Appollonius's laughter booms around the gardens as he twists and turns, striking at me
again and again. A small smile tugs at my lips as I narrowly avoid his latest combination and slip into his guard. My razor lashes out towards his throat and is about to coil around it, when he leaps back, posing as he lands. "Come now, sister, are you even trying?"
He mocks me, for I haven't landed a single strike on him while my shoulder and calf are
dripping blood.
I sneer, "You pis-"
My datapad suddenly beeps, and I glance down. "Gory-damn," I mutter to myself.
"What is it now?" he asks, exasperated.
My razor curls around a band at my waist as I turn to leave. "Board of Quality Control. Looks like I was too good," I smirk back at him. "Maybe I should have gotten some questions wrong
on purpose."
I sit on a low velvet divan near the hearth, letting Aurelia tend to the cuts on my
shoulder and calf before dabbing a scented balm into the soles of my feet. My heels are
calloused and sore from eight hours of razor drills on the gravel courts before sunrise. I do
not flinch as her thumb finds a bruised nerve near my ankle.
"Softer, Aurelia," I say quietly.
"Forgive me, Domina," the Pink whispers, bowing her head until her silver-threaded hair
brushes the black stone.
Before I can reply, the ironwood double doors swing open without announcement. A Copper
of middle years steps into the hall, his spine curved into an habitual administrative stoop,
wearing the stiff, high-collared mantle of the Board of Quality Control. Flanking him are two Whites-monastic, featureless figures in spotless wool robes, their eyes obscured by optical tracking lenses that hum with a faint, high-frequency whine.
The bureaucrat stops ten paces back, looking me up and down in a deferential, yet impatient manner. Aurelia doesn't pause; her fingers continue their steady, rhythmic work, massaging the scented balm into my foot right past his arrival as if the Inspector and his shadow-monks don't exist.
"Do I have the pleasure of addressing one Olympia au Valii-Rath daughter of Gaius au Rath and Korinthia au Valii?" he asks, his voice like dry paper sliding against slate.
"You have the honor," I reply, remaining fully reclined against the velvet cushions and forcing the Copper to look down at me.
"I am Licenus cu Coriba of the Institute's Board of Quality Control," he drones, tapping a seal on his lapel that projects a brief, flickering holofeed of his credentials. "There are some questions we must beg to ask of you."
He doesn't offer a table. Instead, he steps closer while the two Whites move with
synchronized, clinical precision right to the edge of the divan. Aurelia steps back just an inch to give them room, still holding the jar of balm, but remains quietly present at my feet.
One of the Whites leans over the divan, hooking a curved silver biometric clip to my left index finger, while the other dons a pair of specialized tracking glasses to analyze my pupils, micro-saccades, and optic capillary dilation in real time.
"We will start with a control question to assess your normal reaction when telling truths,"
Licenus says, his eyes fixed on his slate. "Are you of the Family Valii-Rath?"
"Yes."
"Are you of the Aureate genus?"
"Yes," I snap, a flash of gold-hot offense in my eyes. "Do you make a habit of insulting your betters with redundant questions, Copper?"
Licenus doesn't flinch, continuing down his script. "Did you cheat in your admissions test two months prior?"
"No."
"Did you use nervenucleic to stimulate high comprehension and analytical functions during the test itself?"
"No."
"Did you use a networkwidget to aggregate or synthesize outside resources in real time?"
"No," I sigh impatiently, rolling my eyes while Aurelia's thumbs resume their gentle kneading against my arch. "A signal jammer was active in the hall; synchronization was entirely impossible. I would suggest you review basic exam parameters before wasting a Valii's morning with redundant inquiries."
His smile is purely bureaucratic, entirely devoid of warmth.
"Did you have prior knowledge of the questions?"
"No," I scoff, injecting a sharp, aristocratic edge of anger into my voice. "Absurd. I require no advance sight of your rudimentary testing matrix to secure a top percentile."
"It is procedure with all elite scorers, Lady Aureate. I beg your understanding," Licenus
drones. "Any upward outlier far removed from the standard deviation is subject to inquiry. Did you slave your widget to that of another individual during the test?"
"No. Do not mistake me for a desperate plebeian or a dull-witted Telemanus."
While I speak, the Whites take a microscopic sample of blood from my fingertip to calibrate
the biometric array. The second White raises a sleek silver cylinder to my temple, washing a thin lattice of red light over my skull to map my cerebral cortex. The results flash
instantaneously on their encrypted pads, but Licenus keeps his expression neutral.
"Protocol," he reminds me, tapping his screen. "You will have your official placement results in two weeks."
Licenus folds his datapad into his sash. The audit is concluded. The Copper and his
white-robed shadows slip out of the room as quietly as they arrived, the ironwood doors
closing behind them.
Aurelia steps back forward, silently resuming her work on my heel as if nothing had
happened at all.
"Tell my brother Apollonius that if he continues to lurk in the gallery, I will throw his wine goblet out the window."
From the shadows of the high arched balcony overlooking the drawing room, a low, rich chuckle echoes against the stone vaults.
"Always so lacking in dramatic tension, my little Sphinx," Apollonius's voice drifts down,
heavy with amused theatricality. "You dismiss the inspectors as if they were dust upon your
mantle, yet you leave the audience entirely unfulfilled."
The terraced gardens overlook the dark expanse of the Thermic Sea stretching toward the Borealis Basin, the heavy air carrying the metallic tang of Thessalonica's shipyards and the sulfurous scent of the lowlands.
I walk along the marble balustrade, my hands folded behind my back. Beside me, Apollonius moves like a conqueror inspecting his province. He wears a broad-shouldered coat of indigo velvet, open at the chest to reveal his torso, carrying a crystal decanter of heavy Martian wine in the crook of his elbow.
Apollonius pours a measure of red liquor into a silver goblet. He offers it to me, but I wave it away. He takes a slow sip, his gaze drifting over the water.
"The board finally finished sweating over your paperwork," Apollonius says, a dry, mocking
amusement in his tone. "Four weeks of administrative hand-wringing because your score broke their machines. Little ink-pushers terrified of a true apex."
"Let them wring their hands," I say, watching razor-wings circle in the thermal updrafts above the water. "The Board is noise."
"Noise," Apollonius echoes, sighing. "A tragic word. The death of ambition."
He steps closer until his massive shadow completely swallows me, the heavy, sweet scent of his wine and skin pressing in uncomfortably close. He reaches out, his calloused fingers trailing slowly down the line of my jaw before catching a stray lock of my hair, his thumb lingering against my skin.
"You are the steel that will shatter them all," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low, heavy register. "Such a flawless reflection. Forged from the same perfection, shaped by the same hands. It is almost a tragedy to think we must cast you out into a world of lesser things, when you belong entirely to this house—to us."
I tilt my head sharply, breaking his touch. "Save your poetry for someone who cares to listen, Apollonius. I am going to the valley to conquer, not to pose."
He lets out a low, rich chuckle. "Always so severe. But remember: victory without spectacle is merely slaughter. Give them a show. Make them weep when you conquer them."
I pull away, keeping my back to him. "I do not care if they weep, Apollonius. I care only that
they obey."
The eastern wing of the estate belongs to Tactus, and it smells perpetually of spent incense, spilled wine, and stale perfume.
I push open the heavy wooden door without knocking. The room inside is dark, the heavy
velvet drapes drawn tight against the warm Martian sun. Silk cushions are scattered across the polished floorboards alongside empty crystal decanters, discarded velvet coats, and a mountain of half-read scrolls.
In the center of the room, lying on a heap of silver furs, is Tactus. He wears only a loose pair of silk trousers, his bare chest a rich, sun-kissed olive-brown and scarred from early razor practice. Near his right hand lie the splintered, ruined remnants of a hand-crafted hardwood violin—its soundbox crushed, its neck snapped in two, its gut strings dangling like severed nerves.
Tactus does not look up as I enter. He holds a half-empty goblet of dark vintage resting on
his stomach, staring blankly at the carved wooden ceiling.
"You look pathetic," I say, my voice cutting through the heavy air.
"And you look insufferably awake, sister," Tactus drawls, his voice rasping from sleep and wine. He takes a slow sip, his gold eyes—so like my own, yet rimmed with red
fatigue—flickering toward me. "Did the Copper inspectors confirm that you are indeed a creature of cold logic, or did they find a heart beating in that chest by mistake?"
I walk over to the broken violin, stepping carefully over a pool of dried wine. I pick up the snapped neck of the instrument, examining the clean break in the polished wood.
"Tharsus?" I ask flatly.
"Does it matter?" Tactus scoffs, turning his head away. "The wood was weak. The tone was sharp in the upper register anyway."
"It was a masterwork from the workshops of Old Earth," I say, dropping the broken wood
back onto the floor with a dull thud. "Mother had it shipped from Luna for your sixteenth
birthday."
"Mother has many things shipped from Luna," Tactus mutters, his tone dripping with sour cynicism. "Most of them useless. Like her blessings." He sits up slowly, his hair falling into his eyes, his physical resemblance to me striking in the dim light—the same jawline, the same rich olive-brown skin tone, the same golden eyes. But where my posture is rigid steel, Tactus is liquid, relaxed, and perpetually unraveling.
"I saw the draft projections," I say, leaning against a carved oak wardrobe. "Your preliminary scores were processed this morning."
Tactus stiffens slightly, though he tries to mask it by taking another long drink. "And? Did the Board declare me a genius or a dullard?"
"Fiftieth percentile," I say directly. "Mid-tier."
Tactus lets out a sharp, mocking laugh, though there is no humor in his eyes. "Fiftieth! How wonderfully average. How magnificently mediocre. Father must be weeping into his tactical maps in Mars orbit, and Mother will no doubt write a furious note from the Senate floor demanding a recount."
"It means you will not be drafted in the first round," I say, ignoring his deflection. "You will be placed in the middle pool. A secondary asset for whichever House claims you."
Tactus throws his head back against the furs, staring at the ceiling again. "Let them put me in Ceres. Let me spend the winter picking grapes and drinking vintage out of wooden buckets while you play at conquering the world. I have no desire to be in a ditch so Father can boast to his fellow Legates about his heroic children."
"You are a Valii-Rath," I say, my voice dropping into a dangerous, low register. "And you are my twin. If you act like a whipped dog in that valley, they will dispose of you."
"They can try," Tactus snaps, his cynicism flaring to mask a raw, wounded nerve. "I can use a razor as well as you, Olympia. I simply don't share Apollonius's theatrical delusion that getting carved up in a ditch is some grand, glorious tribute to our name."
He reaches down, picking up a shard of the smashed violin soundbox, his thumb tracing the jagged edge until a fine bead of red blood wells on his skin.
"They breed us for war, sister, and then throw us into the dirt just to see which of us survives the culling," he mutters, his voice dropping into a bitter, self-loathing rasp. "I'd rather drink my vintage and let them call me a coward than bleed out for a family that wouldn't piss on me if I caught fire. Father doesn't want sons; he wants statues. And Apollonius just wants an audience."
"We tear their eyes out so we can rule them," I correct coldly. I step forward, kneeling beside him on the furs. I grab his wrist, forcing him to drop the sharp wood. "Listen to me, Tactus.
This draft pool is full of pampered little pixies whose families paid the Board just to keep
them out of real danger."
Tactus blinks, his red-rimmed eyes focusing on me. "Pixies? That's your grand strategy?"
"They are weak," I say. "The Proctors will place them in primary Houses to balance family influence, but they will not survive the Passage. The valley will break them within three days.
If you are drafted into an opposing House, you use them. If they are in your House, you take their coats and let them stay warm."
Tactus stares at me, a slow, dark smirk spreading across his face. "You really are a monster, aren't you?"
"I am practical," I say. I let go of his wrist, standing up. "If you are placed in a weak
House—Ceres, Minerva, Juno—stay alive. Hide your vanity behind your wine skin if you
must. But hold your ground until the first week passes."
Tactus looks up at me, his expression unreadable. "And why should I bother?"
I look down at my twin, my golden eyes softening just a fraction—a rare, private concession reserved only for him.
"Because you are stronger than you pretend to be," I say quietly, my voice losing its razor
edge. "They want you to break under their expectations, or drown in your own indifference.
Do not give them the satisfaction. I know what is beneath all of this, Tactus... and I know you are strong enough to outlast them."
Tactus is quiet for a long moment. He looks down at the blood on his thumb, then wipes it
slowly on his silk trousers. A fragile, self-deprecating smile touches the corner of his mouth.
"You always did know how to ruin a perfectly good nihilistic spiral, didn't you?"
"It is a gift," I say, offering a faint, ghost of a smile in return. "Now get off the floor, clean the blood off your hands, and dress for dinner. Apollonius is holding court tonight, and I will not have you sitting at the table smelling like sour vintage."
The Grand Dining Hall is built to awe and intimidate. A table carved from a single slab of obsidian sits in the center of the cavernous room, capable of seating sixty guests, though
tonight only four places are set. Great iron braziers burn in the corners, casting flickering
orange light across the walls, which are hung with heavy black silk banners bearing the
severe, multi-rayed sunburst of ancient Valii and the diving, razor-winged falcon of Rath.
Apollonius sits at the head of the table. He has discarded his coat for a loose robe of dark gold silk that lies open over his broad chest. A silver platter of roasted boar sits before him, flanked by crystal goblets and bottles of unwatered Luna wine.
To his right sits Tharsus. A lofty, striking man with a statue's cheekbones, short-cropped golden hair, and blazing golden eyes. He is already drunk, tearing at a leg of boar with his bare hands, greasy juice running down his chin.
I sit opposite Tharsus, my posture rigid, slicing cleanly into a rich portion of roasted boar and taking a measured sip of the heavy Luna wine before me. Tactus sits beside me, slouched in his chair, picking listlessly at a bowl of salted olives while nursing a goblet of pale vintage.
"To the future!" Apollonius booms, raising his heavy silver goblet high into the firelight. His
voice fills the hall like an organ note. "To the apex of Aureate blood! To the valley of Agea,
where our sweet siblings shall carve the family name into the bones of their rivals!"
"Save the speech, brother," Tharsus grunts, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand
before slamming his goblet onto the obsidian table. "They haven't even received their House assignments yet. For all we know, the Board will stick Tactus in House Ceres with the grape-pickers and the weaklings."
Tharsus lets out a coarse, barking laugh, glaring at Tactus with pure malice. Tactus doesn't look up from his olives, but his knuckles whiten as his hand tightens around his wine glass.
"House Ceres possesses a noble tradition of agricultural mastery, brother," Apollonius declares, waving his hand grandly as if addressing an audience of thousands. "Though I admit, placing a Rath among the tillers would be a tragic waste of predator blood! But you, Tharsus, you speak of Houses as if you understood the grand architecture of the Institute. You, who spent your own year in the valley hiding in the highlands of House Mars, chewing on raw frogs and whining about the terrain!"
"I took three scars in those crags!" Tharsus snarls, leaning across the table, his face flushing dark red. "I broke the collarbone of Daxo au Telemanus with my bare hands and took his cloak!
That's more than this little lute-player will ever do!" He jabs a greasy finger toward Tactus.
"He broke his own violin today because he couldn't play a simple chord without his hands shaking. He's soft. He's always been soft."
"Enough, Tharsus," I say, my voice dropping into the quiet, lethal tone that makes even the
servants near the braziers freeze.
Tharsus turns his blazing golden eyes on me, a sneer twisting his lips. "Ah, the icy
princess speaks! Tell me, sister, did you cheat on that logic exam, or did Mother buy the Coppers for you from her Senate desk on Luna? We all know the Valii love to buy what they cannot win with steel."
Tactus half-rises from his chair, his face pale with fury. "Watch your mouth, Tharsus—"
"Sit down, Tactus," I command without turning my head. My eyes remain locked on Tharsus.
I pick up my butter knife—a small, silver blade with no edge—and hold it loosely between two fingers. "Say that again, brother."
Tharsus grins, leaning farther across the obsidian table, his foul breath smelling of roasted meat and alcohol. "I said, your mother is a politician who buys-"
Before he can finish the sentence, I move.
I do not rise from my chair. My hand blurs across the table. The blunt silver butter knife
strikes Tharsus precisely in the soft tissue between his thumb and index finger, pinning his heavy hand to the wood of the table.
Tharsus roars in pain and shock, pulling his hand back, blood splattering across the polished obsidian. He lunges across the table toward me, his heavy fist cocked back.
I do not flinch. I lean back slightly, my hand resting on the pommel of my training dagger at my hip. "Touch me," I whisper, my voice colder than the Martian air outside, "and I will take your eye before you clear the table."
Tharsus freezes, his heavy fist trembling in mid-air. He looks into my eyes—golden, flat, and completely devoid of hesitation—and realizes, through his alcoholic haze, that I mean every word. He slowly draws his bleeding hand back, wrapping it in a napkin, swearing under his breath.
At the head of the table, Apollonius does not intervene. Instead, he sets his goblet down with a soft clink. He tilts his head back, staring at me with bright, ecstatic eyes, and then, slowly, deliberately,he begins to clap.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
The sound echoes through the cavernous hall like thunder.
"Magnificent!" Apollonius roars, his voice trembling with genuine, theatrical passion. He
stands up, his golden silk robes billowing behind him like a cape. "O tragic, magnificent
blood! Look upon her, Tharsus! Look upon the cold, unblemished predator! No hesitation! No theatrical bluster! Just the sharp, sudden strike of absolute dominance!"
Apollonius walks down the length of the obsidian table, his heavy steps resounding against the floorboards. He stops behind my chair, resting his massive, heavy hands on my shoulders. His grip is warm and crushing, but I remain motionless.
"You see, my crude brother?" Apollonius says, glaring down at Tharsus with magnificent disdain. "You possess the soul of a swine trapped in Aureate flesh! You think power is muscle and vulgar noise! But Olympia... ah, Olympia understands the poetry of steel! She strikes not out of anger, but out of absolute, cold necessity!"
He lifts his silver goblet high, turning to face the empty shadows of the hall as if addressing a theater full of specters.
"Let the Bellona bring their dueling masters!" Apollonius declaims, his voice soaring toward
the vaulted ceiling. "Let the Telemanus bring their giant sons! Let the Proctors build their
mud-forts and preach their bloody doctrines! Agea is not ready for what we send them! They expect children to play at war, but we give them a cold tragedy written in Valii ice and Rath blood!"
He turns back to me, his golden eyes shining with intense devotion. He leans down, pressing his lips to the top of my head in a gesture that is half-paternal, half-fanatical.
"Go to your rest, my darling Sphinx," Apollonius whispers, his voice rich and low. "Dream of the blood you will spill in the valley. Dismissed!"
Tharsus spits on the floor, grabbing his wine bottle and muttering curses as he storms out of the hall. Tactus gives me a brief, lingering look before slipping quietly into the shadows of the corridor.
I sit alone at the long obsidian table for a moment, listening to the crackle of the braziers. I wipe a small drop of Tharsus's blood from my tunic with my napkin, throw the linen onto my untouched plate, and stand up.
The promised two-week waiting period drags into three, and then four.
The Board of Quality Control offers no official explanation for the delay, issuing only
automated administrative notices to the High Houses regarding "extended biometric
cross-referencing and logistical grid recalibration."
While the solar system argues, I train.
Every night at midnight, when the Rath estate falls silent and the warm thermal breezes drift through the canyon walls, I stand stark naked on my high marble balcony overlooking the red abyss, my skin taking in the crisp Martian air. Resting cold and heavy, coiling tight around my leg, is my razor—dormant and still.
I slide it free, and with a thought, the heavy band melts into motion.
The silver serpent flows outward, hissing through the night air as a fluid, six-foot whip that cuts the darkness with terrifying speed.
With a flick of my wrist and a neural snap, the liquid metal locks instantly into a rigid, gleaming blade. I thrust forward, my footwork silent on the smooth marble, my body shifting through the third form of the Forma II dueling stance.
Parry. Disengage. Cut.
Sweat glistens on my skin in the temperate night air, catching the pale starlight over my shoulders. I ignore the fatigue. I repeat the sequence a hundred times, two hundred times, three hundred times, until my forearms burn and my lungs taste like hot copper.
In the valley, there will be no grav-boots. No pulse-shields. No razor-proof armor. Only raw
physical endurance, instinct, and discipline.
I pause at the edge of the balustrade, my chest heaving slightly, my breath blooming in faint mist
against the dark sky. I look up at the stars—bright, diamond-sharp points of light
piercing the terraformed atmosphere.
Far above, the massive dreadnoughts of Imperator Tiberius au Bellona's fleet swing in silent orbit, among them my father's legion, their steel hulls cold and indifferent to the world below. And further still, across the dark void, my gaze drifts toward the blue-and-white curve of Earth. I find myself missing it—missing New Macedon, the ancestral Valii heartland with its grand marble porticos, the scent of the old olive groves, and the uncles and cousins walking the manicured gardens we left so far behind. And beyond Earth, light-minutes away across the dark void, lies Luna, where my mother sits in the Senate, playing games of policy and patronage with the lives of Gold children.
I raise the razor, holding the cool steel against my forehead, my heart beating a steady,
relentless rhythm in my chest.
Four weeks of waiting. Four weeks of silence.
Let them drag out their paperwork. Let them play their political games. When the gates of the
Institute open, none of it will matter.
The morning mist rolls over the Rath shuttle port like a shroud of grey wool. The air is
crisp and cool, carrying the sharp scent of unburnt thruster fuel and wet stone.
I stand in the center of the dressing quarters near the landing pad. A low glass table beside
me holds my datapad, its screen glowing with the official notification that arrived precisely at
04:00 AM:
BOARD OF QUALITY CONTROL
DRAFT DOCKET #889-AGEA
CANDIDATE: OLYMPIA AU VALII-RATH
DESIGNATION: PREMIER - HOUSE JUPITER
Premier of House Jupiter. The first pick in the Sovereign's own House. My mother's senatorial leverage has paid off, securing me the highest post in the draft pool—though the mantle of Primus is something I will have to seize once we hit the valley floor.
Beside me, Aurelia and two Brown house servants attempt to drape an elaborate, heavy velvet mantle over my shoulders—a garment weighed down by mink fur and excessive gold filigree.
"Take it off," I say flatly, stepping away from the mirror.
I have already discarded Apollonius's overly ornate ceremonial silks for a sleek, high-collared dark service tunic of fine, structured wool, tailored with sharp minimalist precision. Across the right shoulder, a delicate gold chain drapes cleanly down to the chest, catching the light alongside the subtle multi-rayed sunburst of ancient Valii and the diving falcon of Rath embroidered on the high collar.
"Domina, please," Aurelia whispers, holding a pair of refined riding boots. "Lord Apollonius gave explicit instructions that you are to appear in the full majesty of your house before the Proctors."
"Apollonius is not going into the valley," I reply, smoothing the crisp edge of my collar.
"Sister, no!" Apollonius's voice booms as he strides into the dressing room, wearing his own crimson coat and looking utterly appalled. "You strip away the sweeping velvet? You discard the grand mantle of your lineage for this... this austere little service jacket? You dress like a Gray legionnaire on border patrol!"
"I dress like someone who intends to walk forty miles through mountain mud, Apollonius," I say coldly, standing in my sharp, tailored dark tunic and structured trousers. "I will not drag yards of useless velvet through the dirt just to satisfy your obsession with spectacle."
Apollonius stares at my sharp, austere figure for a long moment. Then, a slow, theatrical smile spreads across his broad face, and he shakes his head with dramatic resignation. "A tragedy! A crime against aesthetic nobility! Yet... how wonderfully barbaric. You dress like an executioner, my Sphinx."
A soft chime echoes from the corner of the room. A high-resolution holofeed projector flickers to life, casting a three-dimensional blue light onto the black stone floor.
The image of Legate Gaius au Rath resolves in the light. He stands on the bridge of his flagship in Mars orbit, dressed in the dark, immaculate uniform of a ship commander. His hair is cropped short, silvering at the temples, his face carved from hard lines, his golden eyes cold and unblinking.
"Father," I say, standing at attention and dipping my head slightly.
Gaius looks at me through the feed, his eyes lingering for a brief second on my plain, military-style tunic before settling on my face. There is no warmth in his expression—only the cold, measuring gaze of a senior commander reviewing an asset.
"Premier of House Jupiter," Gaius says, his voice flat and heavy. "Expected. With your mother's history in the house, they assigned you to it."
"I earned my place, Father," I say directly.
"A high draft tier is just a target on your back, Olympia," Gaius replies coldly. "Family legacy put you at the head of Jupiter, but lineage won't protect you when the trials begin. Jupiter is the Sovereign's House; they will test every ounce of your resolve. Dominate your peers, break your rivals, and do not make me regret backing your entry before the Senate."
"I will not, Legate," I say.
Gaius gives a single, rigid nod. "The Twenty-Fourth Legion expects results. Do your duty."
The holofeed cuts out instantly, the blue light collapsing into a tiny point before vanishing.
Before the air can clear, the chime sounds again. A second holofeed pulses with a pink-and-gold senatorial encryption code.
The projection materializes. Senator Korinthia au Valii sits in her private suite overlooking the Senate plaza on Luna. She is draped in sweeping robes of cream silk, her golden hair styled in intricate, soaring braids that frame a pale face of exquisite, terrifying beauty, marked by the proud slash of a peerless scar. Seeing me through the high-resolution holofeed, she lingers on the transmission, fussing over my appearance from light-seconds away and refusing to cut the feed.
"My darling jewel... look at you," Korinthia's voice drifts through the comm-link—soft, melodious, carrying the sharp edge of senatorial authority. "Turn around for me. Ah, you stripped off the velvet—Apollonius sent me the designs, you know, but I knew you'd prefer those plain, sharp lines. Look at those cold, beautiful eyes. I wish I were there to smooth authorization, to press my lips to your forehead before they take you into that barbaric valley."
She leans closer to the lens, ignoring the background chime signaling shuttle prep on her desk.
"Premier of House Jupiter... Castle Jupiter in the mountain heights, my love," Korinthia whispers, her tone laced with sweet pride. "They are going to test you down there, my love, and cover that luminous, warm olive-brown skin in dust—it breaks my heart just thinking of what those Proctors call 'character building.' But when you stand among those children in the valley, make sure they see true Valii blood leading them. Remind them why their families tread so softly when a Valii steps onto the Senate floor here on Luna. Do not let your father convince you that you are merely a blade for his fleet, and do not let Apollonius turn you into a prop for his tragic theater. You are my finest creation, Olympia. Do not give them a single inch. Do not let them take a single hair from your head. Promise me..."
"I promise, Mother," I tell her gently. "The transport is boarding."
Korinthia blows me a kiss, remaining on screen until atmospheric interference clips the feed to static.
Outside, on the concrete landing pad, an official Institute transport descends through the morning mist. It is an unadorned, industrial lander, painted in slate-grey military primer, its steel hull scorched black from atmospheric re-entry.
The side hatch hisses open, and the heavy steel loading ramp slams onto the smooth stone of the pad with a metallic crash.
Tactus strides out onto the pad beside me, draped in a flamboyant, embroidered crimson-and-gold doublet left half-unbuttoned over a fine linen shirt. His hair is untamed, and his gold eyes are bloodshot from a night spent drinking away his hangover. He slings an expensive, gold-trimmed leather travel case over one shoulder with casual disregard.
He looks at the grey transport, then turns to me, a cynical, lazy smirk spreading across his face.
"Premier of House Jupiter, are we?" Tactus drawls, adjusting his opulent collar against the crisp breeze. "Try not to look so insufferably regal, sister. If you get us thrown out early, Apollonius will make us read his poetry as punishment."
I ignore the jab. I look past him to where Apollonius stands at the edge of the pad, his golden silk robes whipping wild in the thruster backwash. He does not speak, but he raises his silver goblet high into the air, his gold eyes burning with grand, operatic expectation.
I give my eldest brother a single, sharp nod.
I turn back to the ramp, my practical leather boots clicking sharply against the cold steel as I begin to ascend. Tactus falls into step beside me, his cynical smirk fading into a tight, quiet line as we reach the dark interior of the transport.
We cross the threshold into Proctor custody together, and the heavy doors seal shut behind us.