u/Asmodeus_Kain

This is the last of the three establishing chapters. The remaining ones pick up the pace while introducing many new elements. New parts will be posted every Thursday until conclusion. As always any thoughts or constructive feedback is greatly appreciated and welcomed.

The First part can be found here - https://www.reddit.com/r/HFY/s/GbSa5biAHe

The Second Part can be found here - https://www.reddit.com/r/HFY/s/sbnGlP6Y8o

Thanks - Asmodeus Kain

*** **** *** **** ***

DC was just as hellish as I expected—a week filled with forced smiles and diplomatic talk designed to sound significant while committing to nothing. Galas, briefings, and press conferences – she navigated everything like the rockstar she was. Meanwhile, I spent an ungodly amount of time looking for exits and trying not to gouge my eyes out.

Thankfully, it’s over.

I shift in my seat, watching the early morning sky blur by. Staff members scattered around the cabin sort through the week’s paperwork.

Zara, surrounded by four bodyguards, sits a few rows to my right. She’s trying her hardest to engage the closest guard in conversation. He doesn’t look at her, so she tries another approach, which also fails.

Not surprising. It started on day three when she slipped her detail to pursue a food truck for several blocks. Two guards ran almost two miles through Georgetown chasing her. She returned with a bag of fries like a conquering hero.

Then there was the incident at the ambassador’s reception involving a chandelier, a decorative rope, and a pair of Danish and Swedish diplomats. Raymond received missives from both the next day, something he is still seething about.

The guard she’s talking to shifts his head slightly towards her, a small victory. I look away before she notices me watching, otherwise she’ll see an invitation to engage with me.

Sarah sits a few rows in front of me, asleep against the window. Without her usual composure, she looks different, more like herself and less like her role. I stand up and retrieve a blanket from the overhead bin. I walk over to Sarah and drape the blanket over her.

I head back to my seat, settling in and watching as the first tendrils of morning light appear. I close my eyes and let sleep wash over me.

*** **** *** **** ***

A hand on my shoulder jolts me awake. I blink, rubbing my face as I turn to see Raymond standing over me. His expression is calm, but there’s simmering tension underneath.

“Your Highness.”

I sit up; the sun is now fully out. He holds out a tablet. The screen is dark except for a line of red text. I read it, then read it again. My stomach drops as I’m fully awake now.

“Tell the pilots to initiate ESAP,” I order, handing it back.

Raymond nods before moving toward the flight deck stairs. Five minutes later, the intercom crackles to life and the pilot announces supersonic transition before the cabin lights turn red.

Sarah wakes before the announcement ends. It’s not a slow awakening: one moment she’s against the window, the next she’s upright and alert, every trace of sleep vanished. She looks back at me.

I feel the aircraft pitch up as the engines’ whine increases. Raymond appears after several minutes.

“We should touchdown in St. Tharin in about 2 hours,” Raymond says as I feel the aircraft level out and then speed up.

Sarah unbuckles her seatbelt and heads towards me, giving Raymond a nod as he passes her. She sits down next to me and fastens her seatbelt.

“Going supersonic is never good,” she whispers. I glance out the window at a small grey fleck that disappears into the distance. “We’ll outpace our escorts and transports.”

“Father’s issued a Red Horizon,” I answer, watching as Sarah’s expression craters.

“No…no.” She looks back at me to see if I’m joking. “No. The first and only Red Horizon was issued over a hundred years ago during-.”

“The Emergence Wars.”

Even though they were three separate wars, Humanity considers them as a whole our first and only foray into warfare against non-terrestrial adversaries.

“What do you think this means?” Sarah asks.

“My guess is the TAC has ordered a full mobilization, no doubt because the Hexarch has made a stupid decision they’ve elected to ignore,” I answer.

“I know you’re loaned, do you think you’ll deploy?” She asks, sounding scared for the first time in forever.

“More than likely, the 204th Expeditionary Force is trained to seize, build, and hold any beachhead,” I answer, watching her expression change. It breaks my heart to see her like this, but at the end of the day, I have a duty to the people just like her.

“This isn’t like the last time. You were a few thousand miles away,” she says softly after a long pause. “You’ll be a million miles away this time.”

“Even if I were 400 years in the past, I would still come home to you,” I say, picking up a loose piece of paper. “Do you remember when we were younger, and you used to get scared during flights?”

“I never got scared,” she denies as I begin folding the paper. “But I do remember your absolutely atrocious origami.”

“That’s just rude,” I say, finishing an origami rose. I look at it for a few minutes, then hand it to her. “As I said, I’ll always be here for you.”

She holds it carefully, the way she used to hold the terrible crumpled attempts from when we were kids, back when I thought origami was just aggressive folding.

“It’s better than the crane phase,” she admits.

“Everything is better than the crane phase.”

A small laugh escapes her. It doesn’t last, but it’s real, and that’s enough.

She turns the rose over in her fingers, studying it. “TAC forces have never deployed to anything other than colony disputes. This war would only be Humanity’s second time going toe to toe with non-terrestrial forces, and the first nearly resulted in our eradication.”

“I’m aware,” I say.

“I know you’re aware. I just needed to say it out loud.” She pauses. “To make it real.”

“Those three wars also gave us the technology that propelled us to the stars. When they started, the only colony to our name was the fledgling martian colony established by NASA,” I say in reassurance. “Now we have 47 colonies and are members of an alliance.”

“That’s just TAC, the other two have their own agendas and colonies,” she says before chuckling a bit. “You think meeting literal aliens would unite humanity, yet we spend most of our time still fighting each other.”

“Some things are universal constants,” I say. “Gravity. The speed of light. Humanity’s inability to get out of its own way.”

She smiles at that, but it fades quickly. “What are they like? The Hexarch.”

“Incredibly bureaucratic. It’s like TAC conferences, but instead of delegates from a few dozen nations, you have delegates from a few dozen species from nations that span entire galaxies. All of them held some disdain towards us,” I answer. It’s about the only answer I can give, while it’s true I served a tour on the station that serves as Hexarch headquarters, humanity tended to stick strictly to sectors and areas under our control.

“And yet we are members of the Hexarch.”

“Don’t look at me, nobody has explained our reasoning, even Father doesn’t know why TAC became members.”

Sarah is quiet for a moment, processing that. “A decision made by people long dead, that the living are now bound to honor.”

“The great tradition of governance,” I say.

She huffs. “So we joined an alliance nobody fully understands, with species that mostly dislike us, under rules we didn’t write, and now someone in that alliance has done something stupid enough to warrant the first Red Horizon in a century.”

“No. My theory is the Hexarch is attempting to bench Humanity, which TAC didn’t take very well,” I correct.

“You know, for someone so diplomatically illiterate, you know a lot more about geopolitics than you should,” she says with a wry grin.

“Knowledge is power.”

*** **** *** **** ***

Into the Gathering Dark is a lot of things, but subtle and beautiful are not among them. She’s a mile and a half of reinforced Steferrax, bristling with eight primary guns, four flight bays, and enough troop berthing to make a small planet uncomfortable.

She was built shortly after the Emergence Wars ended, when Humanity was still deciding whether to be afraid or angry and ended up being both. You can see it in her bones: her corridors are too wide, bulkheads too thick, enough weapons to end a civilization several times over, and armor so thick you could call her plus-sized.

She is a statement, one directed squarely at the aliens that attacked, yet delivered only to rebels and hostile human alliances. A waste, some would argue. Maybe it is, but in my eyes, it served its purpose.

I finish my run when I hear the door to the record room open. Glancing down from the running track, I see a group enter, bantering amongst themselves. A few break off and head to various machines, while the rest sit on the mat on the ground.

After a few stretches, a woman with greying short-cropped hair stands up, followed by a bald man whose face I can’t quite see. The move to the middle of the mat and settle into stances. The heckling begins almost as immediately as the sparring match does.

Both are skilled, but the woman is definitely laying the hurt on the man. As they circle, I catch sight of their patches. Under the woman’s TAC flag is a Japanese flag, while under the man’s is the German flag.

I slow to a walk and lean against the railing, watching.

The woman is deceptively fast, the kind of fast that looks unhurried until you’re already on the floor, wondering what happened. She reads his footwork before he commits to it, slipping inside a jab and returning something that snaps his head back enough to draw a collective wince from the audience.

The bald man shakes off another blow and grins, which earns him either respect or pity, depending on who you ask. He resets his stance.

“Twenty on the Colonel,” says a voice beside me.

I glance over to see Sergeant First Class Abrami. He leans against the railing, watching the fight progress.

“So that’s Colonel Rhee,” I say to no one in particular.

“She’s a legend in the ROKA,” Abrami says, awestruck. “I know you were concerned when Colonel Luzz was scrubbed.”

“I’m more concerned about maintaining unit cohesion, especially given our fragmentary nature to begin with,” I say, looking up as I mentally run through my unit’s makeup. “There are twenty-five Americans, ten British, thirteen Germans, one Italian, one Tharian, five Koreans, and seven Aussies.”

Abrami opens his mouth to say something, but a loud crack interrupts him. Both of us look down to see the German sprawled out on the mat as the group looks on, horrified.

He blinks at the ceiling for a moment, a man reacquainting himself with the concept of gravity. Then he starts laughing. It's a deep, chest-shaking laugh, the kind that says this has happened before and he has made peace with it.

Colonel Rhee offers her hand. He takes it, and she hauls him upright with no visible effort.

"Twenty on me," I say, vaulting over the rail.

"That's not really how betting works, sir," Abrami shouts to nothing really as I land on the deck with a loud bang. Everyone's focus immediately snaps to me.

"Ready for round two, Ma'am," I say, approaching the group.

Rhee gives me an inquisitive look. The same kind of look someone gives when they are trying to figure out where they know you from.

"Forgive me, I don't recognize you," she says, eyes narrowing.

“Captain Tharzen,” I reply.

She stares at me for a few minutes, then sort of shrugs and settles into her stance. I give her a nod, signaling I’m ready even though I haven’t settled into my own stance. She lunges forward, pulling off a feint I pretend to bite on so that I can find more about her.

“I know you,” she says as I slip another strike. It’s been a few minutes since we started, and so far, all I’ve done is dodge.

"I can't say, ma'am?" I ask as another strike misses.

"Is dodging all you are going to do?" she asks in exasperation.

I close the distance between us, hooking her arm and putting my mouth right next to her ear.

"Is holding back all you are going to do?" I whisper in flawless Korean.

She mutters something in Korean that translates to Ghost Butcher. She retreats faster than Zara does when she's caught somewhere she shouldn’t be.

"You. You're that butcher," she says as the temperature in the room plummets.

"That's just hurtful. You shouldn't disrespect your superiors, Spawn of Ryeongbaek," I say as confusion blooms across her face.

"How...how did-," she says, looking flustered for the first time since she's entered the room.

"Know your House Name," I finish, fishing a small medallion from my pocket. "Because I'm the Spawn of Karian. Now stop holding back."

I launch the medallion towards a small panel on the wall. It slams against it. A loud beep rings out before gravity gives out.

The room reacts before the panel finishes its second beep. Loose equipment drifts. Water bottles spin lazily toward the ceiling. Someone swears in three languages, which I respect.

"Not fair," Rhee says, now floating.

"A true warrior is the master of their dominion, no matter where it be," I say, feeling my mag boots engage.

Rhee looks down at my feet, then at hers, then back at me. There is a very specific expression a person makes when they realize they've been set up from the moment the other person walked into the room. She is making it now.

Around us, the room has descended into controlled chaos. The German undignifiedly rotates near the ceiling, seemingly accepting this as his fate. Two soldiers have grabbed the same support beam from opposite ends and are arguing quietly about who was there first. Someone's water bottle drifts past my head, trailing a long, wobbling bead of water that catches the overhead light like a small, stupid moon.

Abrami has mag boots. He engages them with the practiced ease of someone who has been in zero-G before and found it deeply inconvenient every single time.

"Show me your true power, Spawn of Ryeongbaek," I say.

She seems to hesitate for a moment, then a look of pure carnal enjoyment erupts from her. She twists around, using a beam as a launch pad and delivers a punch to my jaw. The punch rattles my teeth, and I let myself drift back from it, tasting copper. The room has gone very quiet.

Not silent. The ship still hums. Air recyclers still run. But the soldiers have stopped arguing about the support beam.

"Impressive," I say, wiping blood from the corner of my mouth with my thumb. "Really impressive."

I reach down and press a button on my boots, freeing my movement. I launch off the deck into a spinning kick that Rhee blocks. It would've been rather impressive, had we been on the ground. In zero-G, it's laughable since the momentum of my strike carries through, sending her careening into the floor.

A soft thunk rings out as my boots re-engage on the ceiling. Below me, Rhee hits the deck, almost bouncing into a nearby machine. She looks up, salivating like a starving predator.

Our sparring match stretches on for nearly two hours, with neither one of us willing to give. The room had steadily grown more packed as word of a zero-G fight between two vampires spread through the ship like wildfire.

"You done?" Rhee asks between pants.

"Nah," I say. A look of utter catharsis is plastered on her face, probably because she hasn't had anyone to spar with that can match her. "But you are."

"Never. I don't know the meaning of quit," she says, rocketing towards me. She contorts her body to account for zero-G.

"Then allow me to educate you," I say, grabbing a free weight floating nearby. I swing it around straight into my face. I feel my nose break as blood pours from it.

The crowd mutters in confusion and disgust as the blood pools. I throw the weight toward the panel as Rhee, and I slam into each other. It softly bumps the panel, turning gravity back on.

"Checkmate," I say, landing on top of the surprised Colonel. A small sword made of blood is clutched in my right hand, inches from her neck.

"Hemomancer," she says in shock.

"You're pretty adept for a Genpire," I say, dispersing the sword and offering her a hand up. "If it weren't for zero-G, you might've given me a run for my money."

"Please, you could've ended that fight from the start," she says, taking my hand.

"Then you still would've been pent up. The only time we can use full power is against ourselves or other supernaturals."

I pull her up, watching as she dusts herself off.

"But that release felt amazing. You really are him, the Ghost Butcher."

"Never heard of the name."

She looks a bit crestfallen before parking up. She fishes into her pocket and tosses me a coin.

"You don't know it, but a lot of us made it home thanks to you and your unit, myself included," she says, before slipping out of the rec room.

Any thoughts or constructive feedback is greatly appreciated and welcomed. The first few parts are slow to pick up but the payoff is well worth it. First part can be found here - https://www.reddit.com/r/HFY/s/GbSa5biAHe

Thanks - Asmodeus Kain

*** **** *** ****

The heavy, humid air of D.C. hits me the moment the transport’s hydraulic doors hiss open. It is a stark, stifling contrast to the salt-sharp breeze of Port Mercy. On the tarmac, a fleet of armored black SUVs sits idling. Their exhausts blur the heat rising off the concrete. Palace guards in stiff dress uniforms surround the vehicles. Their white-gloved hands are clasped precisely behind their backs.

Sarah leads the way. Her stride radiates practiced grace. She moves into the light as if she was born to own it, instantly drawing the frantic energy of the press corps. I wait, lingering in the shadows of the cabin until she reaches the base of the ramp. Only then do I descend. Even with Sarah as the main focus, several long-range lenses swivel toward me.

"Prince Soren! Over here!"

A reporter’s voice cuts through the dull, mechanical roar of the idling engines. She leans over the barricade, desperate for a soundbite. I don't look away or keep walking. Instead, I change my course and head directly for her. The two guards assigned to my side peel off to follow, but I stop them with a quick, subtle flick of my wrist. They freeze mid-step.

I stop just inches from the reporter. She’s petite, maybe in her mid-thirties. A dusting of freckles crosses her nose, and her dark hair is pulled into a tight ponytail. Up close, I can see the pulse jumping in her neck.

I don't say anything. I gesture toward the plastic badge dangling from her neck. She offers the lanyard with a hesitant, shaking hand. I lean in, reading the fine print of her credentials, then draw my knife from my pocket in one quick motion. The blade cuts through the fabric cord effortlessly.

I toss the severed badge over my shoulder toward the nearest guard and turn on my heel. The knife is back in its sheath before I even reach the SUV. I slide into the cool, leather-scented interior, where Sarah is already waiting. Her expression mixes disapproval with genuine annoyance.

"That was remarkably improper," she says, her voice dry. She doesn’t even look at me; her eyes are fixed on the tinted window. "Do you want to explain why you felt the need to traumatize a member of the local press?"

"Korrina, from the American National Gazette," I say, adjusting my collar.

"I don't care if she's the Queen of Sheba, you terrified her," she snaps, finally turning to face me. "Why?"

"She wrote that article a few months back," I answer as the SUV rolls forward.

"What article—?" she begins, but realization dawns on her. "Oh, you mean that article."

"Yes," I reply. "She has a strong information network that can be useful later on."

"Anyone ever tell you that you are a conniving snake?" she says with a smirk.

"Yeah, you," I retort, leaning back. "Besides, my skills saved hundreds of lives during the Third Battle of Copper Flats."

Sarah's expression changes. The smirk fades into something more serious, as it always does when she realizes I'm not completely joking. She looks back at the tinted window, watching the motorcade move through the city streets. The Capitol dome stands out on the horizon, white and indifferent against the hazy sky.

"The Third Battle of Copper Flats," she repeats, trying to recall it. "That battle a few years ago when your unit held a compound in the middle of nowhere for three weeks while being outmanned and outgunned."

"Outmanned, sure," I say, blowing a raspberry. "Outgunned, no. We had three vampires, four casters, and a half-dozen werebeasts. Those rebels wouldn't have stood a chance even if they had a hundred thousand soldiers and the latest weapons."

"Yet somehow you managed to be a complete snake who kept half your unit alive by selling out the other half."

The words linger between us. I don’t flinch.

"I didn’t sell anyone out. The messenger I sent went missing, delaying my warning to Commander Laska. How was I supposed to know the rebels would attack?" I say, watching the city blur past the window.

Sarah stays silent. I absentmindedly rub the trio of scars on my shoulder — the only reminders from Copper Flats that I couldn't leave behind.

"He was unfortunately killed before my unit could arrive," I continue. "We did save the other twenty-six and held that compound for two more weeks."

"Your CO was killed in action, the messenger was found alive four days later, and your radio mysteriously started working again two hours after the battle," she says, sounding accusatory. "Thirteen soldiers were court-martialed afterward, and you received a medal. If I didn’t know better, I would say that's too many coincidences in a row, but that would be disparaging a royal, a crime equivalent to treason."

"I don’t know what you expect me to say," I reply simply.

She meets my gaze for a moment, then looks back out the window.

"That's a very fine line, Soren."

"Most lines worth drawing are."

The motorcade slows down a block from the embassy and finally stops a couple hundred feet from the entrance. Through the tinted glass, I spot a crowd on the sidewalk—about forty or fifty people. Some hold signs, while a few wear plate mail or chain mail. One man marches back and forth, brandishing a jousting lance.

The guard in the passenger seat leans through the divider. “Sorry, Your Highnesses. There’s a demonstration blocking the entrance.”

I look out the window and see several embassy guards with batons and shields trying to persuade the protesters to move away from the gate, but their efforts are futile. I unbuckle my seatbelt and slide out of the car, prompting a flurry of protests from the guard in the passenger seat.

A few protesters glance my way, surprised. I make my way through the crowd until I reach the embassy guards.

“Your Highness, you really shouldn’t be out here,” one of them whispers softly.

“I was curious about the delay,” I reply, observing the crowd that increasingly glares at me with hostility.

“There was an issue with their permit, and they were mistakenly sent here. Their permit is only valid for this location, so they decided to stay,” the guard explains as we move behind the line. “I can call local police to disperse them, but since they are permitted and on public property, it might be tough.”

“I want them away from the gate; they are blocking us,” I say, scanning the crowd again. “Who’s in charge here?”

“The one in the black surcoat,” he responds, pointing to a protester in plate mail.

I nod and push through the crowd. As I head toward their leader, people start to shove me.

I don’t push back. I keep moving calmly until I reach the man in black. He is broad-shouldered, probably in his fifties, with a sunburned face that shows he spends a lot of time outside. He watches me approach, his expression tired and fed up with the situation.

“You’re not city planning,” he says flatly.

“No,” I agree. “I’m here.” I gesture to the embassy behind me. “You’re blocking my gate.”

The crowd around us shifts. The shoving stops.

He looks from the embassy to me. The guards in dress uniforms watch from the entrance, clearly uneasy. “You’re from St. Tharin.”

“Yes.”

He looks briefly embarrassed. “We were told this address belonged to the planning annex.”

“So I’ve heard.” I glance at the crowd behind him: the chainmail, the signs, and a teenager on the curb who looks like he regrets being there. The heat is brutal. Several people are visibly wilting. “How long have you been out here?”

“Since eight.”

I check my watch—it’s half-past three. I spot six guards mingling in the crowd. I beckon them over with a finger.

“Get them some drinks and snacks, then keep an eye on them,” I instruct the guards before returning my focus to the man. “As long as you stay away from my gate, we’ll be fine.”

“Understood,” he says, signaling for his people to clear the gate. “Thank you…”

“Soren,” I reply, shaking his hand.

“I’m Connor,” he says, smiling softly. “Nice to meet you.”

“Same to you.”

I watch the motorcade roll through the gate, which closes behind them. Moments later, a silver sedan pulls into the driveway. Korrina steps out, looking at me as if she just ate something sour.

“You promised me a story,” she says, blocking my path as I try to enter the embassy.

“Over there,” I say, pointing at the protesters with my thumb.

She stares at me, then at the protesters, and back at me.

“That’s not what I—”

“Connor’s the one in the black surcoat,” I say as I head inside the perimeter.

The guards remain at the gate as I head towards where the motorcade has stopped. I spot Sarah leaning against an SUV, giving me a look that I can’t quite place.

“You’re not clairvoyant, are you?” she asks, raising an eyebrow as we’re whisked inside.

“I don’t think that’s a vampiric power, generic or otherwise,” I answer after a pause.

“Then how do you always seem to have the right card for the right situation. You met that reporter forty minutes ago and couldn’t have known about the protests, yet everything worked out exactly as planned,” she says.

“Luck,” I reply, knowing it wasn’t really an answer. “Not everything I planned works out the way it’s supposed to. Remember the ski trip when we were kids?”

“You weren’t a vampire then,” she exclaims in exasperation.

Sarah’s exasperation hangs in the air as we pass through the embassy’s main doors. The cool interior swallows the city’s heat whole.

“I had a sick trick planned, it was going to be awesome,” I say, smiling as I think back. “Then it went sideways, and I got to spend the rest of the school year in a cast.”

“You broke three bones and gave two palace guards concussions,” Sarah says flatly.

“Four bones. Father’s historian recorded it.” I glance at her. “I have the citation somewhere.”

She stops walking. “Soren, I swear if we weren’t related, I would beat you.”

Someone behind us softly clears their throat. Sarah and I both glance back at an Attache holding a tablet, staring at us. He must have joined the procession a while back and couldn’t find a good spot to interject.

“I have the itinerary and details for tonight’s gala,” he says, offering the tablet to Sarah.

A wicked grin blooms on her face as she leans over and whispers something into the Attache’s ear. He nods several times before leaving.

“Guess what, it turns out there is room at the gala for you to join me. The first time in four years, both heirs of St. Tharin are together,” she says.

“You’re sly, I’ll give you that,” I say, embracing her in a hug, which surprises her, before whispering. “The bathroom is behind you.”

I let go, but not before brushing my hand against her arm. A familiar chill forms as Sarah’s eyes grow wide. She bursts into the bathroom with such ferocity that the door slams into the wall with a loud bang.

“Forgive the Crown Princess, she’s not feeling well,” I say, offering the guards a warm smile.

A few moments later, she reappears, prim and proper once again. At least on the surface, retribution was definitely heading my way.

“How are you feeling, dear sis?” I ask as we head to the living quarters.

“Like I’m going to be an only child,” she fires back, charging forward.

We pass through a pair of double doors into a spacious apartment. To my surprise, I find Zara sprawled out on the couch under the watchful gaze of an unhappy Raymond.

“Miss Boyko thought it would be funny to identify as luggage. We found her stowed away on a transport craft,” Raymond growls. He was much more annoyed with her now than before, rightfully so. “The palace guards nearly shot her.”

“Ok, why is she here?” I ask.

“She’s a friend of the Royal Family, I assumed there would be some…discretion,” Raymond says.

“No, confine her to the smallest quarters possible, then send her back home tomorrow,” I say. Raymond, Zara, and even Sarah’s jaws hit the floor in surprise. We stand in awkward silence for several moments.

“Uh, right away,” Raymond stutters before picking Zara up.

“That was cold,” Sarah says once the room is clear. “She’s your best friend, and you kicked her to the curb like an unwanted puppy.”

“Do you honestly think that I’m cruel?” I ask.

“Well, I now know what a blue circle feels and tastes like, so yeah,” she says.

“Relax, I know you packed her bag. I also know she gets into the palace so often because of you,” I say with a wink.

Sarah’s expression goes through several phases in rapid succession — surprise, calculation, and finally something that lands between sheepish and impressed.

"You knew the whole time," she says. It isn’t a question.

"That you're secretly friends with the world's most chaotic ball of energy and can't admit it," I reply, sitting down. "Yeah. I bet you're the one who put her on that plane to begin with. I'll let her stew for a few hours; then you can go get her."

Sarah opens her mouth, closes it, and then sinks onto the couch across from me. She moves like someone who just lost a chess match they didn't know they were in.

"I hate you," she says pleasantly.

"I know."

She is quiet for a moment, picking at a loose thread on the armrest. "She was lonely. After you left for the war, she had no one. The attention on me makes forming any real connection nearly impossible. We just clicked after a while. I'm surprised you knew."

"I'm not judging you," I say. "Zara grows on people. Like mold, but faster."

A reluctant smile pulls at Sarah's mouth. She stops it before it fully appears, clearly forcing herself. "Three hours," she says, standing and smoothing her jacket. "I'll give her three hours, then I'm getting her out."

"Two," I say. "Zara will have already found something to break by three."

Sarah points at me. Whether it's a warning or an acknowledgment is hard to tell. She then disappears down the hall toward her room, and the apartment falls into a quiet ease.

Sleep is pulling at the corners of my vision when Raymond appears behind me. He silently offers me a tablet.

"You know you never really talk about your family," I say, taking the tablet.

"There isn't much to tell. Your family already knows about my military service; everything else doesn't matter," he says curtly.

"You served twenty-two years in the US Army, then went to some remote country you've never been to or heard of before," I say, opening the tablet.

"Youthful ignorance," he replies as if that explains everything.

"If I'm on vacation, you're on vacation, so if there's anyone you want to see while we are here, let me know," I say, pulling up the information he has gathered for me.

Raymond is quiet long enough that I look up from the tablet.

His expression hasn’t changed; it never really does. Still, there’s something slightly different in the way his jaw is set. There’s a tension that isn’t the usual professional kind.

"That's very generous, Your Highness," he finally says. "I'll keep it in mind."

"Raymond."

"Sir."

"That wasn't a polite suggestion."

Another pause. "I have a sister in Arlington," he says, as if sharing something a bit embarrassing. "We haven't talked in a while."

I look back at the tablet. "Address?"

"I—that isn't necessary—"

"Address, Raymond."

He gives it to me in the same clipped tone he uses to announce visiting dignitaries. I hand the tablet back, and he takes it with the air of a man unsure whether to feel grateful or suspicious.

"Take the car tomorrow morning before the briefings start," I tell him. "Don't argue."

"As you wish," he replies. If there’s something softer beneath his usual tone, neither of us mentions it. He retreats to his post outside the door, and the room is quiet again.

A bead of sweat slowly runs down my temple. Below the cliff’s edge, the ocean crashes against the jagged rocks. The air is thick with the scent of sea spray, damp earth, and the sweet smell of plumeria. Honestly, it’s pure bliss.

Across from me, Zara sports a wide, manic grin as she bounces on the balls of her feet like a hyper child. She lunges. It’s a quick feint to the left, and I almost fall for it, but then she twists her body and hooks in from the right. I slip the punch just before it connects, feeling the rush of air as her fist flies past my ear. As I spin under her arm, I glimpse of an amethyst glow shining through her shirt. It pulses with a steady rhythm that’s almost mesmerizing.

I reset my stance and wag my finger at her. “We agreed, no powers.”

“Honor gets you a headstone; an edge gets you tomorrow,” she replies, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Besides, how else am I supposed to keep up with you?”

The glow spreads from where I saw it, reaching across her body and down her forearms. The pulsing intensifies as the smell of ozone fills the air. Small sparks of lightning flicker across her body, coiling around her hands like a snake. No matter how many times I’ve seen her powers, I’m still amazed. She charges forward, faster than before, leaving me only a split second to block. Her fist slams into my forearm with a dull crack. For a moment, everything goes silent before I feel electricity surging through me. Every muscle from my toes to my head locks up, and I try to fight through it. After several seconds, the shock fades, leaving a tingling sensation that I shake off.

“You could’ve killed me,” I say, annoyed, watching my skin start to heal itself. It’s gross to see, yet I’m strangely fascinated.

Zara shrugs, her defiance clear. She doesn’t look sorry at all. “Please. It takes more than a little spark to take down a Genpire.”

“You’re right,” I say, offering her a high five. She slaps my hand…hard. A chilling wave rolls over me as I watch Zara double over. She vomits on the ground for several seconds before trying to regain her composure, only to start throwing up again. A deep, rumbling laugh escapes me. Zara may be a brilliant strategist, but nobody is perfect.

“That’s low,” she says, straightening up. Her Somakars, which had stopped glowing, start flashing in chaotic patterns.

“I was going to ignore the powers, but then you called me a Genpire,” I reply with a smirk as I help her steady herself.

“Prince Soren.” A deep, commanding voice cuts through the air, belonging to none other than Raymond.

Even if he didn’t have such a distinct voice, his thick Boston accent would give him away quickly. He stands poised at the top of the steps leading into the pit. Even in the midday heat, his crisp black suit looks pristine. Sometimes I wonder if he’s even human.

“His highness requests your presence,” Raymond says with a bow that’s polite but lacks warmth. “Anika will take Miss Boyko to the infirmary.”

A woman a few years younger than me steps into view. Zara climbs the stairs, following Anika into the palace. I take a moment to straighten my clothes before walking with Raymond down the winding garden paths that soon shift from soft earth to cold marble. This marks our entry into the palace. Our shoes echo against the floors, the sound bouncing off the portraits of long-dead rulers watching us with painted, judgmental eyes.

As we near my father’s study, the heavy double doors swing open. A group of officials rushes out, each moving with frantic energy. Pinned to their lapels are small golden brooches—the official mark of the Telari Administrative Council. They pass us, whispering, too caught up in their own affairs to notice us. Moments later, two more officials enter the hallway from my father’s office. The lead councilor, with her silver hair tied in a tight bun, meets my gaze with an unreadable look. Next to her, a man with white hair scowls at me as if I had kicked his dog.

“Prince Soren,” the silver-haired woman greets with a slight bow. I don’t have a chance to respond as she pulls out her phone and starts a call.

The man bows as well before following her. I step into my father’s office. He sits behind an ornate desk that dwarfs everything else in the room. His fingers drum impatiently on the wood, signaling trouble for me.

“Soren,” his voice booms. It’s deep and unforgiving, making it feel like I’m in trouble. I hear the door click shut as I take a few more steps forward and then pause.

“Father, you summoned me,” I say. He doesn’t respond immediately. He studies me with a blank expression before leaning back in his chair. The drumming stops, leaving a heavy silence.

“The TAC delegation just briefed me on a dire emergency,” he says, his tone getting deeper. “The Kassari activated an emergency beacon. Rhyssian Forces launched a planetary invasion four weeks ago.”

“Why is the Council just now convening?” I ask, picking up a small photo frame beside his computer. It shows a ghost from another time. Mother lies in a hospital bed, a web of tubes and wires around her thin frame. Even while sick, she has a mischievous smile that Father says won his heart the moment he saw her. She holds toddler Sarah and me, struggling to escape her grip. A few days later, she passed away, and neither Sarah nor I have any real memories of her. I set the photo back down.

“Blame the Hexarch,” Father says with a shrug.

“What does the Council want?” I ask, lowering my voice.

“That’s not why I summoned you.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Your sister leaves for DC tomorrow. The summit with President Marlowe and world leaders cannot wait, despite these recent…complications.”

I open my mouth to speak but stop myself. Sarah is the heir, the one with patience for subtlety and skill in manipulation. She is meant for diplomacy, leading a nation through global politics. I, on the other hand, am better equipped for when diplomacy fails. If someone needs a heavy hand or a line held against impossible odds, I’m your guy. Otherwise, I’m just a risk.

A rush of heat washes over me as I remember the one time I was supposed to be diplomatic. I was fourteen and nearly sparked four wars while unintentionally starting a new religion, all before I finished greeting the gathered delegates. Since then, Father has made it clear: my talents lie in dirt and blood, not boardrooms.

“With respect,” I begin, choosing my words carefully. “Sarah is the heir. Her skills are better suited to—”

“Relax.” My father raises a hand to stop me. “Sarah is acting as my representative. It’s been years since you left the archipelago, and it will be good for you to get out.”

“As you wish, Father,” I say quietly, giving a slight bow.

“You’re dismissed,” my father replies, picking up a stack of reports.

I exit the office with Raymond trailing a few steps behind me. We walk in silence for a bit before I nearly bump into Sarah as she rushes out of the kitchen. Her eyes widen in surprise.

“Sneaking food again,” I joke, crossing my arms over my chest.

She mutters something unintelligible. After chewing, she says, “No.”

“Here’s a tip,” I suggest, nodding toward the pile of desserts she clutches. “Never get caught with the evidence.”

“The Crown Princess can’t be seen indulging in the common pantry,” she mimicries perfectly in our tutor Mister Shye’s voice. “Why couldn’t you be the heir? I feel so trapped.”

“I wasn’t the first one born,” I reply, taking one of her desserts. “Besides, we all know diplomacy and I don’t mix. Remember that incident with the diplomat’s kid?”

“He and his friends kidnapped a palace maid and tried to attack her. He should be grateful he can still walk,” she says sharply, eyeing me as I eat the small cake. “If I had just a fraction of your abilities, I would’ve put him and his family through a world of pain.”

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” I tell her, pulling her into a side hug. “Decisions like that can follow you for life.”

“Still, everything is so demanding, and I feel like I’m always being watched. I wish I could be myself sometimes,” she says, grabbing another dessert. “The media still thinks Opaque Couché is my favorite color. Where did they even get that idea?”

“Probably from me,” I say, chuckling.

“I’m going to kill you for that, you know that, right?” she growls.

“I know; I’ve read your diary,” I say back in a serious tone.

“Wait, what?” she exclaims, startled.

“Relax, I’m just joking,” I assure her as she playfully hits me. “If you want to be yourself, then be yourself. I’ll always support you, no matter what. You’ll be a great leader, even if you eat a million cakes and hold court in sweatpants.”

She punches me again before disappearing back into the kitchen, leaving Raymond and me to continue our walk to my wing of the palace. As I reach my office, I notice the door is slightly open. I push it open to find Zara sitting in my chair with her boots on my desk. I see Raymond tense as he steps in front of me.

“Miss Boyko, this is a serious infraction,” he says, moving toward her.

“It’s fine, Raymond. You can go,” I tell him.

His expression twists as if he’s just tasted something sour. Despite his clear annoyance, he quickly regains his composure and bows before leaving, shutting the door behind him. I hear the sound of his boots fade down the marble hallway.

“Shouldn’t you be packing?” I ask as I approach my desk.

“Why?” Zara replies, rummaging through a stack of reports she definitely shouldn’t be.

“Honestly, you are the most curious person I know,” I say, pushing her and the chair away from my desk. “If you weren’t so distractible, I’d recommend you for intelligence work.”

“Really?” Zara asks, glancing up from the reports.

“I said I would, but you’re…how should I put it?” I say, opening one of my desk drawers.

“A spark-showering firecracker with a loose fuse, the attention span of a caffeinated goldfish, and a structural integrity that’s best described as a leaky faucet in a hurricane,” she finishes with a smile.

“I see you’ve been reading Raymond’s reports again,” I say, pulling out a hard case from my desk.

“It’s dull without you here; I have to do something,” she whines.

That’s not surprising; her life goal seems to be figuring out how much she can annoy Raymond and the palace guards before she faces any consequences.

“I’d suggest getting a job, but you clearly enjoy being that unemployed friend,” I say, shaking my head slightly.

“I enjoy being with my friend; messing with Raymond is just a bonus,” she says, standing and pushing the chair back toward me. “I didn’t like that magic trick you pulled with my senses. Do you know what a triangle tastes like?”

“No, vampire powers don’t work on other vampires,” I reply, sorting through the reports.

“Yet they fight constantly. How does that work?” she asks, stepping closer to the desk.

“We get medieval. Ninety-nine percent of all vampires are Genpires,” I explain, flipping through the reports.

“So, swords, shields, and old-fashioned brutality?” Zara asks, her eyes brightening at the thought. “I always figured the whole ‘vampire’ thing had more… flair.”

“Less medieval Europe, more street fight,” I mumble, setting the reports aside. “Besides, most of the fancy moves need a focus that’s tough to keep when someone is trying to smash your head in.”

“You seemed calm, even after taking three hundred million volts,” Zara says, frowning. “Even for a vampire, your brain should’ve been scrambled.”

“You stopped fighting,” I reply flatly. “You were too busy gloating to finish it.”

Zara opens her mouth, but no words come out. She looks offended for a moment, then she slumps her shoulders in a defeated shrug. “Ignoring the rules is what I do. I just never thought you would play dirty too.”

“It was a sparring match until you turned it into a fight.” I pick up the case and slide my chair back into position. I meet her gaze with a coldness that makes the air feel thin. “I don’t care if you’re friend, family, or foe. If you come at me with deadly intent, I’ll do whatever it takes to take you down. Honor just gets you a headstone, remember?”

She holds my stare. Her expression hardens, then she breaks, a sharp laugh echoing off the walls. I ignore it. The screech of wood on marble is my only goodbye as I walk to the door.

“I have to get ready for DC,” I say over my shoulder. “I assume you can find something to occupy yourself.”

Her laughter trails behind me, bouncing off the cold palace walls. “Oh, I’ll keep busy!” she calls out, that dangerous mischief returning to her voice. “Just try not to start an international incident before dinner.”

I don’t look back. The corridors stretch out ahead of me, grand and lifeless, despite the midday sun streaming through the windows. Raymond appears from a side passage. He quietly falls into step behind me, a rhythmic shadow.

“Please finalize preparations for the Summit,” I tell him, pausing at the doors to my private chambers. “Then find out everything you can about what the Hexarch is planning.”

“As you wish, Your Highness,” he replies with a bow before disappearing down the hallway.