Page 32 of She Who Devours the Stars (The Astral Mess #1)

He wasn’t wrong. The planet’s upper atmosphere was already crawling with drones, not the good kind, but the ones that flew in formation and tried to look like they were policing a parade rather than prepping for planetary lockdown.

I took a second to admire the coordination.

It would’ve been beautiful, if not for the way every sensor in the hemisphere locked onto our hull like a cosmic dare.

Dax cleared the deck, gave me a thumbs up, and ejected himself to the maintenance level. I wasn’t sure if he was scared or just didn’t want to see what a mythship did when you pointed too many guns at it.

The main channel was a disaster.

I patched in. The Accord’s planetary security lead, an undercaffeinated bureaucrat with a five-star paranoia rating, opened with a legal threat that took six minutes to finish scrolling. I let him rant. At minute seven, he paused to breathe, and I took the gap.

“This is Dyris Vaelith, authorized attaché for the Nullarch mission,” I said, keeping my tone in the range of “barely giving a shit.” “We are on approach per pre-filed notice. Please clarify your intent.”

He ignored it. The next three minutes were a loop: “Power down your mythdrive,” “hold at Lagrange Point,” and “submit to immediate inspection by planetary enforcement.” I recognized the script; it was the same one the Accord rolled out for pirate ships and rogue mythtech, which, to be fair, we technically qualified as.

But the mythship didn’t care. Vireleth cut our velocity to zero and simply waited. The act of non-action set off a second wave of hysteria. Half the planet’s AIs triggered mythic contamination alarms, and the rest defaulted to “panic and spam comms until someone notices.”

Through it all, the Vireleth’s hull did nothing. Not even a micro-flinch. There was an art to intimidation, and this ship had been built by someone who’d seduced war gods for a living.

At 04:34, the first planetary defense net attempted to aim a weapon at us. The net’s targeting software initiated, ran a recursive check, and then, on live feed, crashed so hard it dumped its logs, rebooted, and retracted the targeting as if embarrassed.

The planetary security lead came back online, voice an octave higher. “You will comply, or we will activate the failsafe!”

I muted him. He kept talking, his face turning a brighter shade of splotchy, but I needed a minute to strategize.

The mythship wouldn’t fire unless directly attacked; the protocols were clear on that.

But if anyone on Eventide’s surface launched a kinetic round at us, the ship’s reflex would not be a polite countermeasure.

It would be a mythic event, and the Accord would write a new doctrine about “Nullarch Protocol” before the dust even settled.

I needed to buy time. I needed them to see me as the most boring, least dangerous variable in this equation.

I unmuted. “This is Dyris Vaelith, of the Great House Vaelith, again. We are operating under Accord compliance and will hold at designated coordinates. I am forwarding the Nullarch’s mission syllabus and all required documentation to your office. Please advise on next steps.”

I sent the packet. I included my credentials, my service record, and, because I had a hunch it would scare the shit out of them, a copy of the “Nullarch Bootcamp” course description.

Out of spite, I also included the ancient Ship Identification Number Lioren Trivane had assigned Vireleth personally.

0.666. If someone pissed themselves when [FLAGSHIP, HOUSE TRIVANE] appeared on their screen it certainly wouldn’t be my fault.

It worked. There was silence. Sweet, precious, uninterrupted silence.

Then a new face appeared on the channel: a woman, sharp-featured, wearing the silver insignia of Eventide’s civilian governor.

Her hair was up in a braid so tight it probably served as a backup communications cable.

She looked at me, looked at the ship’s ID code, and, with a voice calm as entropy, said, “Is it really her?”

I nodded. “Nullarch. Confirmed.”

She exhaled. “And she’s not here to…?”

I let the pause do the work. “Eat the planet? No. She’s here to attend Eventide Athenaeum. For six months. Under supervision.”

The woman looked off-camera. Someone must have said something funny, because her mouth twitched. “I see. Do you require an escort?”

I did the math. If we accepted a surface escort, they’d keep us under constant surveillance and lock down any “deviant activity,” which for Fern could mean anything from quantum resonance to picking at her own cuticles.

If we refused, they’d monitor us anyway, but from a distance, and there was less chance of a close-range mythic incident.

“Not necessary,” I said. “But appreciated. We will comply with all standard customs.”

The woman’s eyes flicked to a point above the screen, probably scrolling through the latest incident updates. “Understood. We’ll transmit entry protocols. Welcome to Eventide.”

She disconnected without another word. I admired her style.

I sat back, let my pulse settle. The mythship’s lights faded from battle-alert to a gentle blue, a color I’d learned meant “bored but not unhappy.” I turned in my chair, stretched out my arms, and let myself relax for the first time in a week.

Then the security lead came back, still screaming. I let him. He could have the last word.

I muted the comm, spun the chair, and checked the local feeds.

The planet had already decided to ignore the bureaucracy and throw a festival.

The main city’s message board overflowed with invitations to “taco parties” and “Nullarch Watch events,” all timed to our estimated arrival.

There was even a rumor that someone had built a Fern effigy out of pure glucose and was preparing to ignite it in her honor.

I snorted, then laughed, then finally allowed myself the luxury of leaning back and closing my eyes.

Two hours. That was the new record for “time spent in negotiation before someone tried to threaten me with planetary self-destruct.”

I could live with it.

When I opened my eyes, the mythship was still holding station, the stars behind her a static field of potential disaster.

I smiled, let the exhaustion catch up.

Somewhere on the surface, Fern was already a legend.

But up here, I was the only thing standing between the planet and mythic meltdown.

And I was not about to lose to a bunch of tacos.

I poured myself a drink from the bridge minibar, black coffee, nothing else, and prepared for whatever came next.

Eventide wanted a show.

I’d make sure they got it.

But on my terms.

Thread Modulation: Fern Meldin Axis Modulation: Inside Vireleth

The next phase of the disaster wasn’t dramatic. It was just a notification chime and a drink.

I was back in the lounge, sitting cross-legged on the lowest mesh hammock and ignoring the countdown to surface approach, when the mythship’s snack AI offered me a glass.

It wasn’t a random cocktail; it was my childhood favorite lime-mango fizz, salted rim, and three neonfruit slices bobbing on the top, cut into the shape of smiley faces.

I took the drink, skeptical. I hadn’t remembered liking this, not really.

It was one of those flavors you drank because your parents said, “Pick something, or nothing,” and you always picked something, so it became a ritual.

I took a cautious sip, expecting the memory of cheap syrup and recycled tap.

Instead, I got hit with a taste so perfect it bypassed nostalgia and punched me straight in the hypothalamus.

Sweet, sour, clean, a burn of sodium on the lips and a splash of fake citrus on the tongue.

The cold shocked my teeth, the fizz bit at my sinuses, and for a split second, I was ten years old again, sitting in the kitchen with both parents, drinking lime-mango fizz on a dare while they argued about whether or not to let me color my hair with off-brand mythdye.

I downed half the glass in one go, blinked, and stared at it.

“Creepy,” I muttered, and finished it. “Another.”

The AI obliged, this time with a garnish of candied ginger. It was showing off, but I respected the hustle.

Across the room, Velline was pacing in front of the window, eyes on the blue-white glow of Eventide’s surface. She wore a floor-length robe that looked like it had cost more than the average city block, and she’d already swapped in two fresh hair colors since breakfast.

“So,” she said, “when do we get to nerd camp?”

I shrugged. “Whenever they clear us to land. Dyris is still on comms with orbital command, trying to convince them we’re not here to seduce their moons out of alignment.”

Velline grinned. “Please, if we wanted to, we already would have.”

From the next hammock over, Dax snorted, “You say that like we haven’t tried.”

I smiled, but the mood was tight. Mom and Dad weren’t wrong.

If these two were released on the planet, they might never recover.

This wasn’t Pelago-9. There were dangerous people on the planet: politicians, Accord, people with hazardous astral resonances, and even myths.

I couldn’t let them run free until I at least felt like they’d be safe.

Then everything shifted as a single, unified DING echoed through the lounge.

Every person, every terminal, even the wall panels, lit up with a personalized notification.

Dax’s display went first: UNLOCKED: LIOREN TRIVANE’S PRIVATE RECORDINGS.

His hand shook, just a little. “No way,” he said. “They said those were lost in the mythwar.”

Velline’s popped next: CLAIMED: NOBLE TIER COSMETIC ARCHIVE + 52 OUTFIT COUPONS.

She went still, lips parted. “That’s—” She reached for her wrist display, already half-dreaming through the possibilities. “This is a dream that is the only reason I survived puberty.”