Even before asking, Hera knew she was being
antagonistic—but it wasn't as if she could help herself. Cornelius Reese was a
pompous asshole who acted like he was infallible and invincible. She didn't
think he deserved half of what had come his way. She didn't think he deserved
her.
"Did you type out that speech beforehand?"
she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm as they walked through the corridors
of the ship. "Or did you come up with it off the top of your head? It
sounded pretentious, if you ask me. Honestly, you could have done a little
better. Maybe next time you should leave addressing the soldiers to me?"
By this point, they'd already toured most of the ship
and were heading toward his—or rather, their—private quarters. The rules
regarding marriage were absolute in the Aegean Empire. It was almost religious
in its rigidity. At least for tonight, they would be spending it together. Not
that she was looking forward to it, but she didn't have a choice.
Duty and ambition seemed to go hand in hand.
Orn stopped mid-stride and turned to look at her. His
featureless white mask with the priest symbol painted on it stared back at her.
He was a High Priest now, wasn't he? A soldier and clergy. Of course, that
title was just for show—he'd only gotten it because of his marriage to the
Grand Princess and his studies in the temples of the Order of the White Ones.
A Psionic with great and extreme power.
All of which he was entirely undeserving of.
"We were always told to write speeches during our
time at the academy," Orn said, his voice measured and calm.
"Powerful words drive men to action. But as you well know, I never really
gave a shit about that, seeing as I always ended up making fun of your
speeches." He paused deliberately. "Which, I might add, always
sounded far more pretentious and uninspiring than mine ever could. Though it's
no fault of yours—your ambition has made you incapable of doing anything but
sounding stupid."
Hera felt her blood boil. She stepped forward
aggressively. They were alone in the hallway, so she didn't hold back as she
invaded his personal space, getting right in his face.
"What did you just call me?"
And this was the problem with Cornelius Reese. He
didn't just have a way with insults or words—he absolutely didn't give a shit
about what he said. He was rude, stubborn, and arrogant, and she hated his guts
with a passion that burned hotter than any star.
Any other person could call her names, and she'd be
tolerant enough to leave them with just a few broken bones. But when it came to
Orn... she contemplated murder every single time.
He didn't even deign to answer her question. He simply
turned around and kept walking, as if she were nothing more than an annoying
insect buzzing in his ear.
The commander's quarters were at the end of the hallway
they were in. He reached the door and it slid open with a pneumatic hiss. Then
he turned back to her and spoke, his voice infuriatingly casual.
"Come here, Hera."
And then he stepped inside, leaving her behind in the
corridor with anger bubbling violently beneath the surface.
She hated him. She hated him so damn much.
But perhaps it wasn't just hatred. Perhaps there was
jealousy mixed in there too.
Hera had always been ambitious—in fact, she was more
suited to be a daughter of George Reese than Orn himself. Her parents had
worked themselves into early graves just to save enough credits for her to
attend the academy. And not just any academy—not one of the basic institutions
responsible for training cannon fodder. No, they'd sent her to an elite school,
the best in the empire.
But even then, the credits hadn't been enough. So she'd
started side hustling at the academy, smuggling luxury goods in and out of the
Spartan-like institution. She'd earned her reputation and the credits necessary
to finish her tuition through sheer grit and determination.
And then George Reese had taken pity on her. He'd paid
off all her student loans and debts and covered the rest of her time at the
academy.
It wasn't too far-fetched to say she owed him a great
deal.
She'd always known that to climb to the top, she would
eventually have to warm the bed of some sleazy captain or major—or jump from
one high-ranking officer's bed to another to facilitate her own advancement
until she'd built a fleet of her own.
Then George Reese had come to cash in all the favors
he'd done for her.
It had been the single most bitter deal she'd ever
made—but also the best for her future.
Concubine to Orn Reese.
A young man ten years her junior. A man she hated for
his pretentious nature. Who the hell went around their entire life with a mask
on their face? He belittled everything she did. He'd firmly taken the number
one spot at the academy away from her. Every record she broke—both as a student
and during their brief careers in the army—he'd always surpassed, no matter how
hard she fought or how desperately she tried.
But then again, maybe that comparison was unfair. He
was a Psionic.
She'd never been lucky enough to fully awaken as one.
Though she had a stronger mind than most people, her consciousness had never
been able to take that final step, to cross the threshold and become a true
Psionic. According to her trainers and doctors, if she had awakened... she
would have been one of the most powerful in the empire's history.
Instead, she was stuck here. Bound to Cornelius Reese.
This was a nightmare.
She shook her head and hurried forward, passing through
the door before it could close behind her with a hiss.
She immediately found herself in a lounge of some
sort—well, a living room, actually. The viewport beyond showed the expanse of
stars in the distance, like tiny pinpricks of light scattered across an
infinite canvas. So far away, yet seeming so close.
Orn was standing in front of the viewport, looking out
into the void. And he was taking his clothes off.
Hera felt her face scrunch up in annoyance, rage
rippling across her features. "What do you think you're doing?" she
asked, danger threading through her voice.
He turned to look at her.
And her heart dropped.
It wasn't just an academy-wide mystery—it was a
galaxy-wide speculation. What did Orn Reese look like underneath his mask?
They already knew he was mixed Synalese and Aegean. His
Synalese heritage had given him that dark skin, ebony-black but lightened
several shades by his Aegean genes. A half-caste. And if not for his talent and
who his father was, he would have been bullied to death at the academy.
Hera had never known anyone who looked quite like him,
and it was entirely because of his Synalese heritage—a constant reminder that
he was different, other.
But his face... no one had ever seen his face.
His eyes were a dark blue, like the midnight sky at its
deepest hour. It was not a normal eye color—shades of blue that dark simply
didn't exist in nature. It made her realize that even during the times he'd
worn only a half-mask, his true eye color had never been visible. Probably some
form of optical camouflage to keep his identity shrouded in even more mystery.
His jawline was sharply defined. He was frowning
slightly, but the way his lips tilted exposed dimples in his cheeks. His
eyebrows framed his face perfectly, like crossed swords mounted above a mantle.
There was a tattoo of words inked beneath the defined
edge of his jaw—his vows from the Order, probably. Their priests were always
fond of ritualistic self-mutilation to demonstrate their devotion to the
teachings of Psi.
He was tall—six and a half feet—with a lean, muscular
build that spoke of years of disciplined training. There were more tattoos
scattered across his body, but those looked mundane compared to the sacred
markings.
Hera swallowed hard.
She had never seen a more beautiful man in her entire
life.
He was almost effeminate in his beauty, yet there was a
hardness to him that made it abundantly clear: he was the alpha male in any
situation, at any given time.
"You should stop looking at me now," Orn
said, his voice cutting through her thoughts like a blade. "It's getting
weird." He gestured toward the couch. "Now please, take a seat. I'd
like to have a conversation with you that hopefully doesn't end with both of us
wanting to kill each other."
Hera shook her head, scoffing as she tried to steel her
features and master her racing thoughts.
And that's when she realized she might have made a
terrible mistake.
Orn was a Psionic. And it had long been
suspected—whispered about in certain circles—that the Order of the White Ones
could teach non-telepathic Psionics how to read surface thoughts, emotions,
intentions.
She looked up at Orn, meeting his eyes directly. He
gave nothing away, his expression neutral.
But those eyes... they weren't normal.
The longer she looked into them, the more they seemed
like windows into the night sky itself—a void she had no choice but to fall
into. Deeper and deeper she went, tumbling through darkness studded with
distant stars. The points of light within those impossible orbs seemed to
beckon to her, calling her forward. She craved them. If only she could move a
little faster, get a little closer—
"Hera."
Orn's voice cut through the fog like a lighthouse beam
piercing heavy mist.
Hera regained her sense of self with a violent jolt,
only to realize that she'd moved without conscious thought. Orn was now sitting
on the couch—almost as if he'd been pushed down onto it—and she was on top of
him, straddling his lap. Her hands were on his face, cradling his jaw. Their
eyes were mere inches apart.
She screamed and scrambled backward, nearly falling in
her haste to put distance between them.
"Well, that was... unexpected," Orn said, his
voice carrying a note of genuine surprise. "Though I don't blame you for
it. My eyes are... unusual, to say the least." He adjusted his position on
the couch, settling more comfortably. "But I must be honest—yours is the
most extreme reaction I've ever gotten from someone seeing my face and eyes for
the first time. Even powerful Psionics can't maintain eye contact for more than
a few minutes before experiencing migraines and disorientation."
He tilted his head, studying her. "Much less a
mundane like you. Yet your reaction was the complete opposite. I could feel a
wave of Psionic energy emanating from you—desire for my eyes, attraction to
them, and absolutely no control as you fell into a trance-like state."
A pause.
"Well, this is looking like our marriage is going
to be full of surprises."
Orn relaxed even deeper into the couch and pointed at
the one opposite him. "Have a seat, Major. There are some things you need
to hear."
Hera was absolutely confused, and her confusion made
things even worse because she was completely unable to regain control of
herself. She hated feeling so powerless—especially against him.
She glared at him, hatred burning in her features. Why
would someone like him have this sort of power? Why was she being affected by
it so intensely?
Those eyes of his...
Not like the midnight sky. Like space itself. Nebulae
and galaxies, stars and entire worlds—all of it contained within his gaze.
Orn reached up and returned his mask to his face,
breaking the spell.
Hera blinked and realized with horror that she'd taken
several more steps toward him without even realizing it.
"What's wrong with me?!" she screamed at him,
her hand going to her sidearm. She drew her blaster and pointed it directly at
him, her hand shaking. "What are you doing to me?! Stop it!"
She was getting hysterical now, her faith in herself—in
reality itself—shaken by this incomprehensible experience. What was he? What
sort of monster had she bound herself to?
"Major Hera Kiranti." Orn's voice cut through
her panic like a whip crack, suddenly cold and commanding. "You are
pointing a live firearm at a superior officer. Do. You. Want. To. Die?"
The question snapped her back to herself like a bucket
of ice water to the face. Years of military discipline and instinct took over.
She immediately holstered her weapon and snapped into a formal salute, her body
moving on autopilot.
It didn't matter what had just happened. She was a
soldier first. Ten years of training couldn't be undone by one hysterical
breakdown.
"No, sir! My apologies, Admiral. I... I don't know
what came over me." Her voice came out barely above a whisper, shaking
with the aftermath of whatever had just happened.
Orn sighed, and when he spoke again, his voice had lost
its hard edge. "Sit down, Hera. It's okay."
Their rivalry and enmity seemed to evaporate in light
of what had just occurred.
Orn stood and walked toward the small kitchen area
integrated into the quarters. He opened a refrigeration unit and retrieved a
container of water, pouring her a glass. When he returned and handed it to her,
Hera tried to think of something scathing to say—maybe a cutting remark about
his appearance, or how he was probably enjoying this.
But all that came out was: "Thank you."
Orn raised an eyebrow at that, clearly surprised.
"I must have really messed you up."
Then he chuckled—actually chuckled—and just like that,
all her hatred came rushing back in a flood.
"You ass!" she yelled at him.
Orn laughed, thoroughly amused at her expense, before
sitting down across from her. "Now that sounds normal. You scared me there
for a second."
Then, as quickly as a switch being flipped, the
amusement drained from his posture. The sudden transition from joking to deadly
serious snapped Hera's full attention to him. She unconsciously shifted to
match his mood, her military training kicking in.
"So," Orn began, leaning forward slightly,
"I'm fairly certain about why you were so strongly affected by my eyes.
Well, not the complete reason—this is still just a working theory. I'll need to
have Janus examine you to determine the exact mechanism. And we'll need a
doctor we can trust—preferably one who isn't a quirky Grigarian
scientist."
He paused, as if weighing his next words carefully.
"But from what I could sense through our brief...
connection... it seems, Hera, that you are—or were—experiencing a Psionic
Awakening."
Another pause, heavier this time.
"And the catalyst for it appears to be me."