Page 6 of Hunted By the Dragon Alien

Bruil made a noise of approval, though it wasn’t exactly encouraging. “Look at that, Takkian. She might not be completely useless after all.”

Takkian didn’t bother to look at Bruil. His silver eyes never left Sevas. There was something unreadable in the glow of them, something that made her spine stiffen even as she fought not to shift beneath his gaze.

“If you stick to that,” Takkian said, “you might live long enough to see the next cycle. Maybe even the one after that.”

FOUR

Takkian

Takkian had the top bunk, obviously. He’d never ask Bruil to climb up there. It had been a long sleep cycle with little rest. The Dokkol had been restless as he’d tried to settle on the floor, and the female, Sevas, had curled next to the large juvenile, attempting to comfort him while also finding rest. Takkian had been tempted to offer her the bunk, but showing her any favor would be disastrous to them both. He couldn’t show weakness, and giving up his own comfort for hers would be seen as just that.

So, he’d lain on his thin mattress and listened to the sounds of his new cellmates. Now, as the sleep cycle wound down, as indicated by the slow illumination of the overhead lights, his claws tapped faintly against the ridges of his scaled forearm in a restless rhythm. Across the room, Sevas murmured her soft reassurances as she ate a little of the rations and gave some to the Dokkol. Takkian couldn’t hear her words, but the sound made his chest ache with a rough longing. Had anyone ever spoken that way to him? Had he once had family? A lover?Someonewho cared for him? His memories of a time before the arena were faint at best, which was strange because the lifespan of a Zaruxian was long and his time here had been relatively short. He suspected—and Bruil agreed—that his memory had been tampered with. How, he didn’t know.

He knew one thing for sure—shedidn’t belong here. None of them did, really, but Sevas was different. She carried herself too firmly, too openly, with a defiance that would get ground into dust the moment she stepped onto the arena floor. And now, thanks to the list he’d spotted in the handler’s grip during feed collection, he knew it would happen sooner than either of them was ready for. Her first match was the next cycle. He was still debating whether or not to tell her. Hehadtold Bruil, during their walk to the latrines before the sleep cycle.

“She’ll be okay,” Bruil had murmured. “First-timers aren’t meant to be ripped apart in their first match. They’re meant to be tested. To see what they have in them. Remember, they paid good credits for her.” The older fighter wasn’t wrong, but it hadn’t stopped Takkian’s unease.

Bruil had slept just fine, snoring away in the lower bunk with his arm draped across his scarred forehead as though shielding himself from the world itself.

But Takkian knew that fire burned out fast in the arena. The crowd wouldn’t care if she fought like a cornered beast. They’d want her humiliated, brought to her knees. His jaw tightened. The faint scrape of his claws against his forearm paused as he thought about his first match. It had been a blood-soaked performance that satisfied the crowd’s thirst for fresh meat. The handlers didn’t care about fairness, and the mechs didn’t step in unless a kill was imminent. It was all about the show.

Takkian’s claws dug into his arm, leaving faint crescents in the tough scales. He hated how his chest tightened at thoughts of Sevas facing off against another desperate fighter. He grimacedat the thought of her body—the strength etched into the lines of her shoulders, the quiet determination set in her jaw—being broken for the amusement of some bloated noble or drunk merchant. He could imagine it too vividly: her golden hair matted with blood, her tan skin marred with jagged scars that would never heal quite right. Lovely, smooth skin hardened by work—untainted for now, despite all she’d endured. It wasn’t meant for the arena.

He hated that the thought bothered him. Hated more that he felt any concern for her at all. No matter what she spouted about shaping rocks, the numbers on her neck didn’t lie—the female was an incarcerated prisoner from a penal colony. She seemed to believe what she said. Maybe her memory had been tampered with, too.

Whatever the truth actually was, nothing could stop the matches that would take place during the upcoming cycle, his included. He’d learned long ago not to care about any outcome but his own. Caring was a weakness—a dangerous, stupid indulgence in a place like this, where loyalty bought you nothing but pain. He’d seen fighters dragged to tournaments knowing full well they wouldn’t make it out, because the officials knew they cared enough about someone and decided to make a show of it. He himself had been exploited for his protectiveness over Bruil, who lived because Takkian spent his favors on keeping the old Zaruxian alive.

Yet here he was, stuck on the image of Sevas—on the way she had stepped into this cell without lowering her chin. It grated at him, this unwanted pull. He thought he was too smart for this kind of mistake. Too experienced. Apparently not.

The lights brightened to their fullest, signaling the beginning of a new wake cycle. Bruil snorted and rose, making the bed groan and shift. The male stood and looked at Takkian, still sitting in his own bunk, and followed his gaze to where Sevaswas sitting up and stretching. Long, smooth arms reached up. Muscles flexed as she leaned to one side and worked the kinks out of her shoulders.

“She’s not your problem, Takkian,” Bruil rasped quietly. The old fighter could read him too well, and he didn’t bother hiding it. “Don’t make her that.”

“She’s useful alive,” Takkian growled back. His tone was clipped, dismissive, but Bruil’s quirked brow said he wasn’t buying it.

“Useful?” Bruil chuckled faintly. “You sound like one of those mechs. Useful for what, exactly? Watching over the Dokkol child they dragged in here with her?” His voice turned rougher. “She will get through this, but you won’t if you let her under your skin.”

Takkian opened his mouth to reply, but movement near the cell door drew his attention. The faint hum of gears preceded the telltale clank of a mech. It stood on the other side, its boxy shape framed by the dull light spilling in from the cell block corridor. Its single glowing eye briefly scanned the room, the effect cold and impersonal.

“Female 78-S,” the mech announced in its grating, monotone voice. One of its appendages—armed with a shock baton—extended toward Sevas. “Match imminent. Follow me.”

Sevas froze mid-sentence, her comforting murmur to Ulo cutting off abruptly. For a moment, she didn’t move, didn’t even seem to breathe. Her back remained stiff, her shoulders squared, but Takkian caught the subtle twitch in her fingers and the slight ripple of tension that darted through her neck. It wasn’t much, but it was there.Fear. For the first time since she’d entered this place, her facade cracked.

Ulo let out a low sound—half whimper, half protest. “Don’t let them take her,” he muttered to Takkian. His voice was thin as he looked up, wide-eyed and lost. His massive hands reached forher, seeking comfort, but Sevas turned to him and pressed one of her smaller hands against his rocky forearm.

“I’ll be fine, Ulo,” she said, though her voice wobbled just enough to betray her.

Takkian rose and slid off the bed in one fluid movement. He closed the small distance between them. Sevas rose. Surprise flickered in her dark red eyes as he approached her. Surpriseandfear, despite her effort to conceal both. He was too practiced at reading fear not to see it. Her breathing picked up, shallow and slightly uneven.

The mech clattered its baton against the doorframe, a sharp, jarring noise. “Noncompliance will result in disciplinary measures,” it said flatly.

Sevas drew in a shaky breath and turned toward the mech. Her chin was lifted, her shoulders back, but Takkian could see the way her hands flexed at her sides.

“Wait,” he said.

Sevas hesitated. Her body was halfway to the door when she turned to him. Her dark red eyes locked on his. “Yes?” she asked, blinking up at him.

Takkian stepped closer. His large frame and wings cast a shadow over her. He reached out before she could pull away and tilted her chin up with his fingers. He kept the touch firm but not rough, forcing her to meet his stare directly. Her skin was warmer than he expected, and soft despite the strength in her calloused hands.

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