Page 8 of Claimed By the Alien Warlord

“We’re not out of the fight yet,” I say, pulling him back. “But we’re not winning it with our fists today. Come on.”

The bikers are herding the crowd now, their bikes cutting through the square like wolves through sheep. I keep my grip on Clem, dragging him away from the chaos. Boris and Barfbag are still staring at the gang like they’re rock stars, their protest signs forgotten.

“Move it, you idiots!” I shout at them, and they finally snap out of it, scrambling to follow us.

Coldwater’s never felt smaller than it does right now, with the roar of engines at our backs and the taste of defeat in the air. But I mean what I said—we’re not done. Not even close.

CHAPTER 4

GUVAN

The limo hums to a stop on the dirt road, the holographic driver flickering out of existence as I kill the projection. I step out into the crisp Montana night, the chill biting at the exposed skin of my human disguise. The river glints under the moonlight, Silver Stream winding its way through the landscape like a lazy serpent. I tilt my head back, scanning the stars. There—a faint ripple in the air, a distortion that doesn’t belong.

The cloaked shuttle lands with a soft thud, the grass flattening beneath its weight as it decloaks. Jareth steps out, his yellow scales catching the pale light, his smirk already in place.

“Gary,” he says, his tone dripping with mock formality. “Looking as dashing as ever. That human disguise really brings out your… eyes.”

“If you’ve got something to deliver, deliver it,” I grunt, cutting through his nonsense. “I don’t have time for your commentary.”

He reverently hands me the package. I take it and carefully tuck it under my arm.

"Thank you. Are there any other reports from up top?"

“Actually, yes.” Jareth crosses his arms, his tone shifting. “There’s a disturbance downtown. A protest against your dam project. Pyke thought you should know.”

My jaw tightens. “They’re protesting the dam? Do they not understand it’s for their own good?”

“Humans,” Jareth says with a shrug. “They’re emotional creatures. They don’t always see the bigger picture. But hey, maybe you should try talking to them. Diplomacy, remember?”

“Diplomacy,” I repeat, the word tasting bitter. “Right. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Jareth claps me on the shoulder, his grip firm. “You’re doing good work, Guvan. Even if they don’t see it yet.”

I grunt, brushing off his hand. “I don’t need their approval.”

He steps back toward the shuttle, but hesitates, turning to me with a look I can’t quite place. “One more thing. This isn’t from Pyke, by the way. This is me, as your friend. You’ve been holed up in that cabin for too long. It’s not healthy.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “What are you getting at?”

“Calm your ridges,” he says, holding up his hands. “I’m just saying, you need someone. A friend. Or better yet, a woman.”

I roll my eyes, turning away. “I don’t need anyone.”

“Suit yourself,” he says, climbing back into the shuttle. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The shuttle hums to life, cloaking itself once more before rising into the night sky. I watch the distortion fade into the stars, then turn back to the road. The package feels heavy in my hands, but not as heavy as the weight of Coldwater’s disdain. Diplomacy. Right.

I climb back into the limo, the holographic driver reappearing as I settle into the backseat. The tires crunch over the dirt as we pull back onto the main road, heading toward the town and its angry mob.

I don’t need anyone. Least of all a woman. But as the lights of Coldwater come into view, I can’t help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, Jareth has a point.

The holographic driver flickers back to life, and I program the route to take me through downtown Coldwater. The limo glides forward, the headlights cutting through the darkness. I’m not concerned about the protestors. They can shout and wave their signs all they want. They don’t understand what’s at stake. What I’ve already sacrificed for them.

The package sits heavy in my lap, the wrapping crisp and precise. My fingers tremble slightly as I undo the folds, the paper falling away to reveal the crystal globe.Sunrise on Vakuta.The name alone is enough to make my chest tighten. I cradle it in my hands, the mosaic of red and orange scales catching the dim interior light. The warmth of it, or maybe the memory of it, seeps into my skin.

I close my eyes, , I’m back there. My mother’s voice, low and soothing, fills the air as she sings a lullaby. My father sits across from me, his hands steady as he works the final touches into the globe. The scales he uses are his own, my mother’s, and mine. A family, immortalized in crystal.

The memory fractures. They’re gone. Dead in the war. All I have left is this.

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