Diplomatic Immunity
Rynn
TheWarRoomisa cacophony of tactical alerts and the low, throbbing hum of the fortress shields absorbing orbital bombardment. Every impact shudders through the obsidian floor, vibrates up through my boots, rattles my teeth. The crystalline veins threading through the walls pulse erratically with each strike—amber flaring to white, then fading, then flaring again. Like a heartbeat under siege.
Through the bond, I feel Polly. Her focus is diamond-hard, her fear buried beneath layers of stubborn determination. She’s at a secondary console with Suki, working to optimize the data stream, and every few seconds I catch flashes of her thoughts—come on, come on, faster—like radio signals cutting through static.
She is fighting for me. For us.
The knowledge burns in my chest, hot and fierce and humbling.
“Shields at seventy percent in Sector 4,” Suki announces, her fingers a blur across the console. Her voice is steady, professional, but I can smell the sharp edge of adrenaline beneath her calm. “They’re concentrating fire on the thermal exhaust ports. Smart. Standard siege tactic.”
Another impact. The floor lurches. Somewhere in the distance, I hear the groan of stressed metal—or perhaps stressed stone. In this fortress, carved from living obsidian, it is difficult to tell.
“They want to overheat us,” Henrok rumbles, studying the holographic map where red icons swarm like angry insects around the pale blue dot of his home. His crystalline veins are pulsing in a slow, steady rhythm that speaks of controlled fury. “Force us to drop the grid or cook inside our own armor.”
I look at the upload bar on the main screen.
12%.
It crawls. The nebula interference is thicker than we anticipated, the data packet denser. Every percentage point feelslike an eternity, like watching sand drain through an hourglass while a blade descends toward your neck.
At this rate, the shields will fail long before the High Council receives the proof of my heritage. Before my grandmother’s sacrifice means anything. Before my father’s three generations of careful diplomacy becomes anything other than ash.
We’re going to make it,Polly pushes through the bond, feeling my spiral.We didn’t come this far to lose.
Her faith is a balm, but it doesn’t change the mathematics.
“We need more time,” I say aloud, the realization settling cold and heavy in my gut. My voice sounds strange to my own ears—too calm, too controlled. The diplomat’s mask, sliding into place out of pure survival instinct.
“We don’t have it,” Henrok replies without looking up. Another barrage hits the shields, and the holographic display flickers, distorts, then stabilizes. “We can divert power from life support to the shields, buy maybe ten minutes. After that...” He shrugs, a massive movement of slate-grey muscle that somehow conveys both resignation and anticipation. “We fight in the corridors.”
I look across the room at Polly.
She’s bathed in the harsh blue light of the holograms, her pink hair turned strange colors by the emergency lighting, her jaw set in that stubborn angle I have come to love. The mark on her neck—my mark—pulses faintly gold, visible even from here. A beacon. A claim.
She catches my gaze and holds it. Through the bond, I feel her concern for me, her frustration at the crawling upload, her absolute refusal to give up. She is fierce and determined and utterly beautiful.
What are you thinking?She sends.
That I cannot just be a passenger anymore.
Her eyes narrow.Rynn—
I cannot be the cargo you drag across the finish line.
Something shifts in her expression. Not concern—recognition. She knows me well enough now to understand what I’m about to do. And she doesn’t try to stop me.
Then show them what a Valorian diplomat can do.
I straighten my spine. Take a breath. Feel the familiar click of the mask settling into place—not the cold, impenetrable wall I wore for thirty years, but something sharper. Honed by fire. Tempered by the woman who taught me that strength doesn’t always mean armor.
“First Blade,” I say, stepping up to the main tactical table. My voice carries across the room, cutting through the chaos of alerts and the distant thunder of orbital strikes. “I need access to your communications array.”
Henrok turns slowly. His garnet eyes—faceted like gemstones, ancient and knowing—narrow as they assess me. The crystalline patterns on his arms pulse brighter, responding to his interest.
“To what end, Valorian?” His voice is a low rumble, like distant thunder. “Do you wish to surrender?”
