SOPHIA – THE ASTRAL SPIRE, JUST BEFORE ELENA REACHES FOR HER
I sitstatue-still in the High Lord’s receiving chamber, hands folded in my lap, face locked in the mask I learned to wear as a soldier on New Terra. Polished stone stretches from the dais to the horizon line of the main doors. It’s cold enough that I can feel it through my shoes. The blue light is everywhere right now—shining through the stained-glass windows, bouncing off the marble, shading us all in blue. The High Lord chooses the colors.
And everything else. Like my dress.
My dress today is more corset than fabric. The stiff frame digs into the soft spot at my waist, but I keep my back straight. When I shift, the rivets grind against my ribs, but there’s no point adjusting. The guards never look away, and the High Lord’s house likes its women static. I don’t want to attract attention.
I can do this. I’ve done worse.
The priestesses float through the chamber on whisper-soft steps. They have three fingers per hand and the faces of humanoid birds, eyes oddly small and wide-set. They walk with heads tilted forward. Jarrett enjoys their singing.
Across from me, several other courtwives are arrayed like painted dolls on their own platforms. Their skin comes in alien shades, limbs a hair too long, hands wrong, faces odd. They aren’t human. Humanoid, with all the right surface markers, but none of what makes us reallyus. They don’t talk to me. I don’t talk to them.
The lack of children shocked me. I thought the High Lord himself would have the most wives—especially when he described the courtwife situation. But the rulers on Xytheos are engineered to rule, not play house.
We New Terrans aren’t just one of many brides for these rulers. We’re the only hope they’ve had for hundreds of years. Maybe a thousand.
And Jarrett’s bride, Maya, is sick. Something is very wrong with her mind right now. A side effect from the Concord Stone’s so-called gifts? Maybe. Or maybe Jarrett interfering with it. He’s with her mind far too often.
The chamber’s ceiling disappears into black, somewhere above the floating chandeliers. Gold and crystal, hundreds of tiers, each with its own miniature flame. No heat, just that cold blue. Along the walls, the ceremonial guards stand every three meters. They look identical, too. It’s creepy how alike they are. They’re all male, seven feet tall, and built strong. They wear long, blue cloaks that mark them as property of the High Lord.
I keep my breathing shallow and measured.
Save energy, let the skin go numb, become the chair and let time erase you until the world moves again.
My ceremonial skirt reaches the floor. There are layers of raw silk dyed in indigo and silver, and the hem weighted with what feels like lead. Elena could build a small drone using the alloys strapped to my calves and spine, but here I’m expected to be decorative. Any fidget and the guards will clock it. Jarrett will clock it through them.
The guards’ eyes are vacant, but I know better. Jarrett sees through everything in this place, through the men and women and anything else. There is no “alone” here.
No “alone” for me, and no “alone” for Jarrett anymore, either. The Concord Stone’s gift to Maya and me made sure of that. I have to suppress my connection with concentrated effort. It wants me to use it. That stupid Stone pushes at me all the time. I keep it locked down. Not because I’m afraid of being caught—I am—but because I don’t know what Jarrett will do to me. Or to Maya. Jarrett keeps his threats vague.
I don’t know the extent of Maya’s gift, but I know it’s a problem for her and Jarrett. And Maya seems to be paying for it.
They want obedience, not skill. They thought they wanted human mates, but the reality of human females wasn’t something they were prepared for. We’re too different.
I’m waiting to see how they’ll handle it. The guards are physical, but Jarrett is not. His mind is everywhere, pulling at things. Except in times like now, when Jarrett is distracted by Maya. He’sphysicallywith her.
The rumors say it’s keeping her from breaking. But I wonder.
The High Lord kept her close from the beginning, always a step behind him, always in shadow. I saw it in my mind. Now, she’s kept in isolation. Her “episodes” are getting worse, enough that the High Lord himself is sequestered with her, trying to suppress them.
That leaves me alone, which should be an advantage. But I know the High Lord’s second is watching me.
His name is Toriben, and he stands just left of the dais, arms folded. Watching. He’s not as tall as the guards. He’s not vacant like them, either. I don’t think Jarrett watches through his eyes like he does with the others. Though Toriben is pale and blond like Jarrett, he still reminds me too much of Vorak. Broad andscarred. The sameness of the guards creeps me out, but Toriben? He deals in death.
At least he only speaks when directly addressed. Even then, it’s just single words. Much better than Vorak’s bloviating speeches.
The ceremonial incense wafts toward me. It burns in tall brass-colored braziers. The smoke coils up in tight ropes toward the ceiling. The smell is sharp, and the longer I breathe it, the more I’m certain it’s meant to numb my senses in Jarrett’s absence.
I used to think Xytheos was a prison. Now I see it’s a game, and the rulers are the players. My job is to last as long as possible, and maybe tilt the board before any of my Starfallen sisters are sacrificed.
I wonder sometimes if the High Lord has decided Maya’s body is worth dealing with her mind, or if he’s simply waiting for her to break so he can proceed with an empty shell. If he’s as ruthless as I think, then he’ll keep her mind intact until she’s too much of a threat. Then he’ll end it. He’ll do the same to me.
I try not to think about it. I try to focus on the court, on the breathing, on the guard rotations. I let my mind empty, the way they trained us in the military—one thought at a time, until there’s nothing left but the rhythm of the body, the slow beat of the heart.
But a sudden headache spikes behind my eyes. I freeze, hands clenching in my lap. This is the strongest it’s ever been. I want to clutch my head, but I can’t let the guards see.
Elena’s presence floods my mind. I don’t know how she gets through, but it’s like being clocked with a rifle butt. I’m grateful the High Lord is distracted right now, because I’m struggling to hide this. I clamp down hard on my external expression. The memory of basic training overrides the panic, just enough to keep me from making a scene.
