Page 20 of Alien Prince's Fated Mate

The circle of mounted warriors closed in, their villarts’ claws kicking up dead leaves. I pressed my back against Tharon’s solid warmth. The riders’ faces blurred together - all I saw were weapons pointed our way.

THARON

Iscanned the enemy warriors, calculating odds, when a familiar face caught my attention. The long silver braids first, then the weathered features I’d faced across countless negotiation tables. Elder Mahra of the Dergian mines dismounted her villart with surprising grace for her age.

Raw crystal chunks bound in copper at her throat and wrists caught the filtered sunlight. The traditional jewelry marked her status as clearly as the elaborate pattern of her braids - though she’d added more silver strands since I’d last seen her.

Three years ago she’d driven a brutally shrewd bargain for her clan’s gems. I’d respected her then. Now, with Niam pressed against my back, I found myself hoping that respect might work in our favor.

Mahra’s eyes narrowed as she studied me. Even travel-worn and dirty, a prince of Zashi commanded recognition.

A broad-shouldered warrior pushed his villart forward, too much gold woven through his braids for his rank. “You’re deep in Dergian territory.” He straightened in his saddle. “Explain yourselves.”

I kept my sword ready but let my diplomatic training surface. “We mean no harm to your people. We seek only safe passage.”

“Safe passage?” He sneered. “Armed and skulking through our forests?”

The crack of Mahra’s walking stick against his leg cut off further posturing.

“You’d question a prince of Zashi, you preening therok?” Her stick pointed at his face. “Did your mother teach you no manners?”

The warrior’s mouth opened and closed several times. “My...I...forgive me, Your Highness. I didn’t recognize...”

I savored his stammering apology, though my expression remained neutral. Diplomatic training had its uses.

“We lost our supplies in a rock fall two days ago,” I said, shifting to keep Niam behind me. Each breeze pulled at her hood, threatening to expose her to these strangers. “I need to hunt, but my companion requires rest.”

My pride choked the next words. A prince shouldn’t need to beg favors, but Niam’s safety outweighed my ego. “Would you shelter her while I seek game?”

Mahra stepped closer, her wooden stick tapping against the ground. “Of course. The clan’s hospitality is yours.” She turned to the mounted warriors. “Bavak, take your hunters north. The prince’s presence here stays between us.”

The gold-braided warrior’s gaze lingered on Niam’s cloaked form. Too long. My fingers tightened on my sword hilt.

“As you command, Elder.” Bavak wheeled his mount around.

“Shen.” Mahra gestured to a young hunter. “Give up your mount. You’ll double with Kevat.”

The boy dismounted immediately, leading his villart forward. I helped Niam up first, using my body to block the others' view. Her small frame settled between my arms as I mounted behind her. Her trembling registered through my clothes - exhaustion or fear, I couldn't tell.

The villart’s gait jostled us together with each step. Niam’s warmth seeped into me, her scent filling my nose. I tightened my arms around her when other riders drew near, earning curious glances from the warriors.

The warriors closed ranks around us. Too close.

We needed these people. Their protection. Their resources. Their silence.

But I watched. Every rider. Every shadow between the trees. Every flutter of leaves that might hide a Temple drone.

I would keep her safe. No matter the cost.

The mountain path wound down toward the valley below. Mahra’s hunters spread out in a protective circle, but their very presence made my shoulders knot with fresh tension.

“Stop fidgeting,” Niam whispered. “You’ll draw even more attention to us.”

Despite her words I kept scanning our surroundings. The Temple wouldn’t give up easily. And Niam...

She was mine to protect now. Whether she accepted it yet or not.

The Dergian mining camp spread through the valley in neat rows, each tent adorned with chunks of raw crystal. Blue gems caught the late afternoon sun, throwing fractured light across walkways. Red stones dangled from tent poles, traditional wards against evil spirits. Wood smoke drifted through the air, mixing with the sharp tang of metal and stone dust - the unmistakable smell of a mining operation.

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