Chapter 4
Keandra
Idon’t leave the office right away because my legs don’t seem to want to work. A Horde King. The words don’t feel real. They are too far from anything in my actual life. Too strange to belong anywhere near my stained coat, my overdue rent, my half-empty room in the poor district.
I sit across from the official’s desk and stare at the assignment file on the screen while the silence stretches long enough to turn awkward. He doesn’t rush to fill it. He has the kind of polished patience that comes from giving desperate people life-changing news for a living and waiting until they process it.
Finally I wet my lips and ask, “What exactly does this mean?”
The official folds his hands behind his back. “It means your biological compatibility is exceptionally high. You qualify for a royal territorial pairing under the Tigris program. If you accept the offer, you will be legally matched and relocated off-world for marriage to the assigned male.”
“Assigned male,” I repeat, because somehow that is easier to say than king again.
“Yes.”
I look back at the screen. “And if I say no?”
“Then you leave here with no contract and no penalties.” His tone stays calm. Even. Almost too smooth. “Another match may or may not be available in the future. There are no guarantees.”
I almost laugh. My whole life is built on no guarantees. No guarantee of work. No guarantee of food. No guarantee the room I sleep in tonight will still be mine next week.
Still, this feels different. This is not another labor line. Not another choice between food and rent. This is bigger than that. This is the kind of decision that splits a life in two. Before and after. Mars and not Mars. Me alone, or me tied to something huge and unknown for the rest of my life.
I force my voice steady. “I need details.”
The official taps the screen. A full contract file opens between us. The terms scroll down in clean legal blocks. Permanent marriage placement. Lifetime union. Protected housing. Nutritional guarantee. Medical care. Legal spouse status under interplanetary treaty protections. Household claim rights dependent on territorial class. Reproductive expectations standard to Tigris marriage law.
My eyes catch and stick on one line. “Reproductive expectations.”
“That is standard,” the official says. “Especially in leadership-level pairings.”
My chest tightens. “Meaning children.”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
He pauses. Just long enough for me to notice it.
“The contract does not set a fixed number. It establishes the expectation that the marriage is entered in good faith as a family-building union.”
Family-building union. Again with the polite words.
I look down at my hands in my lap. Thin wrists. Dry skin over my knuckles. Fingers that have spent years scrubbing, hauling, sorting, patching, carrying, trying to hold together a life that never wanted to stay held together. The thought of children doesn’t feel simple to me. Not because I hate it. Because I know too well what happens when there isn’t enough medicine. Not enough food. Not enough safety. I know what children look like when adults cannot protect them from the world.
I lift my eyes again. “And if I can’t?”
Something in his expression shifts. Not softer. Just more careful.
“The contract recognizes the possibility of difficulty. The requirement is that the marriage is entered honestly, without intent to refuse family-building from the start.”
So they care more about willingness than certainty. That should make me feel better. It doesn’t.
I lean back in the chair and keep reading. Financial package includes relocation stipend, personal settlement amount, clothing allowance, protected residence, and bonded status under matched household authority.
That hits me harder than the rest. Settlement amount. Clothing allowance. Protected residence. The words land in my body before my mind catches up. Real food. Warm clothes. A room no one can strip away from me with a blinking red notice. I hate how much that matters.
No. That isn’t true. I hate that it has to matter this much.
