The way she said his name—like it tasted bitter.
"What was he like?"
"Cruel." The word came out flat, final. "Violent. Impetuous. He had the physical skills, the tactical mind, but he couldn't control his emotions. He let rage drive him, let pride cloud his judgment. In the final trial—a diplomatic simulation where we had to negotiate peace between warring factions—he lost his temper and threatened to execute the opposition leaders."
"And you didn't."
"I kept my composure. I found a solution that satisfied both sides." She looked away. "That's what won it for me. Not strength or intelligence, but control. The ability to lead without letting emotion dictate my actions."
I thought about the woman I'd watched over the past few months—the way she'd maintained perfect composure through her mate's funeral, through the political maneuvering, through everything. How much of that was training? How much was survival?
"He didn't take losing well," Serna continued. "He claimed the trials were rigged, that I'd cheated somehow. His family—powerful Romvesians—backed him. It created a rift between Vaktaire and Romvesia that eventually erupted into a skirmish."
"The one where you lost your son."
She nodded, pain flickering across her face. "Yes. Riuondo's inability to accept defeat cost lives. Cost me—" Her voice broke slightly. "It cost me everything."
I moved closer, my hand finding hers. "What happened to him? Why did you think he was dead?"
"Riuondo was killed." She said it with certainty, but I heard the doubt creeping in now. "During the war, on a Gilese mining moon. There was an explosion—a reactor breach. I saw the video footage myself. Watched him burn."
"But?"
"But if he's here, if he's alive..." She trailed off, staring at nothing. "Then someone helped him fake his death. Someone with resources, with power. I brokered peace with the Romvesians based on the belief that he was gone, that the threat he represented was eliminated."
The implications were staggering. "So if he's been alive this whole time—"
"Then that peace is built on a lie." She looked at me, and I saw the weight of it crushing her. "And he's had a century to plan whatever this is."
We stood there in the humid jungle, the sounds of alien wildlife around us, and I tried to process what she was telling me. A rival who should be dead. A century-old grudge. An attack that had been too precise, too coordinated.
"What does it mean that he's alive?" I asked. "For the Alliance. For you."
Serna was quiet for a long moment, and I watched her work through it—the political calculations, the strategic implications. When she spoke, her voice was thick with dread.
"The next generation of candidates isn't ready yet," she said. "Charick is the most qualified—he has the skills, the temperament, the respect of the council. But he has Willa. He has Titus. If he became Prime, he'd have to give them up. The position demands everything, Cullen. Your entire life. Your heart. I won't ask him to make that sacrifice. I won't make him choose between duty and the family he loves."
I thought about Charick at the funeral, the way he'd looked at his wife and son. The fierce protectiveness in his eyes. "And the other candidates?"
"There's a young Andorian—brilliant, capable. But she's barely thirty. Far too young to take the mantle. It would destroy her." Serna's hands clenched into fists. "The succession isn't supposed to happen for another century at least. We had time. We were supposed to have time."
"But if something happens to you before the next candidates are ready—"
"The Council appoints a successor." She looked at me, and I saw the terrible understanding in her eyes. "From the original candidates. The ones I defeated in the trials."
My stomach dropped. "How many of them are still alive?"
"That's the problem." Her voice was barely a whisper. "Riuondo is the only one left." She said it like a death sentence. "If something happens to me, if I die or abdicate, the Council would appoint him as Prime. He'd finally get what he's always believed was rightfully his."
The pieces fell into place with sickening clarity. The attack on our ship. The crash on this remote planet. Riuondo's presence here, hunting us.
"He's not trying to kill you," I said slowly. "Not outright. He needs—"
"He needs me to abdicate." Serna's voice was hollow. "Or he needs to make my death look like an accident. Something the Council can't trace back to him. Because if he murders me openly, they'll never accept him as Prime. But if I step down, or if I die in a way that can't be proven as assassination..."
"Then he wins."
She nodded, and I saw the fear return—not for herself, but for what it would mean. Riuondo Barkaze as Prime. A cruel, violent, impetuous leader at the head of the Alliance.
