Page 16 of Bride of the Enemy Alien

The other Zmaj in the room carry themselves like guardians pressed too long against a wall. Virn hides his fear under patience. Visidion hides his under command. Kavor does not bother hiding his. His violence is braided to the small human female beside him, and if the room looks at her too long, he will rip it apart.

Understanding him best also makes me like him least.

“I brought a warning,” I say.

“You brought a signal,” Syin says.

“Yes.”

His lips peel back. “Then we agree.”

“We do not.”

The chamber floor trembles again, lighter this time. Kessa’s fingers tighten around the slate. She makes a mark without looking down.

Interesting. No. Relevant.

Merra presses another strip of cloth against my side. Pain blooms hot and white beneath my ribs. I hold still. Pain is information. Pain says I am not dead yet. Pain says the cut is deep, the blood loss inconvenient, and the healer is less gentle than many arena torturers. Pain says I should not have survived the crash, but I did.

I am not finished.

Adran leans forward, face made of human hunger polished into authority.

“If the signal is active, then he needs to be removed from the central chamber.”

He says it like I am cargo.

He is the sort who weighs people by function first and name later. Krix would have liked him. Krix liked anything it could put a price on. Blood. Muscle. Wings. Rage. Names, if names could be turned into ownership.

Kessa’s eyes flick to him. Sharp. Angry. Good. She sees it too.

Rosalind lifts one hand. “No one moves until we understand what answered.”

“What answered is the machine under us,” Kavor says.

His voice is deep stone. Not loud. The kind of quiet that makes others remember how easily bones break.

Sera’s covered arm rests against the edge of the table. She curls her fingers once, then flattens them. She is pale but steady. Kavor’s hand stays near her without closing until she leans closer.

The resonance is active. The City is not only inhabited. It is awake. We are much too late. Rosalind’s gaze returns to me.

“Explain the sphere.”

“The sphere is Arcan’s proof.”

“That is not an explanation.”

“No.” I shift my weight on the bench. Merra makes a low sound of warning, as if I have become one of her foolish patients and not a warrior deciding whether standing will tear his side open. “It is also a dampener. Short range. It drains small power cells, interrupts cheap weapon batteries, and scrambles simple locks.”

“Rosalind used one on Krix before,” Visidion says, eyes narrowing.

“Then she knows what it does.”

“I know what it did,” Rosalind says. “That is not always the same thing.”

That answer is careful. Arcan described her well. Lady General, he called her. Human. Dangerous when underestimated. Worse when correct.

The stories on Krix made her more myth than person. The human female who fought in the arenas beside a Zmaj and walked out alive. The one Arcan let leave because revolutions need doors left open in unexpected directions.