Page 7 of Hunted By the Dragon Alien

“Fight hard.” His voice was low and heavy with command. “Do you hear me? Fight with everything you’ve got. Don’t give you opponent, the handlers, or thefekkerswatching the satisfaction of seeing fear. Fight for yourself. Survive.”

For a moment, Sevas didn’t reply. Her eyes widened at the harsh tenderness in his voice. Her head stayed tilted in his grasp. Her body leaned into his touch, as if she didn’t mind it. As if,just maybe, she welcomed it. He wondered if that possibility surprised her as much as it did him. It had been so long since he’d touched anyone without violence that this light contact felt foreign. It was also a painfully welcome relief to know that he could touch someone without causing pain. That, perhaps, his touch could give someone pleasure.

The moment lingered, heavier than the stale air in the cell. Takkian felt it—a slow, pull deep in his chest, as if every inch of space between them was collapsing under some unseen force. She was warm and alive in a way that made his hand reluctant to pull away. Her face, upturned toward his, was all smooth lines and strength, and more beautiful than anything in this wretched place had a right to be. The faint shimmer of gold spots on her forehead caught the light and lit something primal in him.

Her lips parted slightly—just enough to let a shaky breath escape. It wasn’t fear that showed in her expression now. Her resolve had strengthened, and yet, beneath it, Takkian could feel something else. His blood surged, muscles tightening involuntarily as an unspoken connection flared between them, unexpected and not entirely welcome.

That pull—a magnetic force he had no name for—coiled low in his gut. The delicate curve of her jaw beneath his fingers felt impossibly fragile and maddeningly strong. It sent a spark through his veins he hadn’t felt in megacycles, or perhaps, ever.Desire. Not the kind that came with fleeting glances or meaningless encounters, but something more dangerous, more rooted in who she was. Her fire. Her defiance. The strength in her that didn’t bend or break, even with fear biting at its edges.

Takkian hated it instantly.

He withdrew his hand abruptly, his fingers tingling as if burned. He clenched them into a fist at his side, willing himself to focus on the cold reality of the arena instead of the warmth of her skin, the stubborn tilt of her chin, or the way her eyeslit up when challenged. This wasn’t some twisted romantic holodrama. This was survival, raw and unkind, and she was a fighter—one who might not even see the next cycle.

“Remember what I said,” Takkian growled. He stepped back and tried, futilely, to extinguish the lingering heat under his scales. “Fight hard. Fight smart. And don’t—” His voice caught as his throat went tight in a reflex he cursed himself for. He forced the words out. “Don’t die.”

Sevas straightened, the faintest flicker of something unspoken crossing her face. “I won’t,” she said roughly, before turning back toward the mech. She walked toward the door with deliberate steps. The mech’s flat gaze followed her every move.

“Compliance noted,” the mech droned as it extended its baton to guide her forward. It turned, its mechanical joints whirring faintly as it led her out of the cell and into the hall beyond. The door clanged shut behind them with a finality that rattled deep in Takkian’s chest.

FIVE

Sevas

Sevas squinted under the harsh glare of the stadium lights as she stepped into the arena. The blast of noise hit her like a physical force, a wall of sound made up of cheers, growls, and guttural roars that rattled her chest. The crowd was a sprawling mass of bodies packed into towering tiers of stone and metal. It surged with energy as alien beings of all shapes and sizes spilled out of their seats, flinging gestures and strange, guttural words down at the fighters below. Some hurled objects—bits of food, small knives, jagged stones. One projectile clattered near her feet, kicking up sand in a puff and making her instincts scream to keep moving.

The air reeked of blood and sweat. It stuck to the back of her throat, refusing to clear with every swallow. Overhead, thick glass panels formed a hazy dome, shimmering faintly under the harsh light of mounted lamps. The panels sealed the arena off from the outside world—a cage without bars, but a cage all the same.

The arena itself was a circle of sand surrounded by towering stone walls that trapped the fighters—and every bloodthirsty cheer—inside. The floor was uneven. Patches of darker stains told the story of past losses. The coarse grains shifted beneath her bare feet, making it hard to find steady footing. She flexed her toes instinctively, feeling for traction, trying to ground herself in a place designed to do the exact opposite.

The gate behind her slammed shut with a metallic clang that echoed in her bones. Sevas didn’t turn to look at it. Didn’t allow herself to dwell on the fact that there was no going back. Her chin lifted and she scanned the arena. A spotlight beamed down, illuminating what lay in the middle of the pit: a small collection of crude, blunt weapons half-buried in the sand.

Before she could move toward it, a mechanical voice thundered overhead. “Match seven: new fighter 78-S versus Gimloria!”

Sevas stiffened as the crowd roared louder at the mention of her and her opponent’s identification. She went tense, willing herself not to flinch under the sound of it. She wasn’t a person to these creatures—just a number to be tossed into the pit and torn up for their amusement. Just as Takkian had said.

From across the arena, her opponent entered. A female of a species Sevas had never seen before walked in, head high. She was taller than Sevas and narrow as a blade with blue-gray skin and hundreds of tentacles waving from her head as though they had a mind of their own. She wore a breastplate. It looked to be made of leather or some other flexible material. Meanwhile, Sevas was still stuck in the ratty vest that covered the translucent shift she’d been given at the auction. This fighter had done this before. It was clear by the way the female moved and flexed her arms. Sevas’ gut sank as Gimloria raised her arms to the crowd, drawing a raucous cheer.

A whistle signaled the start of the match.

Sevas swallowed hard and stayed close to the wall, keeping her movements slow and calculated. The sand shifted under her feet. She didn’t dare take her eyes off her opponent, who moved with practiced ease to the center of the arena where the lights were strongest and the weapons lay like a feast.

Gimloria looked over the clubs, jagged pieces of metal fashioned into blades, and other crude tools, taking her time selecting one. They were battered and primitive, almost laughably unbalanced in design, but Sevas could see they would feel solid enough if struck by one.

Gimloria chose a dull blade the length of her forearm. With a lazy but skilled motion, she swung the blade experimentally. Her voice, calm and cutting, carried over the noise. “You are a pretty one. What’s wrong, little star spot?” she purred. Her teeth glinted as her grin widened. “Afraid to play? Or are you scared of getting that golden hair dirty?”

Sevas didn’t reply, didn’t give Gimloria the satisfaction of reacting. Instead, she adjusted her weight, keeping her stance low and her knees slightly bent. No one hadevercalled her pretty, and she’d never been afraid of getting dirty. But if she was going to be underestimated, this would be a great time for it.

Meanwhile, the crowd wasn’t waiting for action—they were demanding it. Angry shouts and hisses erupted from the stands. Something hard smacked the ground near Sevas’ foot—a jagged rock, hurled from somewhere above. A second one followed, whizzing past dangerously close to her ankle. She sidestepped quickly, only to have a piece of bone, sharp and splintered, smack into her shoulder, drawing blood. She hissed, covered the wound with a hand, and glared at the faces in the seats.

But they didn’t stop. More flew, faster, striking just beside her ankle and scattering sand, trying to drive her to the center of the arena, where Gimloria awaited. The crowd’s frustration buzzed through the arena, their voices rising into a chorus ofguttural shouts and clashing languages. Someone near the edge hurled a bone shard—it skidded across the sand close to her feet. Another flash of movement, a crushed piece of what might’ve been rations, landed with a wet slap on her thigh.

Gimloria’s lips split into a predatory grin, revealing needle-like teeth. Her voice carried across the arena, silencing some of the crowd. “What’s the matter, little star spot? Lost already? Or are you just waiting for me to end this quickly?”

And she lunged.

Gimloria darted forward, her speed startling but not unfamiliar. Sevas had expected a quick advance. Strength and speed had worked on her brothers during sparring matches, and they would work now. She braced herself, bending her knees slightly to brace herself in the shifting sand. Just then, she noticed something odd through the chaos—a half-buried object. Unlike the bones and stones the crowd had been pelting her with, this one caught her interest. A slingshot.Thiswas a tool—now, a weapon—that she knew how to use.

Takkian’s words echoed in her mind:Fight hard. Fight smart.

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