Page 13 of Fated to the Dragon Alien

“Yes,” she said. “Observe 630-I. Record her if necessary. But do not interfere. Do not elevate her beyond her function.” Her gaze sharpened. “And do not, under any circumstance, let her leave that moon.”

He stared in surprise, speechless. More unsettled than he could remember ever being. This was beyond strange, and there was a desperation edging the high emissary’s voice that sent a ripple under his scales.

“I’ll send you new intake manifests in three cycles,” Bendahn continued. “Reinforce tunnel set D and realign power to the central drills. Feed all findings from 630-I into your secure log until instructed otherwise.”

She started to disconnect, but he raised his hand. “One more question.”

Bendahn’s brows lifted.

“I request an explanation,” he said. “If you cannot give me clearance to view the Terian data—or records of 630-I—tell me why.”

Bendahn’s expression looked carved from ice. “Because the Axis have long memories,” she said. “Teria was conquered long ago for its resources. To punish its people for daring to defy us, the survivors were imprisoned on a penal colony to be forgotten and reduced to a primitive state. They were never meant to recover. Not culturally. Not biologically.” She glanced down ather long, nailless fingers and idly brushed something off them. “The correction to the records was recent, and a unanimous decision, considering recent developments.”

His pulse jumped. “What recent developments?”

“You asked your one question, Stavian, and now I am finished.” She folded her long fingers and lifted one hairless brow. “Just because I raised you, that does not grant you special privileges. All you need to know is the Terian people didn’t adapt to our takeover. They were unpredictable under Axis control conditions. That’s all you need to know.” Bendahn raised one finger. “Resistance is instability. That is the lesson of Teria.”

A cold heaviness settled behind his ribs. He clenched his hands at his sides to keep from striking the console. She could hardly claim to have “raised” him. He was treated like an obligation most of the time, lived in group quarters with other promising orphans, and trained to be a supervisory guard, which he’d been for most of his life. He’d overseen dozens of facilities for the Axis, providing reports and delegating resources within a highly managed system. This was the first time he’d questioned anything.

“I see.” His voice came out low, but the rage behind it tightened his jaw until it ached. He held her gaze. His chest burned. He didn’t know if it was anger or guilt—but it hollowed out something in him just the same.

She’d just confirmed something he feared—that he would never be trusted. He would never be permitted free thought, no matter how long he toiled for the Axis. And he wasn’t sure he’d ever forgive it.

“Good. You are to maintain standard report flow,” she said. “No alterations. No independent inquiries. The board is pleased with your facility’s output. Crystal conversion markers are holding twenty-eight percent above projection.” She tappedsomething out of frame. “You’ve always been efficient. Stay that way.”

Stavian didn’t respond. A sharp burst of fury rose before he forced it down. Dragon fire burned the back of his throat as his place in this system was starkly defined. The silence in his head roared louder than any alarm.

Bendahn must have perceived his reaction, because her gaze sharpened. “I mean it. Break contact with 630-I. Remove her from your flagged watchlist. If we sense deviation or unnecessary risk, we will extract her and her next prison will be far less pleasant than your mine.”

He wanted to shove something—break the screen, rip apart every document that dared to call this normal. Every muscle in his body locked in place. “I understand, Bendahn.”

That seemed to satisfy her. “You have done well securing this installation, Stavian,” she said in a rare moment of praise. “Now keep it secure. The High Council votes in six cycles to endorse offworld expansion for deep-mining operations. DeLink 22K is the model,” she added. “Don’t ruin that.”

The hologram dimmed and her image vanished.

Stavian sat completely still. The lighting in the console bay buzzed above him. A faint thermal whine filtered through the vents. The scent of scorched metal drifted in from the far filtration shaft, but the room felt frozen.

He looked down at his screen where the scant data on the Terian species still glowed, meaningless.

One directive. Clear as it had always been: Obey.

He ran a hand down his face. Cerani’s name pulsed at the back of his mind like a ripple he couldn’t stop. The only crime she’d committed was being born of a species conquered by the Axis. She didn’t even know that her people had had a home planet, once. On the surface, she was absolutely no threat. But ifthe Axis had buried her entire species because they couldn’t be controlled—then she was dangerous just by surviving.

And the worst part?

He knew in his gut and his heart that he would not obey Bendahn’s orders. He could not, if he was to live with himself. For a long time, he had said he owed the Axis for taking him in when he was orphaned, or that the Axis made advancements in technology that served everyone. But not anymore.

If the Axis were hiding Terian history from him, what else were they hiding? There had been something off about Bendahn. She’d appeared cold and unflappable, but he’d known her long enough to be able to sense underlying tension. Worry.

His thoughts descended to corridors as dark as the mine shafts. What if, as a child, he wasn’t rescued and saved like his own records stated?

What if his story wasn’t entirely different from Cerani’s?

Stavian rose. His wings—which he’d been told were useless and incapable of flight—flared as he walked toward the exit. He swiped his wrist over the sensor and watched the door slide open.

There had to be a way to learn the truth and keep Cerani alive, even if it meant breaking every directive left.

FIVE

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