31. Concord Platform Alpha
CONCORD PLATFORM ALPHA
ELENA – IN FLIGHT
Rythar’s warship makes the skiff look like a toy.
The hatch seals with a hydraulic snap. The interior is angular, built for speed and impact, not comfort. No windows. Just armored plating and narrow tactical displays that glow softly, their amber light cutting across matte metal walls.
The Xytheos-sized seat isn’t padded, but it molds around my smaller form while a full-body harness snaps into place with a series of rapid clicks over shoulders, ribs, and thighs. I test it instinctively and get nowhere. Even if I wanted to stand, the ship wouldn’t allow it.
The smell of recycled air sends me straight back to the underground of New Terra. I grunt as my body slams into the seat as the ship rips through the atmosphere. "Sorry," Rythar says. "These are built for Xytheos warriors. I'll take it slower."
Rythar occupies the pilot's seat like he was engineered for it. One hand on the control stick, the other resting near the pulse-cannon trigger. He doesn't look at me. His attention is forward, readouts flickering across his face faster than I can follow.
I’m unsettled, but it’s not because of the threat of conflict right now.
The warship is battle-ready, but Rythar isn't expecting an immediate fight. It’s unsettling how completely at ease Rythar is up here.
We're nowhere near the jungle, and he's not any less lethal.
I won't make the mistake of assuming the other rulers are different. I squeeze my eyes shut.
"Are you alright?" His gruff voice breaks my reverie.
I open my eyes. "I'm... fine," I gasp between breaths.
“We’re almost there,” he grunts.
Ahead, the Council platform floats in the thin outer atmosphere—massive, anchored to nothing.
The hull is black and glassy, but the surface is pitted with scars and old scorch marks.
I can see the Concord ships already docked, lined up in perfect formation.
One ship is more heavily armed and shielded.
It looks equivalent to Rythar’s ship. It must be the High Lord’s personal warship.
Winged figures circle above the platform. A dozen, maybe fewer. They hold formation in tight arcs, blades strapped across their backs.
"Who are they?" I ask.
Rythar barely glances up. "A few from Sky Legion. General Akran's enforcers. They handle Council matters across biomes." He pauses. "Unusual that their General is absent for a meeting like this. I assume Akran is occupied with his new bride. Like the rest of us."
"They leave their biome, but you don't?"
"Sky is different. Akran's only real land is some cliffs. His warriors live in artificial habitats that move through open air. Jarrett keeps them close to the Astral Spire for obvious reasons."
"Strong defense, controllable offense, then?" I smile. "But I never saw them in the Green Reach. Or Reach's End."
Rythar gives a short laugh. "Most biome lords will enter each other's territory. Only Vorak was reckless enough to enter mine uninvited. And I don’t entertain."
"Not a fan of company?"
One of his hands finds mine. "Only yours," he growls.
Rythar lands with zero ceremony. The ship touches down onto the pad, and the hatch cycles open before the engines even finish winding down. The moment the doors part, the air is different. It prickles against my skin.
“What is that feeling in the air?” I whisper.
Rythar raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t take his eyes off our surroundings.
“It’s stronger than his usual presence, isn’t it?
Bit annoying. Like a buzzing fly. The High Lord is angry.
” He gives my arm a squeeze, then pushes me behind him as he says, “I’m angrier. Say nothing. He is always spying here.”
Drenz and three of Rythar’s best follow, weapons slung but hands loose at their sides. I’m bracketed by muscle. Rythar in front, Drenz behind, and the other two flanking. I want to be strong enough to stand with Rythar, but this time, I don’t mind the guards.
We cross the docking ring. More warriors wait at the threshold, faces hidden behind visors. They don’t move.
“Jarrett’s warriors,” Drenz whispers to me.
A woman stands between them, but she’s clearly far removed from any version of humanity I ever knew.
Her face is pointed, symmetrical, and eerily beautiful.
But her skin is a light blue, her pale white hair is cropped to the scalp, and her eyes are a deep black that covers the iris and sclera.
Her three-fingered hands are gloved in pale blue.
She wears a high-collared ecru jacket and a long ecru dress.
“Warlord Rythar. Elena.” She bows, then turns on her heel. “The High Lord awaits you in the main chamber.”
“Who is she?” I whisper.
“One of the High Lord’s courtwives,” whispers Drenz.
We follow her through a narrow corridor lit with faint white light. I count five different surveillance arrays before we even reach the first door.
The main chamber is sparse. There’s a single table in the center, black and smooth, with over twenty unmarked chairs around it. At the far end, three men—two advisors in full armor, standing at parade rest, and the High Lord seated in the middle.
He's not what I expected. I don’t remember him from the Claiming Ceremony.
I saw his projection before, but the effect is stronger in the flesh.
He’s almost beautiful. He’s tall, and slender for a Xythean male.
Every feature is too precise to be natural.
His hair is so pale that it's nearly white, and it’s brushed back from a face that gives nothing away.
He wears black gloves. His eyes are a bright blue that seem to glow in the stark room.
He rises when we enter, and the movement is inhumanly smooth.
“Welcome, ruler of the Green Reach,” he says. His voice is perfect, but the words carry no emotion. It’s as though we’re not moments from war.
We stop in front of him, and all I can see is Rythar’s back. I remain flanked.
“You may seat your mate,” the High Lord says.
Rythar doesn’t move. “State your purpose in summoning my mate.”
The High Lord continues as though this is a small matter. “Very well. The Council requests an account of the events of the last cycle, including all hostile action from the territory known as Reach’s End.”
He continues. “Please have your mate be precise. Remind her that any deviation from the truth will be detected.”
I stare at Rythar’s back, feeling the heat rise in my chest.
“The territory formerly known as Reach’s End,” Rythar says.
There’s a pause, very brief, before the High Lord responds. “Yes,” he says.
Rythar steps neatly to my side, and I meet the High Lord’s gaze. He glances at Rythar, then away, as though burned by whatever’s going on between them. The High Lord does not look angry, but I can feel it. I flex my hands as the tingling increases.
Rythar touches my hand with his. His thumb strokes the back of my hand lightly, but his voice is gravel. “Tell him, Elena.”
I suspect the High Lord already knows, but I play the game.
I give him everything from the Concord delegates at the fortress to waking up in Rythar's arms. The Council credentials, the access codes, the shield, the pacification weapon.
I don't mention the projection that was supposed to be his recorded message.
He sits with one hand resting on the arm of his chair, fingers loose. The two advisors at his back remain still.
"Noted," the High Lord says. "And your mate's actions?"
My thumb curls into my palm, hiding the bride mark. "Rythar knew where to find me."
"As expected."
I stare at him. "Vorak also said it was expected. More than expected—it was the plan. He said Rythar would come for me, and he would kill Rythar. Is that what you expected?"
The High Lord’s eyes flick to Rythar. "You are asking whether I arranged your abduction." When Rythar doesn’t answer, the High Lord’s eyes flick back to me.
"No,” I say. “I'm asking whether you're disappointed it failed."
The High Lord's gaze meets mine. I expect anger, but all I see is interest. "You are very direct for someone with no power in this room."
He’s underestimating me, and I want to let him do it. "I would think someone whose Concord delegates just helped steal a woman from under the Stone would be more curious about how it happened. Where are the rest of your questions?"
"Such as?" The High Lord’s tone is calm, but the static in the room rises slightly.
"We could start with a description of the delegates," I say pointedly.
His fingers tap once against the chair arm. "You are new to Xytheos. I have recordings showing their faces. Their shuttle was traced.”
“Then you can find out who they were working with,” I say.
"That would have been a simple matter—if they were still alive," he says. "I will speak plainly for you. This was not sanctioned by the Concord Council or myself. If Vorak's men carried Concord credentials, they were stolen or forged."
I inhale, intending to bring up the projection of the High Lord’s orders, but Rythar's hand closes around my arm. The warning is in his grip.
Don't push.
The High Lord regards us both, then leans forward, elbows on the table.
“As Vorak is now dead, the Council’s concern is not with blame.
It is with the pattern of escalation. If this cycle repeats, Xytheos will return to open war.
I have long requested that he remain under your supervision at Reach’s End, Rythar.
In his own territory. And now you have killed Vorak and claimed his territory for yourself.
There are those who will be spurred to conflict by this. ”
Rythar’s voice is final, almost bored. “His territory has always been part of my biome. The war with Vorak never stopped. We had periods of truce. Now the war with him is ended. I restored stability.”
The High Lord’s gaze flickers, but he doesn’t dispute it.
“Very well,” he says, sitting back. “We have another concern.”
He looks me in the eye for the first time here, and I feel the electricity race across me, stronger.