Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Snake Island looked less welcoming from the air.

Dean had studied photographs, elevation maps, satellite images, and drone captures until he could recognize the island’s western ridge without labels, but none of them had conveyed how abruptly the land rose from the sea.

Dark limestone cliffs cut straight into steel-blue water. Dense forest covered most of the interior, broken by pale scars of exposed rock and narrow roads that twisted between the mountains rather than crossing them directly. The main settlement clung to the northeastern coast around a sheltered harbor, its white and grey buildings compressed between the sea and the first steep incline.

Arion stood beside Dean as their aircraft descended.

”No walls necessary,” Dean murmured.

Arion understood immediately.

The island itself was the wall.

Hunter, seated across the cabin in a charcoal suit beneath a weatherproof coat, looked up from his tablet. ”The western road is worse than the aerial images suggested. Several sections are single-lane.”

”And the reserve route?” Arion asked.

”Maintained. The island government inspected it this morning.”

Dean glanced toward him. ”For us?”

”For the official tour.”

There was enough distinction in Hunter’s answer to make Dean smile faintly.

Everything about today had two purposes.

The aircraft touched down twenty minutes later at the island’s small international terminal.

There was no crowd.

Snake Island did not encourage one.

A narrow reception area had been cleared beside the runway, bordered by local security officers in dark green uniforms. Only three accredited photographers had been permitted inside the perimeter, enough to document the visit without turning the arrival into a spectacle.

Dean appreciated the restraint.

He stepped down beside Arion into the cold maritime wind.

His pale wool coat reached almost to his knees, buttoned over black trousers and a cream turtleneck. He had chosen gloves after Hunter warned him that the temperature near the interior ridges could fall sharply despite the relatively mild coast.

Arion wore black from collar to boots beneath a heavy charcoal coat, the severe lines making him look considerably more like a visiting sovereign than a man supposedly halfway through a holiday.

Hunter came behind them.

Taylor emerged from the second vehicle with Boreas.

That immediately ruined any remaining solemnity.

The dog had been fitted with a wide black harness and reinforced leash for the island, partly because local regulations required it and partly because Hunter had refused to negotiate with the possibility of Boreas deciding an endemic snake looked interesting.

Taylor had both hands around the leash.

Boreas had other priorities.

The massive dog lowered his head into the wind, inhaled deeply, then attempted to pull toward a cluster of coastal shrubs beside the reception area.

Taylor planted one boot.

”No.”

Boreas looked back at him.

Taylor did not soften.

Dean smiled.

Hunter had chosen Taylor precisely because he was one of the few guards strong enough to manage Boreas without being dragged across an airport.

A man waited at the end of the carpeted reception path.

He appeared to be in his early fifties, tall and spare, with iron-grey hair cut close at the sides and a weathered complexion that suited the island far better than the immaculate dark suit beneath his long green overcoat. A silver insignia at his lapel identified him as a senior representative of the island administration.

He inclined his head when Dean and Arion approached.

”Your Highnesses. Welcome to Veyra.”

So that was the official name.

Almost nobody outside the island used it.

”Minister Corven,” Arion greeted.

”Your visit is an honor.”

The words were formal without becoming excessive.

Dean liked him immediately for that.

Corven turned slightly toward Dean. ”I hope the flight from Saint Armel was comfortable.”

”It was. Your coastline is more dramatic in person.”

A faint smile touched the man’s face.

”That is the polite description.”

”What is the local one?”

”Expensive to maintain.”

Dean laughed softly.

Arion’s hand settled briefly against his back.

Corven’s attention shifted past them toward Boreas.

The dog had finally accepted that the shrubs were forbidden and now stood beside Taylor with enormous dignity, as if the previous disagreement had never occurred.

”We were informed you would be traveling with him.”

”He is generally better behaved than that,” Dean said.

Taylor looked at him.

Dean ignored the expression.

Corven wisely did the same.

”Your residence has a secured garden. We have also arranged a designated walking area away from the southern rock fields.”

The last part was not casual.

Snake mating season.

Dean nodded. ”Thank you.”

The formal greetings lasted only another few minutes.

Photographs were taken.

Arion and Dean beside Minister Corven.

A handshake.

A view of the harbor behind them.

One photograph of Boreas standing between Taylor and Hunter that would almost certainly receive more attention online than anything involving regional politics.

Then the cameras were removed.

The mood changed immediately.

Corven gestured toward the waiting vehicles.

”The council has prepared lunch at the government residence. This evening, there will be a formal dinner with the administrator and several members of the island council.”

Dean glanced toward Arion.

Dinner first. Exactly as expected.

”And the reserve?” Arion asked.

”Tomorrow morning. Weather permitting.”

Hunter’s gaze moved briefly to Corven.

Their published itinerary had listed the ecological visit that afternoon.

The minister continued calmly.

”The western ridge received rain overnight. One section of the public route is being inspected for rockfall.”

Dean said nothing.

Neither did Arion.

”We can adjust,” Arion replied.

”Thank you.”

They entered the first vehicle.

Hunter took the front passenger seat. Taylor and Boreas followed in the larger security vehicle behind them.

As the convoy left the airport, Dean turned toward the window.

Snake Island changed almost immediately once they left the coast.

The road climbed through tightly packed stone houses with red and slate roofs before entering the forest. Limestone walls rose beside the road, damp from recent rain, their crevices thick with moss. Warning signs appeared regularly at the roadside.

Protected habitat.

Restricted access.

Venomous wildlife.

Emergency numbers.

Dean counted four snake warnings in six kilometers.

”They are committed to the branding,” he said.

Hunter glanced back.

”They average twelve fatal bites a year.”

”I know.”

”You keep sounding entertained by it.”

”I am entertained by the signs. Not death.”

Arion looked toward Dean’s gloves.

”You are not touching anything.”

Dean turned slowly toward him.

”I am almost twenty-two.”

”Yes.”

”I know not to pick up venomous snakes.”

”You touched an infected beast once.”

”That was strategically necessary.”

Hunter looked very deliberately out through the windshield.

Dean narrowed his eyes at the back of his head.

Arion continued watching him.

”That argument did not help.”

Dean returned his attention to the window.

The forest thickened as they climbed.

Somewhere beyond those trees, miles west of the road they were currently following, stood the isolated residence they had studied for days.

Amaru might be inside it.

Or someone else might be.

Dean kept his face neutral as the car passed another junction.

He recognized it immediately.

The western road.

Hunter did too.

Neither looked toward it for more than a second.

The convoy continued straight. For now, they were tourists.

By evening, the government residence had transformed itself for the formal dinner.

The building stood above the harbor on a terrace of dark local stone, older than most of the surrounding administrative district. Tall windows faced the sea, while the interior combined pale limestone walls with heavy walnut furniture and woven island textiles in muted greens and bronze.

Dean changed into a dark violet suit with a high-collared ivory shirt, formal enough for the occasion without matching the severity of an imperial function.

Arion wore black, naturally.

Hunter remained outside the dining room with the local security detail.

Taylor had drawn the more dangerous assignment.

Boreas.

Dean had last seen both of them crossing the residence garden, Taylor holding the leash while Boreas attempted to investigate a stone wall with suspicious intensity.

The dinner itself was small.

Minister Corven sat near the island administrator, Liora Venn, a silver-haired beta woman in her sixties whose calm expression gave away almost nothing. Four council members completed the local delegation.

No press. No aides beyond essential staff. No unnecessary audience.

Dean noticed that immediately.

The first courses were harmless.

Fishing rights.

Tourism.

Environmental protections.

Alamina’s expanding trade relationship with neutral territories.

The island’s increasingly expensive coastal defenses.

Nothing about political exiles, Draxil, or a residence in the western mountains receiving medical shipments every six months.

Dean ate the local sea bass and waited.

Across the table, Arion did the same.

Neither rushed.

They had less than twenty-three hours left.

But Snake Island had already shown them one thing.

It valued control over who entered and where they entered and, very likely, who disappeared behind its mountains.

When Administrator Venn finally set down her wineglass and looked directly at Arion, the conversation shifted.

”I understand,” she said, ”that tomorrow’s ecological visit is not the only reason you requested additional privacy during your stay.”

Dean placed his fork down.

Beside him, Arion did the same.

At last.

The holiday had officially ended.