She gives me a look that could curdle milk. I grin back, completely unfazed. Immunity to A’Vanti’s death glare is perhaps my greatest achievement as a mate.
Behind us, the hangar is filled with the rest of our team. D’Rett has assembled an honor guard. The Cerastean warriors in crisp uniforms, standing in formation. L’Zaen and Ally wait nearby, along with Chelsea, Dr. Petrova, Dr. Reyes and the rest of the human expedition members. Even Healer L'Varen is here, having declared his patients stable enough to leave for an hour.
The mood is tense. Understandably so. The queen, who is about to arrive any minute, carries her mother's legacy whether she wants to or not.
But for A’Vanti, this isn’t about Queen Ameela. This is about a man who snuck her extra food when the guards weren’t looking. A man who sat on the cold floor of her cell and told her not to give up. A man who promised that his daughter would save them all.
"Incoming." D’Rett’s voice cuts through the murmur of the crowd. He’s looking at his tablet, tracking sensor data. "The Ostium vessel has entered the atmosphere. Estimated arrival in seven minutes."
I glance around the hangar. Chancellor L'Forn stands near the front, his golden scales gleaming, his expression carved from stone. He arrived yesterday with General D'Annon, their mates, and a full diplomatic contingent. The discovery of anenemy mining operation on Cerastean soil was enough to bring leadership rushing all the way from Earth. My fellow pilot, and the Chancellor's mate, Zoe, catches my eye from across the hangar and gives me a short nod. I return it.
A’Vanti goes very still at D'Rett's announcement. The fidgeting stops. Every line of her body draws taut, like a bowstring about to release.
I reach for her hand. She takes it, and her grip is fierce enough to grind my knuckles together, but I don’t flinch. I just hold on.
"It's going to be okay," I murmur, low enough for only her. "You're doing great."
She doesn’t look at me. Her eyes are locked on the hangar entrance, on the slice of sky visible beyond it. But her thumb traces a small circle on the back of my hand.
The sound reaches us before the ship does, a low hum that builds in pitch and volume until a shadow falls across the entrance, and the Ostium vessel glides into view.
It’s sleek and pale, all smooth curves that reflect the Cerastean light. A queen's vessel, designed to impress. It is alien in a manner that’s distinct from Cerastean design. Cerastean ships feel practical and utilitarian in comparison.
It settles onto the landing pad with a whisper of displaced air and a gentle thud. The hum fades to silence, and a moment later, a ramp descends from the ship's underbelly.
Ostium soldiers come first. They are tall, slender figures in pale uniforms, their lavender-gray skin and silver eyes glowing. They move with crisp precision, forming a corridor on either side of the ramp. Their luxen pulse with muted shades of blue.
Then a woman appears at the top of the ramp, and the hangar seems to shift on its axis.
Queen Ameela is younger than I expected. Not a girl – there’s nothing girlish about the way she carries herself – but young.Maybe my age, maybe even a few years younger. It’s hard to tell. She's tall and striking, with lavender-gray skin and long silver hair swept into an intricate arrangement of braids and coils. Gossamer wings fold behind her, catching the light like a dragonfly's, delicate and faintly iridescent. The luxen along her temples and jaw pulse with deep, steady indigo. Sorrow, if I'm reading it right.
She wears a simple circlet of dark metal. The restraint feels deliberate.
What strikes me most, though, are her eyes. Silver and sharp, they sweep the hangar with an intelligence that misses nothing and an authority that has nothing to do with the crown on her head. This is a woman carrying the weight of her mother's sins.
She descends the ramp, and the Cerastean honor guard inclines their heads in unison. Chancellor L'Forn and General D'Annon step forward to offer formal greetings. But my eyes have already moved past the queen, past the soldiers, to the figure emerging behind her.
Premier Sator.
I recognize him instantly, even though the last time I saw him, he was on his knees with his hands bound behind his back. He’s changed. He's filled out, the gaunt hollows of his face filled out by months of freedom. The uniform he wears is clean and well-fitted, a far cry from the gray fabric that hung off his frame in the facility.
I watch as his eyes intently scan the crowd, and when they find A’Vanti, they stop.
His luxen flood gold.
A’Vanti makes a sound beside me. Small and strangled and so raw it hits me like a fist to the chest.
I release her hand.
She looks at me, startled, and I see the conflict in her face.
"Go," I say quietly.
She reaches for my hand instead. Her fingers lace through mine, and she pulls me with her.
I watch her as we cross the hangar floor, and I think about the first time I ever saw her. A skeletal figure on a sleeping pad, so wasted she could hardly stand on her own, throwing herself between a stranger’s weapon and the man she’s walking toward now.
Sator has already descended the ramp. While Ameela moves toward L'Forn and D'Annon, he stands motionless, his eyes fixed on A'Vanti, his luxen a steady, luminous gold.
