“One hour until dinner,” Zevran says from his doorway. “I’ll come for you.”
I nod, and we retreat to our separate rooms.
I choose a long black dress from my bag, with red embroidery tracing the neckline and sleeves in patterns that echo Martian architecture, while gold accents at the waist and hem catch the light like molten metal. It’s beautiful and severe all at once, unmistakably House Mars.
As I fasten the clasp at my neck, my fingers tremble. The crescent moon sigil tingles beneath my collarbone, a dull reminder that’s been building all day. I press my palm against it, but the feeling doesn’t fade.
When Zevran knocks precisely an hour later, his eyes widen slightly as he takes in the dress.
“I…” He clears his throat. “That suits you.”
I feel a flash of heat cross my cheeks. “Thank you.”
Zevran wears ceremonial Mars red – a formal jacket with black trim and subtle rank insignia at the collar, paired with dark trousers and boots. Even dressed for diplomacy, he looks ready for war. But as I fall in step beside him, I notice the careful way he moves, the faint tension around his eyes.
The main hall is outfitted for the welcome feast. A massive table dominates the centre, long enough to seat all the House leaders and their advisors, with sections clearly demarcated by their planetary aesthetics. Mercury’s section gleams with blue and silver lights, Venus drips with amber filigree and flowering vines, Mars blazes with copper and red stone. The placements seem deliberately randomized, forcing unlikely neighbours together. Jupiter sits beside Neptune, Saturn across from Uranus.
The room itself soars overhead, walls lined with viewing galleries where lesser cardinals observe from the shadows. Servants in neutral grey move between the seats with practiced silence, pouring wine and arranging platters. The ceiling shows a slow rotation of stars, and soft instrumental music drifts from hidden alcoves, something stringed and melancholic that makes the massive space feel almost intimate.
I’m seated between Zevran and an empty chair, Pluto’s absent representative casting a shadow over the entire gathering. The otherHouses have already taken their positions, and I can feel their eyes fall on me as we settle in.
Lady Isolde holds court at the Venus end of the table, leaning close to the Saturn advisor as she speaks. Whatever she’s saying makes him laugh, and her dark eyes track his reaction before sliding to the next face at the table, then the next.
Lord Evander leans toward Lady Tavia and her advisor, their conversation barely audible with stern expressions on their faces.
Lord Castor’s voice booms across the hall as he chats up the Neptune section. “So I told him, ‘You either fall in line … or I’ll have you scrubbing plasma conduits on Ganymede until your hands bleed.’ Best part? He believed me!” His laugh is sharp and loud. Commander Kaelix sits rigid in their seat, sparks flickering between their fingers as they stare at him.
Servants begin bringing the first course, crystal plates filled with foods that shimmer and shift colour. I watch Zevran reach for his wine glass. The movement is too rigid, deliberate in a way that suggests concealing discomfort.
He lifts the goblet and takes a measured sip.
I should stay quiet. Keep my head down like I always do.
Survival means invisibility … but what I’m considering in this moment is the opposite of invisible. Watching him suffer when I could stop it feels worse than the fear.
I inhale slowly, then make up my mind on the spot.
I lean towards Zevran, my voice barely audible. “Can I help?”
His head snaps toward me, eyes wide. For a moment he stares, and we both realize what I’ve just proposed.
“Not here,” he breathes.
Every instinct screams at me to pull back, to apologize, to retreat into the safety of doing nothing. That’s what I’ve always done. Run. Hide. Survive by staying small.
But something that feels like courage stirs in my chest. Maybe it’s the withdrawal making me reckless, or maybe it’s that I’m tired of watching people hurt when I have the power to stop it. Maybe it’s him specifically, the way he’s tried to protect me even when he shouldn’t.
I let my hand drop below the table. “Trust me.” I mouth to him.
The space beneath the tablecloth is dark, hidden. My fingers find his thigh, and for a moment neither of us moves. The contact feels illicit, dangerous. My heart pounds so hard I’m certain everyone can hear it.
His hand covers mine, warm and solid. Then his fingers shift, guiding my touch to rest against his inner wrist where his pulse beats fast and unsteady.
I let my power flow through the contact. The crescent moon sigil on my chest pulses beneath my dress, hidden by layers of fabric. I feel that familiar rush, moonlight in my veins, the edge of withdrawal blunted.
But there’s something else too. The intimacy of the hidden touch, the way his fingers lace through mine for just a moment before releasing. The risk of discovery makes every second feel …electric.
His breathing steadies. The rigid set of his shoulders eases. He doesn’t pull away immediately, and neither do I.
