The shuttle’s descent makes my stomach drop. Zevran sits rigid across from me, hands clasped between his knees, staring at nothing. His left hand trembles slightly, pain breaking through his control. I want to reach for him, but guards line the shuttle’s interior, watching everything. I stifle my own tremors with concentration.
We land with a gentle jolt that vibrates through the hull. The doors hiss open, releasing pressurized air that smells metallic and recycled.
White and silver banners hang in the docking corridor – the Cardinals’neutral colours, meant to symbolize impartiality. The fabric is some kind of synthetic weave that doesn’t move despite the ventilation currents. A group of Cardinals waits at the far end, positioned beneath a carved archway that depicts the solar system in miniature, each planet rendered in its corresponding stone. Three step forward as we approach – an older man with a grey beard and ceremonial robes edged in platinum thread, a sharp-eyed woman with a fox-like face and fingers heavy with data rings, and a broad-shouldered man who scans our group with piercing eyes, his left hand resting near a concealed weapon.
I study the Cardinals with a neutral expression and try not to let my thoughts show. They look like peacekeepers in their ceremonial white and silver robes, but Mars hasn’t experienced their rule that way. Every decree they’ve passed has taken something from our people. Supplies. Territory. Control.
The bearded man bows respectfully, his face weathered with deep lines around his eyes and mouth, his silver beard neatly trimmed. His skin is warm tan, marked with age spots. His nose is prominent and hooked, giving him a hawk-like profile. But it’s his eyes that command attention: pale green, missing nothing as they settle on us.
“Lord Zevran of Mars. Your arrival honours the Conclave.” His voice is deep and measured. “And your advisor?”
“Cyra,” Zevran says simply.
“Cardinal Benedict.” The man inclines his head. “I oversee Conclave proceedings. Should you need anything – clarification on protocols, mediation between Houses – my door remains open.”
The woman steps forward – thin, with olive skin pulled tight over gaunt cheeks. Her black hair, streaked with grey, is pulled back severely. Her face is narrow with a pointed chin and thin lips, and pale blue eyes that appear penetrating and unblinking as they turn on me.
“Cardinal Maria. I manage advisor relations and accommodations.” Her voice is sharp too. “If you require anything for yourself or His Grace, find me directly.”
The third introduces himself as Cardinal Marcus, his gaze focused on watching the guards position themselves along the corridor. He’s built like a former soldier: broad chest, thick neck, hands scarredacross the knuckles. His skin is deep brown, his head shaved clean, revealing scars across his scalp. His face is square and blunt with a flat nose. His piercing brown eyes never stop moving, constantly tracking exits and guard positions.
“Security protocols will be strictly enforced,” he says bluntly. “Everyone in attendance becomes subject to evaluation.”
It feels strange to see them offer all these courtesies, while pretending not to notice the damage they’ve inflicted on our kingdoms.
“This way,” Cardinal Benedict motions through a great oak door. “We are all to convene in the Hall of Houses.”
As they lead us deeper into the complex, I notice the guard formations lining the walkways. Most stand at perfect attention, faces forward … but one turns slightly as we pass. Platinum blonde hair cropped short and a lean build, with watchful eyes. While the others stare straight ahead, this one tracks our movement, head turning just enough to follow. When our eyes meet, I catch intense blue before she faces forward again.
The gravity shifts as we walk – lighter than Mars, with strange currents that tug at my hair and clothes. The walls themselves hum, their surfaces shifting between solid stone, swirling energy, and transparent panels showing machinery that floats in chambers beyond.
We pass through an echoing hall where our footsteps ring against crystal floors, and as we reach the other end, Cardinal Benedict pushes open the massive double doors looming before us.
The Hall of Houses steals my breath away.
The chamber soars overhead, its domed ceiling displaying the solar system in real time. Planets move in their orbits, casting coloured shadows across the gathered figures below. Mars glows red and passionate. Venus dazzles with amber light. Jupiter pulses with stormy authority. Each House occupies a section of the circle, marked by banners that flutter despite the absence of wind.
And there, arranged like pieces on a game board, stand the other rulers.
Mother had mentioned some of these names in passing, always in quiet conversations meant for no one’s ears but hers and mine. I never understood why she wanted me to remember them, but now thefragments return. Faces linked to titles. Titles linked to planets. Enough to recognize them, not enough to understand them.
Near Mercury’s blue-and-silver standards, a young woman gestures rapidly while speaking to her advisor. She looks to be just entering her twenties, which makes her easily the youngest leader here by almost a decade. Her skin is a warm bronze, and she has a delicate, almost bird-like bone structure – with narrow shoulders, thin wrists, and a pointed chin that juts forward when she’s concentrating. Her raven hair is streaked dark blue, catching the light as she moves. Her nose is small and slightly upturned, giving her an elfin quality. Dark eyes dart constantly, tracking conversations. Her teeth flash white and perfect when she smiles a quick, nervous smile. There’s a restless energy to her, fingers always moving, foot tapping an invisible rhythm, like staying still requires physical effort.
“Lady Tavia of Mercury,” Zevran murmurs, noticing my stare and assuming I don’t recognize anyone. I don’t correct him. “She controls the communications networks.”
The woman’s hands dance through the air as she talks, like she’s conducting an orchestra of thought. Her advisor struggles to keep up, pulling out a small device that projects holographic star charts.
A throat clears nearby as we continue walking. I turn to find a man – older looking than both Zevran and I, but young enough to not be considered middle-aged quite yet – with prematurely greying hair, sitting beneath Saturn’s purple banners, reading.
“Lord Evander,” Zevran says. “Saturn’s leader. Keeper of system laws and policies.”
Lord Evander has the sort of face that definitely belongs in historical archives: angular and scholarly, with an aristocratic nose that has a slight bend. His skin is pale, the kind that never quite tans and usually never gets the chance to, as he finds solace staying indoors. His jaw is square and clean-shaven, his chin bearing a small cleft that’s barely visible unless he tilts his head. Those wire-rimmed reading glasses sit on that crooked nose as he looks up from an ancient text, his brown eyes assessing us for a moment before returning to his book.
Suddenly, Jupiter’s leader draws my attention as his hearty laugh booms through the room.
I take in the sight of him – broad shoulders, thick arms, the kind of body that comes from years of actual combat rather than aesthetic training. He looks about the same age as Zevran, skin sun-darkened from Jupiter’s harsh climate, marked with dozens of scars. His hair is chestnut brown and cropped military-short, practical rather than styled. His eyes are hazel, closer to green in certain light, and they track movement with the constant assessment of someone who’s been ambushed before and refuses to be caught off-guard again.
He speaks too loudly, gestures with barely-contained aggression, his movements sharp and unpredictable. There’s a violence in the way he carries himself … not the calculated threat of someone trying to intimidate, but the unconscious aura of someone who’s killed before and knows he can do it again if necessary.
