Page 2 of Hunted By the Dragon Alien

She looked down at him blandly, even as sweat coated her palms. “Where am I going?”

He smiled, showing off rows of gray teeth. “The arena.” The smile widened. “You like fighting, don’t you? Now you’ll be fighting for your life.”

TWO

Takkian

Takkian paced the length of the cell, his boots tapping against the smooth floor with each turn. Twenty steps one way, pivot over the water spigot that dripped into the drainage grate, twenty steps back. It wasn’t terribly cramped—his many victories in the arena had afforded him and his cellmate some comforts—but he moved like a caged predator anyway, shoulders tense, each measured step radiating frustration. The walls were clean white and made of some composite that quieted whatever noise might come from the cells on either side of them. The light strip in the high metal ceiling hummed softly. Its light glinted off his green scales, picking up the faint black interlocking patterns tattooed across his forearms.

Bruil sat hunched on his cot, sharpening a blunt piece of scrap metal that, at this point, would be more useful for peeling ration bark than stabbing anyone. His hands, knotted with age and old fractures, shook faintly as he worked, but he refused to stop. That was Bruil—stubborn as awarkabeast, even when he didn’t need to be.

“If anyone catches you trying to make a weapon, they’ll drag you to the arena floor,” Takkian said, his growl low, wary. He didn’t slow his pacing but flicked a glance toward the door.

Bruil let out a snort. “They wouldn’t waste the effort. Look at me.” He shook the rust-colored scales along his arms, thin and loose over wiry muscle. “I haven’t been a fighter in too many cycles to count. They’d get a laugh shoving me back out there.”

Takkian grunted as he turned again. “Nothing funny about that.”

“It’s thefekkingtruth.” Bruil’s voice rasped like sandpaper on steel. He set the scrap piece aside and leaned back, wincing faintly against the cot’s springs. Takkian didn’t know any other Zaruxians, aside from Bruil, but he knew they weren’t built to grow old in slavery—not like this, where survival came down to strength, speed, and brute endurance. Bruil had once had all those things, or so Takkian had been told when he arrived. Now, he was tired, beaten down, hollowing like a shell left too long in the desert wind. One day, Takkian would be just like him, but likely without a young fighter to protect him.

The thought of Bruil being taken—or worse, dying in this damned place—stirred an anger deep in his chest, one that never fully went away. Every day, he woke up and choked it down. Every night, he shoved it back into the pit of himself, because he could see his own fate in the weary hollows of Bruil’s face and the ragged remains of his wings. Whoever he’d been before he was brought here was long gone—not that he could remember a time before being an arena fighter. He was more beast than Zaruxian at this point. He rolled his shoulders and forced himself to keep moving.

A shrill screech of the cell block doors opening made him freeze. Takkian stopped mid-step. He didn’t turn toward the sound, but his claws lengthened involuntarily. It wasn’t feedingtime, and it was too soon for the next round of fights. Unscheduled visits never meant anything good.

Bruil squinted toward the sound of approaching footsteps and mechanical rollers. “Think someone put in a complaint about my fine craftsmanship here?” he asked dryly, but he quickly slid the scrap of metal he’d been sharpening under the mattress.

Before Takkian could reply, the cell door’s locks released and the heavy metal slab slid open, revealing a mechanized guard, ormech. This one was less battered than those who escorted fighters to the arena, and it it brought with it two pitiful-looking beings—a juvenile male Dokkol, whose massive shoulders were hunched and shaking, and a small female of some sort who wore a ragged vest and a furious expression.

The mech raised one of its many appendages—this one armed with a stun baton—and held it aloft. “Step back,” it said. “Against the wall.”

Exhaling loudly through his nostrils, Takkian stepped back as told. The poor Dokkol was crying as he trembled just outside the cell. That might be a strange sight to those who knew nothing about the species. They were towering, powerfully strong giants with large, rock-hard plates all over their bodies. They were alsonotfighters. The gentle, peaceful way of the Dokkol made them the last species that belonged in the arena. The fact that this one was a juvenile added a twist to Takkian’s already sick stomach. The female with the Dokkol, whose species he couldn’t identify, was trying to soothe the young giant, despite the contemptuous glances she kept throwing at the mech.

The mech shoved the juvenile Dokkol into the cell first, nearly sending the young male sprawling onto the floor. Takkian’s arms flexed instinctively, as though he might surge forward to stop it, but he didn’t dare move. Experience kept him still. Crossing a mech would earn all of them nothing but pain.Everythingthe mechs did was recorded and reviewed by arena officials.

The female was next. She walked in under her own power, practically marching. Her head was held high. She didn’t stumble, didn’t so much as flinch as the mech’s appendage hovered near her back, threatening to prod her forward. There was that hot flash of defiance he’d seen earlier, but now that she was closer, he could see more—a determination behind those dark eyes and a rigid tension in her jaw. Her expression didn’t just say she might throw a punch. It said she’d throw it hard enough to make it hurt. That would serve her well in the arena.

Perhaps it was that defiance that made Takkian unable to look away. He and Bruil had had female cellmates before. The officials put new fighters in wherever there was room. But this female stole the breath from his chest. She was small compared to him, but far from delicate. Her bones were long and her limbs were well defined with muscle. There was a casual strength to her shoulders that told Takkian she’d worked hard all her life. Her long hair was a striking yellow gold, shining even under the cell’s dull strip light, and contrasting with her warm tan skin. Interesting metallic spots shimmered faintly on her forehead, disappearing into her hair. Even her facial features were strong and fiercely beautiful.

But it wasn’t just her looks. There was something about her, from the way her hands were clenched into fists, to the fierce tension trembling in her muscles, that spoke of someone who absolutely refused to be broken. He felt a pull toward her immediately, a primal stirring he’d never felt before. Years of fighting had dulled his emotions, but this—this guttural punch in the chest—was unmistakable. Takkian didn’t have time to examine it. He just knew he wanted to know her name.

“New fighters,” the mech declared. Its cold voice pulled Takkian from his thoughts. The machine turned its metallicfaceplate toward him and Bruil. “Zaruxians, you’re not to kill or harm these two. They’ll be kept healthy for arena fights.” The mech’s monotone voice buzzed against the walls of the cell. It jabbed a metal appendage toward the two newcomers. “No beds. They haven’t earned them yet.”

Takkian’s jaw tightened, but he stayed silent. The Dokkol huddled near the wall. His massive hands shook as he clutched them together. The juvenile was too young for the arena. He’d never survive. Takkian scowled, flexing his claws briefly before retracting them.

The female, though—she was different. She didn’t cower, didn’t shrink under the oppressive presence of the mech. No, she stood straight. Her gaze moved around the cell, taking in the bleak confinement with a glance that seemed more calculating than afraid. When her gaze settled on Takkian, her dark eyes widened and caught the light differently. They were the most remarkable color he’d ever seen—deep, dark red.

The mech let out a low hum. “Comply, or you’ll be immediately scheduled to a final match.” Its metallic face swiveled back and forth, as if daring anyone to challenge its words. Satisfied with the silence, it emitted a harsh beep and rolled out of the cell, the heavy door slamming shut behind it with a clang that echoed in Takkian’s chest.

For a moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the faint buzz of the overhead light strip and the shaky breaths of the juvenile Dokkol, who, because of his size, made the cell feel considerably smaller.

Takkian shifted his gaze back to the female. She stood her ground in the center of the cell, almost as if she were daring him or Bruil to make the first move. He couldn’t help but notice how her head barely reached his chest, but her posture made her seem taller, imposing even, like coiled energy ready to snap.That fire in her eyes—it hadn’t dimmed since the mech shoved her inside. If anything, it burned brighter.

Bruil was the one to break the silence, his voice dry and laced with mock cheer. “Well, welcome to the pit,” he rasped from his cot. He barely glanced up, though his sharp yellow eyes flicked toward the newcomers before landing back on the mattress where his hidden blade lay. “Cozy, isn’t it?”

The female turned her head toward Bruil, her gaze narrowing slightly but not softening. “I’ve seen worse.” Her voice was steady, though there was grit in it, like someone used to holding back anger.

Takkian snorted faintly before he could stop himself. “Worse than this?” He folded his arms across his chest as he leaned back against the wall. When she turned her head, he spied symbols tattooed on her neck in blue—penal colony registration numbers. “You must’ve come from a terrible penal colony.”

Her head snapped toward him. Those deep red eyes locked onto his with unsettling focus. He felt the heat of that glare, like it could burn straight through any armor, though her face betrayed nothing else. “I’m from a farming settlement,” she replied curtly.

---