Chapter 3
The ride to the palace isn’t long, but the uncomfortable silence in the transporter makes time crawl. The guards sit across from me, stone-faced and still. I press my back against the cold metal bench, Mother’s satchel heavy in my lap.
We pass through our neighbourhood and the outskirts of the market, then through the outer districts.
Here the streets are lined with rows of domed houses, curved walls stained grey from years of forge smoke.
The sky is veiled in black dust and red haze, the air so thick I can smell the smog even through the sealed transport.
Children play in the narrow spaces between homes, their clothes as grey as the buildings.
Eventually the terrain shifts. The dome houses give way to wider streets, actual gardens behind iron fences.
The air clears enough to see the rust-coloured sky.
The ground turns from packed red dust to something closer to soil, covered in burnt orange grass and skeletal trees stripped of all colour by the harsh Martian sun.
Everything here is shades of red and brown and grey – even the few surviving plants look drained of life.
The hum of the transporter’s engine vibrates through the metal bench, a steady drone that lulls me into a trance as I sink into my seat. My eyelids grow heavy. The withdrawal still pulls at me, making my skin itch, my fingers twitch against the leather of Mother’s bag.
Then, finally, I see it through the front viewport: the crimson spires of House Mars rise before us, sharp and severe against the sky.
The palace is built from the same red stone as everything else on this planet, but polished smooth, its structure massive and impossibly tall.
Guard towers flank the main building, and flags bearing crossed swords snap in the wind.
The palace gates groan open, two slabs of crimson steel etched with bronze in the shape of swirling solar flares. As they part, the machinery reveals itself: immense stone wheels turning in their housing, counterweights dropping with the finality of a lock engaging.
Beyond the gates, the palace sprawls in a way that makes our entire market district feel like an afterthought.
The walls are blocks of deep red sandstone, each one carved to slot against the next without mortar, the kind of work that takes decades and who knows how many lives.
Bronze runs through the seams like veins of old blood.
I’ve seen sick children turned away from clinics for lack of coin, and here they’ve plated decorative fixtures in metal worth more than most families earn in a lifetime.
We roll through a courtyard where fountains hiss with heated water. A woman in servant’s dress hurries past with an armload of linens, and I catch her gait – an old injury, something in the hip that was never properly set. My hands ache to reach out. I grip the edge of my seat instead.
The transporter slows near a colonnade, and through the archway I glimpse an interior garden.
For a moment I think I see a flash of movement – someone in blue healer’s robes?
But when I lean forward to look, there’s only a gardener trimming back a vine heavy with rust-coloured flowers.
Mother loved gardens. She must have walked through there every day.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” one of the guards sitting across from me says. He’s noticed me staring. “Took four generations to build this palace, and another two to perfect the defences. Mars doesn’t just breed warriors – we build like we fight. To last.”
I nod but don’t answer. The gardens look decorative until I realize how they funnel movement, how the pillars could force anyone running into narrow channels with nowhere to go. Even the beauty here has purpose.
The people we pass reinforce this. Servants move with their shoulders back and their steps synchronized, uniforms marked with small insignia I don’t recognize.
A courtier glides past a window in flowing robes, but the fabric is cut short on one side, and wouldn’t catch on anything in a fight.
I’ve spent my whole life around soldiers who bleed and break, but I’ve never seen a building where even the decorations are dressed for war.
The transporter finally stops. Wide stone steps rise toward the entrance, and the guards lead me up, their boots striking the stone in perfect rhythm. At the top, massive doors stand open – dark wood reinforced with bronze that’s been worked into the shape of flames.
Crossing the threshold feels like stepping into a world I was never meant to see.
The main hall stretches ahead, impossibly vast, with vaulted ceilings that disappear into shadow high above.
Pillars of red stone shot through with veins of copper rise on either side, each one wide enough that three men couldn’t wrap their arms around it.
Tapestries hang between them, battle scenes stitched in thread that catches the light from hanging braziers – Martian warriors standing with shields locked, protecting citizens, the red planet shown as a fortress.
The air here smells of incense and heated metal, like standing too close to a forge.
We move through the hall toward a larger chamber at the far end. My boots click against cold marble underfoot, polished so smooth I can almost see my reflection. Then the corridor opens into a vast room, and I stop short.
The court.
Dozens of people dressed in elaborate silks and brocade mill about in clusters, their voices a low hum of conversation that cuts off when we enter.
I recognize the quality of the fabrics immediately – imported from Venus, the kind only the richest market stalls offer, and that cost more than our cottage.
The women wear gowns with layered skirts and fitted bodices, their hair piled high and decorated with jeweled pins.
The men are in tailored jackets with brass buttons, high collars, their faces clean-shaven or beards neatly trimmed.
Everything here is pristine, expensive, untouched by the red dust that coats everything in the lower districts.
The crowd shifts as we enter, bodies turning to stare.
Conversations stop mid-sentence. I catch glimpses of wealth I’ve never seen – rings on every finger, necklaces dripping with stones, a woman with a small mechanical bird perched on her shoulder that ticks and whirs.
But beneath the finery, I see other things too: bandaged fingers hidden under lace gloves, the way one lord in dark burgundy favours his left side when he shifts his weight, a lady in pale blue winces when she bows to someone passing.
My palms start to burn. The hunger rises, sharp and immediate.
As I try to make myself small near the back of the room – scanning faces for anyone who might have worked with Mother – a woman in elaborate scarlet robes approaches me.
She’s perhaps fifty, with short dark hair cut in a practical style just under her chin, strands of grey shining throughout.
Her face is marked by fine lines around her mouth, and her brown eyes suggest someone who’s spent years studying suffering up close.
“You must be Liora’s daughter,” she says without preamble. “You look so much like her, even down to almost the same eyes…”
I blink, startled. Her compliment lands like a warning. I nod slightly, avoiding any light that might reflect gold in my green eyes.
“Oh, I–You know my mother?”
“Lady Vera, Court Physician,” she introduces herself with a small bow of her head.
Her hands are long-fingered and steady, the hands of someone who’s performed surgery in battlefield tents.
“I’ve worked alongside your mother on several occasions.
She has a gift for the cases that stump the rest of us. ”
“What kind of cases?” Curiosity edges my voice.
Lady Vera’s eyes grow thoughtful. “Trauma, mostly. Soldiers who’d been through too much, who couldn’t sleep or eat, couldn’t function despite having no visible wounds.
Your mother can reach places that medicine can’t touch.
If a battle was close, she would even venture off to the frontlines to help. ”
She pauses, studying my face as my eyes widen in shock. “She spoke of you often, before she went missing. Never by name, always as ‘my daughter,’ but with such pride. She said you had inherited the true gift, not just the techniques. His Grace made the right decision, asking you to replace her.”
Before I can ask what she means, a young woman in servant’s clothing approaches hesitantly. Lady Vera nods encouragingly, and the servant steps forward.
“Miss, I’m sorry to interrupt, but – your mother, she helped my family too.
My little brother, he was born wrong – couldn’t breathe right, the physicians said he wouldn’t live to see his first year.
” Her eyes shine with gratitude. “Miss Liora came to our home in the lower quarters. Didn’t ask for payment, didn’t make us beg.
She spent three hours with him, and when she left…
” The woman’s voice breaks slightly. “He’s four now. Healthy and strong.”
These stories paint a picture of my mother as not just a healer, but someone who treated the poor and powerful alike. Someone who helped everyone, someone brave enough to rush into violent situations without a second thought. I should be proud.
Yet … my heart aches.
Why didn’t I know any of this? Why didn’t I know these facets of my Mother? Why would she keep this from me?