Page 21 of She Who Devours the Stars (The Astral Mess #1)

I’d always figured my first time in an Accord diplomatic suite would involve at least three sets of handcuffs, a bottle of high-ethanol vodka, and maybe a bar fight in the lobby for flavor.

Instead, I was alone, unless you counted the three surveillance drones pretending to be light fixtures, and the handcuffs were made of geometry, not metal.

The door wasn’t even locked, but I knew better than to test the perimeter.

The air in here had the taste of old ozone and new regret: Accord’s version of “hospitality.”

They’d dressed up the suite as best they could.

No expense spared on the surface polish: faux-starlight ceilings, silk couches the color of war wounds, a table in the center so glossy I could check the status of my teeth without bending down.

But it reeked of a rushed cleanup. The scorch marks on the doorframe had been buffed, not replaced.

The window overlooking the city still showed a hairline crack, artfully overlooked by whoever had done the inventory.

The only thing that felt truly high-class was the silence, calibrated to a level of hush where you could hear your pulse if you cared to.

I didn’t care to. I was too busy staring at the viewport.

Vireleth hung in the sky above our little moon, bigger than I’d ever seen her even in simulation.

She didn’t orbit, she dominated, her hull slicing the line between atmo and vacuum like she was daring the world to blink first. The edges of her silhouette glimmered with new myth, every minute shedding and growing a new set of weapons, wings, or spires depending on her mood.

Half the city’s population was probably praying to her right now, or at least telling themselves they would if it meant she’d fire on their landlord.

Every time I blinked, I could feel her. Not just as a ship, but as a presence: old, hungry, and awake for the first time in a thousand years. She was watching. Not the city. Not the Accord. Me.

She’d burn the planet if I asked.

It was a comfort.

I shifted on the couch, letting my thigh rest on the silk just long enough to leave a print.

I’d cleaned up as best I could, showered in the suite’s overengineered water wall, braided my hair, and even run a toothbrush over my tongue until the last of the blood-ash taste was gone.

They’d left a stack of civilian clothes in the bathroom, clearly chosen by someone who thought “understated” meant “gray and covers everything.” I wore them anyway, but undid the top three buttons on the shirt.

A small act of rebellion. Or seduction. The line was fuzzy.

The door hissed open at 08:00 on the atomic dot.

Dyris Vaelith stepped in, eyes already narrowed, uniform so sharp I wondered if she kept a backup in a vacuum seal.

She scanned the room, then me, then the room again, as if trying to verify I hadn’t already reconfigured the furniture into a weapon.

Her hair was the same platinum ice as before, but now set in a braid so tight it could have been used as a garrote.

She carried no weapon, unless you counted the data-slate in her left hand, or the cut of her cheekbones, which I did.

She walked to the table and sat, posture immaculate. Didn’t speak. Just set the data-slate between us and waited for me to make the first move.

I let the silence stretch for a solid ten seconds. Then, with maximum nonchalance, I asked, “Did the Accord uniform designers go to the same finishing school as the Inquisition, or is it just a shared kink?”

Her nostrils flared. Not much, but enough.

“Uniform regulations are a matter of public record,” she replied. “But if you have input, I’m sure the committee would value your… perspective.”

The data-slate was angled so I could see the screen: my file, flashing with the words NULLARCH: ACTIVE RISK. There were five new tabs at the top, all coded red, and the last one was titled “Mitigation.” I snorted.

“You want to talk about perspective,” I said, “maybe start by explaining why the Accord keeps trying to kill every recursion that gets interesting.”

Her eyes flicked to mine, flat and hard. “Containment is not execution.”

“Says the lady who vaporized three city blocks to catch one girl,” I said. “Nice shot, by the way. Was it worth the collateral?”

Dyris didn’t flinch. “The strike wasn’t mine. High Command authorized it before I even landed.” She looked at me, and for the first time, I saw it. Not guilt, not regret, but fury. Leashed, cold, and entirely impersonal.

“But I’m the Director. I’m the one who cleans up the myths they don’t understand.”

“Then you suck at your job.”

She didn’t react, but her hand flexed on the slate, thumb tapping out a silent rhythm. It was the same tick she’d had in the stairwell, when she wanted to reach for a weapon but protocol said “no.” I found it weirdly comforting.

She took a breath, eyes never leaving mine. “You’re not here for a confession, Fern. We’re past that. The Accord wants a treaty.”

I raised an eyebrow. “With me?”

Her expression didn’t shift. “With whatever version of you still counts as politically survivable.”

I let that hang for a second. “Meaning?”

Dyris tapped the edge of the slate, pulling up a new overlay. A tribunal notice, already public across Accord channels: Field Commander Halvec Strain (House of Grel): Immediate Recall Pending Tribunal. His face was blurred, but the headline did most of the work.

“They needed a scapegoat,” she said, voice dry as static. “Strain was convenient. House Grel’s leadership is still screaming about it, but Command’s too busy triaging mythic containment protocols to care.”

I whistled low. “So, I’ve officially survived my first political coverup.”

“Congratulations.” She flipped the slate back to the Nullarch file. “You’ve made enemies with one of the top ten noble Houses before breakfast.”

I smiled, all teeth. “Better than being boring.”

I stretched my arms overhead, and pulled in deep lungfuls of clean air, popping both shoulders, then slouched farther into the couch. “You keep using ‘we’ like it means anything.”

Dyris pursed her lips. “Fine. I would prefer not to escalate. Because if it comes to that, no one on this station survives. Including you.”

“Big talk from a lady with no gun.” I tilted my head toward the viewport, where Vireleth drifted closer, now backlit by the first of Pelago’s suns breaking the horizon. “She likes me, you know.”

Dyris stared straight into my eyes. I saw mine, glowing, reflected in the mesmerizing liquid silver. “I noticed.”

“I bet she likes me more than you do.”

For a beat, nothing. Then, very softly, with a steel that made my pulse spike: “That was never in question.”

I laughed. “You’re not supposed to let the prisoner win the banter.”

“You’re not a prisoner.”

“Sure feels like it.”

She drew herself up, jaw working. “You have more freedom of movement than anyone else in the Glimmer Zone. The only reason you’re still alive is that the Accord believes negotiation is possible.”

I licked my lips. “Define ‘negotiation.’”

She pushed the data-slate across the table.

The screen displayed a contract, a real, legally binding, probably ten million lines of code under the surface, but all I could see was the opening line: Accord Mutual Non-Destruction.

Underneath, my name. Underneath that, Lioren Trivane, in ghosted text, as if the system couldn’t let go.

“You want me to sign away the right to exist,” I said. “Classic Accord.”

Her eyes didn’t flicker. “We want you to keep existing. Just… not like this.”

I snorted. “You’re not that broken.”

Her mouth almost twitched. “You don’t know me.”

I looked her up and down, slow and obviously. “I know you spent three hours staring at the security feeds last night, and that you watched the Vireleth transmission more times than you’ll admit.”

That got a reaction. She blushed, just a hint, but I filed it away for later.

“Why did you come alone?” I asked, dropping the act. “You could have brought an army.”

Dyris straightened. “Because this isn’t a negotiation. It’s a test.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Of what?”

She hesitated, then: “Whether you’re still Fern.”

The question hung, loud and raw.

I thought about it. I thought about the blue-white glow in my veins, the way my bones sang every time Vireleth called, the way the world had started to taste less like a planet and more like a promise.

I shrugged. “Right now, I’m whoever I want to be.”

She let out a breath she’d been holding. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

I leaned forward, letting the containment field buzz louder. “I liked it better,” I said, “when you were afraid.”

She froze, just for a second. The mask slipped, and underneath was something brittle and bright. She stood to leave, but her fingertips lingered on the table, right where my hand had been.

She looked back at me, eyes unreadable. “Next time, you won’t have the upper hand.”

I grinned. “Maybe I’ll let you try it.”

She left, not looking back.

I watched her go. The room felt emptier, but not in a bad way.

Above the city, Vireleth shifted again, shadows twisting into new, impossible shapes. I watched her, and she watched me back, both of us waiting for the next move.

It was good to be alive.

Even if I was the wrong girl for the job.

Thread Modulation: Dyris Vaelith Axis Alignment: Pelago-9 Administrative Center

Maybe I should have called for a detachment, brought a kill-team, or at least a pair of goons to stand at the door and glare at her until she stopped smiling.

That would have been protocol. Instead, I staged the entire thing myself, down to the utensils and the clandestine sweep of the room, twice, before she arrived.

On my way in, Vireleth reflected in every window I passed, a cold, celestial reminder that nothing the Accord possessed could threaten the Nullarch. Not anymore.