Chapter 35
Istand there for a moment after Zevran walks away, his words echoing in my head.
The hurt threatens to overwhelm me – a mixture of anger and the fear that he might be right about trusting the wrong people.
But I can’t afford to show vulnerability here.
Not with everyone watching, analyzing every micro-expression for signs of weakness.
Around me, the masquerade continues, moving on from the scandal. Couples still dance, nobles still cluster in their political huddles, and the orchestra still plays its melodies.
“Princess.”
The voice comes from my left. I turn to find Lord Castor approaching, his massive frame cutting through the crowd like a warship through still water.
His expression is serious, lacking the usual aggressive swagger.
He stops in front of me, close enough that our conversation stays private despite the crowd around us.
“That was quite a fucking show,” he says, his voice low and tight. “First you dance with Pluto, then Mars throws a tantrum about it. Seems you have a talent for making powerful men lose their composure.”
“Lord Castor—”
“Let me finish.” He holds up the object he’s carrying – a bronze medallion bearing the Jupiter storm sigil. “Look, I don’t trust Pluto. I don’t trust his motives. I sure as hell don’t like the idea of you being indebted to someone who deals in shadows and secrets.”
He extends the medallion towards me, a token of alliance.
“So here’s what’s going to happen. You’ll have Jupiter’s protection, and my personal allegiance. You don’t owe Pluto anything, you don’t owe Mars anything. You’ve got Jupiter at your back now.”
I stare at the medallion, then at him. “You’re doing this because you’re worried about Lord Lucien?”
“I’m doing this because we made it through that maze together.
You led us through hell, and you didn’t break.
You chose truth even when it meant facing the worst parts of your history.
” His hazel eyes soften slightly. “That counts for something. But yeah, seeing you under the spell of that shadow boy? That scared the shit out of me. So take this medallion, Princess.”
The way he says this nickname now – there’s no mockery in it. It’s almost affectionate, the way an older brother might use it.
“Lord Castor, you don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to. I want to.”
I take it, the metal warm from his hand. The weight of it feels significant, symbolic.
“Thank you,” I manage, my voice tight with emotion.
He nods once, sharp and decisive. “Don’t make me regret it. And stay the fuck away from Pluto unless you’ve got someone watching your back.”
Then he’s gone, melting back into the crowd with surprising grace for someone his size.
The masquerade continues around me, political alliances forming and fracturing with every conversation. I can’t rest on this victory. Lucien’s advice comes back to me: I need to show Commander Kaelix that I’m willing to bridge divides.
I spot them near the technological displays, their sharp eyes tracking my movement across the garden.
“Commander Kaelix.” I stop just shy of what looks like their group of tech engineers, each member outfitted with different gadgets on their faces, hands, or arms. “Would you care to dance?”
The Commander’s hand stills over the device they were studying. Their attention sharpens, not with welcome, but with curiosity edged in suspicion.
“You’re choosing interesting company,” they say. Their electric blue eyes track my expression. “Fine. Let’s see what you want.”
They offer their arm with unexpected formality.
The musicians pivot to a piece with jagged rhythm, unmistakably Uranian.
The tempo shifts unpredictably, refusing to settle into comfortable patterns.
Commander Kaelix guides us into the first turn, every movement clean and deliberate, as if the music answers to them rather than the other way around.
“For a place built on humble tradition, this garden is drowning in excess.” Their voice is low enough that only I can hear. “Imported crystal, manufactured starlight, delicacies flown across the system. All of it bought with labour the workers will never be paid enough to enjoy.”
“I know,” I say. “I grew up stitching wounds in alleys that smelled of coolant leaks. Places where imported delicacies never existed. I know what it really costs to fund nights like this.”
That earns a flicker of attention, a recalibration maybe. Their grip on my hand shifts slightly, testing.
But they don’t soften. “Plenty of nobles say they’ve seen hardship. It’s easy to use suffering as a story when it helps you toward the throne.”
I let their words sit. They expect defensiveness – expect a polished rebuttal.
Instead, I say, “The people I treated never saw nobles. Never spoke to anyone with power. When their lives improved, it was because someone actually showed up – made a choice that affected them directly. Not through policy. Through presence.”
Commander Kaelix studies the line of my posture as they guide us through a sharper step. The movement is aggressive, testing my balance. “So you think individual action fixes broken systems.”
“No, I don’t think there’s one simple solution to fix the entire thing,” I answer.
“I think the system’s built on choices that kept the powerful comfortable …
that part can’t be repaired. It needs to be replaced piece by piece, not burned all at once.
Burn everything, and the same type of people rebuild the same walls. ”
Their grip shifts again in my hands – a change of approach.
“How do you decide what survives and what burns?”
“I wouldn’t,” I say. “I’d use power to redistribute it. Shift who gets to decide. Make sure people who live the consequences have the authority to shape them.”
Commander Kaelix turns us sharply, sending a sweep of my skirt and motion through the open space nearby. A few dancers step aside. The scent of night-blooming jasmine drifts past, almost too sweet against the weight of our conversation.
“Interesting. But what you’re saying is just more of the same rhetoric I hear over and over … every politician gives me empty promises of equality, just so they can cozy up to us and take advantage of our tech and resources.”
“That’s not what I want.”
“Then what do you want, Lady Cyra?” Their voice lowers. “If you reach the throne, what changes for the people who work in coolant-soaked alleys?”
“They stop being invisible. Resources flow toward survival before luxury. Decisions aren’t made by people who’ve never stood on cracked pavement or rationed water for a neighbour.”
Commander Kaelix’s expression remains guarded, but their steps change. They adjust to my movement instead of forcing me into theirs, the dance becoming collaborative.
“I wasn’t raised a noble. I’m not a politician.” I say softly.
“No,” they agree. Their electric blue eyes hold mine, assessing. “You’re not. Which is why I’m still deciding whether that makes you very dangerous or unexpectedly useful.”
“Useful to whom?” I ask.
“To anyone tired of systems that survive only by sacrificing those beneath them.”
We slow as the music reaches its final pattern. Commander Kaelix releases my hand last, as if confirming something in the way I hold their gaze.
They bow with clear formality. “Thank you for the conversation, Lady Cyra.”
“Thank you, Commander. And thank you for avoiding my toes.”
A short laugh escapes them, unguarded and quick, before they recover their poise. The sound surprises me more than anything else that’s happened tonight.
As they return to their entourage, I feel their attention slide back to me once, assessing again, and this time with more interest than suspicion.
I’m making my way back toward Ren when the world explodes into chaos.
I don’t see them all at first – three figures in black emerging from the floating garden alcoves, their faces hidden behind combat masks. The attack comes from multiple directions at once, and the garden erupts into screams and confusion as guests realize this isn’t part of the entertainment.
The first blade nearly takes my head off.
I drop instinctively, the weapon whistling through the space where my neck was a heartbeat before. The golden train of my gown pools around me as I crouch, completely vulnerable in the elaborate dress.
The second assassin comes from my left, moving toward my exposed flank. I’m still off-balance, tangled in silk and fabric, when the third circles behind me.
That’s when Ren explodes from the crowd like a force of nature.
She moves with inhuman speed, her black leather a stark contrast to the elaborate gowns around her. The first assassin never sees her coming – her blade takes him in the throat before he can bring his weapon to bear. Blood sprays across white marble.
“Get down!” she shouts, already spinning to assess the remaining threats.
I flatten myself against the garden floor as steel and force fields ring out above me. The second assassin adjusts, coming at me from a different angle while Ren is recovering from her strike.
That’s when Lord Castor crashes into the fight like a battering ram.
His war hammer swings in a brutal arc, catching the second assassin in the ribs with a sickening crunch. The assassin staggers sideways, gasping, and Lord Castor follows through, bringing the hammer down again – this time connecting with the assassin’s skull. The man drops without a sound.
“Told you I had your back, Princess!” Lord Castor roars, already pivoting to find the next threat.
The third assassin hesitates, seeing his companions fall so quickly. He makes a desperate calculation and lunges for me anyway, blade extended toward my throat.
Zevran intercepts him.