Page 9 of Hunted By the Dragon Alien

“Combatant 55-T, Gimloria,” the mech droned, its voice devoid of inflection. “Incapacitated. Retrieval protocol initiated.”

Sevas forced herself to step back as the machine grabbed Gimloria’s arm and dragged her toward the now-open gate she’d entered from. Her defeated opponent didn’t resist. She slumped in the mech’s grip as her tentacles dragged in the sand, like broken vines.

Sevas pressed her trembling lips together, watching as the mech dragged Gimloria away. Her knuckles throbbed where they gripped the slingshot. She couldn’t stop the ache spreading through her chest or the sick twist in her gut.I had no choice, she told herself, but it didn’t help. Nothing could erase the image of Gimloria’s blood dripping onto the sand.

The crowd roared above, more alive than ever, feeding on the spectacle like scavengers. Coins and debris continued to rain down. Something bounced off her shoulder, but she didn’t flinch. Her brain numbed the chaos. Her vision narrowed to what lay ahead of her: the gates. She wanted out—out of the arena, out of the noise, out of this nightmare.

As Gimloria disappeared into the shadows beyond the gate, Sevas exhaled shakily, forcing her hand to unclench enough to drop the slingshot. The shakiness in her muscles betrayed the weight of her emotions. She cast a glance toward the sand-streaked blade Gimloria had wielded, lying abandoned in the sand like a relic of the violence that had just unfolded. For a fleeting moment, Sevas considered picking it up—claiming it asa trophy or a tool for survival, but the thought of holding another weapon made her stomach churn. She left it there, half-buried, as the echoes of the fight settled like dust around her.

The quiet scrape of a mech’s approach brought her to a stop. It wasn’t the same one that had taken Gimloria, but another, its dull silver chassis stained with streaks of grime and rust. Its single glowing eye flashed briefly as it scanned her, whirring softly. “Fighter 78-S,” it intoned in its mechanical monotone. “Exit protocol initiated. Follow.”

Sevas followed without complaint. Her body felt so heavy. Every joint ached. Her feet sank into the sand with each step, and she felt a lump build in her throat that she didn’t dare let out. Her face stung where Gimloria had struck her, her cheek sticky with dried blood. But it wasn’t the physical pain that gnawed at her insides—it was the memory of Gimloria’s eyes, the reluctant respect in her words, and the sheer, primal desperation in every move they’d made. She’d won, but it didn’t feel like a victory. It felt hollow, like she’d scraped through by a thread too thin to hold.

As they neared the gate, Sevas glanced back over her shoulder. Gimloria’s head was gone from sight, but the faint drag marks her body had left in the sand remained. Quietly, almost under her breath, Sevas muttered again, “I’m sorry.”

The mech didn’t pause. Its mechanical voice cut through her whisper, as if rejecting her regret outright. “Fighter 78-S, compliance required. Continue forward.”

Sevas bit the inside of her cheek and faced forward again. The heavy gates loomed ahead, their dark expanse swallowing the harsh light in this forsaken place. The walls seemed closer now. The weight of them pressed down on her shoulders. Gimloria’s words echoed in her head, sharp and bitter:You fought well. Won the match.But would she prevail the next time?

SIX

Takkian

Takkian paced the length of the cell. The space felt smaller than usual. His steps shorter—only a few back-and-forth strides before the walls caught him. His wings twitched, half-unfolded, itching for air they’d never feel in this dim, stale pit. The tension gnawed at him, coiling tighter in his chest with each second. His boots scraped the gritty floor; he pivoted hard at the wall, his jaw locked tight.

“Sit down before you wear a groove in the floor,” Bruil muttered. He sat cross-legged on his cot. His voice was dry, casual, but his sharp yellow eyes flicked toward Takkian with knowing. Annoyance layered his tone, but there was no hiding the pity tugging at the corner of his eyes.

“Not in the mood, Bruil.” Takkian’s voice came out rough, low. His hands itched for something to do, something to smash or break—anything to drown the restless energy running under his skin like fire. But there was nothing—just the waiting, thefekkingwaiting.

Bruil leaned back against the wall. “You mean you’re not in the mood for the truth. You’re wound tighter than askippalvine, Takkian. Let me guess—you think whatever’s left of her is getting dragged back through that door any minute now. Broken, battered. Dead, if you’re really unlucky.”

Takkian stopped mid-stride and glared at Bruil. His claws flexed at his sides, biting into his palms. “I said, drop it.”

Bruil shrugged. “Just saying. First fights aren’t as bad as you remember. She might surprise you.”

Takkian’s jaw tensed. He didn’t respond. Didn’t trust himself to. Instead, he turned on his heel and resumed pacing, his wings brushing the wall as he moved. Bruil’s words didn’t ease the coil in his chest. If anything, they tightened it.

“Am I doing this right?” Ulo’s trembling voice cut through the tension. The Dokkol juvenile tried to take up as little space as possible, but he still made it cramped, especially as he stood in a corner of the cell, massive rocklike hands raised awkwardly in what was meant to be a defensive stance. His wide shoulders hunched forward, and his knees were bent too much, giving him an off-balance, clumsy posture. This was his way of dealing with Sevas’ absence, “so she’ll be proud of me,” he’d said.

“Not like that,” Bruil said, sighing as he swung his legs over the cot and stood with a faint groan. He walked over to Ulo and placed a scarred hand on the juvenile’s thick forearm, adjusting the angle. “If you stand like a wiltedxurnastalk, someone’s going to flatten you before you can move. Keep your feet under you, strong and steady—like the foundation of a fortress.” Bruil tapped Ulo’s knee with his knuckles. “Less bending. You’re not trying to shrink into the ground. Use your size.”

Ulo nodded quickly, his large head bobbing with nervous energy. He shifted his stance as instructed, planting his wide feet more firmly against the floor. His massive fists trembled slightly.The granitelike plates of his skin caught the dim glare of the overhead light.

“Better,” Bruil said, nodding. “Now, when an opponent comes at you—” He jabbed a sharp, rust-colored finger into Ulo’s chest, “—you don’t just stand there like awarkabeast in the headlights. You counter. Shift your weight, keep your fists near your core, and remember—power comes from here.” He slapped his own scaled abdomen, a loud smack that echoed in the confined cell. “Not from flailing like some half-frozenmeddafish.”

Takkian paused mid-stride to watch as Bruil demonstrated, throwing a slow, deliberate jab into the empty air. His movements, though slower than they had likely been in his prime, still carried a precision honed from cycles of experience. The sharp angles of his body, the worn but powerful set of his shoulders—every motion spoke of a life of fighting. It usually annoyed Takkian when Bruil chose to play the mentor with prisoners who wouldn’t last a cycle, but this time, he remained quiet. The distraction was…welcome. Sevas would want this youth to survive, so if the lessons helped that… His pacing resumed.

Ulo mimicked Bruil’s movement. His massive arm swept forward in a slow, tentative jab. Takkian’s claws clicked as familiar tension threaded through his chest. He shook his head. “Too slow,” he growled.

Takkian’s claws froze mid-tap at the sound of the cell door opening. The hum of mechanical joints followed as the mech shoved Sevas forward. She stumbled into the room. Her bare feet dragged against the rough floor, but she managed to stay upright.

“Sevas!” cried a clearly happy Ulo, who moved toward her, arms out. Takkian stopped him from pulling her into an embrace with a flick of his palm and a sharp look. A hug from aDokkol–even a juvenile one—would hurt if she was injured. And shewasinjured.

The door clanged shut behind her, sealing off the sound of the hallway with finality. Sevas didn’t say a word at first. Her chest heaved. Her breaths were shallow and uneven, and her shoulders sagged like the weight of the entire arena still clung to her. Her brilliant gold hair, damp with sweat, clung to her temples, framing a face streaked with sand and blood—none of it freshly flowing, but there was enough to churn something deep in Takkian’s gut.

She lifted her head, and her dark red eyes locked onto his. For a fleeting moment, the fire that burned in those eyes before her fight flickered back, a weakened ember still clinging to life. “I won,” she rasped.

Takkian was already moving before she could take another step. He crossed the cell in three long strides and caught her just as her knees buckled. His hands closed around her upper arms, steadying her easily. She was lighter than he expected. Her smaller frame fit within his grasp like a fragile thing. But fragile wasn’t the right word—not for her. She had the strength of something unyielding, even now, as her body trembled against his.

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