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Strong alliances between planets are as dangerous as rivalries to the continued stability of the entire sector.

It would be best for everyone if Lysandra were to bear a child with her new husband, tightening the bond between her planet and Frosthold.

Frosthold is in constant conflict with Magnar, fighting for resources and demanding ships and parts from their underground factories, and any deepening ties between the ice-planet and Terosa would prevent the innermost planets from becoming too interlinked.

Only Aeris of Etherion has not spoken. Her eyes are as cerulean as the endless oceans of her home, and as she blinks, the nictating membrane slides down first, an adaption to the long swims between their underwater cities.

Not all of her people have double eyelids, but they all have the same posture, always leaning back, barrel-chested and broad with huge lungs that let them hold their breath for hours at a time.

She is in a long, flowing green and blue dress, and occasionally, from the table in front of her, she is misted by a faint spray.

On her head is not quite a crown—monarchy is forbidden—but she has a circlet of deep blue amethysts that match her earrings. Her planet never squabbles with others, and that’s why I don’t trust them.

Etherion is the fourth innermost planet: they feed themselves, have no real strategic resources for others to pressure them for, and keep in the good graces of all with great gifts of chests of jewels that are abundant.

They always agree with the majority…

Because it has always suited them.

And they’re the key to Pentaris keeping independence.

Our sector is a beacon of stability in the chaos, protection and safety while other sectors and planets pledge fealty to the Aurelian Empire.

On Etherion, huge, ancient krakens drift slowly past the underwater glass cities.

The ancient beasts share visions with a chosen few of the Etherion people, visions which are heralded as superstition by some, awe with others, opaque and incomplete, but guiding us through tense diplomatic situations.

Only their planet is not intermingled by marriage with the others.

Sure, there are some marriages between their people and others, but it never seems to be anyone of any substance.

All citizens of Pentaris have access to their planet, of course, but few stay.

It’s not just the constant damp coolness of the underwater cities.

It is the constant politeness, the thousand unspoken rules of their culture, the sensation that even if you stayed there for your entire life, you would always be an outsider.

It is on their planet that the huge Orbs powering the Shift Disruptors lay. Those are the only things that have stopped us from being swallowed up by the Aurelian Empire, or harried and ambushed by the Fanatics who broke off in the civil war.

Aeris does not have to even raise a finger. She shifts forward subtly, and the tense mood of the conference changes, representatives of the four planets turning to her. Most meetings, she barely says a word.

She doesn’t speak for long moments, and Gunnar can’t take it any longer. “Did you have a vision?” he barks out. All he wants is to be back commanding warships, where the enemies are clear.

“I sense that our Prime Minister Adriana has called this meeting for something more important,” she says, her voice flowy and hypnotic.

All eyes turn to me.

I no longer wilt under them. My first meeting, I was shaking like a leaf before I walked in.

I had been one of the twelve Administrators serving the Prime Minister when our previous leader, Stern, immediately abdicated his position when the Aurelian civil war broke out.

He decided he would rather have a nice retirement in the sun of Terosa, relaxing in his vast estates, than navigate the conflict.

Health reasons, he said: his heart couldn’t take the stress of danger on all sides.

He was a businessman before being elected, respected not only by the merchant clans on his planet but the trade unions inter-planetarily, and he ruled without emotion, much like an accountant.

I suppose he accounted for the pressures of the greedy Toad Kingdom on one flank, Wild Space teeming with Scorp and Fanatics on the other, and the implacable Aurelian Empire always at our backs and decided that the most logical thing to do would be to go back to his home planet and enjoy as much time as he could before the fragile peace of our system was ripped apart.

One doesn’t really forget their homeworld, even though we take an oath to be neutral, and in my moments of weakness, I long for the vast, grassy fields of Virelia.

I would give anything to be lazing in the fields, the sun kissing my skin.

Instead, I am in the decision seat, with six of my Administrators on each side, each a valuable counsel, each with their own vote.

“We have a problem on our inner border.” I state it plainly. But the reaction from the gathered men and women is furrowed brows and widened eyes, tension spreading.

“The inner border? Those Aurelians bastards have always stayed out of our business,” booms out Gunnar, a little too loudly.

When his planet rotates around the sun to the border of the Aurelian Empire, he puts on a show of force, flying ships right to the territorial line of space, where Aurelian Reavers dance across from him, in a ridiculous dick-waving contest that has been going on for thousands of years.

His wife Liora lets out the tiniest sigh, and to my surprise, Gunnar raises his hands apologetically.

“Apologies for my language, Prime Minster,” he says.

That marriage, which I pushed for myself, has done wonders for his temper.

I can’t delay this any longer.

I press the button on my smart-watch, and before me, bland resource reports fade and Doman appears, a life-sized projection of the crown prince, created from our most recent images of him at the wedding on Colossus of his younger brother Bruton.

Tabitha winces, recoiling in her seat at the sheer size of the alien beast, while Lysandra raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow, surveying him almost approvingly.

All my thoughts get jumbled as I look out at the huge beast of an Aurelian.

Over eight feet tall, bigger and broader than the others of his kind.

Doman was born of the Bond, and he’s even more dangerous than the marble-skinned titans of the warrior species that rule the greatest expanse of territories in the known universe.

The golden crown rests on his mane of long, blond hair, and he is clad in a white toga, split to show the left side of his body.

As he rotates, my mouth gets dry. The immense physique of the alien warrior is muscled beyond belief.

His skin is like marble, every line of his body speaking to violence, as if he was chiseled by a sculptor designing a god of the hunt.

No sculptor could capture the cocky, arrogant smirk ever present on his lips.

His eyes are the brightest blue I’ve ever seen, so different from the slate-gray eyes of his battle-brothers, who were not born of the Queen but of the cryo-chambers.

Their eyes will only be inked with color if they find the one woman in the universe they could be Bonded to and complete their triad.

Those two are still tall, over seven foot each, but they pale next to the imposing Prince.

Doman is a great commander, fighting back against the Fanatics who push into his territories, led by the War-God himself, Obsidian. Only Doman could stand up to that brutal beast’s might.

So many desperate humans see him as a symbol of hope, of protection.

Planet upon human planet has submitted to him, without him needing to lift his sword. His presence exudes strength, and proud, Independent planets who threw off the yoke of the Aurelian Empire have bowed to him, flocking to his protection.

He is the emblem of everything I hate. Everything Pentaris stands against. He is an Aurelian, the alien species who views humanity as playthings and toys, weak and scared in the vast chaos of the universe and unable to protect themselves.

I hate seeing formerly Independent planets bow to his rule, and though I cannot stop the free travel of my own citizens, it rankles me that even in the safety of Pentaris, some young women throw away their freedom, traveling towards Colossus to join the huge harems of the alien warriors.

The aliens not at war sit in their estates, drinking wine, attended to by human women who throw away their own agency and dignity, submitting to the strength and protection of the brutal triads.

That, I will never understand. Instead of forging your own path, you chose being clad in a pleasure dress, serving the titans as just one woman among dozens, taken into their pleasure rooms to sate their endless needs.

They parade their harem wenches proudly, walking them naked through their marble streets, leashed and displayed, and somehow, the fact that each woman can leave the harems any time they choose and instead decide to debase themselves into pleasure toys makes me all the angrier.

The all-male species live centuries, and humans are replaceable to them…

Unless you are their Fated Mate.

It’s not my hatred for the arrogant warrior prince that makes my stomach churn when I see him.

It’s that over a year ago, when I was one of the twelves Administrators serving under Prime Minister Stern, I saw a vision, as real as life itself.

I had hoped I had gone insane, but reports of other visions spread out through the universe like wildfire.

In some dark ritual, the Fanatics who split off from the Aurelian Empire made the Bond thrum, showing every Aurelian alive the one woman in the universe who they believe belong to them.

I saw Doman and his triad.