Page 51 of Dragon's Captive

Vorthrax recovers quickly, his own wings extending to match Kairyx's altitude. They circle each other above the crystal platform, neither willing to surrender aerial advantage, both seeking opening in the other's defenses. Blood drips from wounds already inflicted, sizzling when it hits the magma surface below, creating small explosions of steam and noxious gas.

Then they clash again—this time in midair ballet of violence and precision that defies everything I thought I understood about draconic nature. Claws slash, teeth snap, tails whip with calculated purpose rather than blind aggression. Vorthrax's greater size should dominate, but Kairyx's speed and strategic strikes create something closer to stalemate than easy victory.

Until Vorthrax resorts to dishonorable tactics.

The bronze dragon disengages suddenly, wings carrying him in wide arc that initially appears defensive retreat. Buthis trajectory becomes clear with sickening speed—he's not retreating but repositioning, aiming not for Kairyx but for the omega observation platform.

For me.

Flame erupts from bronze jaws, massive jet of superheated destruction arcing directly toward where I sit, pregnant and vulnerable, clearly understanding that if he cannot defeat his opponent through direct confrontation, he can force submission through threatened harm to claimed omega and unborn offspring.

Time slows to excruciating crawl. I see the flame approaching with bizarre clarity, its orange-gold heart containing heat capable of rendering flesh to ash in seconds. I see the other omegas scrambling from their seats, faces contorted in terror as they seek nonexistent shelter. I see guards rushing forward, knowing they cannot reach us in time.

Most clearly, I see Kairyx's reaction. Without hesitation, his massive form changes direction mid-flight, obsidian wings folded to increase speed as he hurtles himself into the flame's path. His body becomes living shield between deadly fire and the platform where I stand frozen in horror.

The impact when flame meets scales is catastrophic. Vorthrax's fire engulfs Kairyx completely, turning obsidian to glowing red as heat beyond imagination seeks vulnerable flesh beneath protective covering. Kairyx's roar of pain reverberates through the entire mountain, a sound so primal and agonized that tears spring unbidden to my eyes.

Yet even burning, he maintains position—wings extended to maximum coverage, body angled to ensure no flame reaches the platform behind him. His scales smoke and crack under concentrated assault, yet he doesn't yield the critical inches that would expose me to destruction.

Violation of combat protocol creates uproar among witnesses. Dragons rise from their observation areas, wings partially extended in agitation, voices raised in protest at tactics that contravene ancient honor codes. Even Tyverian stands from his throne, golden scales flaring with obvious disapproval.

But protocol violation doesn't stop the combat. Vorthrax presses his advantage with cruel efficiency, closing distance to the injured Kairyx with obvious intent to finish what dishonorable tactics began.

CHAPTER 22

TURNING POINT

Something breaksinside me as I watch Kairyx burn.

It's not just the sight of his obsidian scales glowing red-hot under Vorthrax's assault—though that alone would haunt my nightmares for years if I survive this. It's not just the primal roar of pain that vibrates through the volcanic chamber, setting my teeth on edge and bringing tears to my eyes. No, what shatters within me is the realization that he didn't hesitate. Not for a heartbeat. The moment Vorthrax aimed for me, for our unborn children, Kairyx threw himself into the fire's path without calculation or self-preservation.

The monster who once hunted me through Ashton Ridge is now burning alive to protect me.

The twins move beneath my heart with sudden, coordinated strength, as if responding to their father's agony. Pain lances through me, sharp and unexpected, stealing my breath and doubling me over on the observation platform. The ceremonial markings painted across my skin—gold and crimson protection symbols that seemed mere superstition hours ago—begin to warm, then burn against my flesh.

Something is happening to me. Something beyond biology, beyond explanation.

"The bond responds," whispers one of the omegas beside me, eyes wide with either fear or reverence—I'm too overwhelmed to determine which. "The bloodline calls to bloodline."

I have no idea what she means, and frankly, I don't care. All I can focus on is Vorthrax closing the distance to the injured Kairyx, bronze scales gleaming with sadistic triumph as he prepares to finish what dishonorable tactics began. My hands press against my swollen belly, feeling the twins' movements grow stronger, more deliberate, as if they're trying to communicate something vital.

The heat building within me feels nothing like heat cycle. Nothing like pregnancy discomfort. It's something primordial and alien, power flooding my system that makes no scientific sense yet feels undeniably real. The ceremonial markings across my skin begin to glow—not reflecting ambient light but generating their own, golden symbols brightening until they cast shadows across the observation platform.

Without conscious direction, something releases from me—not visible, not audible, but tangible. A pheromone wave so concentrated, so impossible, it transcends ordinary biology. Distress signals no alpha can ignore, regardless of allegiance. Protective instinct weaponized through means I don't understand.

Vorthrax staggers mid-strike, his massive body suddenly disoriented as my biological broadcast overwhelms draconic senses evolved to respond to such cues. The distraction lasts mere seconds—a minor hiccup in his attack pattern—but in combat of this intensity, seconds determine everything.

Kairyx, despite burns that have rendered parts of his scales molten, doesn't waste the opening my unprecedented response has created. He launches forward with renewed purpose, obsidian body slamming into bronze with impact that creates another shockwave through the cavern. This time it's Vorthraxwho loses balance, who slides toward crystal platform's edge as claws scrabble for purchase.

Before the bronze dragon can recover, Kairyx's jaws close around his throat—not with killing force but with dominant pressure that communicates unmistakable threat. His golden eyes burn with focused rage as smoke continues to rise from injured scales. The message requires no translation: yield or die, ceremonial prohibitions be damned.

For one suspended moment, the entire chamber holds collective breath. Then, with rage evident in every line of his massive body, Vorthrax goes limp beneath Kairyx's jaws. The submission gesture is minimal, reluctant, but unmistakable to all witnesses.

Kairyx maintains pressure for extended moment, ensuring the surrender cannot be misinterpreted or retracted. Only when Tyverian rises from his throne, golden scales flaring with authority, does he release his defeated opponent.

"The trial is complete," the Emperor's voice reverberates through the suddenly silent chamber. "Witnessed and binding under ancient law. Commander Kairyx Emberscale's claim stands uncontested henceforth."

My legs buckle as relief floods through me, the strange power that surged through my system receding as quickly as it manifested. The ceremonial garments suddenly feel too heavy, too constricting as reaction to sustained terror sets in. The omegas beside me—forgotten until this moment—catch my arms before I can collapse entirely, their strength surprising given their own pregnant state.

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