8. The Concord Stone
THE CONCORD STONE
ELENA – THE GREEN REACH
The clearing becomes a stage. Our stage. They line us up in two rows so we face the Concord Stone. We stare straight ahead. Twenty freshly clean human women dressed in flowing white, facing down a wall of alien males.
The clearing fills out with males who radiate different powers.
Heat, storm, shadow, ice, and others. Wings take up space behind one bronzed warrior.
They’re massive, black-feathered, and half-furled.
A blue-skinned male with glowing markings watches us, his stare licking over every movement.
Another leans in the shadows, relaxed, dangerous, violet eyes glinting.
And standing apart from all of them is one in silver robes, posture straight as a blade, gaze so cold it chills the jungle.
Rythar stands at the head of the half-circle like a primitive god in alien battle armor. Still and centered, but coiled. There’s a leashed energy to him that wasn’t there before. Around him, the other warriors hold unnaturally still.
“The Concord Stone will adjudicate,” Rythar says, and lifts one arm as a summons.
Despite the scent of the calming sap, irritation prickles under my skin at Rythar’s announcement.
Dutiful breeding assignments were a fact of life on New Terra.
Awkward and inconvenient, but temporary.
I shut my eyes tightly for a moment because I get the feeling this assignment isn’t going to be temporary.
I scan the males again, wondering which one I’m going to be stuck with, and how I can get out of it.
No forced mating, they said. But we’re gift-wrapped and on display for these hungry-eyed alien males.
Just give us the assignment already. Get it over with. Quit pretending we want any part of this.
For the first time, we meet a Xythean female. She exits a small pod, then stands near the stone, waiting solemnly. She’s heavily genetically modified, with three-fingered hands.
Maya’s name is called. She steps forward in a controlled way, looking so much braver than I feel.
The priestess places Maya’s hand on the Stone.
Light pours from the Stone. Holograms bloom in the air. Names and symbols in tangled threads that split and reform like the world’s cruelest family tree.
A voice recites: “Designation: Starfallen. Assignments proceeding.”
I don’t dare breathe. The lines stretch, fracture, reconnect, matching each woman to a ruler, a region, a bloodline. A fate.
Tessa whispers, “All these aliens are from different parts of the planet. They’re really splitting us up.”
“Maybe not right away,” I whisper back. I helplessly scan the warriors flanking us. We won’t win a physical fight.
Maya’s name glows.
The Stone speaks.
“Maya Chen. By decree, you are placed in the custody of the High Lord Jarrett Davryn.”
The clearing parts.
The High Lord moves into view. He’s tall, silver-robed, and unfairly beautiful. His white-gold hair catches the light like metal, but his eyes remain cold as glacier glass. He watches Maya with a focus that reads more like possession than interest.
He takes her hand. She doesn’t fight. He leads her away, vanishing into the trees.
A shuttle lifts a minute later.
The spell breaks.
Sloane breathes, “They’re really dividing us.”
I reach out, find hands, and squeeze. We’re a chain of silent panic held together by touch. But it won’t last. The ceremony keeps going, claiming woman after woman. After each set of names, another of my friends is taken away.
Tessa. Her turn. The Stone flashes red-hot.
“Cinder Courts. Custody of the Fire Lord.”
She shuts her eyes for a second, then opens them as she is scooped up by an alien male with dark red hair and bright eyes.
Lila flips off the Stone before touching it. For a second, it glitches.
I hold my breath, wondering if the glitch means punishment is coming. But the next second, the Stone announces her match.
“Lila Moreno. Claimed by Pelagis. Custody of the Sea King.”
“If I just got matched to live in a merman dungeon, I want a do-over.” Lila scowls at the priestess.
Our eyes are wide, watching as the Sea King moves lightly up to the platform, his expression neutral. The words die on Lila’s tongue as she takes in his alien appearance. He’s heavily muscled, but slimmer than most of the other aliens.
Lila relaxes in his arms as he picks her up and takes her away without a word. She went from fighting to placid as he neared. We all saw it. Something forced her to settle.
One by one, gone. One more match made in a nightmare.
My turn is coming.
And Rythar hasn’t stopped tracking me. Not once.
It hits me like a voltage surge when my name is announced.
“ELENA PARKS.”
The Concord Stone flares green, gold, and violet, like the jungle. The color crawls, twists, and burns. A shape like a vine spirals out of the light. It seems alive, trembling as if it can’t wait to wrap around me.
“Custody of Rythar Smythe, Warlord of the Green Reach.”
My heart rate jumps. Rythar.
Of course it’s him. Out of all the impossible titles—King, Stormlord, Shadow Prince—I end up with the Warlord.
I’m so tired of violence, of marching from one battlefield to the next, and now I’m handed to the male who’s been circling me since the moment he stepped out of the jungle.
The one I keep telling myself I shouldn’t look at twice. The one I keep looking at anyway.
Across the clearing, Rythar removes his helmet and studies me like he's not sure what the Stone just chained to his name. I don't see victory in his eyes. Only the look of a commander bracing for what comes next.
It's the first time I've seen what the visor hid. A heavy brow, drawn low. His gaze doesn't wander. It locks, and it decides. I can feel him memorizing me.
Same male. But everything's different now.
Seven feet of menace and control. Shoulders wide enough to carry a planet.
Skin the color of sun-warmed copper, stretched over corded muscle.
Old scars cross whatever the armor leaves bare.
His hair's tied back with leather, dark as the jungle behind him, but the gold threading his braids flashes every time the wind hits.
A cord hangs at his throat, strung with something’s fangs.
His armor breathes when he does, shifting with his body like it's bonded to him.
He's a mix of primitive animal and expensive technology.
His hands are steady. Precise, for someone so large.
He could take down any other male in the clearing with his bare hands.
His eyes ignite as they meet mine. Ember-gold, ringed in red, and when his pupils widen, the red spreads like fire.
The force of them hits low, pinning me in place.
And I feel a heat I never invited. The pull toward him isn’t subtle anymore. The Stone reached inside me and twisted something deep and instinctive. Something logic can’t touch.
My fight is draining away, but I curl my fingers tight. I can’t look away from Rythar, but I refuse to move to him.
No.
I survived New Terra. I survived the crash.
But surviving him will be something else entirely.