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It terrifies me that they could lose all façade of nobility. That in the presence of the one woman who can bear their sons, they will go mad. I keep myself strong on the exterior, to calm the people who depend on me, but inside, my heart is pounding. Ican’t force out the thought of the three huge brutes stalking from their thrones, throwing their crowns aside, ripping my clothes from me and pressing me down against the floor, claiming me as they roar.

Aeris’ face is pale, and she shivers as we approach the border. “You didn’t have to come,” I whisper, only for her ears. “You can still go back. We haven’t crossed the border yet.”

She glances over to me, giving me her strange, unknowable smile. Her eyes close, the second layer of her eyelids milky and wet as they flick down first. “I did have to come.”

I don’t bother asking her if she had some vision which compelled her. She could make up any answer she chose and I would have no way to verify it. I believe that her kind has some glimpses of the future, but I also suspect that most are parlor tricks, meant to influence us with the potential that they could be from a vision, just happening to align the greater interests of Pentaris with the designs of her home planet.

The Reavers close coms-link to us. Silent guardians—or captors—they await us at the edge of their space. As we enter the triangle formation, they circle around us endlessly.

The line of the border might be invisible to our eyes, but instantly, the mood of the ship changes. A coldness seeps over us, every man and woman in the bridge stiffening, no one comfortable with being in Aurelian territory.

I glance up to the scanners. The huge white dot of the crown prince’s warship beckons us, and we are escorted towards it. It stretches out through our viewport, this long, white, predatory ship, hard angles and lines, beautiful and horrible in its own right. There has not been an Aurelian warship on our border in over a thousand years.

On the side of the ship, against the expanse of whiteness, is the pure golden emblem of the Aurelian Empire, the sun glowing and rising.

They think of themselves as spreading the light of civilization over the universe, fighting back against the darkness of wilderness. They believe that only their military civilization can bring order and strength to hold back the chaos.

They are only spreading dominance and control.

I steel myself as the ship grows huger in our vision, until all we can see is the thick, white armor, the gunneries, the endless missiles, the deadliness of their creation.

The landing bay opens, the huge doors sliding apart, a shimmering airfield protecting it. It is like a huge maw, easily swallowing us as the captain pilots us in. His gray uniform is damp with his sweat, tense as he touches us down in a huge empty space opened for us between dozens of the Aurelian attack ships, the Reavers like birds of prey.

I turn, walking through the hallway, and wave away the two Administrators, Sahra, the youngest elected official, still unaccustomed to the temperature on a government ship, and Bould, stocky and stalwart, trying to look brave as he greets me.

I hold up my hand. “Stay,” I say, and Sahra breathes out a sigh of relief before catching herself, trying to make it less obvious that she’s deeply grateful she doesn’t have to walk into the belly of the beast.

Aeris glides next to me, swanlike. The twelve voted that she be at the meeting with me, and the planets assented. She didn’t exactlysaythat she had a vision that made it necessary, but she didn’t dispel that notion, either. Deep down, I’m glad not to be meeting the royal triad alone.

I don’t bother with guards. It would only make me look weaker – they couldn’t do anything, not surrounded by thousands of huge alien warriors.

The doors of my ship open, the walkway extending. Work hasn’t stopped in the Aurelian ship-bay, the clanking of tools, the sizzle of welding torches and the heady stink of oil greetingus. Two triads are standing in wait. They are wearing formal robes, with golden accents, white against their stoney marble skin, but the ever-present hilts of their Orb-Blades are at their waists, ready to be activated by a thought.

Six sets of cold, slate-gray eyes greet me. They are seven-footers, huge men who dwarf even the tallest human, because though occasionally our species can reach that height, we never have the thick, powerful bulk of the alien species, their broad shoulders and muscled-bound physiques that are their inherent weapons of war.

“Prime Minister Adriana. Aeris of Etherion.” As one, the six of them bow their heads in respect.

I lost my last name when I took my position as Prime Minister, along with my ties to my planet.

“The Royal Triad await you in the throne room. Please, come with me.” The Aurelian speaking looks to be in his forties, but that means he has seen four or five hundred years of life, all spent at war or training in the brutal Academy on their planet, a factory that turns bright-eyed boys into robotic killing machines, stamping out all trace of individuality. He’s got a scar under his right eye, the only thing marring his marble perfection, and it was his choice to keep it. Their medical technologies could have smoothed that out in an instant.

All six of them are handsome, in a cold, threatening way, tall, primal warriors with a veneer of haughty civilization, like a roman senate filled with nothing but soldiers.

They move aside, sliding to the sides with natural, practiced movements, forming up to make a space for us to walk between them. Once again, I have the twin sensations of jailers and protectors.

And is that not what they are?

Is that not what their rule has been for so many planets who flock to their protection, giving up sovereignty in all but name, living under the shadow of their pure white ships?

We climb up the stairs, and I grimace to myself, each step made for their long-legged strides. The Aurelians move with us, taking their time, keeping to the pace of what they must think are slow, feeble humans. Through the spartan white corridors we go, everything kept spotless and gleaming, the light emanating from the walls themselves.

The passageways are wide enough that three Aurelians can walk abreast, one triad in front of us, one behind, their robes whispering with their movements, the only sound they make. For such big men, they move soundlessly, their heavy combat boots as soft as moccasins.

They stop in front of a huge set of doors, guarded by two triads. These triads are in white robes that show off the left side of their heavily muscled chests, and their expressions are stern and hard as they press the button that makes them hiss open into the throne room.

“I present Prime Minister of the Pentaris Cluster, Adriana, and Aeris of Etherion,” says the speaker, and he keeps to our customs, not giving my full name as I walk into the throne room.

The room is expansive, with a tall ceiling, so unlike our efficient government ships, where every inch is accounted for. The vastness is accented by the emptiness. The entire room is made of the same marble, from the walls to the floors, smooth and flawless. You could go mad in a room like this.