of his own fear, bleeding across our connection.

“What happened in the council today?” I ask, covering his hand with my own.

He sighs, a sound like stones grinding together. “Vex is citing the Ancient Concord. Obscure laws, not invoked for generations. He claims that a leader bonded to an outsider without the full consent of the tribe can be challenged for his blood-right.”

“And the elders are listening to this?” I ask, my own frustration rising.

“They are afraid,” Kyra says softly. “They fear change. They fear what you represent, Kendra. Vex gives their fear a voice. And a weapon.”

“So what now?” I look from Kyra's worried face to Jaro's rigid jaw. “Do they cast me out to appease him? Does he challenge you to a fight to the death? What's the protocol here?”

Jaro's hands tighten on my shoulders. “They have... proposed a solution.” His voice is flat, devoid of emotion, which is more alarming than his anger. “A way to legitimize our bond in the eyes of the tribe. To silence Vex's challenge and secure my position.”

“What is it?” I ask, a cold knot forming in my stomach.

He doesn't answer. He looks at Kyra, a silent, heavy command passing between them. She nods, her expression sorrowful.

“He wants me to tell you,” Kyra says, her amber eyes meeting mine. “He thinks... you will receive the knowledge better from me.”

Receive the knowledge. Not discuss the plan. Not ask my opinion.

Jaro releases me and moves to the other side of the dwelling, staring out the window at the bustling settlement below, his back a wall of unreadable tension.

“Kyra,” I say, turning my full attention to her. “What are they asking him to do?”

She takes a deep breath. “They are demanding a claiming ceremony.”

The words mean little to me, but the gravity in her voice sends a chill down my spine. “A claiming ceremony? Like... a wedding?” I ask, the word feeling utterly alien on my tongue.

Kyra's sad smile is an answer in itself. “Not like your human customs, Kendra. It is... different. Older. It is not a celebration of partnership.” She hesitates, choosing her words with the precision of a knowledge-keeper. “It is a ritual of possession.”

Possession. The word lands like a stone in my gut. I feel the blood drain from my face.

“Explain,” I say, my voice coming out as a clipped command.

“The ceremony is a public declaration,” Kyra begins, her voice low and steady, as if reciting from one of her ancient texts. “It solidifies the male's right to his mate. It establishes his dominance and her place within his protection, and by extension, within the tribe.”

Dominance. Protection. Words that sound disconcertingly like ownership.

“In the ritual,” she continues, her gaze fixed on the woven mat between us, “the male marks the female. Not with a permanent mating bite, not yet, but with paints made from his own blood. The patterns signify his lineage, his strength, and his claim over her.”

Blood paint. A biological marker of ownership. Fascinatingly barbaric.

“Her role in this... ceremony?” I ask, keeping my voice level, analytical. This is a cultural study, Kendra. Not your life.

“Her role is... acceptance,” Kyra says, finally looking at me, her eyes filled with an apology she cannot speak. “Her acceptance is assumed. Or, if necessary, coerced by the social pressure of the tribe. There is no part of the traditional ritual that asks for the female's consent.”

My scientific detachment shatters. The room feels suddenly cold, the air thin. “No consent?”

“It is a very old tradition,” Kyra says helplessly. “From a time when our survival depended on rigid structures. The ceremony binds the female to the male. She becomes his property in the eyes of the tribe. The ritual uses cloths...” She falters. “They are used to bind her hands.”

“Bind my hands?” I echo, my voice a strangled whisper.

“It is symbolic,” she rushes to explain. “It signifies her surrender of her past, her old life, and her acceptance of her new role as his mate.”

Symbolic subjugation. A ritualized breaking of the spirit to ensure compliance.

“So, let me get this straight,” I say, my voice dangerously quiet. “The tribe wants Jaro to paint me with his blood, tie me up with special cloths, and publicly declare me his property... all so he can keep his job?”

Kyra flinches at my blunt summary. “It is more complex than that, Kendra.

It is about his right to lead, about the stability of the tribe.

Vex has cornered him. If Jaro refuses, he is seen as weak, his bond a liability.

If he proceeds, he secures his position, and you.

.. you are given a protected status within Vara-Ka.

You would no longer be seen as a threat, but as Jaro's mate.”

“As Jaro's possession,” I correct, my voice hard as ice.

I stand up, my body trembling with a rage so cold and pure it feels like a scientific principle. I walk over to Jaro, who still stares out the window, his shoulders a rigid line of suppressed conflict.

“You knew,” I say, not a question, but a statement. “You knew this is what they would demand. This is what you agreed to.”

He turns to face me, and the anguish in his eyes is real. It is a raw, open wound. But it is not enough.

“Kendra, you must understand...” he begins, his voice a low plea. “The tribe is on a knife's edge. Vex is inciting the warriors. There could be bloodshed. This ceremony... it is a formality. A piece of political theater to appease the elders and cut the ground out from under Vex.”

“A formality?” I laugh, a harsh, ugly sound. “Being tied up and branded like livestock is a formality to you?”

“The markings are not permanent,” he argues, his voice strained. “The bindings are symbolic. It is just... words. It does not change what is between us.”

He doesn't get it. He truly doesn't get it. The realization is a physical blow. He sees the ritual's function, its political utility. He does not see its meaning. He cannot see how it violates every principle I hold dear.

“It changes everything, Jaro,” I say, my voice shaking with the effort of keeping it steady. “What is between us... I thought it was a connection. A partnership, like Kyra said. The kind your ancestors had. I am not some... prize you win in a political game. I am not property to be claimed.”

“I do not see you as property!” he says, his voice rising in frustration. He takes a step toward me, his hands raised in a gesture of supplication. “I see you as... as my mate. My other half. This is just the way it is done. The only way to make the tribe accept you. To keep you safe.”

“Safe?” I repeat, incredulous. “You think stripping me of my autonomy in front of your entire tribe will make me feel safe? You think being owned is a form of protection?”

My voice rises, my control slipping. “On my world, Jaro, we have a name for relationships based on ownership and control. It's not called mating. It's called slavery.”

The word hangs in the air between us, ugly and sharp.

He flinches as if I have physically struck him.

The golden light in his eyes dims, leaving them a flat, wounded amber.

He sees my horror, my rejection, but the cultural chasm between us is too wide for him to cross.

He is a warrior-prince, raised in a world of dominance and hierarchy.

I am a scientist from a world that, for all its flaws, values consent and equality as fundamental rights.

“It is the only way,” he says finally, his voice gutted of all emotion. “The elders have decided. The ceremony will be at the next setting of the twin suns.”

He has made his choice. His tribe, his leadership, his traditions... they come first. My feelings, my values, my fundamental right to choose... they are secondary. A political inconvenience to be managed.

A cold dread begins to seep into my bones, more chilling than any Xylosian poison. Preparations for the ceremony begin that very cycle.

Jaro's dwelling, my gilded cage, is suddenly filled with the artifacts of my subjugation.

Two elderly females, their faces impassive masks, arrive with bolts of fine, woven cloth.

They are a deep, blood-red color. The binding cloths.

They hold them up to me, measuring me with their eyes, their silent judgment a heavy weight in the room.

They speak to me in low, instructional tones, their words a stream of commands that my translator renders with brutal clarity.

[ You will wear this ceremonial shift. You will kneel when the chief speaks. Your eyes will remain lowered in deference to your mate's new status. ]

I say nothing. I let them measure and drape and instruct, my body a mannequin, my mind a fortress of cold, analytical rage.

This is a social control mechanism. The ritual is designed to reinforce the existing power structure by publicly demonstrating the subjugation of the female.

The color of the cloth, red, is likely symbolic of fertility or sacrifice.

The kneeling posture is a universally recognized display of submission.

Jaro brings the paints himself. He enters the dwelling carrying a carved wooden box. He doesn't meet my eyes. He places the box on the central table and opens it. Inside are pots of pigment, and a small, wickedly sharp ceremonial blade.

“My blood will be the base for the marking paint,” he says, his voice a low monotone. “It signifies that you are of my bloodline now. Under my protection.”

I look at the knife, at the empty pots. I think of my own blood, my own DNA, unique and sovereign. The idea of being marked by him, literally branded with his genetic material as a sign of ownership, is a violation so profound I feel a wave of nausea.

I feel him watching me, his internal conflict a palpable force in the room.

The bond between us is a torment, a live wire connecting his reluctant determination to my growing dread.

I can feel his anguish, his sense of being trapped by his own culture.

But I can also feel the unyielding core of the warrior-prince, the part of him that will do what he believes is necessary for his tribe, for his honor.

He thinks he is choosing the only path available. He thinks this is a sacrifice he must make, and that I must endure.

He is wrong.

As the twin suns begin their slow descent on the eve of the ceremony, staining the sky in hues of orange and violet, I stand by the window, looking out at Vara-Ka.

I feel the weight of a thousand alien eyes on this dwelling, on me.

I am the focal point of their political drama, the pawn in their power games.

But I am not a pawn. I am Dr. Kendra Miles. I survived a crash-landing on a hostile world. I survived predator attacks. I survived a poison that should have killed me. I will survive this.

Jaro enters the chamber, dressed in the formal leathers of a warrior about to undertake a sacred duty. He looks magnificent, and the sight of him, so proud and determined and utterly wrong, breaks my heart.

He comes to stand beside me, not touching, the space between us a roaring silence.

“Kendra,” he says, his voice soft, almost a plea. “Tomorrow, it will be over. We can begin to build something... new.”

I turn to look at him, and I let him see the cold, clear resolve in my eyes. I will not kneel. I will not be bound. I will not be claimed.

“No, Jaro,” I say, and my voice is steady, a scientist stating an undeniable fact. “Tomorrow, it ends.”

I will resist. Even if it means severing this bond that has become a part of my very cells. Even if it means facing the wrath of this entire tribe alone. I will not be property.

I will make my own choice.