Page 64 of Fated to the Dragon Alien

Everything hit at once. The ship jolted and the light bent outside the viewports. Space folded in on itself, colors distortingas the stars bled sideways. Cerani’s stomach dropped fast, then leveled. She gripped Stavian’s arm, her heart pounding so hard it felt like thunder in her throat. It felt as if her body was being folded, not space. No wonder this was risky. It felt disorienting and uncomfortable.

The Mirka shuddered, deep and hard, then space returned—calm, wide, unfamiliar. No fire. No alarms. The Axis ships were gone.

Cerani turned slowly to the viewport. Outside, darkness stretched in every direction, but the massive ship hovered above them still, enclosing their ship in its light. The tether held firm. The hull lights blinked blue instead of red now. Steady.

Rek’tor let out a breath like he’d been holding it since birth. “We’re out of the fold. Intact.”

“Confirmed,” Rinter said, slumping into his seat. “Shields remain stable at fifteen percent. External field still linked.”

“They saved us,” Talla whispered.

Jorr swiveled away from weapons. “Someone explain that,” he said, shaking his head. “Giant mystery ship yanks us off a death run, performs a one-shot on two Axis cruisers, and doesn’t blast us to pieces in the process? Who thefekare these people?”

Stavian didn’t answer him.

Cerani turned toward him. He looked down at her, and his expression was different now—still focused, still fierce—but there was relief behind his eyes. Real. Heavy. He let out a breath and brushed a strand of hair off her face.

“I suspect we’ll find out soon,” he said. “We’re not safe yet. But we’re not alone anymore.”

Cerani pressed her gloved hand over his. They didn’t know who this ship belonged to and they didn’t know what it wanted, but they were alive. Together. Free. She could work with that.

Lights on the central viewscreen flashed.

Cerani flinched as the tone of the alert shifted—sharp, repetitive. Across the bridge, the crew jumped back to attention.

“Incoming transmission,” Rinter said, looking up with wide eyes. “It’s from them.”

Before Stavian replied, the ship’s AI activated. “External vessel requests contact,” it said in a cool voice. “Message: Lower shields and prepare to be boarded.”

Jorr squinted. “What shields? We’ve got fifteen percent left.”

“We don’t even know who they are,” Rek’tor said. “We need more information.”

“They could be pirates,” Talla muttered. “Or scavengers waiting for us to bleed out before making their move.”

“Not likely,” Stavian said. He stepped to the center and narrowed his eyes at the screen. “They could’ve slagged us in seconds. Whoever they are…they wanted us alive.”

The AI spoke again. “Repeat request: Lower shields. Prepare for boarding.”

“Hold.” Stavian tilted his head. “I want visual contact. Open a channel.”

Rinter tapped a glowing sequence. “On it.”

The frontal screen flickered once, and the chaotic star field and metal hull vanished. In its place appeared a view of another ship’s bridge.

The space was larger. The metal walls were darker than the Mirka’s—older, lined with patterns that looked scorched into the frame. The image struck wide across the command deck.

Four figures stood at the front.

Tall. Muscled. Zaruxian, like Stavian. Their scales were each different colors, cut through with paler scales along the neck, face, and hands. Their wings—massive, curved, and dark—folded behind their backs. They stood shoulder to shoulder. One had a long scar trailing down his jawline. Another wore a breastplate marked with a symbol she didn’t recognize—sharpangles curled into a spiral, like a broken chain. The third smiled. Actually smiled.

They weren’t just similar to Stavian. They were like him. Same stance. Same intensity.

Same eyes. Silver and fierce.

Cerani stepped close to Stavian. She could feel the tremor in his hand where it hovered at his side.

Her gaze stopped and held on one of the Zaruxians. He had purple scales and cold eyes and…and then it hit her. She let out a gasp and stumbled backward. “You.”

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