Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

For several weeks, nothing particularly catastrophic happened.

Dean considered that a remarkable achievement.

There were no emergency military deployments, no unexpected visits from foreign princes, no mysterious laboratories requiring immediate investigation, and, most importantly, no phone calls informing him that his husband had developed another previously undocumented biological ability.

Alamina continued functioning.

Draxil remained under Amaru’s increasingly stable authority.

And Arion, apparently having exhausted his capacity for causing trouble, spent most evenings at home.

Dean approved.

He was approaching his third trimester, and his stomach had become large enough that getting out of bed required considerably more planning than he appreciated. Their son had also developed an impressive talent for becoming active whenever Dean attempted to sleep, although he usually settled once Arion rested a hand against the bump and released his pheromones.

Dean considered that profoundly unfair.

He was doing all the work.

Their son apparently preferred his father.

Arion found the arrangement delightful.

That alone was sufficient reason for Dean to complain about it at least once a day.

The medical board, meanwhile, had become almost offensively pleased with the pregnancy.

Every scan showed appropriate development. Dean’s blood work remained within the expected ranges, his gland function was stable, and the earlier nausea had gradually disappeared, allowing him to enjoy food again without treating every meal as a negotiation with his own stomach.

Seven had even started smiling during appointments.

Dean distrusted that development.

The obstetric team continued monitoring the bond and Dean’s neutralizing ability, but so far neither had shown any indication of interfering with the pregnancy.

Arion remained considerably less relaxed about the entire process.

Fortunately, he had learned to keep most of his concerns to himself.

”You are staring at my stomach again,” Dean informed him one morning.

They were having breakfast on the private terrace, where the early-summer air was still cool enough to be comfortable beneath the broad linen canopy. Dean wore loose cream trousers and a thin black shirt, his bare feet resting on a cushioned stool while Arion sat beside him reviewing a report.

Arion looked up.

”Our son moved.”

”He moves constantly.”

”I know.”

”You don’t have to look delighted every time.”

”I disagree.”

Dean sighed and returned to his breakfast.

Their son kicked.

Arion smiled.

Dean pointed his fork at him.

”Don’t.”

Arion wisely returned to his report.

His own medical examinations had become considerably more complicated than Dean’s.

Victor had established a monitoring schedule involving weekly glandular scans, periodic blood analysis, and controlled measurements of Arion’s pheromonal output under different physiological conditions.

The results remained frustratingly normal.

The strange secondary tone Dax had identified was still present, but it remained stable and showed no indication of behaving like an infectious agent.

Even Arion’s eyes had stopped changing unexpectedly.

Victor considered that encouraging.

He also considered it insufficient.

The transformed animals remained under observation in two separate locations.

The twelve dogs occupied the secured western gardens, where they had gradually developed individual personalities and an almost unreasonable attachment to Boreas.

Ducky remained the worst.

The little black dog had apparently decided that placing one paw against another animal’s nose was an acceptable method of resolving nearly every disagreement.

It worked.

Repeatedly.

Hendrik had stopped attempting to explain it.

The larger animals remained inside the restricted forest, where wildlife specialists monitored their behavior alongside Victor’s medical team.

Their transformations had remained stable.

The bears behaved like bears, the wolves had established a small pack, and the deer had begun moving through the lower vegetation rather than remaining beneath the limestone overhang.

Their eyes remained completely black.

Their pheromonal profiles remained corrupted.

But they were no longer dormant, and there had been no recorded aggression toward one another or the surrounding wildlife.

That was considerably more than anyone had expected.

Unfortunately, it created a question the imperial administration could no longer postpone.

What came next?

The infected forest occupied almost a third of Alamina’s main imperial district.

It had been expanding for years, swallowing roads, abandoned settlements, and extensive stretches of woodland until the military established a permanent exclusion perimeter around the territory.

Beyond the sections they had surveyed by drone, almost nothing was known about its interior.

Arion had begun reviewing the old maps again.

Not because he intended to enter immediately.

Dean had made his opinion about that abundantly clear.

But because the transformed animals had demonstrated that movement through the infected territory might eventually become possible without conventional military intervention.

Hendrik joined him one afternoon in the private office, bringing updated maps and a report from the wildlife specialists.

”The northern pack moved eleven kilometers yesterday. No aggression, no abnormal pheromonal release, and no attempt to leave the restricted area.”

Arion studied the marked route.

”And the larger dormant population?”

”Unchanged. We still have several clusters beyond the central ridge that the drones cannot inspect properly.”

Arion enlarged the map.

The deepest section remained almost entirely blank.

”Could we establish a survey route?”

”With conventional teams? No.”

”Remote equipment?”

”We can expand the drone network, but the terrain remains difficult.”

Arion looked toward the old service roads disappearing beneath the forest canopy.

”And if I accompany them?”

Hendrik’s expression changed.

”That requires another discussion with Victor.”

Arion looked up.

Hendrik met his eyes.

For several seconds, neither spoke.

Then Arion sighed.

They agreed to continue remote surveying while the medical board evaluated whether a limited expedition could be conducted safely.

There was no immediate reason to rush.

For once, Arion intended to appreciate that.

Claudia’s Palace had become the center of another operation entirely.

Draxil’s authorities completed the first inventory of the underground laboratories nearly a month after the intervention, recovering decades of archived research, experimental records, personnel files, and biological samples.

Amaru authorized joint access under the agreement he had negotiated with Alamina and Saha.

The original materials remained secured in Draxil, while authenticated digital copies and selected physical evidence were distributed to the joint research teams.

Alamina received enormous volumes of information.

Saha received the same.

Neither country appeared particularly delighted by what the records contained.

The research extended far beyond the dormant beasts.

Claudia’s organization had spent decades investigating pheromonal manipulation, dominant abilities, glandular restructuring, and methods of reproducing biological effects through synthetic combinations.

Much of the material was incomplete.

Some records contradicted one another.

Others described procedures that had apparently been abandoned after producing results even Claudia’s researchers considered unacceptable.

Victor took one look at the initial archive and requested additional personnel.

Then he requested more.

By the end of the second week, Alamina’s medical research division had established a dedicated team responsible for comparing the recovered material against existing records from the infected territories.

Arion’s childhood medical history remained separately classified.

Only a small group had access to it.

Dean appreciated that Victor had finally become too occupied with Claudia’s archives to appear unexpectedly in their private sitting room every other evening.

Arion appreciated it even more.

By the end of the third week, the private residence had settled into something resembling ordinary domestic life.

Arion worked.

Dean attended medical appointments, reviewed the administrative matters he still wanted to handle, and continued searching for a name that would satisfy both of them.

They had narrowed the list to six.

Then Dean found another historical naming archive.

The list became seventeen.

Arion considered that a setback.

One evening, he returned from the imperial offices to find Dean sitting on the bedroom sofa surrounded by notebooks, with Boreas asleep near his feet and Ducky occupying a small cushion beside him.

The terrace doors stood open, allowing the scent of the gardens to move through the room.

Dean looked up.

”You’re home early.”

”Hendrik finished the briefing.”

”Nothing exploded?”

”No.”

Dean smiled.

”That is suspiciously pleasant.”

Arion crossed the room and bent to kiss him.

Dean caught the front of his shirt and pulled him closer, the familiar vetiver settling around him as his husband rested one hand against his stomach.

Their son moved immediately.

Arion smiled against Dean’s temple.

Dean sighed.

”Of course he did.”

Arion sat beside him.

For a while, they remained together without discussing Draxil, the forest, or the questions Victor still had no answers for.

Dean eventually handed him a notebook.

Arion looked down.

Another list of names.

He closed his eyes.

Dean laughed.