Page 9

The recording crackles through the chamber's acoustic system—the dual-toned voice of a dragon commander discussing omega acquisitions with cold calculation: "Human breeding stock requires replacement every three to five cycles.

Their bodies cannot sustain fire-seed exposure beyond that threshold.

Prioritize younger specimens for the next acquisition sweep. "

Aria's face drains of color. "That could be fabricated," she whispers, but doubt has clearly taken root.

I notice the same flicker of uncertainty I'd seen when mentioning dragon cruelty—as though this isn't the first time she's heard warnings about her precious dragons.

Perhaps someone in her settlement had tried to dissuade her fantasies before.

"We have seventeen similar communications," I inform her dispassionately.

"Their breeding program views omegas as disposable resources, not potential mates.

Your settlement's dragon preference stems from distance—they maintain minimal direct contact, allowing fantasies to flourish.

We patrol more visibly, making us the visible oppressors while they maintain illusions of benevolence. "

Another heat wave crashes through her, stronger than before.

Her knees buckle slightly before she forces herself upright, but not before I catch the scent of fresh slick, her body's desperate preparation for claiming accelerating despite our confrontation.

She's progressing toward full heat more rapidly than expected—likely stress-accelerated from the failed escape attempt.

"I won't be claimed by a feline," she insists, though her voice has weakened considerably. The statement carries both defiance and plea, her gaze darting over my inhuman features with poorly concealed revulsion.

Her continued, delirious fixation on the fire-breathers grates against my senses, a phantom challenge to my very real control over this territory.

Her clear disgust at my appearance shouldn't matter—I've seen similar reactions from countless humans over the years—yet something about her specific rejection strikes deeper than expected.

"You presume I have any interest in claiming unwilling omegas," I reply, voice like ice. "Particularly those with childish dragon fixations and settlement attitudes that border on resistance sympathizing."

Relief washes visibly through her, quickly followed by new calculation. The omega may be in pre-heat, but her mind remains sharper than most would manage under similar biological pressure.

"What happens to me, then?" she asks, a slight tremor in her voice betraying the fear beneath her continued defiance.

"Standard protocol. You'll be confined to heat-proof chambers until your cycle completes. Afterward, transfer to a central breeding facility for processing." I deliver this information with deliberate clinical detachment. "Lieutenant Thorne will oversee the arrangements."

Her eyes widen fractionally, fresh fear-scent spiking through her heat pheromones. "Breeding facility," she repeats, horror evident despite her attempt at control. "You mean forced claiming by facility alphas."

"I mean appropriate processing according to Conquest Law," I correct coldly. "The facility system offers greater choice than you might imagine. Compatibility testing maximizes successful pairings. Many omegas find suitable arrangements."

"Suitable arrangements," she echoes, bitterness bleeding through heat-strained voice. "You mean owners who might treat their property with basic decency."

Her words hit closer to my private thoughts than I care to admit. The system I enforce is far from perfect. But a borderland commander questioning Conquest Law openly invites consequences beyond my personal discomfort.

"Your opinions on Confederacy governance are noted and irrelevant," I reply. "Medical staff will provide suppressants to manage symptoms until transfer. Lieutenant, escort the omega to containment chamber three."

Thorne steps forward, gesturing for the medical officer to assist. "This way, omega."

Aria's shoulders slump slightly, the first sign of surrender she's shown since arrival.

The sight brings no satisfaction, only a hollow discomfort I refuse to acknowledge.

As they lead her toward the exit, she glances back once, those green eyes fixing on me with a complexity of emotion—fear, anger, and something else I can't quite identify.

Then she's gone, leaving only her scent lingering in the chamber like an accusation.

"Sir," Thorne remains behind, his expression carefully neutral. "The omega's heat progresses rapidly. Medical assessment suggests full manifestation within twelve hours, possibly sooner. Standard suppressants may prove inadequate given the acceleration pattern."

"Increase dosage as needed," I instruct, returning to the territorial maps as though the omega's fate holds no particular interest. "Maintain security protocols on the containment chamber. Pre-heat omegas have been known to attempt additional escapes despite symptoms."

"Yes, Commander." Thorne hesitates, his tail swaying in the pattern that indicates unspoken thoughts. "There's also the matter of her knowledge of mountain paths. Her escape route utilized trails not marked on our standard maps. Potential intelligence value before facility transfer?"

An excellent point, though I'm reluctant to admit it. Her knowledge of hidden paths, dangerous terrain, and patrol vulnerabilities could prove tactically significant—especially with dragon forces potentially testing boundaries.

"Schedule interrogation after her cycle completes. Full cognitive function will provide more reliable information."

When Thorne finally departs, I allow my tail to lash freely, releasing the irritation I've suppressed throughout the confrontation.

Something about Aria Copenhagen disrupts my carefully maintained control.

Her disgust at my appearance shouldn't matter—I've seen the same reaction countless times from humans.

Her preference for dragons over felines shouldn't surprise me—her settlement has always leaned that direction despite being in contested territory.

Yet her dismissive gesture and words— "meant for them, not this" —echo in my mind with unwarranted persistence.

I force my attention back to territorial maps, reviewing patrol schedules and guard rotations with deliberate focus.

The omega is merely one more administrative task to manage, one more settlement human whose biology has complicated an already delicate territorial transition.

Her processing will follow standard protocol, her facility transfer will proceed without incident, and Shadowthorn Outpost will continue its border enforcement without disruption.

If only her scent would stop lingering in my awareness, hours after our confrontation.

---

Night falls over Shadowthorn Outpost, bringing the cooler temperatures that allow feline night vision its greatest advantage. I stand at the observation platform extending from my private quarters, surveying the darkened mountain passes with eyes designed for nocturnal hunting.

Sleep eludes me, though I rarely require more than four hours even under normal circumstances.

My mind circles back to the omega in containment chamber three, wondering if the suppressants are managing her symptoms effectively, if her full heat has manifested yet, if she still clings to dragon fantasies despite evidence of their brutal reality.

Lieutenant Thorne's evening report sits on my desk, updated patrol schedules and supply inventories requiring my review before morning.

But beneath those routine documents lies the omega processing form, facility transfer authorization awaiting my signature.

Standard procedure. The logical choice for everyone involved.

So why does my hand hesitate each time I reach for the authorization stamp?

A sharp knock interrupts my thoughts. The pattern—two quick, one slow—identifies the night watch commander requesting urgent attention.

"Enter," I call, turning from the observation platform.

The officer appears, saluting crisply despite the late hour. "Scout report, Commander. Priority alpha."

I take the sealed communication, breaking the security seal with one extended claw. The contents confirm what I've suspected since the territorial reassignment came through—dragon forces testing the newly established boundaries, probing for weaknesses in our patrol coverage.

"Three separate incursions along the western approach," I read aloud, tail going perfectly still with focused attention. "Dragon scouts observed within five miles of outer perimeter."

"Yes, sir. Significantly closer than they should be, given the new boundary lines."

The implications unfold with crystal clarity.

The dragons aren't simply testing borders—they're deliberately provoking response, perhaps hoping to create incidents that might justify challenging the Council's reassignment decision.

The timing seems suspiciously aligned with Aria's capture, though the connection remains unclear.

"Double the western approach patrols," I order. "Rotating patterns, variable timing. I want our presence visible but unpredictable."

"Sir." The officer hesitates. "There's one additional detail. The scout who observed the closest incursion reported unusual interest in omega scent trails. They appeared to be specifically tracking paths with omega pheromone signatures."

My fur bristles involuntarily along my spine. "Are you suggesting they were tracking our captured omega?"

"Uncertain, sir. But the timing and focus suggest a possible connection."

I dismiss the officer with additional patrol instructions, turning back to the observation platform with renewed intensity.

Far below, I can just make out the edges of Blackridge Settlement, its cooking fires long extinguished for the night.

Beyond, the mountain passes Aria attempted to navigate stretch toward dragon territory like dark serpents against the moonlit landscape.

Why would dragons show specific interest in one settlement omega? Unless her escape wasn't entirely self-motivated? The possibility of resistance connections or dragon coordination seems far-fetched for a newly presented omega, yet the coincidental timing nags at me.

My gaze shifts to the section of Shadowthorn where containment chamber three holds its unwilling occupant.

Even from this distance, my enhanced senses detect the subtle change in scent profile emanating from that direction—omega heat fully manifesting despite suppressants, pheromones so potent they penetrate even specialized containment barriers.

The fortress walls wouldn't hold back dragon scouts if her scent reached its peak.

Her distress was a beacon. But it was more than that.

Some primitive part of me recognized her scent as something unique, something worth protecting—not just from dragons, but from any alpha who might claim her.

The thought is troubling in its intensity.

Dragon forces testing boundaries. An omega with unusual settlement knowledge and dragon preference. Territorial reassignment creating potential for conflict.

The facility transfer authorization on my desk suddenly seems like the simplest of my problems. But first, Aria Copenhagen must survive her heat cycle—something that appears increasingly complicated as both her biology and external threats accelerate beyond expectation.

My tail lashes once, decision made. I will personally oversee the omega's security until her cycle completes and transfer proceeds.

Not out of any particular interest in her fate, I tell myself, but because the potential connection to dragon incursions makes her a security priority beyond standard protocol.

At least, that's what I'll document in the official report.

It sounds more acceptable than admitting her scent calls to something primal in me that I've spent decades suppressing.

Or that her obvious disgust at my appearance has lodged like a thorn under my skin, irritating me more than it reasonably should.

Either way, I have three days of omega heat cycle to manage before the situation resolves itself through facility transfer.

Three days to maintain control while biology and politics create a volatile combination that threatens everything from territorial stability to my own carefully constructed indifference.

Three days to prove to myself that one omega's opinion of me matters far less than I fear it might.