Page 39 of Xara and the Xenobeast

“It was programmed to obey,” Vask countered. “Its hesitation cost us tactical advantage and resulted in the loss of elite troops.”

He remembered those troops—how they’d laughed as they herded terrified civilians into a building, how they’d prepared to set it ablaze. How he’d torn them apart instead.

“The subject is defective,” Vask continued. “A failed experiment. I recommend exile to the quarantine world. It will not survive long there, and we can salvage what we need from its remains when it falls.”

The tribunal nodded in agreement. No one asked for his defense. No one considered that he might have been right.

“Defective,” they declared. “Broken. Unfit for purpose.”

Vask turned to him, satisfaction gleaming in his cold eyes. “You were meant to be perfect. Instead, you’re nothing but a failed prototype. A beast.”

The scene dissolved again, replaced by the drop ship that had delivered him to this world. They hadn’t even bothered with proper restraints for the journey—they’d simply drugged him to near-death and dumped him like garbage.

“Defective,” the voices echoed. “Broken. Beast.”

“No.”

A different voice cut through the nightmare—warm, firm, familiar.

“You’re not defective. You chose.”

Cool fingers stroked his face, traced the line of his jaw.

“Come back to me,” the voice urged. “You’re burning up.”

Something soft and damp pressed against his forehead. The pups chirped anxiously nearby.

With tremendous effort, he forced his eyes open. The nightmare receded, replaced by the familiar contours of the cave. Xara leaned over him, her face tight with worry as she bathed his face with cool water.

“There you are,” she whispered, relief flooding her expression. “Stay with me, okay?”

He realized he was lying on their bed, no longer propped against the wall. She must have somehow moved him while he was unconscious. The pups were curled against his uninjured side, their tiny bodies vibrating with concerned purrs.

“The fever spiked,” she explained, wringing out the cloth and reapplying it to his brow. “You were thrashing, talking in your sleep.”

He stiffened. What had he revealed?

“I couldn’t understand the words,” she added, as if sensing his concern. “But I could tell they weren’t good memories.”

His sensory tendrils reached for her of their own accord, curling weakly around her wrist. She didn’t pull away.

“The wound is clean now,” she said. “I’ve been changing the poultices and they seem to be drawing out the venom. Your fever should break soon.”

He tried to sit up, but she placed a gentle hand on his chest.

“Don’t. You need to rest.”

Rest was vulnerability. Vulnerability was death. These lessons had been burned into him from creation. And yet...

Her hand remained on his chest, a warm anchor against the fever-chill that racked his body. The pups snuggled closer, their glow patterns a soothing rhythm against his skin.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she promised quietly. “I’ll be right here.”

Something inside him—something that had been rigid and unyielding for as long as he could remember—began to soften. The pain was still there, the fever still burned, but for the first time, he wasn’t facing it alone.

His sensory tendrils wrapped more securely around her arm, a silent acknowledgment. A thank you. A surrender to her care.

She smiled, understanding what he couldn’t say. “That’s it. Just rest.”

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