My mother’s expression doesn’t flicker. But I see my father’s eyes narrow—calculating. Reassessing.
“You havepink hair.”
The exclamation shatters the tension. Ayla has pushed past both parents, decorum forgotten, her eyes fixed on Polly with undisguised delight.
“Is that regulation?” she demands.
Polly’s surprise flickers through the bond before her smile emerges—genuine, startled. “Absolutely not.”
“Iloveit.” Ayla grins, and for a moment she looks exactly like the little sister I remember—the one who used to sneak into my quarters to hear stories about the galaxy beyond our homeworld. “Does it wash out? Can you do other colors? Rynn never lets me dye mine—”
“Ayla.” My mother’s voice is frost. “Decorum.”
“Yes, Mother.” Ayla subsides, but she throws Polly a look that clearly sayswe’re talking later.
Through the bond: a flicker of warmth. At least one of them doesn’t hate her.
“We should prepare.” My father’s voice cuts through the remaining tension with military precision. “The memorial ceremony begins within the hour. The Zaterran commander has... requested our attendance.”
Requested. Meaning Henrok told them they were coming whether they liked it or not. I feel a surge of appreciation for the massive warrior.
“You’ll attend the memorial?” I ask.
“The Valorian High Houses honor warriors who fall in righteous battle.” My father’s gaze is steady. “Whatever our... concerns about certain developments, the Zaterrans died fighting alongside my son. That debt will be acknowledged.”
It’s not acceptance. But it’s something.
“I need to finish dressing,” I say. “Polly has been assisting with my injuries.”
My mother’s lips thin at the implication. But she turns toward the door with the grace of a politician retreating from an unwinnable position. “We’ll await you in the corridor. Don’t be late.”
She sweeps out. My father follows, but he pauses at the threshold.
“The courier.” He doesn’t turn around. “She truly saved your life?”
“More than once.”
A pause. Then: “We’ll speak more after the ceremony.”
He’s gone before I can respond.
Only Ayla lingers, bouncing on her heels, clearly desperate to stay and ask approximately one thousand questions.
“Ayla.” My mother’s voice carries from the corridor.
“Coming!” She darts forward and grabs Polly’s hand—quick, fierce. “I’m so glad he found you. He’s been alone forever and it wasawfuland I don’t care what Mother says, you’re already my favorite—”
“Ayla.”
“Coming!” She squeezes Polly’s hand once more and vanishes through the door.
The silence she leaves behind feels louder than her chatter.
“Well.” Polly’s voice is carefully light. “Your mother definitely wants to murder me.”
“She wants to murder everyone. It’s her resting state.”
“And your father looked at me like I was a tactical problem.”
