Page 44 of Crash Landed with My Weredragon

He pulled her closer. She leaned into him, and the bond hummed between them, and the relay screen showed empty sky where a ship had been.

* * *

The days after the Vulcana's departure were simultaneously the busiest and the quietest of Marina's life on Dobromia.

Busy because the alliance required infrastructure. Communication protocols, supply schedules, personnel rotations, scientific collaboration frameworks. This was the bureaucratic architecture of two species learning to work together. Marina spent her days in meetings with Boradrith's council, drafting documents with Khrelan's input, and coordinating with Earth's preliminary diplomatic team through the relay.

Khrelan had become, improbably, her most effective collaborator. Not her friend’ Khrelan didn't do friendship in any way Marina recognized. But he brought a skeptic's rigor to every document, every protocol, every assumption. Where Marina saw opportunity, Khrelan saw risk, and between them they produced frameworks that were stronger than either could have built alone.

"Section seven," Khrelan said during their fourth working session, pointing at a clause in the technology exchange agreement. "You've written 'unrestricted access to atmospheric data.' That's too broad. Unrestricted means we hand over our defense infrastructure along with the weather reports."

"Your defense infrastructure is based on geothermal energy manipulation, not atmospheric data."

"The atmospheric data includes geothermal readings. The two are connected. Restrict it to 'atmospheric data relevant to stellar collapse modeling' and I'll sign it."

"Done."

Khrelan made the change on the data tablet and passed it back. Their fingers didn't touch’ he was careful about that, maintaining a physical distance that was partly cultural and partly the residual wariness of a man who was cooperating but not converted. Marina respected it. Trust was built in increments, not leaps, and Khrelan's increments were measured in fractions of an inch.

"You've changed," she told him one afternoon, after they'd spent three hours revising the military cooperation clause.

"I haven't changed; I've adapted. There's a difference."

"What's the difference?"

"Changing means abandoning what you believed. Adapting means finding a way to serve what you believe within new circumstances. I still believe Dobromia's sovereignty must be protected. I still believe Earth is a risk. But the data shows that isolation is a larger risk, and I'm pragmatic enough to act on the data." He paused. "You taught me that. The data doesn't care what you believe. It only cares what's true."

"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"Don't get used to it."

It was quiet because the Colony had settled around her in a way that made its rhythms feel familiar. The bioluminescent light's morning cycle, the distant roar of the waterfalls, the smell of warm stone and mineral water, the communal hall at mealtimes, where twenty thousand Weredragons and eleven humans ate side by side. Sorenson's fusion dishes were becoming a Colony-wide obsession, and Garcia was teaching Dobromian to anyone who'd sit still long enough.

It was quiet because Toren took her flying every evening.

They'd leave through the Colony's surface entrance at what passed for dusk. The larger sun dropped toward the horizon and the sky shifted from brown to amber to rust. He'd shift to his flight form, and she'd climb onto his back, and they'd rise above the barren surface of Dobromia and soar.

It was different every time. Some evenings they flew fast, the wind tearing at her jacket and her hair streaming behind her, the landscape blurring beneath them into streaks of red and black. Other evenings they drifted in lazy, circular flights above the Colony's ventilation shafts where the warm air rising from below created thermals that carried them without effort. She'd lean against his neck and watch the twin suns set, and the rose-gold scales beneath her hands would glow like embers, and the bond would hum with a shared peace that made words unnecessary.

"This is why you stayed on Ceylara so long," she said one evening, her cheek against his scales, the wind carrying her voice away almost before he caught it. "The flying."

"The flying, the sky and the freedom." He banked gently, adjusting for her weight with the unconscious precision she'd come to trust completely. "On Dobromia, I fly inside the Colony's caverns. They're large, but they have ceilings. Out here, there's no ceiling, just sky."

"We have sky on Earth. Lots of it."

"I know. I've seen it in movies. But seeing it and flying through it are different things. Like the difference between reading about food and eating it."

"Or the difference between reading about love and falling into it."

He didn't answer. He didn't need to. Through the bond, she felt his response. There was a surge of warmth that was its own kind of flight.

It was quiet because, for the first time in her adult life, Marina wasn't running toward the next crisis. She was building something. Not surviving, not escaping, not scrambling to keep forty-seven people alive on a hostile planet. Building a future that stretched forward in time and expanded outward in space and that she could see, clearly, with the vision of a scientist who finally had enough data to model the outcome.

The outcome was good. Not guaranteed. Good.

* * *

The energy signature was detected on day thirty-one.