Page 19

ADRIANA

T he knock on my door sours my already dark mood.

I told my assistants I wanted no one to bother me, and that I didn’t want to see anyone until I was walking out to the ritual itself.

“Who is it?” My voice is a little shorter than I would have liked.

“We are sent by Thrain.”

I get up, pressing the button to open the door, and I’m greeted by two women in gray metal suits, their helmets off, showing their buzzed heads. In contrast to the dull uniforms, their make-up is perfect, and they are holding satchels of supplies and a fine, threaded metal vein.

I instantly know what they are here for, and there’s a snowball’s chance in a magma vein that I’m going to get dolled up for the prince.

“No. I’m doing this ceremony in my Administration uniform. I am a representative of our entire system,” I say, and realize I’m justifying myself to two random civilians. Not a good sign.

“You invoked your right to our betrothal ceremony, and while you are on Magnar, you represent us. Please, Prime Minister, adhere to our customs fully, or we will be shamed,” says the one holding the veil carefully, her voice gentle yet filled with pride.

I force down my frustration. I’ve gone from Prime Minister to a woman playing dress-up.

It’s only for a little while longer. Tonight, I’ll be free, and so will my sector. And every one of the Aurelian warships will turn tail. He’s an asshole, but his word is iron. When he fails the ceremony... we’ll keep everything.

“Come in.” The doors seal behind them. In my cramped quarters, they place their satchels of beauty supplies on the desk where, just minutes ago, I scrutinized holographic strategy displays of Pentaris.

“I am Selena, and this is my apprentice, Myria. Is there somewhere we could go with more space?”

“Will this suffice? I’m already going to become spectacle enough.”

“We can make it work. Myria, get out the dress, please.” They both take the metal gloves off their hands with ceremony, placing them on my chairs, and the younger woman unfurls her satchel, revealing a long, flowing silver robe.

Myria is biting her lip, barely containing her words. “It’s a great honor, Prime Minister Adriana,” she blurts out, her eyes wide.

I don my diplomatic mask. “I’ve been clad in the grays of the Administration for so long, being wrapped up in the wealth of Magnar is going to feel strange,” I say, to relax her, making it clear she’s needed as she adjusts the long silvery dress, crafted from fine, interwoven strands of silver.

Only the Magnarians have such an expertise in metal.

“I’m so jealous, if my boyfriend ever proposes then?—”

Selena gives her a gentle, chiding look. “The Prime Minister has enough on her mind without stories of your love life, Myria.”

To my amusement, Myria clasps her hand against her lips, the picture of regret.

“Prime Minster, would you please disrobe?” asks Selena.

I methodically unbutton the gray top of my uniform, followed by my pants, folding them with military precision on my bed before I stand. Myria presents the long, flowing silver dress, holding it up against me, its hem brushing my ankles. Selena is watching like a hawk, nodding appreciatively.

“You’re taller than a Magnarian, and willowy,” says Selena. “But this will fit nicely, when we’re done.”

Together, they assist me into the dress.

Its weight is tangible, a formless, silvery embrace that drapes over me, and with practiced hands, they retrieve their tools from their satchels.

Selena holds small metal clamps with fine, tapered edges, while Myria wields a thin, pencil-like metal rod, its end glowing red at the press of a button.

Before the mirror in my room, they labor with expertise, Myria warming the fine strands, and Selena shaping the delicate silver threads.

Gradually, the once-shapeless mass conforms to my form, elegant and flowing, the silver threads ascending, a warm embrace around my neck.

I feel like a woman again and not a Prime Minister, not a representative of billions of lives.

I think back to my childhood on Virelia, long days in the grass chatting idly with my younger sister.

She told me about her perfect husband, and each time she added a new feature to him, she made me laugh until my stomach hurt.

A squat man, she said, with complete sincerity, a squat man with an uneven nose, hair coming from his ears, and a rather large belly.

When, between fits of laughing, I questioned her on her dream man, she looked at me like I was an idiot.

“Because, Adriana, I’ll look prettier next to him,” she said, in a tone too serious for a twelve-year-old. I was sixteen, and I thought that summer would never end.

Selena steps back, her eyes surveying their handiwork, making one final adjustment to the bodice. “We have completed our task, Prime Minister.”

“Thank you,” I respond, as she delicately lifts the veil, placing it with great reverence upon my head. The silver threads are so fine I can see through them, leaving me encased head to toe, as though I am armored for battle.

“You look beautiful,” says Myria. “You look strong,” she finishes, and a smile comes to her lips, knowing that the universe will see her work.

Because this ceremony is going to be broadcasted throughout the known territories…

And all will see the humiliation of the Aurelians.

“How am I going to fit into one of those suits?”

“You won’t need to. There is a transport waiting for you. You need only these boots,” says Selena, pulling a pair of metal boots that she helps me with, clasping them tightly shut. They make me two inches taller, but I’ll still be towered over by the triad.

“Are the… is the royal triad out there?”

“They will not see you until you stand before them,” says Selena. “Thrain awaits you. Would you allow us the honor of escorting you to him?”

“It would be mine,” I say, gracefully, because in the dress that hugs my curves, behind the veil that Doman thinks he will brush aside to reveal my lips and kiss me, I am hiding a secret.

The triad are like raging bulls, charging without thought.

They believe the universe and everything in it is owed to them, but they are going to find out the truth.

Not all crave to bow before them, and not all are manipulated by their gifts.

Pentaris does not need their protection. And neither do I.

The corridors of my ship are cleared, and when I walk out into the ship bay of the Aurelian Warship where my ship is nestled, none of the alien species are in attendance, the Reavers left unattended to, tools dropped hastily.

Prince Doman wants to be the first Aurelian to see me in my betrothal dress. He cleared out everyone in my path.

Thrain of Magmar looks minuscule next to the giant ships, and he greets me with a respectful nod.

There’s another Magnarian next to him, even shorter, with an intense, worried look on his face as he turns his wrist towards me, capturing the moment on the smart-watch embedded in his suit.

The feed is being broadcasted through the universe, and I can’t imagine how many trillions of eyes are locked in on their holo-vids, eager to catch the first glimpse of the crown prince’s bride-to-be.

“Prime Minister. You do our people proud.” Thrain gives me a warm, welcoming smile, as if he didn’t vote to force me into marriage with the three men I despise most.

“Your staff did excellent work. Let’s not dally.” I keep diplomatic, even as I imagine pushing him into a magma flow.

“I never do,” he says, and turns, then casts a hard, baleful glare at the other Magnarian, who quickly shuts off the feed.

“You fucking idiot. You want to show the universe me struggling up these stairs made for the giants? Figure it out,” he scowls, berating the Magnarian, who turns pale. He was probably told not to let a single moment be missed.

“And get going! Run along, you better be waiting for us underground. Get the shot of us coming out of the transport and walking down towards the magma flow. Go!” The other Magnarian runs up the stairs, stumbles on the huge steps, falls, and gets up without a word, rushing along.

“Gods alive. I have to tell everyone how to do everything. I’ll be glad for some peace when my term is done. Just three more fucking months,” he complains, and grunts as he pulls himself up the giant stairs made for the huge alien species.

I follow him into the hallways until we get to the huge bay of the entrance hall of the Aurelian warship.

It has high ceilings, and above, the rising sun emblem of the Empire engraved on the ceiling mocks me.

The air-shield shimmers, and a small, metallic transport on treads, thick with armor, awaits us.

Through the air-shield, an invisible barrier between the spartan white cleanliness of the alien warship and the fury of his world, the skies are shrouded in a veil of smoldering smoke, a testament to the relentless churn of its fiery heart.

The transport vehicle is a squat, functional thing, with thick metal treads and steel armor pitted and scored.

Thrain opens the side door of the small transport, and I sit on uncomfortable seats across from him as the vehicle trundles along.

I will emerge from the confines of this metal box below ground. The embrace of Magnar’s subterranean world will wrap around me, the weight of the world pressing down on me.

Thrain occupies the uncomfortable seat across from me, clad in his armored metal suit, but he keeps his helmet at his side, revealing his bald head that gleams in the dim lighting.

The transport vehicle, devoid of windows, encloses us in a world of stale air, but I’ll take stale air to the clouds of noxious gasses and the harsh atmosphere outside.

Thrain’s ever-present black goggles mask his eyes, a strategic shield that has lent him the upper hand in negotiations.

Now, I’ve evened the score. My features are hidden behind the veil of intricate silver threads.