Page 64 of Claimed By the Alien Assassin
The words slice through morning air like a cold blade. I taste metal on my tongue, sour and stunned. The Alliance and IHC—they’re not coming to celebrate or acknowledge sacrifice. They’re coming to sweep in, take control, and haul us all in as collateral.
I glance at Dayn. His eyes narrow, jaw tight as steel. I swallow the freight of what this means for him. Rogue assassin, foreign species, part of official diplomatic leverage. He's not just a hero anymore—he’s a ticking political bomb.
I reach for his hand. My voice trembles, but I hold it steady. “They’re not here for us.”
He squeezes my fingers. “They never were.”
I close my eyes and force breath back down my throat. Skyfire washes across broken turrets, fresh bricks, restored gardens. Our living victory. But now the powers that be intend to label it all—‘rogue action,’ ‘unauthorized aggression.’ It’s unspeakably cold.
“They’ll lock him up,” I whisper, voice thick like ash. “Take him away. Same as they took the Hellfighters before. No freedom, no mercy.”
Dayn rubs his thumb over my knuckles. Quiet. Patient.
I wince, step back. “This changes everything.”
He tilts his head. “We can’t outrun that ship.”
I swallow against the sting. “But we can fight the narrative. We can show them what weare.”
He studies me, emerald gaze cracking. “This isn’t their fight.”
“I know it is for us.” I rest a hand against his chest. “If they see what you are—whatwe’vedone—every one of us could be branded traitors and spies.”
He presses a kiss to my forehead. “And yet—what we are is the reason Snowblossom stands.”
My throat burns. I didn’t expect this. I thought after victory we’d hold hands and cry, and laugh, and the world would bendits knee to us. Instead, the world stretches its stare and says:Comply… or we will.
I walk out onto the ridgeline, arms over my chest. The colony hums below—families moving, rebuilding, oblivious to this new storm. I swallow smoke-thick guilt. My people deserve peace. But this is political theater, and Dayn is winning—and that terrifies me.
My comm crackles again: "Docking in sixty seconds."
I look at Dayn. He steps beside me—towering, solid—scars and scales hidden under image skin. The moment forms between us: fear, despair, defiance, love.
He speaks first. “We stand together.”
I nod, tears shining. “Always.”
Ships glint in the clearing sky. I taste the tension in the wind. I slip fingers between his, nodding, chin firming. “Let them come.”
He pulls me into his arms, voice soft as dawn. “Let’s show them who we are before they define it.”
Here on the ridge, where rebellion thrives and love whispered above sirens, I realize—this fight isn't over. It’s just changing shape. And everything that comes next relies on whether we stand strong enough to hold our truth.
The IHC ships descend, polished hulls with silent intent. And I step forward, stride leveled. My hand is in Dayn’s, but this chapter—it starts with me, and it startsnow.
CHAPTER 17
DAYN
The Alliance fleet arrives with all the predictable pomp and ceremony: landing shuttles slicing through Snowblossom’s smoky dawn, soldiers in immaculate gear filing onto the reclaimed soil, and a procession of bureaucrats in crisp uniforms marching behind them. I follow Vice Admiral Charn from a respectful distance, keeping my image inducer on—though every step I take feels like walking in a gilded cage. The colonists circle the newcomers with curiosity, children peering up at polished boots, while adults offer nods of solemn welcome. I taste tension in the air—like overbrewed coffee, sharp and bracing.
Admiral Charn stands on the makeshift dais assembled from the remnants of prefabs and catwalks. His posture is regal, imperious. Polished insignia gleam on his chest, a silent litany of authority. When he speaks, his voice is cool and clipped, resonant with propaganda-trained finesse.
“Citizens of the IHC—Colonies of the Alliance—your steadfast resistance has been remarkable. Under the guidance of Alliance forces and local leadership, free from foreign occupation, you have reclaimed what was rightfully yours.” He pauses deliberately, eyes sweeping the gathered crowd until theyland on me. My spine tightens. “Your heroes are many. But chief among them is this service member”—he motions toward me—“whom we look forward to formally welcoming into the Alliance ranks.”
My chest stutters as the lies spatter the grey dawn. I wasn't an Alliance soldier. I was Josie’s storm—scavenger, assassin, Shorcu. But here, I’m draped in their narrative, forced into a role I never auditioned for.
Josie stands at the front row, arms crossed, face a tempest. Her jaw tight. A delicate flicker of rage blooms behind her eyes. She snorts when the admiral uses words likeour guided liberation. I’ve heard that tone before: patronizing, passive—haunting.
