Page 61 of The Sovereign, Part One (The Sovereign Saga #1)

By the time I was ready for Lourdes’s gala, adorned in the engineered elegance Hyperion was known for, I barely recognized the woman in the mirror.

The gown’s striking violet hue clung to my frame as if it had been sealed onto me in a vacuum chamber: liquid in motion, yet meticulously structured.

It was a color that read as power, sensuality, and intellect all in one—exactly the balance I was expected to walk as a Sovereign at a Vanguard gala.

The asymmetrical neckline curved over one shoulder, anchored by a single translucent strap that shimmered when I moved.

Beneath the surface, fine strands of iridescent thread glinted like magenta embers.

I’d pinned my hair into a trio of sculpted low buns: sleek and architectural, as though pulled straight from an old-world runway two centuries ahead of its time.

My dermatone was whisper-soft: rose-gold shadow across the lids, just a few coats on my lashes, and a breath of highlighter brushed over the high points of my cheekbones, catching the light just enough to look otherworldly.

The lip stain matched my dress, sharp as intention, and the final weapon in an arsenal I hadn’t realized I’d been assembling.

I sighed. “I’m fine, Calyx, thank you.”

“I respectfully disagree. However, your dress is so striking, I’ve notified the fire suppression system out of an abundance of caution.”

That earned the ghost of a laugh. “Your algorithms need tuning.”

“Already done,” he replied. “Also, Maxim has just arrived.”

Before I could answer, the threshold wisped open.

Maxim stepped in, but for a moment, he didn’t speak.

His gaze traveled over me—slow, reverent—as if he were furiously trying to save each detail into a secured file.

He wore a tuxedo cut close to the body, with no lapels and a subtle charcoal shimmer that caught the light in fragments over a crisp white button-down. Understated but lethal. Just like him.

He crossed the room in a few strides, his hand sliding to my waist as he pressed a kiss to my cheek. Then lower, to the curve of my neck, then my collarbone.

“This dress is going to be a problem,” he murmured, voice deep and low. “You look like sin dressed in salvation.”

“Sin?” I tilted my head. “That’s an archaic and interesting choice. We don’t use that word here.”

“I’m aware.” His eyes didn’t flinch. “But you, in this”—he traced the fabric hugging the apex of my hip—“feels like something forbidden. Something holy… and yet, perilous. An approved word wouldn’t come close.”

I failed to suppress an appreciative grin as he stepped back just enough for his eyes to pour over me again.

One brow lifted, subtle but pointed. “There’s still a trace of it,” he said, voice thick with amusement.

“Trace of…?” Then, recognition hit. “ Ugh , don’t start,” I began, already knowing there was no stopping him.

“Discontentment… resentment… angst, perhaps? Not overt, just the smallest current beneath that otherwise serene exterior. Are you still brooding over the Dyadic Assessment report? Are those absurd comments still boiling under your flawless skin?” he teased, running one finger tenderly down my arm.

“You know they were obligated to slip in something mildly disapproving, otherwise it wouldn’t qualify as a proper assessment. ”

I pulled away, eyes narrowing. “When the two most revered psychoanalysts in recorded history essentially diagnose you as emotionally withheld, while simultaneously stating you’re potentially too refined for intimacy—am I meant to apologize for not dissolving into catharsis at the feet of strangers who are handsomely compensated to dismantle my psyche in real time? ”

Maxim’s mouth curved. “If I recall, their phrasing was: ‘Displays a tendency toward controlled vulnerability,’ and ‘Demonstrates an advanced level of self-awareness, occasionally bordering on self-editing to a degree that may inhibit spontaneous intimacy.’”

“Oh, and let’s not forget,” I added, voice flat, “‘Presents with a high-functioning conflict aversion strategy, masked as composure,’ and—my personal favorite—‘Exhibits moments of over-identification with moral obligation, occasionally prioritizing perceived duty over personal fulfillment.’” I scoffed.

“Forgive me, Eshran, for possessing integrity and not impulsively filing a termination request for my accordant for dramatic effect.”

Maxim took my hand, wholly amused. “Calyx, initiate route to Lourdes’s estate in the Empyrean Crest.”

We stepped down the hall and outside, Maxim’s thumb grazing the side of my hand as we walked.

The slipgate opened and he assisted me and the short train of my dress inside, unable to take his eyes off me even after it closed.

He seemed to snap out of it, then rounded the front to slide behind the nav ring.

We didn’t leave once his slipgate closed.

Instead, he watched me for a bit, waiting for something.

“Is everything okay? We’ll be late if we wait much longer,” I said.

“Isara,” Maxim said. “You’ve been a bit… different since we left The Cradle.”

I twisted my fingers in my lap, trying to find the right place to begin. “We’ve had a big week,” I said quietly.

He studied me for a moment. “What are you trying not to say?”

I hesitated. “I’ve always wanted a family.

I’ve imagined our children almost as often as I imagined you.

Now that I know what I know, about me, about Hyperion, the terror I felt during the assessment…

not that it matters, because it’s not even a choice, is it?

We have to bring children into this, and I…

I don’t know how to make peace with that. How do we protect them?”

“The same way I’ll protect you,” he said without hesitation.

I smiled, but it was fragile, flickering, as if it might vanish if he blinked. “You always have a plan.”

“For every scenario,” he said, lifting my hand and pressing a kiss to my fingers.

“An infinite number. For you. For them. I already know what The Citadel would do in every case, and what I’ll do in response.

” He held my hand in both of his, his voice like something solid I could lean against. “Just live. Laugh. Love them. Trust me to carry the rest.”

My chest tightened, aching with something between relief and dread. “I do trust you. I do. But it’s still terrifying, Maxim. I wish I could see it all the way you do.”

“If you trust me,” he said softly, “then you don’t need to.”

I let out a slow breath and nodded. “Okay. Then, unless you say otherwise, it’s life as usual.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, his dimple a sudden crack in his armor. “Thank you. Your peace, your joy—those aren’t side quests, Isara. They are the reason the rest of it matters.”

After weaving through the glowing arteries of Hyperion Proper and ascending the serpentine roads that curled toward the summit of Empyrean Crest, our transport eased to a halt six blocks from the gates of the Vasthane estate.

Lourdes’s gala had spilled into the streets like a living organism.

Lights hovered midair in perfect suspension, blinking in hypnotic pulse above us, their hues shifting in sync with the music—music that didn’t seem to come from resonators, but from the trees and the very pavement beneath our feet.

Acrobats spiraled overhead in slow, gravity-defying arcs, their bodies gliding through manipulated airfields that looped between buildings like invisible ribbons.

Each twist of their limbs triggered bursts of color, vivid trails painting elegant loops of cerulean, rose gold, and violet.

Their suits glistened with kinetic crystals, reacting to motion with a shimmer that rippled outward like sunlight over water.

Some carried radiant fans or metallic streamers that refracted the light around them, leaving fractal illusions suspended midair before fading like breath against transpane.

Below, the street had been transformed into a continuous canvas of artistry and technology.

Sculptures made from water and ice rose from hovering, nearly invisible platforms, shifting shape in fluid succession—first a towering phoenix with wings of mist and diamond-edged frost, then melting mid-flight into a cascade of prisms that refracted the ambient light.

The liquid rolled upward in defiance of gravity, only to solidify midair into the roar of a crystalline dragon whose scales scattered light in a kaleidoscope of shimmer across the gathering crowd.

Silk ribbons, thin as mist and long as avenues, draped from levitating rigs high above, flames dancing along their lengths.

The fire didn’t burn, not in the traditional sense.

It was choreographed, contained by thin energy conduits, pulsing and swaying with the aerialists’ rhythm as though alive and obedient.

The air was perfumed with delicate notes of citrus blossom, burning oud, and something unplaceably electric, like ozone after a storm.

From discreet vents built into the base of every sculpture, a cooling breeze blew.

No doubt Lourdes had thought to subtly scent even the air to ensure not even the crush of warm bodies spoiled the comfort of the atmosphere.

The guests themselves were walking masterpieces.

Gowns spun from programmable fiberoptic threads morphed color and texture based on mood input, lighting up with glittering constellations or becoming sheer illusions that hinted at skin without revealing anything at all.

Suits tailored to the millimeter pulsed with biometric tech—light racing along seams in sync with their wearers’ heartbeats, shifting hues with every emotion, like living mood rings made from couture.