“That’s Lord Castor,” Zevran says through gritted teeth. “Jupiter’s leader.”
I watch Lord Castor gesture aggressively again, his advisor nodding rapidly. There’s something restless about him, like a caged predator. I’m starting to understand the difference: Jupiter cultivates violence because it commands power, Mars carries it because it must. Lord Castor looks like a man who enjoys the fight; Zevran feels like someone who’s been forced to stand between the system and whatever wants to break through it. Mars’s strength just feels entirely different … quieter, defensive. A shield rather than a spear.
As we continue through the hall, I notice beneath Uranus’s banners an androgynous figure leans in apparent boredom. They have a slender build under their black turtleneck and pants, and appear to be in their thirties, with angular features and a strong, square jaw. Their skin is light golden-brown, their nose straight and defined with a slightly wider bridge. Close-cropped black hair dyed cyan at the ends reveals shaved patterns on the sides, geometric designs that look like circuitry, while tech implants gleam along their jawline. They have monolid eyes with pupils a brilliant electric blue, seeming to glow with internal light. They’re alone, no advisor in sight, watching everyone with barely masked contempt.
“Commander Kaelix,” Zevran offers. “Uranus. They don’t trust anyone enough to bring an advisor.”
Near Neptune’s section, a young woman with sea-green hair drifts toward her seat. She looks like she’s half-dissolved into water already, her hair shifting between blue and green depending on the light, falling in waves past her waist. Her skin is warm and golden, with a softly rounded face, a small button nose, and pink lips that barely move when she speaks. Her eyes are the most unsettling thing about her: large and almond-shaped, constantly shifting colour like the surface of a deep ocean, grey to blue to green.
“That’s Lady Nerida, Neptune’s High Prophetess.” Zevran’s voice drops with a touch of skepticism.
My attention suddenly catches on something else … a woman beneath Venus’s banners, radiant in a shimmering amber gown. She is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen – skin that gleams, dark as the night sky, flawless except for a single beauty mark high on her left cheek. Her face is a study in perfect proportions: high cheekbones that could cut glass, a broad, elegant nose with a slight curve at the bridge that somehow makes it more striking, and full lips that seem perpetually on the verge of a smile. Her black hair cascades in perfect tight curls over her shoulders, styled with jeweled pins. Her eyes are dark brown, framed by long lashes. I continue taking her in, her sensual, curvy body creating an hourglass silhouette. I realize she must be about my age. When her eyes meet mine across the chamber, I feel completely pulled into her orbit.
“Lady Isolde,” Zevran says, noticing where I’m looking. “Venus. She’s?—”
“Beautiful,” I finish.
“Dangerous,” he corrects. “Don’t let her fool you.”
I tear my gaze away and notice an empty section of the circle, marked by black banners embroidered with silver symbols that seem to shift when I’m not looking directly at them. A single chair sits vacant, carved from what looks like crystallized shadow.
“Is that where Pluto’s representative would have sat?” I ask quietly.
Zevran’s jaw clenches. “Yes.”
“I know the kingdom fell, but I?—”
“Not here.” His voice carries an edge I haven’t heard before. “Not now.”
Whispers from servers and lesser Cardinals trail behind us as we cross toward the Mars section:
“…there’s no one left…”
“…kingdom fell years ago…”
“…no one’s heard from Lord Lucien since…”
Before I can press, Lady Isolde approaches with fluid grace.
“Cyra, isn’t it?” Her voice carries a melodic accent. “I’m Lady Isolde of Venus.” She smiles, warm but calculating. “You must be Lord Zevran’s advisor.”
“Y-Yes,” I manage.
“Don’t worry.” She gestures around the room with a conspiratorial grin. “They’ve all decided they hate each other already, so you’re not behind.”
A low chime resonates through the chamber, vibrating through the crystal floors and into our bones. Every conversation stops mid-word.
A voice speaks from the walls themselves, melodic and genderless: “Their Graces will now be escorted to their quarters. The ceremonial welcome feast will commence at the seventh hour. The evening star rises, and with it, our sacred purpose begins.”
As we’re guided toward the residential wings, the guards lead us down a corridor that gradually transforms – the neutral arena walls give way to red-veined marble as we enter the Mars wing.
I notice the architectural shift right away. The corridors narrow here, forcing us into single file. We pass through security checkpoints, blast doors that could seal the wing off entirely, guards in red and black who snap to attention as we approach, their eyes scanning us before granting passage.
Bronze fixtures line the walls, and through arched doorways I catch glimpses of common areas decorated in deep crimsons and golds. Martian aides lounge and socialize, dressed in the usual black and red uniforms.
The guards leading us gesture to our adjacent bedchamber doors before retreating down the corridor. Both chambers are at the end of the deepest corridor, carved into the arena’s foundational level where the walls are thickest. Through Zevran’s briefly open doorway, I glimpse his room: carved stone walls inlaid with veins of red metal, and a ceiling showing the surface of Mars in real time with its dust storms and ancient cities. His door is heavier than mine, reinforced with visible blast plating.
My own chamber carries the same aesthetic, but softened. The walls are pale sandstone, and the bed is draped in fabric the colour of rust and clay. A window looks out over training grounds below.
