37. Contingencies
CONTINGENCIES
ELENA – RYTHAR’S FORTRESS IN THE GREEN REACH
Proximity alarms blare as two Council envoys and a single, silent escort arrive.
Only one ship enters Rythar’s biome. They have signaled their intentions ahead.
We’re supposed to be meeting for a technical debrief.
They want one last review of the antivenom.
That’s the story, but I’m certain that the Council has ulterior motives.
There is too much at stake. They would not enter Rythar’s biome without reason.
I walk a step ahead of Rythar, feeling the warmth of his powerful hand resting between my shoulder blades as we move through the gauntlet of steely-eyed warriors.
The air is thick with the green of the jungle and the spices of the Green Reach, but the tension lingers.
Drenz is elsewhere, not seen, but I know Rythar has him monitoring everything.
The meeting is in the largest chamber, a vault of wood, its walls shaped to focus sound. The Council delegation is already there, arrayed around the table. As one, they rise to greet us in an obligatory show of respect.
Rythar bows, a minimal motion. “Councilors.”
The one in the center nods back. “Warlord. And Bride.”
I shut my eyes so they can’t see them roll.
We take our seats.
They smoothly congratulate me on the “successful stabilization” of the antivenom. They thank Rythar for his effective leadership. They recite casualty figures and cross-reference them with our own, never missing a beat. But they don’t ask a single technical question about the antivenom.
Instead, they pivot.
“You have adapted more quickly than any of the Starfallen,” says the one on the right, a male with eyes like polished obsidian. “How do you account for your,” he pauses, searching for the word, “resilience?”
I force a smile. My instincts were right. Something else is at play, and it might be me. “I had a lot of practice surviving before I got here,” I say.
He makes a note on his pad. “The Concord Stone’s decision was, in hindsight, prescient.”
The older one leans in. “Your integration has had stabilizing effects beyond the Reach. The High Lord wishes to acknowledge your contribution personally.”
Rythar bristles. His hand moves under the table, settling on my thigh. He’s trying to comfort me. To signal that I’m not going anywhere. He tells them, “The High Lord honors us with his attention. But my wife has already met with the High Lord.”
The older councilor’s lips twitch into a sly smile. “You misunderstand. The High Lord is not requesting her presence. He is requesting her transfer.”
The room goes dead quiet. The escort in the corner shifts, just enough to draw the eye.
“I already gave everyone the antivenom,” I say. “I have nothing else to offer.”
The obsidian-eyed male smiles, razor-thin. “Yes, you have shared freely. Most admirable. But I must admit we have had some trouble replicating your success. Your transfer may ensure future replication.”
Rythar stands so fast his chair slams the wall behind him. The escort’s hand goes to his weapon, but he looks frozen as Rythar pushes my chair behind him. He’s between the Councilors and me.
“She is not yours to take,” Rythar says, voice deep.
The older man doesn’t move. “If you do not comply with the request, the High Lord will issue a directive.”
Rythar smiles a deadly smile. “Which we will all pretend never happened. If Jarrett thought he could take her from me, he would already have done it,” Rythar says.
The obsidian-eyed councilor stands, too. “You misunderstand. She will be treated as a guest, not a captive.”
Rythar’s body blocks all view of me. “No.”
“If you insist, Warlord. But you must understand the consequences.”
“You will suffer consequences merely for making this request. Leave,” he says. The words echo in the large chamber.
The councilor blanches. “You’ve declared open defiance,” the older man says. “There will be a record.”
Rythar glances at the guard captain. “Drenz, secure every corridor. They leave through the main gate. They do not return without pre-scheduled authorization. All other Council ships will be shot out of the sky on sight.”
Drenz moves instantly, his voice rippling down the line of warriors outside. The corridor beyond fills with the stomp of boots, the dull thunk of armor on stone.
The older man gathers his pad, nods once, then moves for the door. His gaze falls on me. “You are free to contact the Council at any time,” the older man says. “We will listen.”
After they leave, I turn to Rythar. “Why have they done this? I gave the antivenom to everyone,” I say.
“Jarrett trusts no one,” Rythar says. “He likely suspects you are making good on your threat to him. Sending good antivenom to the other biomes, and little or fake antivenom to the Astral Spire.”
“How can I fix this?” I whisper.
Rythar cups my face with a tenderness that belies the fierce look on his face. “You do not belong to them,” he whispers. “Not now. Not ever.”
I manage a single nod in response.
We stand in the dead center of the chamber, alone together, the entire world outside pressing in, unable to reach the two of us.
Our quarters become my bunker. This is how it was on New Terra when another battle loomed.
Rythar paces back and forth, the scars on his hands standing out like white bands. His jaw is clenched, a line of rage running from his temples down his neck. I watch him from the edge of the bed, my own fingers curled so tightly they ache.
“Is it really that dire?” I ask, breaking the silence. “You act like the Council is going to break down the door themselves.”
“They would if they thought it would work.” He doesn’t look at me. He’s focused on the display, the rolling feed of security data projected in shifting bands of gold and green. “They want you. They’ll try anything.”
“It should be over,” I say.
He rounds on me, eyes so hot they could melt stone. “It’s not over until the world forgets you exist. Or until it fears me too much to even talk of touching you.”
I roll my eyes, but my pulse jumps. “They won’t enter your biome, right? Aren’t I safe in the fortress?”
“I left you in the fortress before, and they tricked you into leaving. I am not giving you up.” Each word is resolute.
I stand, walk to the window, and stare out at the dark mass of jungle. "I can't stay locked up forever. I'll go crazy. You'll have to let me out. And then they'll try again."
I stare at the jungle through the window and think about what he's really keeping me from. Not the Council. Not the High Lord. The other women. The part of me that existed before him. The part he can't control and can't compete with because it has nothing to do with the bond.
He comes up behind me, not touching, but close enough that I feel the heat rolling off him. “Then let them try. I will show them what happens when they push.”
I want to argue, but the words turn to dust in my mouth. Instead, I turn to face him.
Rythar’s hands are fists. His lips are drawn tight, almost bloodless. He looks like he’s ready to kill, but it feels like he’s worried.
I reach for his hand, pulling it into mine, rubbing his large knuckles.
“If you hold everything so tight, it will break,” I say, voice shaking.
He looks at our hands like he can’t believe they’re real. “I’ll break everything but you, Elena.”
My throat closes. I want to kiss him, but I don’t.
Instead, I take a step back, and that’s when it hits—a spike of heat burrows into my left ring finger. The bride mark burns, and a shock races up my arm and into the back of my skull.
I gasp and find myself in Rythar’s arms. The pain is gone as quickly as it came, but something lingers, a thread of pressure stretching out from my finger into the air. The connection is open.
Rythar’s eyes narrow as he searches my face. “You’re reaching for them again.”
I shake my head, breath gone. “I didn’t try to. It just—” The word gets lost. I don’t know how to explain it. The psychic wire to Sophia and Maya just happened.
He holds me to him. “Can you shut it off?”
“No.” I squeeze my eyes shut, try to focus, but it only makes the thread stronger. For a split second, I sense Sophia on the other end, angry. Then the thread snaps, leaving nothing but a ringing in my head.
He studies my face, looking for a lie. “The High Lord will track it.”
“Maybe not.” I exhale, shaking. “Sophia is trying to hide it.”
Rythar lets go, turns away, and rakes his fingers through his hair. “Do not underestimate the High Lord. This gives us no advantage and all the risk. He’ll use any contact against you. Against us.”
I stare at his shoulders, the broad line of muscle, the scars that cross them. “Maybe.”
He opens his mouth like he’s about to yell, but all that comes out is a sigh. He slumps into the chair, pulls me onto his lap, and buries his face in my hair. “You’re mine. I won’t lose you,” he says, muffled.
“You won’t.”
He looks up. “You say that like you know it’s true.”
I do. But I don’t know why.
Maybe because the alternative is worse.
We sit like that, quiet. The connection to Sophia is a live wire in my chest, humming, waiting for the next surge.
I can’t hide, but I am alive.
And so is he.
We eat breakfast in silence. It’s the sweet fruit mix I love, savory cakes, and slabs of meat so tender and juicy that I still can’t believe they’re real. Rythar sits opposite me, arms folded, jaw set, eating twice what any human could.
There’s something about the way the Council behaved that I can’t get out of my mind. I push the food around my plate, then put the fork down. “Can I ask you something?”
He nods, slow. “Always.”
I lace my fingers, study the bride mark. “When was the last time the High Lord made a direct order? Not through a proxy. Not with plausible deniability. Not a request. A real, actual command.”
He blinks. The question hits, but he tries not to show it. “The High Lord rarely needs to make direct orders.”
I raise my eyebrow. “But you can’t remember the last time, can you?”
His lips twitch, then flatten. “It is not the way of the system.”
It’s the way of a stagnated system. I lean forward, pressing. “How many surveillance reports go unanswered? How many border incidents are flagged for review and then dropped? How many times do you get an ‘urgent’ message, but nobody follows up unless you do?”
He glares, but doesn’t answer.
I keep going. “This isn’t just about me. The world is getting less predictable. The ‘order’ is slipping, and nobody wants to admit it because it’s supposed to be impossible.”
His knuckles whiten. “You think it is because of you?”
“No,” I say, voice sharp. “I think it’s because the Concord Stone is failing. Something is wrong. And that means every old rule is a guess. And that means pretending everything is normal just puts all the pressure—” I point to my chest “—right here. Until I shatter.”
He stands, the chair scraping back hard. He paces, then slams a fist into the wall. The wall dents, then heals—and I feel the heal, a green ripple running up my own arm.
“Don’t,” I warn him.
He turns to me, breathing hard, eyebrows slashing together. “I’m protecting you.”
I snort. “Yeah, well, nobody told my nervous system. And being protected isn’t enough.
I was protected on New Terra—so protected that I ended up here on Xytheos while New Terra was destroyed.
I’m tired, Rythar. Tired of pretending I’m just a pawn.
Tired of acting like I don’t want things, need things, feel things. ”
He closes the space between us fast. He grabs my arms, pulls me upright. The motion is rough, urgent, but gentle enough.
He stares down, ember eyes burning. “Tell me what you want.”
I try to look away, but he tilts my chin up, needing the eye contact.
I whisper, “I want to talk to Sophia, and Maya, and any of the other women from New Terra I can reach.”
He nods once, a soldier’s acknowledgment. Then he releases me, spins to the wall panel, and slams his palm to the control. The walls thicken, threads of metal and wood interlacing in an instant, sealing every exit.
Rythar looks back at me grimly. “You will remain here. No one comes in, no one leaves, without my order.” His hand stays on the panel. “I told you I would learn to be held. I did not tell you it would be tonight. Until you are armed, this is the only wall I have.”
I glare. “You think locking me up even more fixes it?”
Rythar crosses the room, and this time he pulls me against him, hard enough that I can’t move. His body is an unyielding wall. “If you won’t stop acting on this connection, if you can’t, you aren’t leaving this room.”
I glare at him. “I can’t live my life in one room, Rythar!”
He leans in, mouth at my ear. “You are mine. Not the Stone’s. Not the Council’s. Mine.”
I shiver, every cell aware of him. “You can’t contain this. I can’t even contain this.”
He kisses me softly, holding back the tension I feel in his muscles.
“You will stay here,” he orders. His hand lingers on the panel a second too long as he locks it to his signature.
There’s no arguing with him.
The rest of the day is a blur. The fort’s routines go on, but we don’t leave the quarters. We alternate between anger and need, words and bodies crashing against each other in a cycle that doesn’t stop until night falls and we are both too spent to move.
I lie on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He’s beside me, an arm thrown across my ribs, breath slow and steady.
“I don’t want to be the only thing holding your world together,” I say.
His arm tightens around me. “You are not,” he says.
I turn my head slightly, searching his face in the dim light.
“It will bend before it breaks.” His thumb lingers over my curves, as if memorizing them. “For many centuries, rulers did not take Starfallen mates. We were built for governance. For war. For order.” His hand tightens gently at my waist. “Perhaps that was incomplete.”
I study him in the dark. “You’re admitting to me that there might be something wrong with the way Xytheos is run?”
His sculpted features are shadowed. “I have been preparing for contingencies,” he says cryptically.
“You’re planning something.”
His mouth curves faintly. “Yes.”
“What?”
He pulls me closer. “I’ll show you tomorrow.”