Chapter 1 #2
The choice to connect them had always seemed strange to her—one building based on simple cultural tradition and the other sleek, dynamic, stunning.
After all, with the new monarchy came new laws, and Warriors were no longer considered fit to live among Dociles.
They were volatile. Dangerous. The old ways were risky, not to mention expensive, so secluding the Warriors was deemed the best way to keep everyone safe.
But then, perhaps it wasn’t so strange—the ancients understood the power of setting a building of such importance in a place the sun loved most, where it was closest to the Eye of the Sovereign.
And so, following their example, the Araneans really had no choice but to share the coliseum’s foundations with the new capitol building.
And yet, the superstitious type would say it was almost as if the Sovereign didn’t approve of this new, safer way of life. Because every queen since the dawn of the new monarchy had their reigns cut short.
Five queens ago, a doorway had finally been carved out to link the two buildings, so that the queen could keep in close contact with the Warriors’ handler, who couldn’t stray beyond the coliseum for more than a day due to being the primary commander of the colony’s military.
But getting quick reports from the handler was risky if you didn’t bother to also demand respect from the two hundred wild killing machines enclosed there, and, ironically—or unironically, it seemed—that same queen was killed by a Warrior in this very hallway.
The two who came after her were reminded why the Warriors had been secluded in the first place, and it was back to living near the obnoxious wallpaper.
Even Leveya—Sovereign rest her soul—hadn’t been brave enough to move near them, despite Theora’s childlike encouragement. Not that it mattered in the end. Leveya had been ambushed by those filthy Vespulans instead. Murdered. Throwing Aranea into war, after a hundred years of peace.
Now Theora had been queen for only a year, and though Aranea and Vespula were in the midst of a ceasefire, it was fragile enough to erupt back into warfare at a moment’s notice.
Theora needed the trust of the Warriors and the quick reports of their handler.
Besides, this was the way of the ancient queens, keeping in close contact with their Warriors.
After all, they were Araneans, too. And if Theora was afraid of anything, it wasn’t her own people.
And she was most certainly not the superstitious type.
She opened the shiny metal door that connected the palace to the tan stone corridor of the ancient coliseum.
Dust fluttered at her feet, her footsteps echoing gently against the vast ceiling, telling secrets to the dark corners of the hall.
It was tricky to wire electricity in such an old building, and hiring someone to refresh the spark charms was inordinately expensive—an expense the handler didn’t seem to think was a priority, since the hall housed nothing but the door to her office.
So it remained only dimly lit by the blue-white spheres of soft light, trailing the wall at intervals like sconces.
Theora might’ve found the mysterious expanse of this ancient building charming if it hadn’t been so dirty…and if this trip weren’t so terrifyingly necessary.
She reached the door but didn’t enter. Not yet.
Instead, she took out a small, ornate compact, looking over her makeup, her hair. She huffed, her shoulders slumping slightly.
Who are you trying to look cute for, Theora?
She put the mirror away and squared her shoulders.
After all, she was a queen—her violet eyes had marked her as a ruler from birth, one of the rare few chosen by the holy hand of the Sovereign.
But eyes alone couldn’t command respect.
Looks didn’t matter in this situation, only her position of dominance.
Still, her anxiety suddenly peaked as she murmured a desperate attempt at a prayer.
“Blessed Sovereign…please let me come out of this alive.”
The office was lit just as dimly as the hall, although it was aided a bit by candles on the dark cherrywood desk.
An older woman sat behind the desk, wire-framed spectacles balanced on her nose as she silently mouthed the words of the book she was holding.
A large coil of gray rope sat on top of the desk.
Theora swallowed. It looked heavier than she’d thought it would be.
“Boada,” she greeted, nothing of her nerves showing through her formal tone. Formalities weren’t necessary at the moment, not with her mentor, but it was always better to control the room from the moment of entry. Or, rather, control her nerves.
“Your Grace,” the woman replied, nodding her head in a respectful bow despite her frown remaining on the page in front of her.
“Dissatisfying read?” Theora sat on the corner of the desk, leaning over slightly to see the cover of the book. Heart’s Desire, it was called, depicting a half-naked man and woman lying on a bed of roses. “Come on, auntie, how can you read that smut?”
“Well, kiddo, as I’m not allowed lovers or children of my own, vicarious romance is my only legal option.” Boada dropped the book onto her desk, raising a sly brow. “Though I wouldn’t have to resort to fiction if you would finally get some action and bring me some gossip once in a while.”
Theora cleared her throat and stood, turning her back on the handler just in time to feel a hot blush creep up her neck. The older woman let out a good-natured laugh.
Boada had been in the position of Warrior handler for most of her life, not to mention part of Theora’s royal council, yet she’d still never bothered to adhere to Aranean customs. Her colony had worked alongside the Aranean queens for hundreds of years, and still served them to this day—all Warrior handlers were selected from her colony, her bloodline, based on tradition and the strength of their Ampulexi magic.
The power of suggestion. The power to command.
So Boada knew very well that talk of any amount of intimacy was frowned upon in Aranean society, let alone in a professional setting.
Still, this was the least graphic sex talk Theora had ever had with Boada—the woman might as well have been her actual aunt.
She had been the one to walk Theora through getting her period for the first time, the birds and the bees, choosing birth control, how to talk to men.
Theora’s royal tutors had taught her how to be a queen, but Boada had taught her how to be a woman.
“You’re really wearing that?” she heard Boada ask. “It looks expensive.”
Right. To business.
Theora turned to see the handler’s dark monolid eyes scrutinizing her teal silk dress.
It was floor-length, but there was no train.
Of course, there was intricate beadwork, but only along the neckline.
And yes, there was detail done in fourteen-karat gold thread, but again it was minimal and not anywhere that could be easily damaged.
The dress lacked drapery, a cape, or elongated flowing sleeves, and the armholes cut in a bit to expose her arms, shoulders, and a bit of her back.
She wasn’t even wearing jewelry. A rather casual ensemble for a queen. Practically sportswear.
But Theora rarely second-guessed her outfit choices, and today wouldn’t be one of those times. “Odd that you think I own anything that isn’t expensive.”
“All I mean is, you should prepare yourself for the possibility of it being ruined.” Boada had finally stood, rounding the desk to sit on it.
Her cream trousers were dirty, and, though the lack of lighting made things uncertain, Theora hoped those were not blood splatters at the bottom of the right leg.
“He’s not exactly thrilled by your plan. ”
“There are worse ways he could spend his time than pretending to be my husband.” Theora casually removed her spectacles to clean them.
Nerves crept into her stomach, but she kept them from reaching her facial expression.
Showing too much emotion now, even with Boada, would just make her nerves worse.
“Aranean couples don’t display affection in public, so he doesn’t even have to put on a show.
All he has to do is accompany me for the week. Easiest mission he’s ever been on.”
And easiest romantic relationship she’d ever been in.
No love required, no real need to spend time together besides the peace talks, no emotional labor.
She preferred it this way, to be honest. Far easier than real life, the circus of sorting through the dozen or so nobles vying for her attention. All for a royal proposal.
Yes, she much preferred the fun of a fake relationship, without the traumas of war still clinging to it.
Boada let out a sound of doubt but left the comment unchallenged, picking up an envelope from the desk. “His travel papers.”
Theora took them from her and skimmed them, focusing most on the photo.
He was one Warrior she hadn’t seen much of, though he’d been impossible to ignore whenever he did make an appearance—towering over all his peers, going about his business with a no-nonsense energy that instantly made him more relatable to Theora than any of the others.
But then, when she and Boada had decided he was the right choice and had coordinated their schedules so she could observe him further, she still hadn’t been allowed to get very close to him.
For safety reasons, of course, but still.
Looking at his photo now felt like reconnecting with a schoolmate—someone she’d seen every day in the halls but had never shared a class with.
The Warrior’s expression was no different from any other adult ID: a blank stare. Well, nearly. His eyes were dark. Vengeful. Not outright, as if he hated the photographer, but deep-seated. Like anger was a constant.
Well, at least they had one thing in common.