Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

By dawn, the field had stopped being theory.

Maps became roads. Names became positions. Political agreements became armor, weapons, sealed comms, medical bands, sensor tags, and the low mechanical hum of mobile barricades unfolding across the outer defensive line.

The beast season pressed itself against the horizon first, invisible but felt in the way soldiers checked their masks twice, in the way pheromone filters were tested until engineers began swearing, in the way even the wind seemed to carry something metallic and wrong from the infected territories.

Dean stood at the central command point with Arion beside him.

That had not been negotiable.

Arion wore black field armor fitted under his long military coat, the scar on his cheek pale in the morning light. Dean wore lighter armor, reinforced at the chest and throat, his collar locked beneath the high protective line. His tablet was strapped to one forearm. His neutralization field rested under his skin, awake but leashed.

”Do not overextend,” Arion said.

Dean looked at him. ”Good morning to you too.”

”I said good morning earlier.”

”You said, ’Did you take your medicine?’ That is not the same thing.”

”It was affectionate.”

”It was surveillance.”

Boreas was not on the field, because several sane people had finally joined forces and prevented it, but Dean still had the unpleasant feeling the dog was judging him from the palace through sheer devotion.

Hendrik’s voice came through the command line. ”Central team, confirm status.”

Arion touched his earpiece. ”Central confirmed.”

Dean followed. ”Neutralization stable. Range held.”

A pause.

Then Hendrik said, dryly, ”Try to keep it that way.”

Dean smiled faintly. ”How inspiring.”

Around them, the rest of the formation settled into place.

Eva Thornevik’s team stood forward of the secondary line, visible enough to satisfy Draxil’s pride and guarded enough to offend anyone with a brain. Eva herself looked composed in pale field armor marked with Draxil silver, her hair braided tight and expression unreadable.

Andrea Vale stood beside her.

He looked almost pleased.

That alone justified the entire trap.

His field clearance had been granted as a limited exception under Sahan supervision, citing Eva’s request from the previous year, marital unity, battlefield morale, and several other bureaucratic lies polished until they shone. Andrea had accepted with the careful humility of a man who believed the world had finally corrected itself around his importance.

No sane person believed he would not try something stupid.

That was why Thomas Lancaster had taken the right flank of Andrea’s team.

He stood with Rohan soldiers in a clean defensive arc, enormous, steady, and grim enough that even the wind seemed to reconsider touching him. His armor bore Rohan markings, but his comms were linked directly into Alaminian command. Alone, politically. Surrounded, militarily.

Sylvia would hate that distinction.

Dean tried not to think about her watching from the secured observation room, probably pacing a trench through the floor while Minerva pretended not to notice.

On Andrea’s left flank stood Nero.

Saha had placed him there with such elegant logic no one could object. He was the best available specialist in infected-territory beast behavior. He had experience in Alaminian breach zones. He had authority over the Sahan monitoring unit assigned to Andrea’s exception.

He also looked as if he had been designed by some ancient god of bad decisions and battlefield consequences.

Pale hair tied back. Black field armor edged in deep blue. Violet eyes calm. Hale stood several steps behind him with the expression of a man who had already accepted that today would shorten his life.

Nero touched his comm. ”Left flank confirmed. Sahan monitoring active. Andrea Vale is within sensor range.”

Andrea turned his head slightly, smiling as if being named in that voice was a compliment.

Dean nearly pitied him.

Thomas’s voice followed, low and controlled. ”Right flank confirmed. Rohan unit steady.”

Dean heard the smallest breath after it.

Not Thomas.

Sylvia, probably listening on the delayed civilian-safe feed somewhere behind three walls and a prayer.

Arion glanced at Dean once.

Dean pretended not to notice.

”Outer posts?” Hendrik asked.

One by one, the confirmations came.

Northern barricade.

Medical relay.

Evacuation road.

Drone tower.

Secondary containment.

Pheromone filter team.

Draxil witnesses.

Alaminian artillery.

Sahan sensor unit.

Every person in place. Every road measured. Every retreat line marked. Every lie tucked neatly inside military procedure.

Andrea lifted his hand to adjust his glove.

Three sensors tracked the movement.

Nero smiled.

It was very small.

It was also the reason Otto had refused to meet him before field deployment unless Hendrik was present, armed, and possibly sedated.

Dean leaned slightly toward Arion. ”Nero looks happy.”

Arion did not look away from the horizon. ”That is usually a bad sign.”

”For whom?”

”Today? Andrea.”

Dean considered that.

Then nodded. ”Acceptable.”

Arion’s mouth curved.

A low alarm pulsed once through the field network.

Every smile vanished.

On the horizon, beyond the broken tree line, something moved.

Then several somethings.

The first beast came into view wrong, all dark hide, torn muscle, and movement that did not obey the shape of its body. Behind it, more shadows broke through the mist, fast and uneven, drawn toward the defensive line by hunger, infection, and perhaps something else.

Andrea’s breath changed.

Dean felt it.

So did Nero.

So did Arion.

A strange pull threaded the air for one second, so faint most people would have blamed nerves.

Dean’s neutralization field sharpened instinctively.

Nero’s voice came through the comm, pleasant as silk over a blade. ”Interesting.”

Andrea stilled.

Thomas shifted on the right flank, soldiers moving with him like a gate closing.

Arion’s eyes turned gold and cold. ”Hold formation.”

Dean released the first layer of his field.

Mint-cold clarity spread through the central line, cutting through fear, dominance, tension, and the ugly infected pressure rolling toward them.

The soldiers breathed easier.

The beasts screamed louder.

Andrea looked toward Dean.

Then toward Nero.

For the first time that morning, the pleased expression left his face.

Nero’s smile widened.

”There,” Dean murmured.

Arion’s hand brushed briefly against Dean’s wrist.

The beasts broke into a run.

Hendrik’s voice cut through the line. ”All teams. Engage on command.”

The field held its breath.

Dean stood at the center, Arion beside him, Thomas on the right, Nero on the left, Eva steady in the trap, Andrea surrounded by every consequence he had believed himself too clever to earn.

”Command given,” Hendrik said.

The first line opened fire.