17. Isolde
ISOLDE
T he lights always find me, even when I don't want them to.
Cameras blink like insects—unblinking, ravenous—tracking me the second the grav-car eases to a stop at the entrance of the Novarian Heritage Dome. I take a breath I don’t feel, open the door, and step into a storm of flashes with my son at my side.
“Hold tight,” I whisper, bending low enough for him to hear through the chaos. “Two squeezes if you want out, okay?”
Pyramus nods solemnly, his golden eyes darting between the sea of onlookers and my face.
His grip on my hand tightens—little claws just poking past the edge of his silk gloves.
He’s dressed in dark blue formalwear with a capelet he insisted on this morning.
"Like a space knight," he'd said, striking a pose that nearly made me laugh through my coffee.
But right now, there’s no room for laughter. Only staging.
A tide of voices builds.
“There she is—Isolde Verrix!”
“Single mother, fashion entrepreneur, cultural icon?—!”
“And that must be the boy—look at those eyes!”
I let my gaze pass over the crowd. Not too fast, not too long. Smile with warmth. Chin tilted just right for the light. I’ve done this before—hell, I was raised for it. But this time, I’m not just shielding myself from the flashstorms and vultures. I’m shielding him.
“Smile if you want, baby,” I whisper. “But only if you feel it.”
He doesn’t smile. But he stands straighter, and that’s enough.
We step onto the welcome mat. The holo-backdrop shimmers behind us with swirling Novarian art. The emblem of my late father’s lineage pulses near the top in polished silver.
A woman in coral chiffon approaches with a mic.
“Isolde,” she greets, all charm and TV teeth. “The galaxy’s been waiting for your return. How does it feel to be back in the public eye?”
I tilt my head, just a little. Controlled softness. Measured poise. That’s the dance.
“It feels... full,” I say slowly. “Not just of attention. But of meaning. I have my son with me tonight. That changes everything.”
She beams and gestures to him. “And what’s his name? If I may?”
Pyramus leans into me, shy but curious.
“This is Pyramus,” I say, lifting his hand gently. “My world.”
His eyes meet the mic, then the camera. Then he mutters, “Is this for the stars?”
The reporter chuckles. “Something like that, sweetheart.”
He peers up at me. “Can I tell them about the stars that move?”
I kneel slightly and whisper, “That’s still our secret.”
He nods, solemn as a monk, and the crowd drinks it in. A quiet, poised boy with mystery in his blood.
Just like they wanted.
Inside, the dome is all glitz and echo. Lights run like veins through the curved glass overhead, and the floor reflects our feet like we’re walking on memory.
Waiters float by with drinks in crystalline flutes.
The upper platforms spin ever so slightly—slow-turning observation decks dotted with the well-connected.
My assistant, Rae, leans in. “We’re holding at the five-minute mark. You’ll move to table six, do a brief toast, then an exit stage-right to the sponsor corridor.”
“Good,” I say. “No ad-libbing.”
“Only if they ambush.”
I glance sideways. “They will.”
Rae exhales. “We’ll shield.”
As if on cue, another presenter appears from the crowd. This one is younger—freckled cheeks and a datapad clasped tight to her chest. “Miss Verrix, if you’re willing, House Emmerentia would love a quick statement for their gala archive?—”
Pyramus pulls on my hand. Two squeezes. I glance down.
He’s done.
“I’m sorry,” I say, voice smooth. “We have to step aside.”
I guide us through a velvet partition into a smaller lounge, quiet and out of view. The lighting shifts to amber, calmer, like dusk. Pyramus crawls into my lap the moment I sit.
“Too many eyes,” he mumbles.
I stroke his hair gently. “I know.”
“Why do they look so hard? Like they’re trying to see through my skin.”
“Because they don’t understand you. People fear what they can’t name.”
“Are we scary?”
“No,” I murmur, “we’re just rare .”
He nods against my shoulder. “I don’t want to be rare. I just want to be yours.”
I swallow. Hard.
“You are,” I whisper, kissing the crown of his head. “Every part of you is mine.”
He curls tighter. “Then let’s go home.”
“We will. Soon.”
The rest of the evening is pretense. A toast about rebuilding legacy, a handshake with the event sponsor, a public display of grace. I smile for the holofeeds. I sign a stylized sketch someone drew of me with Pyramus. I wave at a senator’s daughter.
But it’s not me .
It’s a version. A projection. Something clean enough for broadcast.
The real me?
She’s in the hover waiting bay, holding her half-asleep son, hair mussed by his fingers and shoes scuffed from ducking crowds.
Back in the privacy of the ride, I sink into the seat and let out the breath I’ve held all night.
“I hate it,” I say into the quiet.
Rae blinks up from her datapad. “Which part?”
“All of it.”
“You were brilliant. Controlled, elegant. They adore you.”
“I don’t care if they adore me,” I say. “I care if he feels safe.”
She nods. Doesn’t press. Good.
I glance at Pyramus, his eyes closed, one red-scaled hand pressed to my collarbone like a claim.
“He doesn’t deserve this,” I murmur.
“No,” Rae says. “He deserves peace. But he needs your protection. And right now, that means letting them see what you want them to see.”
“What if they stop believing it?”
“Then we remind them who you are.”
I look out the window. The skyline crawls by like a memory half-forgotten.
“Do you believe it, Rae?”
She doesn’t look up from the pad.
“I believe in the way you hold him. That’s enough for me.”
At home, after the storm has passed and Pyramus is tucked into bed, I step onto the balcony.
The city hums below like it’s afraid to sleep.
I lean on the rail, watching the stars pulse behind smoglight and passing cruisers.
Somewhere out there is a ghost I never buried.
The galaxy’s darling, they called me tonight.
But all I’ve ever wanted is to be the one he came back for.
I whisper it to the wind.
“Come back.”
I step into the lounge hours before bedtime, dragging the hush of early evening behind me. Little shoes sit in a neat row by the low door, but one of them is off—it’s Pyramus’s, tipped on its side like a tipped star. I catch it with a soft chuckle and tuck it back upright.
My boy is two years old now—two wild, rolling years of laughter, questions, and tiny claws that dig into me when he’s excited or impatient or both.
He’s on the sofa, half-propped up on a mound of pillows and blankets, his legs dangling off the edge.
A stuffed star-ship lies beside him, its paint chipped.
He’s tugging at the blanket with one hand and pointing at the window with the other.
“Mom—look!” he shouts, voice bright and loud and unashamed.
“What, baby?” I ask, sliding in next to him.
“There!” He points. “Big star. Big big.”
I turn my head and see a sliver of light blinking through the city smog, a lonely point in the sky.
“That’s a star, sweetheart,” I explain, gently smoothing his hair. His scales on his cheeks—soft and dusky red—catch the lamplight. Golden eyes like his father’s blaze back at me.
“Star like daddy?” he asks.
I freeze for a moment, because daddy is a word loaded with absence and longing and maybe hope. I swallow the lump in my throat.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Star like daddy.”
He sits silently for a beat, then nods, and his laugh erupts—bright, fearless, unburdened by shadows.
“Tell me story, mommy.”
His orders are simple. I always obey.
I settle in the big armchair by the window, Pyramus curling into my lap, blanket cocooning us.
The city lights blur behind him, and I feel that familiar twinge of attention—Reflector hovering in the corner, soft blue glow, nanny-cam mode active.
I don’t quite dislike it. In fact, sometimes I’m grateful.
Someone is keeping tabs. Someone’s watching, silently, as I live this life.
“Okay,” I say, smoothing his blanket down. “Which one? The one about the warrior again?” He nods. “Or the one about the dragon’s moon?”
He picks the warrior. Always the warrior.
“All right,” I say, voice low and warm. “Once upon a time, in the far edges of the galaxy where the stars whisper secrets, there was a warrior with golden eyes. He was tall, and his skin bore the scars of battle and faith. He fought monsters—horrible monsters with claws like thunder and teeth like night.” I tap Pyramus’s cheek lightly.
“But one day he came across a girl. A girl who had fire in her voice and a heart that refused to hide.”
Pyramus squeezes his little fists.
“The warrior thought he knew fear,” I continue.
“But the girl showed him courage. He thought war was all he was good for—but the girl taught him this: it’s not always the battles you win that make you strong.
Sometimes it’s the ones you refuse to fight when you should have run.
” I nod slowly. “And he fought them anyway because she believed in him—even when he didn’t believe in himself. ”
He glances up at me, big golden eyes shining.
“Is he daddy?” he whispers.
My throat closes.
“Yes,” I say. “He is.”
He stares back at me a long moment; then he leans his head against my chest and says, “I like him.”
“I know,” I say, brushing his hair. “So do I.”
The story winds on: the warrior and the girl travel across a wounded ship, stave off the darkness, rebuild what was broken. They learn to live again. The monster doesn’t always die—but sometimes it learns to breathe beside you.
“And then,” I finish softly, “they found home. Not in a place, but in each other.”
Pyramus yawns, his breath soft on my collarbone. I sling the blanket tighter.
“You get sleepy,” I say. “Dream of big stars and brave warriors, okay?”
“Mmm,” he hums. “And the girl?”
“She’s right here, baby,” I say, pointing at my heart. “Always.”
Later, when he’s asleep, I sit at our little console in the study. Reflector’s projector hums quietly, flickering a light across the wall. My fingers hover over the record button.
“Day 742,” I begin the holo-log. My voice is soft, cracked by years of starring in the public eye and years of silence afterward. “I’m recording this in case you ever see it. Or maybe you don’t. I don’t know. But bear with me.”
Pyramus’s small boots sit by the door. A red-scaled toddler’s jacket hangs on the rack.
“You would have been two today,” I say. “And—well, your mother is a walking wreck of success and solitude. We walked the stage tonight. The world sees us: smile, pose, icon, mother of the year. They don’t see the nights I lie awake waiting for you to come home.
” My voice quavers. “I’m sorry I threw you into that pod.
I’m sorry I believed you wouldn’t walk into the stars and leave me here clutching the memory of your shadow. ”
I pause. The silence is thick, thick like the smoke off old fires. Reflector hums.
“At least he’s here,” I whisper. “Our boy. He giggles, he climbs, he asks a million questions about the sky and the things hiding in it. His golden eyes—your eyes—they hold your fire. I swear I feel your hand in his laugh.”
I flick off the record after ten minutes. The file sits unsent. It’s meant for you. But maybe I’ll never send it.
Because what I want… is you.
But I don’t pray anymore. Not in words.
I drift into his room and brush his hair with nothing but my fingertips. His breath is slow now, safe. I pull the covers up to his chin and place a soft kiss on his head.
“You’re everything,” I whisper. “And then some.”
He murmurs in his sleep and turns, curling deeper. I stay with him for a long time.
The next morning, I walk him to the playground in the enclave near the city ridge. The air is sharp with spring, cherry-blossom pollen drifting in waves, and the city's hum is distant enough to fade. He runs ahead, laughing like a comet, chasing a little holoball, its lights blinking pastel.
Sometimes other kids stop and watch him. They stare at the red-tinged scales on his cheeks or the shine of his eyes. Not with fear, yet. More like wonder.
“Your son,” a mother says with a polite nod. “He’s… different.”
“Yeah,” I say, smiling tight. “He’s amazing.”
She smiles back, but curious, like she’s trying to calculate what the difference means.
I stand at the bench and I breathe it all in—the spring air, his laughter, the way his hair flops when he stops running and points at the sky again.
“Mom, mommy!”
He crosses the grass, boots clumping the blades, hair messy. He slings his arm around me.
“Star like daddy again!” he shouts.
I laugh, heart lighter. “Yes, baby. Big star.”
He bounces and giggles and I catch the smell of grass and sweat and growth.
The world sees me as the benevolent mother now. The mother who slowly re-emerges. The brand. The image.
But I am more than the image.
I am the guardian.
And I am waiting.
Waiting for the ghost who never came.
I hold my son’s shoulder and let him skip ahead, skipping stones in his mind and real grass beneath his boots. I breathe the spring in, the moment in, the life in.
And I whisper into the wind, as I always do?—
“Wait for me.”
Because one day I’ll look up and find him there. Or I’ll teach our son to.
Until then, I’ll be mother. Warrior. Survivor.
And you—my warrior with gold eyes—you will be the story I tell—every year, every birthday as the candle burns purple, every night before he sleeps when I say goodnight to the stars and to you.
I turn and carry him back to the car. The sun drops low. The air turns gold-grey. The evening hum begins again.
He yawns, nestles his head against my shoulder. I feel his warmth, his small heart beating, soft and sure.
“You’re here,” I murmur. “You’re right here.”
And under the laughter, the building future and the public eye and the careful re-entry into the world, I hold the secret.
“You’re everything.”