We pause at the door to the conference room, the sounds of gathering officials audible from within. In a moment, we’ll step inside and become Prince and Captain again, representatives of our respective interests.
“About last night,” he says quietly.
“No regrets?” I ask, suddenly uncertain.
His eyes meet mine, steady and clear. “None.”
Relief washes through me. “Good. Nor I.”
For a heartbeat, we simply look at each other, the memory of kisses in moonlight hanging between us. Then Leo straightens, his public persona settling into place.
“After you, Captain,” he says formally, holding the door.
I incline my head in acknowledgment, stepping into the room with him close behind. Whatever comes next—political battles,public scrutiny, personal doubts—I’ll face it for the look in his eyes—the one that gives me hope.
10
LEO
“Absolutely not.” The Prime Minister’s voice is firm as she closes the folder in front of her. “I understand your passion for this project, Your Highness, but what you’re proposing is simply not feasible.”
I clench my jaw, fighting to maintain my diplomatic composure despite the anger building inside me. We’ve been in this conference room for three hours, going in circles as Jane Beesley systematically dismantles every proposal I’ve put forward.
Across the table, Elder Kiri sits with remarkable stillness, her weathered face impassive though I can sense her growing displeasure. Beside her, Matua Hemi and three other tribal elders watch the proceedings with increasingly stony expressions. Their presence adds weight to the proceedings—these aren’t just political representatives but the living embodiments of our cultural heritage.
“We’ve identified alternatives for the mining operations,” I say, tapping the report my team has spent weeks preparing.“The geological surveys clearly show viable deposits outside the sacred boundaries.”
“At twice the extraction cost,” Jane counters. “The companies have existing permits, Your Highness. We cannot legally force them to abandon sites they’ve already invested millions in developing.”
“Cannot? Or will not?” Elder Kiri’s voice cuts through the room, quiet yet somehow commanding full attention. “These places have belonged to our ancestors since time immemorial. Your permits are but pieces of paper, written yesterday.”
The mining executives shift uncomfortably under her direct gaze.
“We’re not asking them to abandon anything permanently,” I interject, trying to steer back to diplomacy. “We’re asking for a temporary halt while we finalize the protection framework. Six months. Surely that’s not an unreasonable request.”
The cultural heritage representatives nod in agreement, but the mining industry delegates shake their heads, their expressions unyielding.
“Six months represents an entire operational season,” says Harold Thorpe, CEO of Astipian Mineral Resources. “The cost would be astronomical.”
“And the cost of losing our sacred heritage is immeasurable,” counters Elder Kiri, her calm voice belying the fire in her eyes. “Once these sites are damaged, they cannot be restored. The voices of our ancestors silenced forever.”
Matua Hemi leans forward, his massive forearms resting on the table. “When your ancestors first came to our land, minewelcomed them with open arms. We shared our knowledge, our resources, our sacred places.” His deep voice resonates with controlled anger. “And now you treat these places as obstacles to profit.”
“With all due respect, Elder,” Jane interjects, “we must balance cultural preservation with economic realities. I’ve reviewed the list of sites, and while some clearly warrant immediate protection, others...” She trails off, her meaning clear.
“You want us to sacrifice some sites for the sake of expediency.” My voice comes out harder than intended, the diplomatic veneer slipping.
“I want a workable solution, Your Highness,” she corrects, her tone cooling. “One that doesn’t trigger a recession or lawsuits that would tie up the protection efforts for years.”
I glance across the table to where Rangi sits with the tribal delegation. His expression remains professional, but I can see the tension in his jaw, the careful way he maintains his composure. Our eyes meet briefly, his offering silent support before I turn back to the Prime Minister.
“These aren’t just rocks and trees we’re discussing, Prime Minister. They’re the foundation of our cultural identity.”
“I understand that,” Jane says, though her tone suggests otherwise. “But I have to consider all Astipians, not just those with tribal heritage.”
A ripple of tension passes through the elders. Even Elder Kiri, typically unflappable, stiffens at the implicit suggestion that tribal concerns are somehow separate from “all Astipians.”
“All Astipians benefit from preserving our shared heritage,” I counter, keeping my voice level with effort. “These sites aren’t just tribal property—they’re national treasures.”
