Bride of the Scarred Alien (Survivor Brides of Tajss #1)

Chapter 1 Kara

KARA

The wind comes down the canyon like a living thing, tugging at the makeshift tents and tearing smoke from the firepits.

Cloth flaps, ropes strain, poles creak. All around me, the camp stirs in exhaustion and hunger.

Children cry against their mothers’ shoulders.

The wounded groan on the bare ground, the thin blankets we fled the tunnels with already fraying.

The air smells of sweat, blood, and dust.

I balance a battered water jug against my hip and weave through the chaos, searching for a place to set it down. My muscles ache, but it’s the sight of people bickering over scraps that twists my gut tighter than thirst ever could.

“Give it here!” one man snarls, clutching a blanket against his chest like it’s gold.

“I found it first,” the other snaps back, yanking at the edge.

The cloth tears with a harsh rip, drawing the attention of everyone close. A circle forms quick as breath—people eager for distraction, or maybe just ready for someone else’s misery to eclipse their own.

“Stop it,” I say, pushing into the circle before I can think better of it. My heart is slamming hard, but I raise my chin and meet their glares. “We don’t have enough for fighting. Share it, or be cold together tonight.”

They don’t even pause before the bigger one sneers down at me.

“Stay out of this, girl.”

“I’m not a—”

The shove catches me off balance. His palm hits my shoulder hard, sending me stumbling back on the loose rock. I nearly drop the jug. My cheeks burn hotter than the desert sun, shame and fury mixing until I want to scream.

As I catch myself, movement flickers at the edge of my vision, and I see the scarred Zmaj rising.

The Zmaj are native to this hellscape of a desert planet—massive and dragon-like, with their scales, wings, horns, tails… and muscles. All of them are built for this terrifying place.

This one I’ve seen often. He was crouched near an outer fire, sharpening a blade with deliberate strokes, but he straightens to his full, towering height.

Sunlight carves shadows across the jagged marks that run from his jaw to his chest and over his body.

His hand rests on the hilt of his lochaber over his shoulder—not drawn yet, but ready.

His gaze pins the men like a hawk locking on prey. For a heartbeat, I think he might strike without a word, but another shadow cuts through the crowd.

“Enough!” Amara’s voice cracks like a whip.

Amara. She was among the first of us to mate with the Zmaj after our generation ship crashed here on this planet we were never meant to be on, back when I was barely a child.

She’s also one of the de facto leaders of the humans—by what right, I have no idea, just that she is. Probably her personality.

She’s all sharp edges and fire. She storms into the circle, braid swinging, eyes blazing. She seizes the first man by the collar, dragging him forward until his toes barely scrape the sand. The other doesn’t even get time to flinch before she shoves him flat on his back.

“You think the desert cares about your blanket?” she snarls. “It’ll strip the flesh from your bones just as quick—with or without it.”

No one dares laugh. No one dares move. The only sound is the crackle of the fire and the rasp of her breathing. Slowly, Amara releases her grip. The men stumble back, eyes down, chastened. She turns in a slow circle, daring anyone else to challenge her. None do.

Finally, her gaze cuts to me.

“And you—” She doesn’t soften, doesn’t slow. “Stay out of it, girl. You’ll get yourself killed.”

The words land like a slap. Not cruel, not mocking—just blunt, a dismissal from someone too busy keeping us alive to waste gentleness on pride.

I want to snap back, to scream that I’ve survived everything they have, that I’m not a child anymore. The words choke in my throat. Instead, my hands curl tight around the jug until my knuckles are white.

At the edge of the circle, the scarred Zmaj lowers himself back to his crouch. His hand slips from his weapon, the threat fading as silently as it came. His gaze lingers a moment—dark, unreadable—before he picks up the knife he dropped and resumes his work.

Trembling with barely suppressed rage, I look around, wishing for an ally but knowing I’m alone. Then I spot Rosalind farther back. She’s the Lady General—our leader—and though she doesn’t intervene or speak, I see how she follows every beat of the exchange.

Amara’s command, the men’s shame, my stumble, the warrior’s almost-step forward—her expression is calm, but there’s something sharp in it too, like she’s drawing lines or inferences none of us see.

The crowd disperses. Life in the camp grinds on—hungry, weary, fearful—but my chest still heaves with the sting of embarrassment, of being shoved aside again.

Girl. Child. That’s all they see. Dismissed. Again.

I’m not a child, I vow silently, gritting my teeth. Not anymore. How long can anyone remain a child in this hell we call home?

The crowd quickly thins, but the heat in my chest doesn’t fade. My shoulder throbs where the shove landed, a bruise blooming beneath the skin. I hug the water jug closer—more for something to grip than because I need to.

No one looks at me. Not really. A few eyes flick my way, then dart off again. Better to forget the girl who thought she could stop grown men from tearing each other apart. Better to let Amara carry the weight.

Amara herself doesn’t spare me another glance.

She’s striding toward another knot of survivors, barking orders about digging firepits deeper and lashing poles tighter.

I don’t think she meant to cut me down—it’s just who she is.

Brisk, efficient, forged hard by years of survival.

A blade doesn’t pause to apologize when it slices.

Still, the sting settles deep.

I drop the jug beside one of the cooking fires. No one thanks me. No one ever does. My usefulness is measured in silence—the absence of thirst, the absence of hunger. When you’re young, you don’t get credit for carrying weight. You get ignored.

Movement near the edge of camp draws my attention, and I see Rosalind sitting cross-legged by a fire, with her hands folded in her lap.

She’s an older woman, hair streaked with silver, but her posture is as straight and steady as it was in every story told about her.

She cradles her child at her breast, but she doesn’t speak.

She didn’t when Amara shouted or when I stumbled—not even now.

But her eyes—sharp and steady—are on me.

I shift under the weight of her gaze, glancing around, assuming she must be looking at someone else, but when I look back, it’s clear she’s looking at me. For a heartbeat, I think she might call me over—ask me something, offer advice, or maybe scold me herself.

Instead, she just inclines her head. It’s slight, like she’s marking something down in a ledger only she can see. Then she looks down to her kid—one of the half-breeds, half Zmaj, half human—as it makes a noise.

A ripple of anger and frustration courses through me. I don’t need watchers. I don’t need more people deciding what I am or am not. What I need is a chance. Frustrated, I shake my head and look around for something else I can do to pull my weight, whether it’s appreciated or not.

The scarred Zmaj hasn’t moved from his place at the camp’s edge.

He’s sharpening his blade with slow, steady strokes that hiss with each pass.

His scars catch the fading light—jagged pinkish-white ridges against reddish scales.

No one goes near him. Even the children steer wide, glancing nervously as if his scars might leap off and burn them.

I wonder why he stood so fast when they shoved me. Was he going to intervene? It’s nothing, I’m sure, but my stomach twists, remembering the weight of his stare before Amara cut across it.

The desert wind gusts, rattling the makeshift tents.

It carries a smell I can’t place—dry and metallic, like stone dust and rust. My eyes follow the canyon edge.

Far off, the rock formations rise like broken teeth, jagged and strange.

For an instant, I think I see something glint—metal, maybe—catching the sun before it fades behind the cliffs.

I shiver, though the air is still hot.

Tomorrow, I’ll prove them wrong—Amara, Rosalind, all of them. I’ll show them I’m not just some girl who gets shoved aside. Tajss doesn’t care about age. Tajss doesn’t care about anything but survival. And I will survive.

Shaking my head, I go about my business, working until the suns are setting low and the camp quiets as shadows stretch long and sharp across the canyon floor.

I make my way back to the spot I’ve claimed as mine, picking my way through the crackling fires, their smoke tugged away by the wind.

Past the people huddling close and clutching their meager rations as they mutter among themselves.

At the far edge of it all, he’s there—sitting alone—the scarred Zmaj.

I wonder if he’s spoken a single word today. He crouches with his back to the cliff wall, legs folded, a long blade resting across his knees. He’s working something in his hands. I can’t tell what from here, but it looks intricate.

I shouldn’t watch him. Everyone else pretends he isn’t there. The younger children edge wide around him, whispering behind their hands. The older survivors glance once, then look away quickly, as if meeting his eyes might bring down his curse.

But I can’t help it.

The firelight catches the ridges carved across his face and chest—scars old and deep, some jagged like claws, others neat like blades. They’ve tried to heal, but Zmaj scales don’t mend smooth the way human skin does. His body wears the marks of battle, written into him like scripture.

When the fight broke out earlier, he almost intervened. His hand was on his weapon, his muscles coiled tight, and then—Amara stepped in. He stayed where he was, shoulders tense, as if the restraint cost him.

Now, in the hush after the storm, he’s still there, working on something. Watching him makes my skin prickle—not from fear but from something hotter, sharper.

Our eyes catch for the barest moment.

I expect him to look away, but he doesn’t. His gaze holds mine, unreadable, a weight pressing down until my breath catches. There’s nothing soft in it—no pity or kindness. But there’s no contempt either. Just… watching. Seeing.

It lasts a heartbeat. Two.

Then he turns back to the object in his hands, as if I don’t matter at all.

I exhale slowly, heart racing. I should be grateful. If Amara hadn’t stepped in, maybe he would have. Maybe he would’ve cut those men down without hesitation. Maybe that’s what he’s good for—violence, fear, and nothing more. But the way he almost moved lingers in my mind.

Not everyone ignores me. Not completely.

Night settles hard and fast on Tajss. The twin red suns sink below the horizon, leaving the canyon rim painted in bruised purple and deep shadow.

I feed another twisted stick to the small fire that serves the group I sleep with, but I can’t sit still.

The makeshift tent fabric feels like it’s pressing down on me, and the weight of Amara’s dismissal burns hot in my chest. I slip out, water jug abandoned, and wander to the canyon’s edge.

The land stretches vast before me, jagged cliffs stabbing toward the stars.

Alien plants glow faintly in the dark—spines tipped with cold blue light, blossoms pulsing like the beat of a heart.

I’ve never seen anything so strange, so alive.

For an instant, I feel like the canyon itself is breathing, watching, waiting.

A sound rises from the darkness—long, low, and mournful. An animal call, but unlike anything I’ve heard before. My skin prickles, the hairs at the back of my neck lifting. Whatever made that sound feels bigger than anything I know.

We crashed and lived on the opposite side of these mountains for years, until the Invaders came and war began—a war we only won by retreating to an underground bunker and setting off a massive bomb.

Now we’ve moved on, come to the other side of the mountains, and the flora and fauna are different from what we learned to deal with.

Everything on Tajss, from the most innocent-looking flower to every insect and on up the food chain, is dangerous.

The Zmaj seem familiar with what lives and breathes here—mostly—but even they are acting cautious.

I curl my hands into fists, nails biting my palms.

They keep dismissing me. I’m not a kid. Not anymore. I’ve grown up.

A faint scrape behind me. My heart jolts—I whirl, half expecting a predator, but it’s him.

The scarred Zmaj stands a little ways back, framed by firelight and shadow. He doesn’t speak or come closer. He watches, the blade of his lochaber glinting over his shoulder, expression unreadable. His presence rolls over me like heat from a forge—heavy, steady, impossible to ignore.

The wind shifts, carrying a strange metallic tang. I look out across the canyon one more time, toward the glowing plants and the cliffs beyond, and for a heartbeat, I think I see something glint—but it’s gone as fast as it came.

Tajss feels alive. Like it’s watching. Waiting.

And so am I. Waiting for what, I don’t know. A chance. An opportunity to prove myself. To proclaim myself. When I turn back, he’s gone—vanished like a shadow chased away by the light. Sighing, I return to my tent.