Page 57 of Fated to the Dragon Alien
Stavian gasped loudly, choking and coughing. His back arched off the floor, tendons straining, and for several unbearable seconds, he couldn’t hear anything over the roar of energy flooding back into him.
Cerani grabbed both sides of his head, her eyes locked to his. “Stavian, look at me.”
Like he had a choice. She filled his field of vision, and that vision is what brought him back. It made him focus and pull together the edge of what Bendahn had forcibly frayed. The fuzz in his head faded. His breathing evened out. Slowly, the weight in his arms loosened and sensation returned to his hands and feet.
“It’s okay,” she said. “You’re here. You’re safe.”
Stavian’s breath shuddered in response. He shook his head, trying to clear the static swimming just behind his eyes. His arms twitched like they didn’t know if they worked, but he forced his legs to work and stood up.
“You should stay down,” Rinter said from behind Cerani, already prepping another stim.
Stavian growled. “No more of that, Rinter. Put it away.”
He looked down at himself. His chest was bare, shirt torn from the partial shift. His wings dragged heavy and limp. One folding wrong and the other twitched like a shorted wire. His knees nearly buckled, but he was up, teeth bared. He wasn’t going back down. He was a mess. But he was breathing. He could walk.
Stavian let out a slow breath and planted his feet. He checked his balance—shaky, but functional. He curled his wings against his spine. It felt like something inside him had opened. Something ancient and unwilling to stay buried.
“You were turning into a dragon,” Cerani said in a low breath. Her hands hovered near his waist like she expected him to pitch forward any second. “Fire. Muscles. Your face—everything—changed. She stopped it with this.” She held up the silver capsule tipped with a needle.
He couldn’t even explain what it had felt like. A furnace lit inside his chest, every nerve shredding and reforming. And then that dart—whatever had been inside it—it tore the entire shift back through his body like he’d been ripped out of himself by force.
“I’ll deal with that later,” he said. “Right now, I need the bridge and I need a crew. We have to get off this moon before the Axis send the next strike.”
“Stavian—” Cerani started, but her voice faltered.
“I’m leading this crew.” He turned to her. “I’m not going to let Bendahn stop us. Not now. She can throw fire. We’ll throw more.”
Jorr grunted. “That’s the attitude I’ve been waiting for.”
Cerani nodded and stepped into his space. She slid his arm over her shoulder and gripped his waist. “Then we go together. That’s how we started this. And that’s how we’ll finish it.”
SEVENTEEN
Stavian
Stavian walked past the Mirka’s cargo bay. The miners had gathered in tight groups. Helmets on. Suits sealed. No one spoke.
He surveyed the rows of suits sweeping into the corridor, then turned at the top of the ramp, raising his voice just enough to carry across the cargo hold. A hush settled over the gathered miners. “We depart immediately, but I can’t do this alone. Especially not now.” His gaze swept over the group, just as a thud sounded against the sealed ramp. “If any of you have experience operating a vessel, I need you on the bridge.” He paused, the weight of his history with them pressing in. “I may be the last person in this quadrant you feel like helping. But I’m asking anyway. This isn’t my escape—it’s ours.”
There was a beat of silence. Then, hands rose. Four of them. They didn’t speak, but their steps forward said enough. Stavian nodded and rolled back his shoulders. There would be fight ahead, that much was certain—but for this moment, their rebellion had a crew.
“Come with me.” He turned and strode toward the central lift, four miners trailing behind.
They stepped into the lift with him in silence. When it locked and started to rise, he looked them over. All wore EP suits. He could see the tense lines on their faces through their visors—jaws clenched, eyes alert. No one here expected a soft ride.
The lift stopped. The doors opened to the bridge corridor. Everything pulsed with a quiet blue glow. They entered the large, eight-station space. He wouldn’t fill all the seats, but this would work. Most of the time, extra stations were for backups, anyway. In here, the air felt different. Everything was ready—new and fresh with anticipation and raw nerves.
They pooled into the space. Before his very eyes, the ex-miners, who were now also ex-prisoners, shed their previous statuses and looked around with eyes that were evaluating, bright, calculating. Good. That’s what he needed—a sharp-thinking crew who could make decisions and react fast.
Stavian looked around. Under better circumstances, they’d have a conversation, get to know one another, and decide where they best belonged. But he was reduced to barking, “What are your skills, other than poisoning Axis officers?”
“Operative for Kerran Resistance.” Jorr pushed back his shoulders and raised his chin. “Defense systems. Weapons. Tactical and covert missions. And I’d poison thatfekkeragain, if I had the chance.”
Stavian nodded. “Weapons,” he said to Jorr. “Port console. Get the rail systems charged and the burst shells loaded. And you may never, ever, make me a meal.”
Jorr’s lips twitched as he slid into position and started up the commands.
The next was the tall Grippian youth who had administered his stim injection. “What about you?”
