Chapter 1 #4
Theora nodded, and Boada took up the thick rope coiled on her desk and helped Theora set it over her shoulder.
Theora cringed at its weight. It had to be at least thirty-five pounds.
She was glad she’d started pushing herself to do more strength conditioning, but it seemed too little too late at this point.
Together they left the office and walked down the long hall in silence. They stopped in front of the door leading to the barracks.
“Walk through as casually as on any other day you’ve observed them,” the handler said, her voice low, as if she expected someone to be listening in. “Don’t try to hide what you’re about to do. Warriors are used to witnessing this sort of thing.”
Theora nodded. Questions, fears, protests crowded her mind, but there was no more time to delay.
The peace talks were next week. Perhaps her one chance to stop the pain and chaos being inflicted on her people without having to shed any more blood—through a mediating judge, whose decision would be just and binding. She needed this done.
“Shall we?” the handler said, opening the door and proceeding ahead down the dark, narrow hall leading to the barracks, before disappearing around the bright corner.
Theora took the brief time alone to breathe deeply. It was like walking the crowded streets of her colony. Just people in a crowd, with no relation to her. No reason to want her dead. By now Theora had perfected her attitude, her level of energy, to keep away any excited nerves.
Normally. But today was different.
As soon as she entered the ballroom-sized stone room, the rope over her shoulders started drawing attention.
There were three floors’ worth of Warriors watching her.
Some from their bedrooms, which were just ancient stone archways that opened their small sleeping areas to the wider room.
Some around where Theora walked, sparring or sewing.
It was a strange sight to see both violent and domestic activities going on within five feet of each other.
Before a year ago, when she’d started observing them, Theora had thought that Warriors would look a bit more…
well, uniform. In colonies like Lasius, for example, the military was made up of women only, with a superficial requirement of height and size so all units could look the same.
But in the barracks, there were Warriors of different skin tones, sizes, and genders.
The only semi-unifying trait was that they all had short hair, no longer than their shoulders, some cropped so close she could see the scars on their scalps.
Most were preparing for evening hunts, with Aranean silk shirts—which moved like cotton tunics but were tougher than any pathetic metal armor the other colonies could come up with—skirting off their powerful forms. And a deep growl, like an animal’s, rumbled in many of their chests.
Theora walked through the barracks, not casually but not so quickly as to seem anxious to leave.
The Warriors pressed close into her space without touching her, challenging her.
It was all part of the ritual, Theora reminded herself.
She was thankful for their handler strolling among them nearby, but most of the Warriors stopped growling when Theora passed by, because they knew the rope necklace wasn’t for them.
She’d never understand this Warrior ritual—how something that was supposed to bind two people together could make them even more aggressive.
As if a relationship were something that should be questioned and torn to shreds before being accepted.
The worst Docile marriages she’d seen were loveless and inconvenient.
Boring, maybe. Never life-threatening. None that she knew of, anyway, seeing as Araneans as a rule kept up a neutral appearance in public no matter what their private life looked like.
But then, that was all based on hearsay and observation.
She didn’t have any firsthand experience with committed romantic relationships.
Someone in her position wasn’t at liberty to “get to know people” or to “see what happens.” Perhaps that was why she’d gone along with the idea of eventually marrying her best friend, Apollo.
He was technically what foreigners would call a prince, beloved by the people, and she loved him dearly enough to make marrying him the most stress-free option.
Who needed romance when you could just marry your best friend?
But that was before a year ago. Apollo was currently in another colony, safely away from the war, and she was glad of it now, if only to keep him in the dark about her plan.
The purpose of a queen’s marrying was either for political gain or to produce heirs, and she really only required the former at the moment.
A business arrangement was more useful to her now than an actual husband.
There was no reason for the man she was actually going to marry to know.
Besides, this was not the moment to waste time on…
feelings. There was no time to foster relationships, no emotional room left for worrying about the safety of loved ones.
She had enough people to worry about—an entire colony, to be exact.
No sense in giving this war more personal stakes than it already had.
Theora kept her eyes on the door at the other end of the barracks until she reached it, then looked over her shoulder at Boada, who nodded to her. She opened the door, not daring to release a heavy breath until it was safely shut behind her.
From here, she would have to finish this alone.
She stood in a narrow, unlit passageway, all ancient stone save for the metal door across from the one she’d just exited through—it was clear this new room had been built and added to the barracks later. The muscles in her neck and back burned. She’d underestimated the rope’s weight.
Just get this over with, Theora.
She pushed open the next door, freezing in the entrance of a small metal box.
A bedroom, judging by the bed against the opposite wall and the personal items scattered about, though it couldn’t have been larger than her walk-in closet.
And on the bed sat a Warrior—her Warrior—shirtless, unwinding a dirty-white wrap from his hands…
crimson liquid smeared on his mouth, dripping off his chin, running down his chest.
Theora felt lightheaded enough to faint. He hadn’t even had a chance to clean up from his last kill. Whom had he just killed?
Great Sovereign, she prayed, hopefully it’s a what instead of a who.
Theora adjusted her grip on the giant rope necklace, her violet frames sliding down her already sweating nose.
She didn’t reach to fix them—sudden movements set the Warriors off, didn’t they?
And he seemed riled enough as it was, his active growl shaking the bed.
The ritual required that he challenge her, but this seemed excessive.
What did you expect, Theora? That you’d reminisce on the few random times you made eye contact from afar during your visits to observe him?
The Warrior stood, and Theora had to keep herself from gaping.
The boys were generally weaker than the girls, and most of them didn’t survive long enough to hit puberty, let alone come of age.
But at twenty-five years old, this Warrior was tall with broad shoulders.
His muscles weren’t razor-defined, but they were clearly there and even more clearly powerful.
This physique, combined with the black battle paint smearing his shoulders and chest, made her think of a giant grizzly. He was absolutely terrifying.
But then, she supposed that was the point.
He walked toward her, his growl quieting to a low rumble as he stopped right in front of her.
The mirror on the wall beside them reflected them like negatives of each other—his skin as cream as hers was umber, his eyes as hot amber as hers were elegant violet, his attitude as eager to kill as hers was not to die.
Theora kept her position, her expression level, despite her desire to run in the opposite direction.
She slid the thick rope off her shoulders and held it with both hands in front of her.
She’d straightened her hair just last night with a hot comb, but already her head was sweating, her roots turning thick and curly.
Hopefully, this was the only proof of her anxiety.
She cleared her throat and stepped forward, her arms shaking a bit from the weight as she held up the loop. She stood five-nine, taller than most of her peers, but she still had to look up at this towering killing machine. It was a strange feeling, for once, to feel so small.
The Warrior reached behind her and pushed the door shut, and with this gesture Theora’s windpipe seemed to shrink. The room was smaller than she’d thought with the door open, and she had a sudden fear that the walls might crush in on her, that any moment stabbing pain might follow.
For a moment she couldn’t catch her breath, in the worst way.
All she could see was Queen Leveya, with her gorgeous box braids and full cheeks constantly rosy from laughter—often at the most inopportune times, forcing her to find somewhere hidden from the public eye to express herself.
Theora didn’t care how people had hated her, or whether she’d been fit to be queen.
It was Leveya who had been her steadfast friend, even to her death.
Leveya who had thought nothing of lying on top of Theora when their car was attacked by Vespulans.
Who’d had a stinger tear across her throat…
the same stinger to slash Theora’s hip before the enemy was finally dispatched, by someone Theora wouldn’t be able to identify if she’d been offered eternal life.
It was as if Leveya’s lifeless body were pressing her into the leather car seat now, her panic building in the small space—
Just like a year ago…the day her life nearly ended.
The day she became queen.