Ryxin stopped pacing. “You mean before you’re too busy rutting under a red moon to make decisions.”
“Brother.” The word came out serrated. “Choose your next words carefully.”
Something flickered in Ryxin’s expression—not quite regret, not quite apology. The rescue operation had deepened something between them, reminded them both why they’d always fought better together than apart. Ryxin’s female had been taken alongside Sylas’s. They’d waded through the same blood, pulled their mates from the same hell.
Brothers. Not by circumstance—by choice. They’d known since they were young that the throne would never come between them. Ryxin had no interest in ruling, and Sylas had no interest in losing the only male he trusted at his back. They were stronger as a unit. Always had been.
“The male humans first.” Yarx’s quiet voice cut through the tension, deliberate and precise. He set his datapad on the table, activating a holographic display that cast blue light across his scholarly features. “Rowan and Milo remain in the Tear Domes.Their injuries were...” He paused, selecting words with a healer’s care. “Extensive. The pit conditions accelerated infection, damaged organ systems, compromised immune responses that human physiology isn’t equipped to repair quickly. On top of that, Vask’s experiments caused significant damage—repeated blood extractions weakened Rowan’s system, and the forced exposure to corrupted Moon Tears left chemical burns on Milo’s hands that required tissue regeneration.”
Sylas studied the medical readouts floating above the table. Vitals. Treatment protocols. Projected recovery timelines that stretched into weeks, not days.
“Will they survive?”
“Yes.” Yarx’s certainty carried weight. “The Moon Tear domes are doing their work. Another week of concentrated treatment and they’ll be mobile. Functional. Able to contribute.”
“Contribute to what?” Oran’s question slid into the conversation like oil on water—smooth, deceptively harmless. “The humans were pit-bound. Debt-slaves. What status do you propose for creatures who arrived in our world as trespassers and were sentenced as criminals?”
The urge to bare his fangs nearly won. Sylas held it back through sheer will, though his claws scored fresh grooves in the table’s surface.
“They were sentenced for their behavior when they’d first arrived,” he said. “For crimes that mean nothing now. The pit debt is voided. All of it. Any records connecting them to Vask’s trafficking operation will be sealed and classified.”
“And then?” Oran pressed. “You cannot simply release foreign species into the fortress population. The integration challenges alone—”
“Monitored reintegration.” Sylas cut him off before the priest could build momentum. “Rowan has engineering skills. The grid displays in his medical records show aptitude scores that matchour best technicians. He’ll be assigned to the infrastructure teams—supervised initially, then evaluated for expanded access as trust is established.”
The decision had been made this morning, while Elsa slept in his furs and he stared at data readouts instead of keeping his eyes closed. Rowan’s file painted a picture of competence—not just survival instincts, but genuine technical understanding. The human had kept ancient equipment running in conditions that should have killed everything aboard their crashed vessel. That kind of resourcefulness couldn’t be wasted in menial labor.
“You’ve already reviewed his records.” Ryxin’s observation carried something that might have been respect. Or suspicion. The two looked identical on his brother’s face.
“I’ve reviewed everything.” Sylas met his brother’s stare without flinching. “These are the first humans to survive extended contact with our world. Everything about them matters—their skills, their limits, their potential applications.”
The word hung in the air. Applications. Like the humans were tools to be deployed rather than people to be integrated. Sylas heard how it sounded and didn’t care. The court would never accept these creatures without understanding what they offered. Sentiment wouldn’t protect them. Utility might.
Elsa had taught him that. In the days since he’d claimed her as a pet, watching her navigate his world with that sharp tactical mind always calculating, always analyzing, always looking for leverage—she’d shown him how survival worked for creatures without claws. They became indispensable. Made themselves too valuable to discard.
He would give the other humans the same chance.
“Milo is younger,” Yarx added, scrolling through data on his pad. “Physical recovery will be faster, but the psychological damage runs deeper. He’ll need time. Structured activities. A purpose that doesn’t involve survival.” The healer’s amber eyeslifted to Sylas. “I’d like to keep him attached to the medical wing. Not as a patient—as an assistant. Someone to train in basic procedures, monitor supplies, interact with the healing staff in controlled settings.”
Sylas remembered the boy’s face in the pit tunnels—hollow-eyed, flinching at shadows, moving like something had broken the connection between his mind and body. Whatever had been done to him in those cells had left marks that wouldn’t show on medical scans. The marks were visible enough: blistered skin where they’d forced him to touch corrupted tears, scars that would fade but memories that wouldn’t.
“You want a human apprentice.” Ryxin’s tail lashed once. “Ambitious.”
“I want a patient who won’t shatter the moment he leaves my care.” Yarx didn’t back down from the prince’s challenge. “The boy has survived things that would break stronger males. He deserves something to build rather than just endure.”
Sylas inclined his head. “Approved. The medical wing falls under your authority. If you believe he can contribute there, make it happen.” He paused, considering. “Give him duties that matter. Real responsibilities. Humans aren’t like us—they need to feel useful, not just tolerated. Let him earn a place instead of being assigned one.”
“And what of the female Mia?” Oran’s question carried an edge that set Sylas’s fur prickling. “She was assigned to the healer’s household before her abduction. Will that arrangement continue?”
Yarx stiffened almost imperceptibly. A reaction the priest had clearly been fishing for.
“Mia remains in my service.” The healer’s voice stayed level, but something harder moved beneath the calm. “She has proven herself capable, trustworthy, and useful. Her organizationalskills have improved my operational efficiency by a measurable margin. I see no reason to reassign her.”
The words were careful. Too careful. Sylas heard what wasn’t being said—Yarx defending his territory the way any male would defend something that had become important. The healer had always been different from the warriors and politicians who dominated court life. Quieter. More contained. But underneath that scholarly exterior ran the same possessive instincts that drove every Yzefrxyl.
“Operational efficiency.” Oran’s lips curved. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”
“Careful, priest.” Sylas let the growl bleed into his voice. “Whatever you’re implying, say it plainly or swallow it.”