"… There is a saying in the galaxy. They say Kalidan is where hope goes to die.
On Kalidan, they do not celebrate. They mourn. They do not rest. They prepare.
They do not reminisce. They revere.
But they do dream..."
- From the memoirs of Valyra Thay Rynn
~~~~
The days had gone by in a blur. They had not discussed what had happened aboard the escape pod, had not addressed the thousand unspoken things that now hung between them. They couldn't have, even if they wished to, for their time aboard the secret military vessel did not afford them the space, or the opportunity for such a profound exchange of things that required both the privacy and peace of quiet companionship. They also feared to address it, for while both knew what complications and consequences that brief moment they shared might bring, they could not bring themselves to regret it, either. And that was the most terrifying thing.
Things had changed, though, whether or not they admitted it, or just continued trying to pretend it never happened. Kainan had stopped trying to avoid her, though they mostly saw each other during dinners with the captain and she could feel the gentle warmth in the warlord's eyes every time his gaze found hers across the dinner table, even if captain Vance's presence and the rigors of their station forced them to maintain the formalities that were expected from them.
Valyra had changed out of that oversized jumpsuit she had worn aboard the interceptor and into something that actually fit her, a pair of crisp pants cut from durable, yet warm hyperthread, along with a button-up shirt whose high collar she'd chosen to leave open and knee-high boots of a soft and comfortable leather. The outfit was a stark contrast from the flowing, shimmering Alvari gossamer she was used to, a fabric that looked and felt like it was woven from captured starlight, or the skin-tight, pearlescent neuroweave undersuits that allowed her to interface her thoughts directly with the technology of the Dominion.
What she wore now, would cause a scandal back on her homeworld and not just because of the cheap materials, the lack of jewelry, or the simple, sober cut, but especially because of the color, for these were the spare fatigues of a Terran uniform, the same kind worn by Kainan and his subjects. Yet for some reason, she just couldn't feel uncomfortable wearing those colors, the ashen gray of Earth. His colors. Not even when seeing her own reflection sent her thoughts wandering into dangerous what-ifs that were impossible.
While the warlord fell back into his routine of always finding some work to do, this time going over the ship's supply manifests and poring over the Riftspace sub's logs with the captain, Valyra spent the majority of her time learning everything she could about the Terran species and the world they were headed to, the things she had previously deemed irrelevant while preparing for her fateful diplomatic visit, such as the imperial alphabet, or how to navigate the interface of a Terran computer terminal. The rest, she'd spent in quiet meditation, or practicing the flowing, graceful moves of the Rinathay, a routine that had been drilled into her since childhood. Fortunately, captain Vance had provided her with a cargo bay for that, as her cabin was far too cramped to afford her the freedom of movement the Alvari martial art required.
Kainan had joined her a couple of times, watching quietly as she twirled and flowed from one form to another, though his still-healing ribs prevented him from sparring with her, much to her frustration. The princess was curious to see just what he was truly capable of, now that he no longer had to hide his psionic abilities from her. Having seen the way he moved during the fighting on the station, she'd realized he held back during their first encounter and was eager to learn just how much, though the warlord could sense through their bond that it was not from a desire to reassert the dominance of her species.
Among her people, the art of the blade was more than just a contest, it was an art form and a profound way for two beings to communicate with one another. There was little difference between the clashing of swords upon the practice field and the courtly dances of the ballroom. Yet even if he couldn't dance with her, the princess still quietly enjoyed his presence, exchanging brief and secret smiles every time their eyes found one another.
"You are restless," he said to her one day, as she was flowing smoothly from the slow and meditative steps of the Third Form, the Heartroot, into a blindingly-fast airborne pirouette that was one of the many deadly features of the Silver Current, the Second Form. Her expression was a perfect mask of serene concentration, but of course he could sense what lay below. She stilled herself and closed her eyes, steadying her breathing before replacing the Eryndai, her crystalline shardblade, into the shimmering scabbard strapped securely to her thigh. She nodded. "I worry about the situation in the Dominion," Valyra answered him. It was that inescapable fog-of-war, the delay that it took information to flow from one place to another across the galaxy, a source of immense, inevitable frustration that they both knew all too well.
"I know," he said, taking a half-step closer before stopping himself, remembering they were still aboard the military vessel and it just wouldn't be proper for any passing crewmembers to see their leader and the Alvari princess being so casually familiar with one another. Even if he trusted them, the rigors of his station still required him to maintain a certain image. His expression was perfectly neutral, that same stoic visage he wore like a second skin, but two wolves warred with one another in his soul. One wanted to reach out to her, to cross the distance and sweep her gently into his arms, to offer comfort, warmth and reassurance. The other howled at him to stay away, to maintain propriety and keep the walls up between them. Right now, the latter was winning, at least outwardly, though Valyra knew the truth he didn't want to admit to himself.
"We'll learn more when we reach Kalidan, tomorrow," he said to her, his hand clenching into a fist to keep himself from reaching out and touching her. Tomorrow, then… Tomorrow she would see it, the secret Terran capital she'd been reading so much about over the last few days, that deadly, frozen world shrouded under so many layers of secrecy, concealing so many mysteries under its ancient glaciers. Yet no amount of reading could prepare her for the real thing, for as she'd soon learn, Kalidan had to be experienced in order to be understood.
~~~~
The planet rotating lazily on the main viewscreen of the Riftspace sub's combat information center, was something torn straight out of a nightmare and an artist's fever dream at once. It was the fourth planet in its system, orbiting around a main sequence star not at all dissimilar to the one of the glassed homeworld of the Terran species. But that was where the similarities ended. The star, which Valyra learned was called Velaster, also embraced a boiling, tortured gas giant called Occular, in an orbit that brought it close enough for its atmosphere to burn with an ethereal fire. The next two planets were called Infernia and Saurus, fitting names as the former was a ball of molten rock who's surface bucked and heaved under the pull from both the star and the burning gas giant, while the latter was a toxic emerald covered in an acidic haze which could melt steel.
As for Kalidan itself, it was habitable, though only by stretching that definition to its absolute limit. The atmosphere was breathable, with a slightly lower oxygen concentration than standard and the gravity was roughly identical to Earth-That-Was, though this planet was slightly smaller and denser. Around it spun an asteroid field, the remnants of a moon that was shattered eons ago by a cosmic collision and now formed a deadly belt around the frozen planet below, being the source of the weather phenomena which earned the Terran capital the deathworld designation.
Below the belt of asteroids, circling around the world's equator, was a structure that defied Valyra's expectations of what a species with the humans' level of technology ought to be able to construct, an enormous, artificial ring studded with hangars, defensive batteries and shield emitters. "The Arx Aeternal," the warlord, standing at her side, explained softly to her. She had read about it, of course. It was the Terran Empire's answer to the problem of developing a sufficiently powerful shield generator to encase an entire planet. While the Phoenix House and all the other species of the High Table possessed the means and knowledge to construct compact systems that could protect their worlds, human shield technology was primitive and inefficient by comparison. And they circumvented that by simply making their planetary shield generator bigger. Valyra shuddered to think what resources this endeavor must have required, the enormity of the sacrifices their economy must have committed to enable this achievement. Yet she also understood their species' overwhelming need to ensure that the fate which had befallen Earth-That-Was, would not be repeated upon another of their capitals. The princess had no doubts those asteroids were bristling with defenses, too.
The bright blue glow of engine trails streaked around the planet, a far larger fleet than she expected to see so soon after Utopia Station's downfall, though that shouldn't have surprised her. In a preemptive and seamlessly coordinated manner, the Dra'var'th had shut down the Council infonet relays within Terran space, the virus they'd uploaded ahead of the assassination attempt, triggering a self-destruct sequence in each of them at a predetermined time. It was a move supposed to leave the humans blind and deaf, unable to communicate effectively or coordinate a defense against the coming purging of their species. The princess had since learned that the Pact had been expecting this and they'd covertly built their own network of relays and courier ships, another monumental achievement that spoke of the great progresses the humans and their allies had achieved. Switching from one network to another had been a simple matter of colonial governors declassifying previously secret coordinates and distributing them to their couriers. And while Pact relays were not nearly as advanced as Council ones and their translation matrices were limited, they did the job well enough, especially when there was no better alternative and the other Lesser Species the humans had allied themselves with, had spent sufficient time harmonizing their data processing technologies with each other, that the technological limitations of their communications network were not an insurmountable problem.
"How many ships?" Valyra asked, her eyes studying the fleets maneuvering around the planet. "Twenty thousand," Kainan answered, causing her eyes to widen slightly. Stars… she thought. Twenty thousand ships! "And more arriving every day, though it will take time for the all the Pact forces to mobilize," the warlord continued.
Although far from the largest gathering of military vessels in the galaxy, twenty thousand ships was no small number. If the other species of the Pact could muster similarly sized contingents, then theirs was not a power to be taken lightly. It was enough firepower to earn respect even from the seasoned admirals of the Great Houses. How much had the humans and their allies sacrificed to build such a fleet, she wondered. How many families had skipped meals to fund this military buildup?
"We did what we had to," said the warlord as if sensing her unspoken question, his voice laden with the weight of his decisions. She understood now, what it meant, all those times she'd overheard a human say that true virtue is found only in sacrifice, a saying she'd heard repeated over and over by the U-404's crew. Their species' single-minded, unwavering commitment to the course they had embarked upon was becoming something that made even her feel humbled. And she was the heiress to the wisest and most ancient civilization in the galaxy.
"You will have to perform a non-standard reentry if you wish to reach Acheron before the stormfront hits," captain Vance interjected, pointing to a rolling mass of clouds that was drifting across the planet below them. "A combat drop, then," Kainan responded as Valyra's iridescent eyes gazed out at that churning, ominous shadow that was drifting across the viewscreen, the reason for Kalidan's classification as a deathworld. Owing to the asteroid belt around the planet, the Terran capital experienced storms that were unlike anything found on any other inhabited world in the galaxy. Devastating superblizzards that could stretch across an entire continent, with wind speeds often exceeding six hundred kilometers per hour. The stormfront the captain was referring to, swept the world with the unyielding power of a nuclear detonation.
~~~~
Exactly what that meant, became obvious a short time later. They had not taken a diplomatic shuttle or a royal skiff as one might have expected for passengers of such high station, a luxurious transport fitted with all the trappings and comforts befitting the ruler of an interstellar civilization. Instead, the warlord had guided Valyra aboard a military craft, a stark, utilitarian vessel designed to deploy a squad of cosmonauts into a combat zone, rather than transport officials to the surface of a planet.
The vessel in question, which the princess learned was called a Sigma-pattern dropship, was painted a matte, light gray, same as most human vessels, with a crimson stripe running down the craft's front third and the triangular Terran emblem juxtaposed onto it in stark white. Most human vessels she had seen so far, were sleek and angular, with aggressive profiles that reminded one of daggers or arrowheads, all sharp wedges and angles. By comparison, the dropship had all the aerodynamic and aesthetic qualities of a flying brick, roughly rectangular in design, with short, stubby wings jutting out of its rear section, each bearing a small turret combining a heavy machinegun and a missile pod consisting of four tubes, for close air support and clearing landing zones. A pair of grossly oversized inertial dampeners, far larger than what a vessel of such size ought to need, stuck out diagonally above each wing, a configuration seemingly designed for ease of access, while an equally oversized shield generator was fitted between them. The scratches and scorch marks of reentry burn spoke of the vessel's long and frequent service.
The first thing that surprised her, was just how sophisticated the seats were, designed to keep their occupants almost completely immobile, encased on three sides by a kind of smart foam that molded itself to the body and could change from soft and pliable to rigid. The harness that kept her fastened securely into it, was both secure and easy to get out of, so as to facilitate rapid deployment. It was the expressions of the occupants and especially the pilots, which surprised her the most. There was no humor, no relaxed banter, or sign of boredom, only looks of intense concentration as the vessel approached the planet's atmosphere and through the Veil, she could read the tension in everyone's aura.
"Prepare for combat drop," announced one of the pilots through the intercom. The lights inside went dark, then were replaced by a dull, ominous red and the dropship began to shudder. Suddenly, the vessel tilted its nose up ninety degrees, the gut-wrenching and unexpected change in orientation making Valyra's head swim. Then, the dropship's shield flared wide and its landing thrusters fired at full thrust.
The dropship slammed into the atmosphere with the force of a hypersonic bullet impacting a duracrete wall. Plasma engulfed the shield, angry red flames fighting to pierce the protective barrier of energy and tear the small craft into its component atoms and in the cockpit, the G-force indicator jumped into the triple digits as the vessel began its sudden, brutal deceleration, from orbital velocity to near zero in mere seconds. Temperature spiked suddenly as the inertial dampeners and shield generator overheated, alarms blaring to indicate imminent failure, though the only thing the princess could focus on, was fighting to stay conscious as she was pressed into the shock absorbent foam of her seat, whose systems were pushed to the absolute limit, just like everything else aboard the transport. Then, after what felt like an eternity but had only lasted a few moments, it was over. Three dull thumps reverberated across the hull as the dropship ejected its spent inertial dampeners and shield generator, now little more than lumps of molten slag and then, the vessel simply… dropped, straight down.
So, this was a combat drop. And this was why the humans named their troop transports dropships. She could see the cleverness in the design, the tactical applications. Most vessels would have to descend along parabolic arcs, gradually bleeding velocity while gliding towards planetary surfaces along predictable trajectories, leaving them extremely vulnerable to anti-air defenses. But a Terran dropship's trajectory was not a gentle curve, but rather a sudden, ninety-degree turn downwards, followed by a vertical drop right onto its target, along vectors which bypassed the positioning of layered air defenses almost in their entirely. That was the reason for the oversized inertial dampeners and shield generator, the reason for their placement. They were designed to be expended and easily replaced with specialized equipment, something which likely only took minutes to accomplish. The humans had taken a supremely difficult and dangerous maneuver and not only designed an entire vessel around it, but had made it standard procedure. Once again, Valyra found herself impressed by their resilience and ingenuity, their sheer stubbornness and that tendency to see solutions where others saw a problem.
And the insane maneuver had done its job, for instead of having to circle around the planet multiple times as they descended, losing valuable time that would have permitted that deadly stormfront to overtake their landing zone, they now found themselves safely ahead of it. As Valyra gazed out through the viewscreen, the landscape that greeted her was one of utter desolation. Flat, icy plains spread out in all directions, polished smooth by the planet's notorious superblizzards. In the distance, she could see the silhouettes of defense installations, massive fortresses with angled walls and powerful shield generators designed to deflect the power of the storms, while housing clusters of strike craft hangars, anti-air emplacements and surface-to-orbit missile silos, while the pristine ice was bisected by networks of jagged lines she realized were bunkers and trenches. This was not just a deathworld, it was a fortress, designed to make orbital bombardment or invasion a daunting task, a feat which even the Great Houses would have to pay for dearly. Oh, yes, the humans had learned their lessons well.
As the dropship continued its descent, what the princess had initially assumed was the capital city, was something else entirely. It was a massive causeway of some kind, bisecting a mountain chain, an artificial road that was bisected on each side by row upon row of flickering, holographic lights she realized were flames, each jutting out from the top of a stark, rectangular steel obelisk. As she cast her eyes around the dropship for an explanation, she saw Kainan and the other Terrans perform that same reverent gesture she'd seen them carry out aboard Utopia station, when gazing out at their dead homeworld, a double tapping with the middle and index finger over the spot where their hearts were.
"The Valley of Martyrs," explained the warlord, his tone as solemn as the look in his eyes and a look of profound sorrow crossed Valyra's features as she realized what the edifice was, a memorial, a monument to the thirty billion of their people that had been lost with the destruction of their homeworld. She had known the number, had sensed the scars upon the souls of all the humans she had met so far, but seeing that memorial in person, brought the sheer scale of their tragedy into perspective. Her hand rose to her chest, a slight tremor in her fingers as she mirrored the Terrans' gesture. It was not a performance, not something she did for etiquette or diplomatic appeasement, but driven by a far more primal and genuine empathy. Such a simple, basic act of kindness and respect, yet the feelings of shock that radiated off the dropship's other occupants, followed by a gratitude so profound that words were insufficient to describe, nearly overwhelmed her psionic senses and she did not need an explanation to know what that gesture meant. These were a people who carried their fallen kin in their hearts, always. And now, she would, too, for she decided, then and there, that she would never forget.
The hangar they eventually settled into, was abuzz with activity, harsh klaxons heralding the imminent arrival of the stormfront as shield generators activated and massive, angled bulkheads sealed shut. Yet, despite the looming presence of the apocalyptic superblizzard, everyone carried on with their routines as if nothing was amiss. For those who made their home on this harsh and unforgiving pattern, this was simply ordinary weather.
Greeting them was an assembly of high-ranking officials and an honor guard of Psi Corps operatives and expeditionary forces cosmonauts standing stiffly at attention. Jordan Mason, the portly prime minister she had met aboard Utopia Station, was among them, along with his secretary and a few other faces she recognized, however most of the new ones wore military uniforms with the trappings of high rank and these she had not met, though there was one she recognized from a picture she had seen on her datapad aboard the Riftspace sub. Fieldmarshal Tiberius Bayne was a bear of a man, not particularly tall, but built like a sack of bricks, with fists the size of sledgehammers, a receding hairline that indicated his advancing age and a mustache that made his already intimidating scowl appear even more ferocious. The collar, shoulderpads and cuffs of his trench coat were dyed a crimson red which added to his already menacing appearance.
This was the chief of staff of the Terran military, the man singlehandedly responsible for half of their tactical and strategic innovations, once a staunch rebel against the former Terran Federation, subsequently brought into the fold of Kainan's empire when his shadow government reunified his species. The look in his eyes told Valyra everything she needed to know about him, this one was a radical, a zealous believer in his species' cause, even more so than the average human.
But it was the woman standing further to the side, that caught Valyra's attention. Until now, she had not met any other members of the human aristocracy except for Kainan, let alone another Kalidani, yet it was obvious that was exactly what this woman was. She was tall, far more than the average human, almost as tall as Valyra, with high cheekbones, full lips and gracefully-arching eyebrows set above a pair of intense eyes of the same silver color as Kainan's. Her hair, white as pristine snow, was long and straight, cut in a severe fashion and falling down past her shoulders in a perfect curtain. Were it not for the twin scars running horizontally across her left cheekbone, one might have been forgiven for mistaking her for a porcelain doll. The shoulderpads of her coat were furred, like Kainan's, but white instead of black, the same color as her collar, cuffs and gloves. High-heeled boots of the same color clicked across the deck plates of the hangar as she approached them at a crisp pace and curtsied and the princess could notice the Psi Corps emblem emblazoned upon her upper left sleeve. "Duchess Yelena Petrova," Kainan introduced her. "Head of intelligence operations and the woman who developed the Gun Kata."
If Valyra was the embodiment of the natural nobility and effortless grace of her species and bloodline, this duchess was all discipline that had been practiced to perfection, every gesture rehearsed a million times, her posture straight and perfect, every detail of her uniform crisp and in its place. "Warlord. Your highness," the woman greeted each of them in turn, her eyes lingering on Kainan in a way that made Valyra's jaw clench. She already found herself disliking her and from the aura radiating off the Kalidani noblewoman, the princess could tell the feeling was mutual.
"Yelena, why don't you show the princess to her quarters and provide her some clothes that are more appropriate to her station?" Kainan addressed her, which made Valyra's brows curl into a slight, barely perceptible frown. She did not like that he was on a first name basis with that woman, either. "Of course, Warlord. This way, princess. We have the finest Earth silks available for your consideration," she said, all the warmth vanishing from her gaze as she turned her attention to Valyra. It was like being watched by a hawk, measured and cataloged. Oh, yes, the princess did not like this Yelena at all.
Yet, the demands of etiquette prevented her from making her feelings known. This was the court of the Terran Empire, the very heart of the human nation whose alliance she now depended on, Kainan's nation. And Valyra Thay Rynn was still the rightful heiress to the Crystal Throne, of the oldest and most powerful civilization in the galaxy. She would not be outclassed by this Kalidani noblewoman by showing anything less than absolute perfection. So, as she strode forward, she put on her best expression of royal imperiousness, head held high and a look in her iridescent eyes that would make even a statue flinch and feel as if it had been found insufficient.
~~~~
Much like the rest of the planet and the great city beyond, the imperial palace was a paradox. A combination of things that should not make sense together, yet somehow, impossibly, did. The architecture was a combination of Brutalist and Gothic architecture, with prominent Art Deco influences. The structure had been built from ferrocrete. Not marble, granite, or any of the nobler materials one would typically associate with an edifice of state, but a simple, sturdy geopolymer, mass-produced, poured into molds or cast into prefabricated panels by colossal factories and distributed by cargo haulers all over the galaxy. It was a material many of the Lesser Species widely used in the construction of cheap housing and industrial facilities, a material the Great Houses themselves had used at distant points in their ancient history. Anywhere else, ferrocrete was an industrial material one did not pay any heed to. Here on Kalidan, it was a work of art.
The walls were massive slabs covered in reliefs depicting scenes of wars from across the history of mankind, from the earliest days of their species, when their ancestors fought beast and tribe with stone-tipped spears, to the mushroom clouds of their nuclear age and the first space battles of their early starfaring era. The imagery was grim, weaving a story of loss and tragedy, of struggle and violence. It was not an edification of bloodshed, of glory won in conquest, neither was it a repudiation of humanity's bloody past. Rather, it was merely a statement of fact, a retelling of their species' history, raw and brutally honest in a way that felt chilling.
The floors were dark gray ferrocrete polished to a mirror finish, inlaid with bands of silver and bronze, forming geometric shapes that wove around each other to create intricate patterns that reflected the lights. The ceilings were high and supported by massive columns and archways that combined to form more of those strange geometric patterns that seemed to be everywhere. The lighting, a warm, golden glow emanating from sconces recessed into the walls and columns, was just bright enough to see everything, while dim enough to allow shadows to linger, creating a sense of grandeur and awe that made one feel small and humbled.
None of those things were occupying Kainan's mind, though. Hands crossed behind his back, he stood gazing out through the towering windows in his office, watching the traffic lights of the city below. Even that late into the night, the superblizzard still raged, arcs of energy streaking across the capital's energy shields as they fought to contain the planet's fury, yet the city did not stop. Hovercraft streaked to and fro along the skylanes, while down below, rovers trudged along the wide avenues and streets. Out in the distance, smoke rose from the sprawling arms factories that even now were churning out munitions, guns and tanks for the coming conflict.
He turned away and sighed, running a hand through his disheveled hair. On his desk, a holographic projector was still scrolling through a list of troop manifests and deployment orders he had spent the past few hours reviewing as he heard the guard's knock, announcing a visitor. "Enter," he said as he sat down. The door slid open and he did not have to look up to recognize the presence. Her footsteps were as silent and as graceful as they ever were, yet he had sensed her approaching five minutes ago.
Valyra's eyes scanned the room. For the private study of the ruler of an entire species, it was much smaller and a lot less opulent than she'd have expected. The wooden desk was ornate enough, alright, but it bore no inlays of precious metals. The couch positioned across from it was equally simple, the kind of thing that looked mass-produced, comfortable and sturdy, but not luxurious. It would have been an office more befitting of a mid-ranking bureaucrat, were it not for the shelves which lined the wall opposite to the window, from floor to ceiling. Shelves filled with row upon row of books, real paper books, a collection which must have cost a small fortune to acquire. Books on almost every topic, from philosophy to economics, to military theory and quantum physics. And from the marks of wear upon their spines, the princess could tell the warlord had likely read each and every single one of them.
The duchess was there, because of course she was, looking as pristine as she had earlier, even as she leaned against a wall, her liquid silver eyes focused on a datapad in her hand. Kainan, on the other hand, had shed the persona of the indomitable warlord and looked more like the exhausted man she'd come to know him as, his eyes tired and red and a tension in his shoulders that spoke of the enormity of the weight he carried.
What caught the attention of the princess, though, was the white-furred beast curled up in front of the fireplace. It was a feline of some kind, with long and slender limbs ending in paws nature had endowed with retractable claws. Its ears, tipped with tufts of stiff, black fur, twitched as its eyelids fluttered open, revealing a pair of slitted eyes the color of molten gold, which reflected the flickering light of the fire. The feline yawned as it stood up and stretched and Valyra could see it had six fangs, four upper ones, long and curved, like daggers and two smaller ones on its lower jaw, though how small they were, was subjective, for the creature was easily as tall as the princess was, at the shoulder. The tail, sinuous and as long as its body, with a tip as black as the tufts on its ears, swished, then cracked like a whip, the sharp, sudden sound startling the princess, yet she could sense no hostility from the beast as it approached her.
What she did sense, though, was a fierce, predatory mind and an echo in the Veil, which surprised her, for there were few beasts in the galaxy with any kind of psionic ability, something this creature clearly possessed as it reached out and seemed to search for something in her soul. What followed, made even the composed duchess let out a gasp, for the feline, evidently satisfied with what it sensed, pushed its head under Valyra's hand, which she hadn't even realized she'd lifted. "I see Kat likes you," said the warlord, a warm smile banishing some of the darkness on his features as his eyes found hers.
"Kat?" Valyra quizzed, raising an elegant eyebrow. The warlord nodded. "Yes. Like Katherine," he said and though the Terran name was unfamiliar to the princess and the Colonial language something she'd only recently learned, her answering smirk as she lazily rubbed a spot behind the feline's ear, told him that the pun was not lost on her. "She is Bela Yaten," the warlord explained. "White shadow, in the ancient Terran language of the first explorers who set foot on Kalidan. Everyone just calls them whisper cats, though."
Across the room, the duchess cast her gaze first at the feline, then to Valyra and finally, the warlord, a slight frown creasing her brows, though her mind remained guarded enough to keep the other two powerful psions from sensing her feelings. Her voice, when she spoke, was ice-cold and professional. "Anything we can help you with, your highness?" she said, curtsying with that drilled perfection that Valyra found infuriating for some reason. "I have some questions for the warlord," Valyra answered, her own tone imperious and dismissive. Even dressed in a silken robe and nightgown, she could still project enough authority to make most beings flinch and for some reason, she felt the need to remind the Kalidani noblewoman of her place in the hierarchy.
"Leave us, Yelena," Kainan said to her with a nod, waiting for the duchess to depart before gesturing for the couch as he reached for a pair of simple ceramic cups and the jug of lukewarm coffee sitting on the edge of his desk. He poured one for Valyra, who accepted it with a graceful nod, though she ignored the couch and chose to remain standing. "You do know that even if I sponsor you for ascension, a majority vote from the other Great Houses is required for your elevation to be recognized, do you?" she asked, a slight tremor in her voice, as if she dreaded the very train of thought she was pursuing.
The warlord let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping in a way that made him seem almost diminished, somehow. "I am aware," he muttered, already knowing where this was going. Throughout the history of the galaxy, few civilizations had managed to ascend to the High Table, as doing so required the support of the majority of the sitting Great Houses. In theory, this was meant to curb the power of the ruling civilizations, to force them to cooperate in the task of uplifting the Lesser Species instead of building armies out of vassal states or stack votes with their allies. It was meant to avoid another Dawn War, to prevent another tragedy like the one that had left the galaxy scarred, even now. In practice, however, it made the High Table an exclusive club, where ancient rivalries kept the doors barred for new entries.
Valyra didn't need to ask how he planned to circumvent that problem, how the Pact intended to secure the votes the Terrans needed. She could see it in his eyes, in the ways his shoulders slumped, could sense the hollow darkness looming over his soul, slowly eating away at his humanity. She knew exactly how far he was prepared to go to see his ambitions come to fruition. She set the coffee cup down, her iridescent eyes glistening with unshed tears.
"What choice do we have?" the warlord said, his voice a ragged whisper dripping with bitter resignation, sensing her disappointment through their bond, which felt like a dagger scraping against his soul. "Kainan, if you fail, if things don't go according to the plan…" Valyra said, an accusatory edge in her voice as she took a step closer.
She didn't need to finish that sentence. Kainan knew exactly what the consequences would be if his plan didn't work, if the Great Houses dug their heels in, rather than acquiescing. He knew exactly where that would lead and yet, what other choice did he have? What choice did humanity have? It was either that, or extinction and as the Kalidani saying went, those who hesitate, are lost. "I am sorry, Valyra…" he said, leaning against the desk as if the weight of the galaxy pressed down upon him.
She reached out with a shaky hand, her slender fingers covering the old, faded scar on his wrist, where a shackle had chafed his skin raw a lifetime ago. "You're a good man, Kainan," she said. The warlord winced. It wasn't a compliment. It was an accusation and a plea. He shook his head. "I'm just a necessary evil," he whispered back, his shoulders stiffening, the implanted talons on his fingers digging furrows into the wooden desk. He pushed himself off, tearing his hand away from hers, seeking distance, trying to slam the walls back into place.
Valyra didn't relent. She took a step forward and into his personal space, faster than his eyes could track. She did not shove him, or slap him, though Kainan wished she did. It would have made things easier, it would have been better if she just hated him, if she just saw him as another tyrant. Instead, she reached up and grabbed the collar of his shirt and before he could push her away, she pressed her lips to his.
It was not a gentle kiss. It was not the tender, hesitant connection they shared aboard that escape pod, that moment of affection between two kindred spirits seeking comfort and solace in each other. This was a collision, raw and fierce, one that burned with the kind of desperate passion born from the fear of losing someone to a darkness there would be no coming back from. Then, she tore herself away and fled the office, fighting down a sob, before he could see her unravel right in front of him.
He slumped back into his chair, his fists clenching so hard the claws bit into the flesh of his palms, spilling blood upon the polished wood of the desk and causing the holographic projection to flicker. And back in her bedchamber, curled up against the ornate door with her face leaning against her knees, Valyra wept and shook with fury. Not at him, but at the galaxy, at the uncaring stars and the cruel universe that made victors out of tyrants and good men into monsters. For the worst part was that she understood. She knew exactly why the warlord made the choice he did, why he was walking down that path even as it slowly ate his very soul. After all, what choice did he have? And what of her, who had chosen to walk beside him?