Captured by the Yandere Space Pirates

Mia finally reached the glade, her white hair catching the dusky light like spun moonlight, her pale eyes wide with a desperate, gnawing urgency.

She'd shed Prince Ben's form miles back.

Ben's skin was too dangerous to wear for long with his siblings' spies scouring the Kingdom in search to hunt him down.

Mia's breath rasped in her throat, each inhale laced with the scent of the vibrant trees and fresh oxygen being pumped.

She crouched among the bushes, her shapeshifter senses razor-sharp, her scales flickering faintly under her worn shirt as she scanned the glade.

Dusk cast long shadows, the artificial sun dipping low, and the cameras—previously offline—now hummed softly, their lenses glinting like the eyes of silent predators.

She'd pushed her stolen shuttle to its limits, racing here as fast as humanly possible, only to find… nothing.

Or so it seemed.

Her gaze snagged on a patch of grass, a stain that clashed with the glade's pristine emerald grass—a deep, crusted crimson, dried into the blades like a wound on the earth.

Blood.

Mia's heart lurched, a cold dread slithering through her veins.

She grabbed a fist-sized stone from the dirt, its surface cool and rough, and hurled it into the opposite bushes.

The rustle echoed, drawing the cameras' mechanical gaze, their lenses whirring as they pivoted automatically towards the source of the sound.

In that fleeting gap, Mia darted to the stain, her boots silent on the grass, and knelt, her fingers brushing the crusted blood.

She sniffed it, her shapeshifter nose parsing the scent—not Syn's, but… wait.

A faint trace of his blood lingered, sharp and metallic, mingled with the musky sweat of his skin, the unmistakable tang of his semen, and strands of his dark hair scattered nearby, glinting in the fading light.

Torn scraps of his olive uniform lay crumpled, shredded by a blade's cruel precision, their edges frayed and stained.

Mia's hand flew to her mouth, stifling a sob that clawed at her throat, tears welling at the corners of her eyes, hot and stinging.

Syn and Ila… they'd had sex here, hadn't they?

A bit rough but passionate, their old fire reignited after months apart.

That's what this meant, right?

Right?

Her mind clung to the fragile hope, desperate to believe Syn was safe, that this was a lovers' reunion, a reckless but consensual act of desire.

Not… something darker, something forced.

"He's safe," she whispered, her voice a trembling plea, forcing the words into existence as she darted back to the bushes, her heart pounding as the cameras swiveled back, their lenses missing her by a breath.

The scent of Ila—sharp, regal, laced with the poor scent of Syn—lingered in the air, a trail weaving through the glade's perimeter.

Mia followed, her steps silent, her scales pulsing with anxiety as she moved deeper into the forest.

The trail wound through towering trees, their leaves rustled faintly in the programmed breeze, their trunks casting jagged shadows that seemed to claw at her.

The scent grew stronger, then abruptly stopped at another glade, its clearing stark under the twilight.

Mia paused, her eyes narrowing as she studied the ground.

The grass was scorched faintly, broken strands scattered like ash, and circular burns marked the earth in a precise pattern.

Only one thing could cause such damage—a ship had landed here, its thrusters searing the ground before lifting off, taking Syn with it.

Mia's fists clenched, her nails biting into her palms, drawing pinpricks of blood. Ila had whisked him away, and now they were gone.

Not again. Mia's mind raced, her heart a drumbeat of fear and resolve.

She could storm the Palace, where Ila was likely headed, and search its labyrinthine halls for Syn.

But what was Ila's plan?

Was she toying with him, punishing him, or… worse?

The memory of Ila's psychotic rage, her sadism, her control, sent a shiver through Mia, her skin shivered, goosebumps.

Should she tell about this to Vera, Aster, and Pako?

The thought was a thorn in her mind.

Telling them now could unleash chaos—Vera's no-time wasting approach, Aster's fiery wrath, Pako's reckless bravado could fracture the rebellion's fragile unity.

But if Syn was in mortal danger, delaying could cost his life.

Mia shook her head, her white hair swaying, her resolve hardening like iron.

She'd find him first, infiltrate the Palace as a new face, and confirm his safety.

Only then would she decide whether to call the captains if she couldn't get him out on her own.

____________

The execution block by the Palace was a grim cathedral of steel and spectacle, its polished platform gleaming under the artificial sun's merciless glare, a stage for the Kingdom's cruelest performances.

A sea of workers, their faces gaunt from hunger, their clothes patched and faded, packed the standing areas, their murmurs a low, angry roar, fueled by years of scarcity and lies.

At the front, royals and nobles lounged on opulent sofas of crimson velvet, their silk robes shimmering, sipping blood-red wine from jeweled goblets, their laughter sharp and careless, like blades clashing.

The King commanded the center, enthroned on a towering seat of obsidian and gold, its arms carved with snarling beasts, his legs crossed with casual arrogance, his crown a radiant symbol of untouchable power.

His cold, hawk-like eyes fixed on the stage, where a man stood, hands and feet tied with coarse ropes, a sackbag gripped over his face, his silhouette trembling as if he knew and had decided what was going to happen to him.

Ila strode onto the platform, her presence a tempest of authority, her black hair pulled into a severe ponytail, her teal eyes blazing with a righteous fury that seemed to ignite the air.

Her royal tunic, threaded with silver, clung to her muscular frame, each movement accentuating her lethal beauty, a predator in regal guise.

The crowd fell silent, their breaths held, as she raised a hand, her voice booming, amplified by hidden tech, each word a molten lash.

"People of the Kingdom, behold a traitor!" she proclaimed, her tone a searing blend of scorn and zeal, her eyes sweeping the crowd, daring dissent.