Mated To The Alien Hunter: A SciFi Romance

Chapter 1

Davin

         The shouts, cat-calls and cackling laughter have finally faded. Nothing now but the sound of the wind oozing through the tall grasses and the occasional dull munch from the yefra.

         Dumb animal has no idea I have it in my sights, I think, with a pride I have more than earned.

         It took me ages to beg off from my passel of friends and stalk this young buck by myself. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy their company – their jokes, their easy patter – but sometimes the world around me gets too noisy and I need to make space for myself.

         It’s not always popular, but sometimes being alone is the only thing I need.

         Luckily, the yefra gave me a perfect excuse. Easily scared, I was able to urge the rest of the hunting party to take the south route while I took the north, tracking the animal.

         He’s a big one – at least larger than any I’ve seen in a long time – and I can’t afford to let him pass.

         It’s a miracle my friends didn’t scare him away. But enough distance is between us now that the yefra has happily resumed munching on the unruly grass that surrounds this place.

         My home, the village of Whimdai, spools out below me as I stand on a hill skirting the north rim. The smoke of the smithy and the home fires threads through the sky. Makeshift houses and crude roofs stand resolute in the late afternoon sun.

         From here, it almost looks like its doing well.

         Though no one is around to see it, I shrug my shoulders with sarcasm. Whimdai is slowly dying, choking on lack of resources. First it was the crops. Failing year after year, the farmers throwing their hands to the sky in vain.

         Then came the migration of the game we hunt. With no food to entice them, they have been skirting this southern part of Aeris. Rumors are that the northern end of the continent is faring better.

         The game, apparently, know that more than we do.

         And all for what? So the greedy Skuyr can have their elaborate meals? Their ostentatious clothes, all ruffled and feathered like fools?

         Just thinking of the greedy ruling class makes my blood boil. I need to calm down. The yefra may be dumb, but it can smell emotion. Red-hot anger will surely send it packing.

         It’s not clear when the Skuyr became dominant. But what is clear is that their greed and their manufactured slaves, the Grixal, have an iron grip on this continent and intend to wring it dry.

         The Grixals, no better than gutter dwarves, do their master’s every bidding, drooling over what little scraps are thrown to them.

         The Drokan and the humans are left to supply their never-ending appetites.

         And resources are quickly running thin. Not to mention morale. Whimdai, one of the more progressive towns this far south, is a good mix of Drokan, human and something in between. Dromans, as they are affectionately called, are easy to spot – being shorter and having less pronounced horns.

         It’s never been a perfect balance. Once in a while, tensions flare up between the races but usually die down quickly. But all it takes is a spark. The slowly tightening knot of the Skuyr taking everything for themselves is beginning to show.

         In the faces of shopkeepers, farmers, families.

         For myself, I feel it simmer constantly, like a slowly boiling stew. It’s part of the reason I need to seek out silence at times. To give the stew some cold air to prevent it from boiling over.

         My thighs are starting to cramp, and I need to start closing the distance between myself and the yefra.

         Slowly, I give myself the luxury of stretching out one leg behind me. The flow of blood through the muscle is a relief. The yefra’s tail twitches only once, making me freeze, before he dips his head back down to the smaller shoots of younger grass nearer the ground.

         I let out a silent sigh and continue the stretch. The feeling of power in my muscles, even when not in motion, is a powerful one. Almost like I am connected to something bigger than myself.

         Well, I am of noble blood.

         Or so says the storytellers. Ever since I was little, sitting on my grandmother’s knee, she would tell the stories of my noble heritage – tracing it all the way back to before The Event.

         The Event that changed Genesis forever. Before we had to call it Nyx – a name only the Skuyr could have chosen – this world was ruled by Drokan. They studied art, mathematics, science.

         We lived (so the stories go) in rich kingdoms of water, sand or air. We valued intelligence and prosperity.

         The Event erased all that. All we have now are stories and songs. And the vestiges of noble blood. Somewhere deep within ourselves.

         Is that the blood that now stirs within me? Telling me that something is about to change? If so, what?

         My restless spirit only grows more agitated these days. Brought on by scarce game and gaunt faces in the marketplace. Whimdai cannot continue living like this.

         So, what am I to possibly do?

         Enough time has passed. The yefra is oblivious to my presence. The time to take it down approaches. If I can feel it now, I can have it dressed and trussed before the sun's dip and the warmth leeches back into the earth.

         Krodo guide my arm.

         With glacially slow movements, I lift my spear into position. The afternoon light glints off the tip I take pains to keep razor sharp. If I aim just right, it will slice cleanly into the animal’s neck.

         It will feel no pain. I pride myself on that skill.

         A small breeze picks up. I am downwind of the creature. It cannot smell me – not yet anyway. I’ve worked hard to keep my emotions at bay.

         Still, I need a win. I need to bring this precious food and hide back to my people.

         Such as they are – depleted, confused, tense.

         My shoulder muscles tighten as I lift the spear into position.

With a silent prayer, I take aim.