Page 131 of Last of Her Name

I nod, not quite meeting his eyes. He’s an inch taller than he was when this all began.

“I don’t like it when you get that look,” he says. “Like you’re slipping away. You don’t have to do this, you know. You don’t owe anyone anything.”

“I’m all right.”

It’s been six months since the Prismata exploded. Most of the galaxy has begun to move on, the blackout another painful footnote in our tumultuous history. But for me, for Pol, for everyone at the center of things, these six months have been one long period of chaos.

With the collapse of the Union, trade routes shut down, food and water shortages became catastrophic, and most of all, the struggle for power—literal power, the energy to power ships and buildings and tech—resulted in violent outbreaks across the galaxy. With the Prism power still far weaker than it once was, everyone has been affected. But slowly, the Prismic energy has been getting stronger.

All thanks to the seed, nestled in the little case that hangs around my neck. I raise my hand to it and squeeze. Pol leans forward until his forehead presses against mine, and we both shut our eyes. I relish a quiet, stolen moment with him; we don’t get nearly enough these days.

“Ahem,” says a voice directly behind us. Pol and I both jump, my heart clawing its way up my throat.

“Riyan!”we say in unison.

The tensor’s robes are still fluttering from his silent touchdown beside us. He gives a little smile. “Sorry.”

“You’re never going to stop doing that, are you?” I ask, shaking my head.

He raises a hand. “They’re ready for you.”

Ahead, the door of the Solariat is open. I draw a deep breath, squeeze Pol’s hand, then walk in.

I have to see this through. It’s my responsibility, as the last Firebird.

The last time I was in this room, I’d just unlocked the code, and it feels like an entirely new place now. The old Crescent Throne is gone. I don’t know where it went, and I don’t much care. The room feels smaller without it, but the view of Alexandrine is just as stunning as it always was.

The Allied Council has assembled here: four presidents, a gold-skinned zheran prime minister, a delicate paryan queen, the Lord Tensor, an aeyla spokesman, and an eeda admiral. They’re seated in a wide circle, with various staff arranged behind them.

Each of them represents one of the Jewels, most chosen according to their planet’s pre-Empire traditions. Once diplomats, royalty, and generals under the Empire, many of them were prisoners here at the palace all through the Union’s brief but bloody rule, and helped the galaxy find stability after the eruption of the Prism network.

It’s strange to see Riyan’s father again, after everything that happened on Diamin. He hasn’t spoken to his son, and I don’t think Riyan is ready for that, anyway. So although they’re in the same building, they might as well be strangers. As long as Riyan doesn’t return home, his father can’t enforce his sentence. It makes me sad, to think there are still some rifts that can’t be mended, but at least Riyan has Natalya now.

I’m not the only one who’s nervous around the Lord Tensor, although the Council leaders have different reasons. Some of them, I think, didn’t want Diamin to be part of the Alliance at all. They still don’t trust the tensors. But I made it clear I wouldn’t do this unless all nine planets were represented. Beyond that, I can’t do anything to help the tensors. They’ll have to find a way to fit in on their own, and the other planets will just have to get over it. Maybe Riyan’s dream of seeing his people accepted will come true eventually, but it’s going to take time.

The Council watches me in silence, most of them with expressions of suspicion. I don’t blame them. What I am and what I can do with the Prisms has become widespread knowledge, but the stories have gotten out of control. I don’t doubt these rulers have heard some pretty monstrous versions. I wish I could make them understand what I truly am—a girl who still has to pick up the pieces of herself every morning and carry on, no matter how much she wants to break down.

“Anya Leonova, welcome.” The queen of Sapphine greets me with a smile, at least. She sits beneath a spray of mist, to keep her eeda skin comfortably damp.

I bow to her as a pedestal rises from the floor in front of me. I walk to it and set down the small tabletka I’m carrying. With a touch, I send a hologram glittering into the air.

“Esteemed Council of the Jewel Alliance,” I say. “I am happy to report that the Prismata is healthy and growing.”

I raise a hand to the holo, which depicts the small crystal. It turns slowly, all twelve points shimmering. I’ve made it larger so they can all see, but in truth, it’s still no bigger than the tip of my thumb. Its growth rate has led us to believe it will be several hundred thousand years before it’s even half the size it was when Volkov attacked it. So that they can be assured it’s still safe, I raise the little egg-shaped case around my neck. Made of black diamantglass, a press of a little button on the top clears away the dark tint, revealing the shining pearl inside. After they have a chance to see it, I let the glass cloud again, safely hiding the most precious object in the galaxy.

“Power across the Belt, as you know, is still extremely low. But thanks to the solar farms on Sapphine”—I nod to the queen—“and the wind farms of Rubyat, we’re making do.”

The galaxy still needs Prismic energy, especially to power Takhdrives, but I don’t think we’ll ever be as fully reliant on it as we once were. That’s a lesson we learned the hard way.

“Has it … spoken to you?” asks the aeyla spokesman, hesitantly.

They all look at me with interest, and some skepticism. I know from our previous meetings that many still have trouble believing the Prismata is a living being.

“No,” I say, hiding the ache of sadness in my chest. “It’s still quite weak. I’m not sure it will ever speak to us again, perhaps not for thousands of years. But it lives, and that is what’s important. As long as we protect it, understand it, and trust it as it trusted us, we have nothing to fear.”

“We will be the judge of that,” grunts the president of Rubyat.

I nod, glancing worriedly at him. He’s the least receptive of all of them; Rubyat was the last of the Jewels to join the Alliance. In this room, all the systems are equal but independent. No emperors, no direktors, just nine sovereign worlds trying to find a way to get along. I’m just glad I’m not in one of those seats. Forging peace after everything our galaxy has been through in the last two decades is no easy thing. My job has been simple in comparison: to monitor the Prismata and keep the lights on, so to speak.