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“The Royal Triad is ready to join the call,” states one of my Administrators.

“Accept,” I say, my tone icy.

The holographic feed splits in two, showing the voting blocs in half of the screen, the Aurelians in the other.

I had hoped they would take the call in their thrones, imperial, but they were smart. They are in large black chairs in a monochrome room, with white walls, sitting alertly in their formal robes, but they’ve shed their crowns. Even Titus has lost the rich chain which dangled around his neck and the band of gems and platinum around his wrist.

They try to appear more like us, but their marble, stony skin, their huge bulks, show them for what they are.

Even without the circles of gold adorning their heads, there is no mistaking what they are. Their royal, noble presence marks them. They exude from every cell in their massive bodies this natural power, this will to rule, as if they own every space they enter. It’s inherent in their beings, the way they move and sit, especially Prince Doman, who was born into it.

“The votes have been cast. Your proposal has been accepted,” I say, speaking of my future as if it is nothing more than a line on the budget. “I will be wed to your triad, on a term of three years or until the war ends. The term limit will not leave this room. Tothe people of Pentaris, this will be a legitimate marriage between two peoples for the purpose of bridging differences, as per our customs.”

“Good,” states Doman, watching me carefully. “We accept the terms.”

“There is only one last thing,” I say, too casual, and his gaze hardens, the three of the royal triad staring straight through me.

“Name it.”

“I am representative of all five planets. Therefore, I have the right to the betrothal rituals of each, and not just my home planet of Virelia, which can no longer claim me as its own. The wedding will be conditional on the wedding rituals of each planet being fulfilled. Your side of the bargain will not. Failing the rituals revokes our side of the bargain, and Aurelian troops will be expelled from our space, never to return.” I don’t wait for his reaction, turning my attention to the shocked planetary representatives, every Administrator tensed. “If they do not accept, then we will return to a vote, and I will vote against, resigning my position as Prime Minister.”

It's a gamble. My heart pounds, the planetary representatives turning to each other, searching for a consensus and finding none. If the royal triad does not accept my demands, then the governments of Pentaris will have to elect a new Prime Minister. They weren’t expecting that, and the turbulence in war-time is no small matter.

I glance over at the royal triad, their faces cold and calculating. Gallien’s brows are furrowed. He knows our histories well. He would have an understanding of each ritual, I’m sure of it, and he alone can see the trap I’ve set. He leans forward. “Unacceptable. We?—”

“We accept,” says Doman. The arrogant smirk slides over his lips, his blue eyes gleaming, watching me like a bird in a cage.

I’m stunned. I’d known his nature, over-confidence to the point of seeing a trap and charging right into it, but I hadn’t expected him to agree instantly. I take pleasure in knowing I will wipe that smirk off his face.

In Pentaris, there are weddings of love, and there are weddings of business and politics.

And some of the planets—Magnar and Frosthold in particular, have the strongest rites of refusals, rituals chosen by prospective brides which no man can overcome.

Doman knows this, and he plunged forward without fear.

The planetary representatives are trying to hold back their glee. A deal made with Prince Doman is one bound by his word of honor.

They could care less whether the wedding happens or not, blinded by the riches and power they’ve just been granted.

“When will I have my hands on those Reavers, Crown Prince?” says Gunnar, breaking the silence, leaning forward, unable to keep the smile from his face.

“I will have them sent directly to Frosthold.”

“And perhaps a few triads to train my pilots…”

“Agreed, Gunnar of Frosthold, if you’ll teach the triads the hunting of the frost wyrms in return.”

“Well met,” says Gunnar, working directly with the prince without consulting the other members.

It comes crashing into me all at once as I watch the prince negotiate, ironing out details with ease, facing the planetary representatives who vie for their turn, testing the prince for any resistance, and he acquiesces magnanimously, while getting back some small favor in return, favors that show his deep knowledge of each of the planets and what they can offer him.

He is not walking forward blind.

He knows our betrothal rituals, and he agreed without fear.

But as he negotiates with each of the representatives in turn, masterfully making bargains, he never once looks at them.

His bright, burning blues eyes are fixed on me.