POV: Lyra
I actually had to think about his question. Nobody had ever asked what I wanted before.
The crystalline walls of the station's main hall seemed to pulse with the collective shock of three hundred beings. Every consciousness in the room pressed against my mental shields, their curiosity like static electricity on my skin.
Then it suddenly clicked in my mind. The political angle.
Of course. He's the Emperor of both species—Lyrokans who conquered us, Kaelari who serve. What better image than bonding with mining colony trash? "Look how unified we are. Even our Emperor takes a Kaelari match."
My skin shifted to cynical grey as the pieces fell into place. Use me for the optics! Parade me around at diplomatic functions?! The progressive Emperor who sees past species boundaries? Unity propaganda wrapped in a psychic bond.
And what’s next?
I’ll tell you.
Then, when the political capital runs dry—an accident. A tragic loss. The Emperor's beloved Kaelari match, taken too soon by Rogue assassins or a shuttle malfunction or poison designed to mimic cardiac failure.
He'd get sympathy and unity in one convenient package. The grieving Emperor who lost his controversial match. How noble. How tragic.
I'd seen it before. Mining colony politics operated on smaller scales, but the mathematics were identical. Use people until their value depleted, then dispose of them efficiently.
"Complex question, Your Eminence." My voice stayed steady despite my skin's betrayal—cycling through blue, purple, that ugly yellow-green of anticipated pain. "We're strangers. The psychic bond exists currently, yes. I register the neural sparks, acknowledge them. But whether I want rejection..." I paused, choosing words carefully. "Honestly? Unknown. Though my preferences never mattered before. Early rejection means less pain. Makes sense?"
"Absolutely not." His pathways flared crimson, brightening until nearby Kaelari shielded their sensitive eyes. The temperature around us spiked. "And stop calling me 'Your Eminence.' We're matched—equals."
Equals. Right. Until the assassination looks convincing enough.
I nodded, retreating deeper behind my mental barriers. The ones that kept me sane through five rejections, through friends dying in void-cold vacuum, through climbing from Sector Seven's mines with bloodied fingers.
He sighed, pathways cooling from angry red to purple-lilac. His fingers reached for my chin, lifting it gently. The height difference meant craning my neck to meet his gaze. Those impossible purple eyes seemed to swirl with inner light.
"Your thoughts, Lyra?"
My mouth opened, then closed. Words stuck somewhere between my consciousness and vocal cords. I forced a synthetic smile. "Tomorrow's rejection ceremony. Nothing else."
"Lyra." His hand moved to my cheek, neural sparks cascading through my system like liquid fire. He was pushing calming energy through the bond. "I apologize for raising my voice. What are your actual thoughts?"
Tell him I've figured out his game? That I know I'm a propaganda piece with an expiration date? That I'm already calculating how long until the "tragic accident"?
"Cannot comprehend your refusal to reject me," I muttered instead.
His hand moved independently, tracing down my right arm. When his fingers found raised tissue under my bio-suit's sleeve, everything changed.
His body went rigid. Purple shifted to midnight black so fast that nearby Lyrokans gasped. Temperature plummeted. Frost formed on metal surfaces. His growl reverberated through the station's structure, triggering every Kaelari's evolutionary submission response.
"What's wrong?" Alarm shot through me. My left hand found the scar through the fabric. "Why the reaction?"
It's just a scar. Why does he care about damaged goods?
I shrugged, trying for casual. "That were Rogues. Five, maybe six cycles back. Just damaged tissue."
His darkened pathways pulsed as he stared at the scar. "Your acceptance of this baffles me."
"Your Eminence, I'm—"
"Orion."
"Pardon?"
"No titles. Just Orion for you, Lyra."
"Orion." The name felt strange on my tongue. "Battle scars are standard for Combat Specialists. Scan any warrior here—most carry them. This really isn't significant."
Something shifted in his expression. When he bent toward my scar, clearly intending the Lyrokan healing ritual, I yanked my arm away.
"Inappropriate for this venue," I said quickly, skin flushing purple.
Reality crashed back. He'd forgotten our audience. The smile that spread across his face made nearby Lyrokans freeze. Their Emperor didn't smile. Ever.
"You're right," he said. "I should meet your station leaders properly."
I waved Juan and Hale over, grateful for distraction. They approached with automatic deference—heads low, shoulders curved. It made my skin flare angry orange.
"These are Sub-Commander Juan and his partner, Sub-Commander Hale of Blue Crescent Station."
"Rise, Blue Crescent leaders." Warmth infused his voice. "Personal gratitude for your station's Outer Rim offensive last cycle."
Juan looked stunned. "We serve gladly, Your Eminence. But credit belongs to our Commander. Lyra was the strategist."
"Lyra single-handedly held the breach when their flagship tried ramming maneuvers," Hale added. "Twenty minutes alone against a full Rogue squadron."
Orion's pathways blazed violet-white. When he noticed my eyes fixed on the floor, my skin cycling through embarrassed purples, he frowned. "Lyra, what's wrong?"
"Nothing. Just tired."
He nodded, turning to address the hall: "Appreciated guests, please enjoy refreshments. I'll personally thank every station shortly."
Then, to me: "You need rest. Let me escort you."
His hand found my waist. Neural sparks shot up my spine. I gasped, skin flashing through colors.
As we exited the hall, a server approached with a tray of hydration vessels. Standard diplomatic refreshments. The Lyrokan female bowed, offering the tray.
Orion took two vessels, handing one to me. "Hydrate. You look depleted."
I raised it to my lips—
His hand shot out, knocking the vessel away. It shattered against the crystalline floor, liquid hissing where it touched the surface. Actual hissing. The floor's mineral coating began dissolving.
"GUARDS!" Orion's roar shook the corridor.
The server bolted. Two Imperial Guards materialized, tackling her before she'd gone ten meters. My skin had gone shock-white. I stared at the dissolving floor, at what would have been my internal organs.
"Neurological toxin," Orion said, barely controlled. His pathways pulsed ultraviolet. "Designed to mimic cardiac failure. Untraceable after metabolization."
They tried to kill me. Someone actually tried to kill me.
He pulled me against his chest, trembling with rage. Through our bond, terror flooded through—genuine, overwhelming terror at almost losing me.
Or excellent acting!
Part of the plan. Make the assassination attempt public, fail it dramatically, increase sympathy.
"Who sent you?" Orion demanded of the restrained server.
She said nothing. Her eyes rolled back. Foam appeared. Dead in seconds—suicide implant. My skin shifted to survival grey as he held me tighter. Trust no one. Especially not him.
"You're safe," the Emperor whispered. "I won't let anyone hurt you."
That's what they all say. Right before they do.