Page 43 of Dragon's Captive

Not for us. I don't say it aloud, but the omission hangs in the air nonetheless.

His wings flex slightly, the draconic equivalent of a nod. "We depart at dawn."

That night, for the first time since my capture, he doesn't come to my bed. The gesture speaks volumes—no claiming on the eve of my declaration, no reminder of physical possession when I must testify to willing acceptance. Space to make my choice, even this late in our complicated game.

Sleep eludes me. I lie awake, staring at the carved ceiling, mapping the familiar patterns of stone and shadow. My body, traitor that it is, feels the absence of Kairyx's burning heat, the emptiness where his massive form should lie. When I finally drift into fitful slumber, my dreams tangle with memories—the library in Ashton Ridge, the desperate flight, the heat-claiming, the pregnancy revelation, the tenderness that emerged so unexpectedly from our violent beginning.

Dawn arrives too soon, painting the mountain peaks with brutal gold that offers no mercy, no reprieve from what must come.

The journey to the Neutral Zone passes in tense silence. Kairyx carries me as he did that first day, but now my body fits against his with practiced ease, my arms secure around his neck, my face tucked against his scales to shield from wind and cold. His wings cut through mountain air with powerful strokes, eachbeat carrying us closer to the destiny neither of us would have chosen but both must now embrace.

The Neutral Zone materializes on the horizon with unexpected grandeur—a vast plateau carved from living stone, intricate buildings gleaming with unnatural luminescence even in daylight. As we descend, details emerge: massive structures designed for beings of draconic proportion, elaborate carvings that tell histories predating human civilization, central plazas large enough to accommodate dozens of full-sized dragons.

"The Hall of Nine," Kairyx explains as we land, his voice pitched for my ears alone. "Where the Council convenes for matters affecting all territories."

Guards approach—not just dragons but representatives of each Prime species, their diverse forms reminding me sharply of how completely the world has changed since the rifts opened. They bow to Kairyx with the deference his rank demands, but their curious gazes linger on me, on the visible evidence of my pregnancy, on the claimed omega carried so carefully in draconic arms.

We're escorted through corridors that would inspire awe under different circumstances—vaulted ceilings adorned with crystalline formations that emit soft, pulsing light; floors inlaid with precious metals in patterns that shift subtly as we pass; air that carries the mingled scents of multiple Prime species, a biological marker of their cooperative governance.

"Vorthrax has already arrived," a bronze-scaled aide informs Kairyx, disapproval evident in his tone despite the neutrality of his words. "The Council awaits."

Kairyx sets me gently on my feet, one clawed hand remaining at the small of my back—not restraining but supporting. "Remember," he murmurs, "your words carry weight here. Speak with conviction."

As if I need reminding that my entire future hangs on my performance. As if I haven't spent a week rehearsing the necessary lies—or truths—I must speak to secure our safety.

The chamber doors swing open, revealing a space so vast it momentarily steals my breath. Circular in design, with tiered seating rising along the perimeter like an ancient amphitheater, the Council chamber centers around a raised dais surrounded by nine massive thrones. Each throne, I realize with dawning comprehension, represents one of the Prime species that emerged through the rifts—dragon, naga, shadow demon, oni, plant creature, kraken, feline, fire elemental, and gargoyle.

And each throne is occupied.

The Council of Nine. The ruling body of the new world order. The ultimate authority in this post-Conquest reality.

Representatives from all major dragon bloodlines fill the observer seats, their scaled forms creating a tapestry of color and texture—obsidian, bronze, emerald, sapphire, ruby, amber. Their collective attention feels like physical pressure against my skin, predatory focus from dozens of inhuman gazes.

"Commander Kairyx Emberscale," a voice announces, reverberating through the chamber with unnatural resonance. "And claimed omega Clara Dawson."

We advance to the center of the chamber, where Vorthrax already stands, his bronze scales gleaming under the crystalline lights. His red-gold eyes fix on me with cruel assessment, lingering on my pregnant belly with possessive hunger that makes me instinctively step closer to Kairyx.

"The Council recognizes this proceeding," the dragon occupying the central throne declares, his scales a burnished gold that nearly blinds when it catches the light. High Emperor Tyverian the Gold-Scale, I realize with a jolt of recognition. Ruler of the Draconic Imperium, the most powerful Prime to emerge from the rifts.

"Commander Vorthrax has issued formal challenge regarding the claiming rights of omega Clara Dawson," Tyverian continues, his voice carrying the weight of centuries. "The Council will hear arguments from both parties before rendering judgment."

Vorthrax steps forward, his massive form seeming to expand as he addresses the Council. "My challenge rests on established law," he begins, voice carrying the distinctive rasp of draconic vocal cords. "The omega was discovered and claimed in disputed territory along the border between my domain and Commander Emberscale's. According to ancient draconic law, such claims must be properly registered with the Council within three days to become irrevocable."

He produces a scroll with dramatic flourish. "Records confirm that Commander Emberscale's registration was filed seventeen days after initial claiming—well beyond the required period. This procedural failure invalidates his exclusive rights to the omega."

Murmurs ripple through the assembled dragons as Vorthrax presents documentation confirming his assertion. The technical argument appears dangerously convincing, particularly with physical evidence supporting his claim.

"Furthermore," he continues, gesturing toward my visibly pregnant form, "while the omega has conceived, the offspring remain unborn. Their viability is yet unproven. Commander Emberscale's previous failures with claimed omegas suggest reason for concern regarding successful gestation to term."

The casual cruelty of this statement—referencing Kairyx's previous reproductive failures as evidence against his claim—sends ice through my veins. Beside me, I feel Kairyx's temperature spike, heat radiating from his scales in waves that would be concerning if I weren't already acclimated to his draconic warmth.

"The law is clear," Vorthrax concludes, satisfaction evident in his tone. "Improper registration in disputed territory creates grounds for challenge. I claim right of transfer for this omega and her potential offspring, to be properly integrated into my breeding program for the continuation of bronze-scale bloodlines."

Breeding program. The clinical phrase masks horrors I've heard whispered—omegas kept in drugged compliance, mated continuously without regard for recovery, children removed immediately after birth to prevent maternal bonding. A fate worse than my current captivity in every conceivable way.

"Commander Emberscale," Tyverian prompts, "your response?"

Kairyx steps forward, his posture betraying none of the rage I can feel simmering beneath his controlled exterior. "The Council recognizes that technical regulations exist to serve greater purpose, not as ends unto themselves," he begins, voice steady despite the slight smoke curling from his nostrils. "The intent of registration requirements is to prevent territorial conflict and ensure proper omega care following claiming. Both purposes have been fulfilled despite delayed paperwork."

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