Page 4

THE WASHED-UP COMMANDER

POV: Fritz

The scout report crackles through the communication device, slicing through the precious silence of my quarters. My tail lashes behind me, a violent pendulum of irritation I don't bother to control when alone.

"Newly presented omega identified in Blackridge Settlement."

Three more strikes against the stone floor. Harder this time.

Another one.

I exhale slowly through my nose, pressing clawed fingertips against my temples where a headache threatens to form. I don't need this. Not today, not when I've already received another thinly veiled rebuke from Confederacy Command about "settlement productivity quotas" I've refused to increase.

"Commander Clawe?" The voice through the device grows uncertain in my silence. "Awaiting transport instructions. The omega appears to be in pre-heat, sir. Full manifestation likely within seventy-two hours."

My jaw tightens. Seventy-two hours. Three days before more decisions I don't want to make. Three days to process yet another frightened, unwilling human whose biology has betrayed them as completely as their own kind has.

"Transport to processing chamber four," I finally respond, keeping my voice flat. "Standard intake protocol. I'll review the case within the hour."

I set the device aside without waiting for acknowledgment, staring at my reflection in the polished metal surface of the water basin against the wall. What stares back is the monster humans whisper about when they think I can't hear.

Seven feet of predatory muscle covered with short golden-brown fur along my spine and shoulders.

Tiger-like stripes that darken when I'm angry—like now, as they shade toward deep mahogany across my shoulders.

The partial ridge of fur running along my spine bristles with irritation, a vestigial response I've never fully suppressed despite decades of military discipline.

My face offers no comfort to human sensibilities—golden eyes with vertical-slit pupils and no whites, a jaw slightly elongated beyond human proportions, and the three parallel scars running from temple to jaw that have become as much my identifier as my name.

My ears, more pointed than rounded, twitch back as I catch the sound of footsteps approaching my quarters.

Lieutenant Thorne. His distinctive two-step-pause-step rhythm announces him before his scent does.

"Enter," I call before he can knock, turning away from my reflection.

Thorne appears in the doorway, his sleek black fur contrasting with my tiger-striped patterning.

At twenty-eight, he's the embodiment of the new Confederacy officer—ambitious, politically astute, and just pragmatic enough to be dangerous.

His missing left ear and partial tail speak to battlefield experience despite his youth, though I suspect those injuries came from challenging the wrong superior rather than enemy combat.

"Commander." His gaze tracks my still-lashing tail, reading my mood with ease. "I've prepared the processing chamber as ordered. The scouts report the omega is physically healthy, if somewhat unusually built for her secondary gender. Taller than average, more muscular."

"Relevance?" I growl, my patience already threadbare.

"Potentially good breeding stock," he replies without hesitation. "Worth noting in the facility transfer documents... or worth considering for claiming."

My tail goes perfectly still. A hunter's instinctive response before striking.

"I have no interest in claiming anyone, Lieutenant. Particularly not an unwilling omega from a settlement that has made their dragon preference abundantly clear."

"With respect, sir," Thorne continues, either oblivious to danger or deliberately pushing boundaries, "this could be an opportunity.

Confederacy Command has been explicit about their preference for commanding officers to establish breeding pairs.

Your continued refusal has been noted in quarterly assessments. "

Of course it has. Another mark against the washed-up commander already exiled to this backwater outpost. Another reminder that my "reassignment" was punishment thinly disguised as important duty.

"My breeding choices remain my own," I remind him, voice dropping to the deeper register that makes most subordinates step back. "Confederacy Command's preferences noted and dismissed."

Thorne doesn't retreat, which marginally improves my opinion of him.

"The settlement's inclination toward dragon protection has been rendered irrelevant by the territorial reassignment," he points out.

"Their preferences, like the omega's, no longer matter.

What matters is establishing clearer Confederacy dominance in newly acquired territory.

A claiming by the commanding officer would send the appropriate message. "

I turn to face him fully, using my height advantage. "And what message would forcing an unwilling omega send to the settlement we need to cooperate with our governance? What practical benefit comes from adding a resentful, dragon-fixated human to my personal quarters?"

A strange flicker of something—disappointment? frustration?—crosses Thorne's features before he masks it. "Sir, with respect, most omegas are initially reluctant. Their biology?—"

"Is not an excuse for poor tactical decisions," I cut him off.

"I'm familiar with omega biology, Lieutenant.

I'm also familiar with the long-term consequences of creating hostile dependency within controlled territories.

The omega will be processed according to standard protocol and transferred to a central facility after her heat cycle completes. "

Thorne's tail twitches—the feline equivalent of a frustrated sigh. "As you command, sir. Though may I suggest observing the subject before finalizing that decision? Some omegas present unusual characteristics worth direct evaluation."

I dismiss him with a flick of my claws, turning back to the territorial maps spread across my desk. The newly drawn boundaries mock me—another reminder of political machinations happening far from this mountain outpost, decisions made by those who will never see the consequences up close.

After refusing to slaughter three human settlements during the resistance purges last year, I knew my career was effectively over.

The official report called it "hesitation in implementing security protocols.

" In reality, I had stared at families huddled in terror—children clutching parents who could not protect them—and found myself unable to give the order that would end them all indiscriminately.

The scent of fear had filled my nostrils—not the heady rush of prey-fear that triggers predatory satisfaction, but the sour, acidic terror of innocents facing extinction.

A child had looked up at me with wide brown eyes, so different from my own golden ones, yet filled with a humanity I couldn't ignore.

My hand had paused in mid-air, the signal to commence firing never completed.

My reward was this "prestigious border command" at Shadowthorn Outpost—close enough to watch the consequences of Confederacy policies unfold, far enough from central command to be effectively silenced. A glorified exile disguised as promotion, and every feline officer in three territories knows it.

I trace the boundary lines with one extended claw, careful not to tear the parchment.

The territorial reassignment places Blackridge Settlement firmly under feline jurisdiction after years as contested ground.

No wonder they're unhappy. The dragons at least kept their distance, content with tribute rather than direct oversight.

The settlement's preference was obvious in their trading patterns, their subtle resistance to feline patrols, their continued use of dragon imagery in their cultural festivals.

And now one of their omegas has presented, just as the territory officially changes hands. The timing couldn't be worse for her. Or for me.

I push away from the desk, stalking to the far wall where floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the mountain range.

From this height, Blackridge Settlement appears deceptively peaceful—a collection of wooden and stone structures nestled in the valley below, thin ribbons of smoke rising from communal cookfires.

The humans go about their daily routines, perhaps already whispering about their omega being taken, already calculating what this means for their precarious position.

My tail has settled into the slow, rhythmic sway that officers under my command have learned to recognize as deep contemplation.

The omega will arrive within the hour. Standard protocol dictates a brief medical examination, documentation of identifying characteristics, and assignment to a heat-proof holding chamber until biological imperatives have run their course.

After that, facility transfer or claiming—the only two options Conquest Law permits.

I've authorized dozens of such transfers during my tenure here.

Unclaimed omegas shipped to centralized breeding facilities where they'll be assigned to compatible alphas or used for controlled breeding programs to produce the next generation of hybrids.

It's cleaner, more efficient, and infinitely more merciful than forced claiming by a commander with no interest in genuine connection.

My reflection appears again, this time in the tempered glass of the window.

The scars along my jaw seem to deepen in the afternoon light, three parallel reminders of how close I once came to death.

The dragon fire that nearly took my life ten years ago left other, less visible scars—the reason I sleep poorly, the reason I sometimes wake drenched in sweat with the scent of burning flesh in my nostrils.