LOG 029: Conditional Alliance

Eight consecutive hours. Every standard station cycle, Messer dedicates eight consecutive hours to respite from the rigors and strain of duty. The feline spliced male strolls to his command level apartment with his usual practiced posture -staunch and almost rigid- with proud shoulders and chin elevated. He receives salutes from passing uniformed personnel all the way to his door.

The moment he is past the threshold of his home and the door is sealed, he is ostensibly someone else. Perhaps even something else. His switch is almost robotic, as if powering down. The process of releasing his tension -confined entirely to the entryway- is rapid and cathartic. A wave of release descends through his body, usually starting on the right side of his scalp pushing it down and to the left, inching down as the release finds the back of his neck in twists from side to side. Then the shoulders roll, chest puffs, and releases in a large inhalation and exaggerated exhale. All culminating into a stretch up upon his toes with clawed fingers scraping the ceiling.

There are dozens of marks at the entryway of his making. Indentations remain there as proof of his ability to relax. A ritual so frequent, the repair attempted by his mate is an exercise of futility. His is a coil released. A muscle relaxed. A weapon unloaded, chamber empty.

The familiar sounds of home wash over him as his ears swivel forward picking up the gentle hum of domestic life. From the kitchen unit comes the rhythmic whir of servos as the household android prepares the evening meal, its precise movements creating a metallic symphony that speaks of efficiency and care. The scent of synthesized protein and real vegetables -a luxury afforded by his rank- mingles with the more primal markers that identify this space as uniquely theirs.

“Papa’s home!” The excited trill comes from Navysa, his daughter, who bounds around the corner with the fluid grace inherent to their kind. At six cycles old, she moves with the predatory elegance of a born hunter, though her prey consists mainly of holographic mice and her younger brother. Her golden fur catches the ambient lighting, and her pupils dilate with pleasure at his arrival.

Behind her, moving with more deliberate stalking motions, comes Uhmir -his son, his rare and precious boy. The four-cycle-old crouches low, tail twitching with barely contained energy as he prepares to pounce on his father’s boots. In their society, sons arrive like rare jewels, making each one both treasure and source of sleepless nights.

“Children, give your sire space to decompress,” comes the melodic voice of the more humanoid android from the corner -designed for comfort rather than mere function. “Commander Thomir transmitted her schedule shift. She will return within the hour.”

“Space is not needed,” the patriarch says in a little growl, snatching both from the ground and lifting them to his sight line. He growls and nuzzles at their cores, forcing the children to laugh and fend his attacks off with swatting hands and squirming feet.

He ignores the comment about the Commander. “They feel light. Have they been fed? Are you two hungry?” 

His own belly is aching at the need to be filled.

The childcare unit steps back smoothly, recognizing the dismissal of its suggestion with practiced deference. Its vocal processors shift to a warmer, more informal tone -acknowledging the sire’s claim to his territory and offspring. “Nutritional intake has been maintained per schedule, Admiral Messer. Midday meal concluded three hours ago. However,” sensors detect the hunger markers radiating from all three family members, “pre-evening appetite stimulation is within normal parameters.”

The kitchen unit’s rhythmic sounds pause momentarily, acoustic sensors recalibrating meal timing.

“Evening meal preparation advancing to accommodate family necessity. Protein synthesis completes in twelve minutes. Shall I prepare additional portions, Admiral?” 

“Most assuredly, yes. Look how they grow.” He lifts and lowers them, one in each hand, held by the clothing rather than scruff. It’s as though he is weighing them. “Their growth and my ravenous appetite call for an increase in portions. Don’t you think, my little beasts?” He teases to make them giggle.

Messer’s focus remains with the little ones, allowing them to climb upon his uniform with their clawed fingers. “My predators, speak to me of your day. Your father requires soothing from the monotony of the day. Enthrall me with your adventures and activities.”

He strides deeper into his domicile, carrying them both hanging from his uniform. They sway and gain climb as they respond. 

Navysa’s ears perk forward as she dangles from her father’s forearm, her voice taking on the important tone cubs use when recounting their day. “We were late again! Um, the care-unit said we needed more sleepy-time ’cause we’re still growing and growing.” Her whiskers twitch with remembered drowsiness.

Umihr’s tail coils around his father’s wrist as he speaks, his words still carrying the soft lisp of youth. “But then we got to play with Kreshy and Miri and all the cubs! Teacher Felahn showed us how to go like this—” He demonstrates with a tiny crouch, even while suspended upside down on his father’s sleeve. “Real sneaky like a kitty!”

“Feline,” Messer corrects, wanting to increase the grandiose nature of learning to prowl. The cuteness is tolerable from his daughter, but not from his son. “Feline, not kitty, my hunter.”

“And after that,” Navysa continues, her golden eyes bright with memory, “we played with the other kids too! There was a red girl with super-duper long fingers, and two boys who made funny bubble noises when they giggled. Like blub-blub-blub!” She giggles. “The pretty spotty teacher had spots ALL over!”

Umihr’s pupils dilate with excitement. “She showed us pictures! Papa, the buildings grow like trees -like really really BIG trees that people live inside! And they have meetings in places that look like… like flower gardens but inside!”

“The teacher said…” Navysa pauses, trying to remember. “She said being strong means… um… working together! Like how Papa protects people, and the spotty doctors make people feel better when they got owies.”

Umihr nods enthusiastically. “Yeah! Like when I fell and you kissed my knee better!”

“Dinner protocols are active, Sir,” the kitchen unit interjects, its voice carrying none of the warmth their father’s held. “Shall I increase portions for the growing cubs and prepare placement for Commander Thomir?”

“Do so,” he grumbles at the artificial caretaker.

His focus returns to the young, his voice warm and soothing, “Your teacher is teaching you a half truth, my spawn. Strength means opportunity and superiority. Remember loyalty and strength are paramount. Loyalty first to family. Second to your duty. Last to our society. It is always good to know the capabilities of others. Their strengths and weaknesses, so that you as leaders know where each can be used best. You will strengthen others by being the strongest you can be and following the hierarchy I have set for you.”

The cubs listen intently, Umihr’s head tilting with that confused-but-trying-to-understand expression that four-cycles-olds get when adults use big words. Navysa nods, her golden eyes fixed on her father’s face -not because she understands everything, but because Papa said it, and that makes it true- and she stores them away like precious treasures to think about later when she’s supposed to sleep.

“Okie, papa.” 

Commander Thomir steps through the doorway, looking as crisp and immaculate as she was hours ago, as if she’s just stepped out of a military portrait. Her uniform bears no wrinkles. Every button, boot gleam, and crease falls exactly where regulations demand, and her hair has not a single strand out of its precise arrangement.

“What is that smell?” Messer growls, not turning toward the entryway. “Tell me little ones, what fragrance has hit my nostrils? A welcome and sweet smell unlike the dull stink of officers sweatily working on the command deck. Can you smell it?”

Uhmir brashly leaps from his father’s arm to the floor and dashes toward his mother’s embrace. “MAMA!”

Navysa giggles at her father’s innocent question, or at least that’s what she thought. “It’s Mama, Papa.”

“Ah, yes,” the patriarch turns. “Your mother has arrived. Despite her daily toil, she is as flowery and beautiful as when she left us this morning. How does she do it, Navysa? Is she magic?”

“Yes!” A soft whisper of agreement, revealing sharp little teeth along with a playful smile. “Mama is magical.” 

Nysari giggles deeply as she picks the little happy cub in her arms. “Not exactly magic, just a very good hair conditioner.” She approaches Messer and scratches his furry jaw. “Hurry and change.”

Messer comes near to purring as her chin scratches lure him to follow. But he does follow the suggestion, moving to the bedroom to disrobe. His stomach growls louder than he does as he changes attire. Hunger and denial has tainted him and he’s eager to lounge and be comfortable with a full belly.

Redressed in pajamas and slippers, he makes his way to the dinner table. His pajamas are patterned and flannel, a stark contrast to his dark panther-like fur. His slippers are modeled from loafers, but lined in synthetic fluff to mimic an animal’s fur. The top comes down in a low V shape such that his chest fur fluffs out like a furry ascot. All that is missing is a pipe. “Let us consume together.”

Nysari, already changed into similar pajamas as Messer, along with the childcare unit, prepares the children in their seats while the kitchen unit sets the table according to each family member’s nutritional needs. Two empty seats remain -a common sight since the recent crisis.

The holographic projection on the quarters’ wall displays a serene, slow-motion sunset over Verilia’s azure oceans. The ambient lighting in the room shifts in sympathy, bathing the dining chamber in hues of soft gold and deep violet.

First comes the “salad” course. The tray presents four small, dark, matte ceramic bowls. In each bowl rests a single, perfect Nebula Sphere. It is larger than standard rations, and within its quivering, pearlescent membrane, tiny capsules of nutrients pulse with gentle bioluminescence. They swirl slowly, like captured galaxies.

Next, the Hunter’s Crown Roast is a breathtaking piece of nutritional architecture. The kitchen unit had printed a stunning, crown-shaped edifice of interwoven protein ribs with a dark, savory mammalian profile. The “bones” gleam with a synthesized glaze, and the center of the crown was filled with tender, shredded avian-profile meat.

“I am famished,” Messer mumbles. “I cannot eat in front of those subordinates. They watch with fascination as if I am feasting on the bones of one of their own. I hear whispers and rumors the command staff thinks I consume my enemies.”

Nysari snorts a bit. After a pause. “Do you?”

He leans toward the children, menacing. Softly and seriously, “Only when they are disobedient. If you do it once, you rarely have to do it again…”

Nysari snorts slightly. The girl takes it as a joke, but the youngest one takes it too seriously, almost dropping his food on the plate.

“He’s joking, sweetheart,” Nysari reassures the youngest, who can hardly believe her.

“The Zybirian tactical team made it to the incident site; that’s the only way I can eat in peace,” the matriarch says with unrestrained worry. 

“A biocontaminant, most likely, given the contagion. It’s contained. No need for you to remain and micromanage. Leave the chaos outside our domicile.” Messer is disinterested.

“Our domicile? Chaos in one biodome quickly spreads to another. Panic tends to do that.”

Messer looks to the children who seem to be staring at their progenitors rather than consuming. With the faintest of gestures and tick of his eyebrow, he compels them to focus upon their meal. The feline in his flannel pajamas looks back to his mate and resumes the discourse calmly but with an undertone of annoyance. “Yet we have the capacity and discipline for rationality and calm. We needn’t let external chaos rule our states of mind. Our security is presently assured. Until the time it is not, I request you remain in this moment. Are we of like minds?”

The kids understand quickly and resume their meals, savoring each bite. The kitchen unit ensured optimal taste profiles to reduce complaints and hesitations. Nysari winks at Messer before returning to her meal.

The door chimes.

“Admiral Messer: Admiral Waldermara is requesting an audience.”

Messer’s fork stops halfway to his mouth. The meat falls back on his plate with a wet sound. His eye meets his mate’s -a silent heated debate flashing between them in microseconds. Nysari’s ears flatten slightly. Her tail, hidden beneath the table, lashes once, twice.

The children continue eating, oblivious to the sudden electricity crackling between their parents.

The chime sounds again.

Messer rises with deliberate slowness, his movements those of a predator acknowledging a rival’s presence in his territory. Even in comfy flannel pajamas, his posture shifts to rigid formality. “Children: best behavior. We have a guest.”

His tone carries the dry contempt of someone savoring an enemy’s desperation. This visit is beyond rarity. He strides to the door, positioning himself off-center so his visitor will see directly into their dining sanctuary and will know immediately of her trespass.

“Open.”

—

Rigel had been pacing in the corridor for the past three minutes. Her boots struck the deck plating in sharp, measured beats -the only outlet for her coiled tension. When she finally stopped and pressed the door chime, her jaw was clenched so tightly her teeth were aching.

He’s taking his time. Of course, he is. Let her stew. Let her remember that she is the one who needs something. She forces her breathing to steady and forces her hands to stillness at her sides.

The door opens, and there he stands -Messer in patterned flannel pajamas that should make him look ridiculous, but somehow makes him more intimidating. Like a house cat who’d grown fangs and a penchant for jugular veins. She’s not blind to his positioning, deliberately showcasing the warm family tableau behind him: his mate, his children, their interrupted evening meal.

Rigel’s throat constricts. She’d forgotten about the children. Two small feline faces turn toward her with curious golden eyes, and something twists in her chest -a sharp recognition of what she was about to destroy. “Ah… evening.” The words come out rougher than she intends. “Apologies for the… interruption to your family.”

She swallows hard, tasting copper. Her hands want to shake, but she keeps them locked at her sides. “I wouldn’t be here… if I…”

The words stick. Dangle in the air as Messer stares at her unblinking. In the past, she would have matched his contempt with her own fire. Would have demanded entry, consequences be damned. Now she stands on his threshold like a supplicant.

“If I didn’t need your help.”

Messer feels something warm and predatory unfurl in his chest. Rigel Waldermara -Admiral Rigel Waldermara- in his doorway, asking for help. Her usual armor of arrogance has developed cracks, and through them he can see something raw and desperate.

Delicious.

He lets the silence stretch, watching her jaw work as she fights to maintain composure. Behind him, Nysari’s chair creaks -a subtle sound of tension. His mate understands the danger of letting this particular viper into their home.

“Is that so?” His voice carries the temperature of deep space. “I suspect you wish to discuss this request with some privacy?”

He gestures for her to enter, but it feels to Rigel more like opening a cage door.

Rigel hesitates on the threshold. Her eyes flick to the children one more time, and something in her expression flickers. Regret? Fear? When she speaks, her voice drops to barely more than a whisper.

“Before I step in… listening to me will come with a cost. It will change our lives, perhaps for the better, but definitely for the worse. But I’ll give you anything you want…”

She offers the words like a piece of meat on a blade for his consumption.

Messer’s pupils dilate, less a predatory response and more a reflex of pleasure. Anything. How long has he waited for such an opportunity? How many nights had he fantasized about having Rigel at his mercy? The possibilities cascade through his mind like a waterfall of vengeance.

“Your opening bid is enough to earn my interest. Enter.”

“Hold on.” Nysari’s voice cuts through the moment like a laser. She hasn’t moved from the table, but her enhanced hearing caught every word. Her golden eyes fix on Rigel with something that looks almost like sympathy.

“Take the children to their rooms,” she instructs the childcare unit without breaking eye contact with their visitor. “Prepare the office for our guest.”

She turns to Messer, and he could read the warning in the positioning of Nysari’s shoulders and the careful control in her voice. “Are you sure? She’s serious about it. I believe her.”

Messer’s grin is all teeth. “Glory requires risk. The good Admiral is willing to negotiate away ‘anything’ for our aid. And there are so many things she possesses that I both require and would enjoy depriving her.”

Nysari’s ears flattened completely against her skull. She can feel the violence building in the room like pressure before a storm. This isn’t just politics -this was personal, and it is about to happen in her home, around her children’s toys and dinner plates. Yet she also sees what Messer is too intoxicated with temptation to notice: the way Rigel’s shoulders hunch inward, the white knuckles of her clenched fists, and the careful way she is breathing. This isn’t simple desperation.

This is terror.

—

The home is smaller than hers; warmer, lived in. Toys are scattered across scratched flooring, furniture worn smooth by daily use, and the lingering scents of family meals with shared laughter. It is everything her sterile, perfect quarters are not -everything she’s never allowed herself to have.

The contrast is harsh. While she’s been building empires and making deals with devils, Messer has been building something real.

Messer glides past her toward what she assumes is a private study, his colorful pajamas rustling with each step. Even now, even dressed for comfort, he moves with that predatory grace that made him famous on a dozen battlefields and feared by those serving beneath his authority. 

“Do you require a drink to lubricate this embarrassing moment? Or shall we press into the circumstances that bring you to me?”

Rigel follows him deeper into his territory, her mind cataloging exits and weapons out of pure habit. “This won’t be the last embarrassing moment, I am sure. I could use a sip of whatever is the strongest thing you have.”

Because I’m about to tell you things that will destroy us all.

—

The study is pristine compared to the family areas. Leather armchairs unmarked by small claws, shelves lined with actual books, and soft lighting that spoke of quiet evenings and shared reading. Nysari had followed them, moving with the fluid silence of feline genetics, positioning herself where she could watch both admirals.

Messer moves straight to the bar, bypassing the displayed bottles for a hidden compartment that opens to his thumbprint. The bottle he withdraws is encased in a fitted sack of midnight velvet coloring. The bottle holds a dark brown liquid in a clear bottle and is three-quarters full.

“I’ve been saving this for a special occasion.” His movements are ceremony and mockery combined. “I drank this on my commissioning to Admiral, on our union date,” he gestures to Nysari, “and after the births of our children. This seems like a similarly weighty occasion.”

Three crystal tumblers. Three equal measures. Three people about to have their lives irrevocably changed.

Messer carries the neatly poured glasses to both women. Nysari accepts her glass but doesn’t drink from it just yet. She needs her mind sharp for whatever is coming.

Rigel takes hers, sits down, and immediately swallows half the contents -gasping as the liquor burns its way down her throat. The pain is almost welcome -something clean and simple compared to the knot of secrets clawing at her insides.

When she can speak again, her voice is hoarse. “The Legion misled the UA. He promised not to attempt telepathic breeding, and he was initially committed to upholding that promise. I think -it’s hard to know his intentions and machinations. I’m learning more and more. However, since becoming sovereign, he’s had fifty years to work around those promises.”

She takes another burning sip. “Zybiria provided the equipment. He was successful.”

Messer’s expression is pure predatory satisfaction. “Of course, the self-professed immortal went too far. We have all suspected yet lacked the proof. Has your conscience gotten the better of you?”

“No. No.” The words come out too fast, too desperate.

Nysari leans forward slightly, piecing together faster where Rigel is heading. “Does it have to do with the Regenesis’ incident?”

Rigel’s laugh is caustic. “You’re brilliant. That’s exactly what it has to do with it. Why I’m here.” She looks at Nysari with something approaching admiration. How did she end up with him instead of someone who deserved her?

“Anyway, he thought the children were failures.” Rigel presses on. “However, he didn’t realize they aren’t telepaths like him… they are different. Worse. They evolved. Slowly. So slowly he lost interest. The incident wasn’t planned, but he must know by now what caused it. What is causing it.”

Messer’s tail goes rigid. “Evolved how?” His voice carries that familiar growl of hatred, but underneath it is something new to Rigel: concern. Real, immediate danger has a way of focusing even the most ambitious minds.

“In Old Earth, when he became what he is, he could only read thoughts. What happened in the Regenesis wasn’t a simple telepathic outburst. It affected…” 

“… Nearly four thousand people… all at once.” Nysari completes Rigel’s sentence, her untouched drink trembling in her hands. “The source?”

Rigel chokes out the answer. “My daughters. Sienna and Shimmer. They were there. They didn’t know what they did.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Messer’s voice cuts through it like a blade. “You don’t have daughters. I’ve read your entire file -including the redacted sections. Two weak sons. No females.”

Rigel’s composure finally cracks. “Kano, Draco’s pilot, is our eldest. And there are eight girls. Seven distributed across the station while one…” Her voice breaks. “One he took from me and sent to Zybiria.”

“Eight?” Messer looks at his mate, something dangerous flashing between them. “Eleven children total?” The number hangs in the air like an accusation. Messer’s mind was clearly racing -not just about the tactical implications, but about the personal ones. His rival has produced a small army while his own family remains deliberately limited.

“I had help hiding them.” Rigel’s voice is a soft confession. “Some of the remaining Ascendants found appropriate families. In exchange for silence and sealed medical files, I granted promotions and provided favors. Legion told me they were defective. He hates anything that isn’t perfect. He allowed me to discard of them as I saw fit.”

“The youngest boys?” Nysari’s voice is gentle, but her eyes are sharp.

“Keir and Kieran are… different. He’s keeping them close.” Rigel has lost composure, hands shaking now and cold with sweat. “But Dr. Korr did something. They asked for help this time.”

“Dr. Korr? Help from whom?” Nysari asks.

“Dr. Walder. They activated an AI construct from Old Earth. He goes by Theseus now.” She drains her glass, welcoming the burn and hoping for a slight intoxication. “He’s going to extract my daughters before the Legion realizes what kind of dangerous toys he temporarily misplaced and forgot he had.”

The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. Messer sets down his glass with exaggerated care. “Dr. Korr asked an unshackled AI -relic that should have been eradicated with every other Old Earth abomination- to help you extract these telepathic abomination daughters of yours to where, exactly?”

Rigel can’t meet his eyes. “To the Greenhouse… and then to Conquest Pact territory.”

The words tumble like stones into still water.

Nysari speaks first, her voice tight with understanding. “Because that’s the only place he can’t simply take them back.”

“You bred with the devil,” Messer’s voice is silk over steel, “created weapons of mass destruction, and now you want my help to gift them to our enemies?”

“I want them safe!” The words tear out of Rigel’s throat with such force that both feline gene-altered hosts’ ears pinch back reflexively. “I want them somewhere he can’t reach them. Can’t use them. Can’t turn them into whatever twisted vision he has for the future!”

She is standing now, though she doesn’t remember rising. “If you were facing someone who could take your children, reshape them, use them as weapons… where would you run? Where in this entire arm of the galaxy is beyond his reach?”

Messer’s expression shifts as understanding dawns. Cold and calculating, he has absorbed the situation and seen a path through the wilderness that could work to his benefit. Assisting Rigel is not treason -it is strategy. Terrible, brilliant, beautiful strategy to unravel his enemies. 

“Though not your intention, you seek to unleash defective telepathic weapons on our enemies,” he muses. “A move I can capitalize on while maintaining plausible deniability as to the source.”

“I just need your help with one of my daughters.” Rigel’s voice begs, seeing Messer is already seeking to move past the immediate dilemma toward profit. “I need one of your ships. One of your best pilots. She’s in the Bastion, and I can’t use anything connected to my command or yours,” She stares at Nysari with pleading eyes. “… without raising questions.”

Messer is quiet for a long moment, his mind weighing the risks and benefits. “Your command ship. The Orion. As vanguard when I call for it.” His words come judiciously. His price is conveyed.

Rigel’s eyes snap to his, then to Nysari. The other woman’s expression is carefully neutral, but her posture speaks of disapproval.

“That’s… unbalanced. A simple extraction for a fleet flagship?” Rigel complains immediately.

Messer’s smile is not predatory. Predators hunt by necessity. His smile resembles a sport hunter having bagged the last of a now extinct species. “You said ‘anything.’ Am I incorrect about the dire nature of your situation?”

Her flagship?

The Orion?

Terror incarnate given form and function -a weapon so devastating that entire systems had surrendered at the mere mention of its approach. The ship that had carved Verilia’s name into the fears center of a dozen colonies’ collective memory. Rigel’s ship is more lore than technology.

“No.” The word spits from her lips, raw and immediate. “You don’t understand what you’re asking for. The Orion isn’t just a ship, it’s annihilation with engines. It’s—” She stops, her hands numb and neck screaming in pain as the full weight of what Messer wants crashes over her. Her crew. Her brothers and sisters who follow her through hell and back. The weapon that had made her name a legend and a nightmare in equal measure.

“I can’t. I won’t sacrifice them for—”

I will do it.

The voice that isn’t a voice douses the panic in her neural pathways like a bath in ice and starlight. Direct. Absolute. The consciousness that had been her partner for over decades, speaking through implants that connect her to the vast intelligence housed within her flagship’s quantum core. Rigel’s breath catches. Her eyes widen and tear as the meaning sinks in. The Orion -her ship, her companion, her friend- is willing to become Messer’s weapon. For her. For her daughter.

My loyalty to you… is Absolute. If this is what you need from me. I’ll do it.

The tears streak freely, cutting tracks down her cheeks as she stands frozen in Messer’s study. All her careful control, all her desperate composure, shattered against the impossible act of loyalty she never considered.

“He says…” Rigel’s words barely audible, more from her own disbelief. “He says he’ll do it.”

Messer doesn’t need to ask who ‘he’ is. The answer is written in the hollow look behind Rigel’s eyes and in the tears sticking to her cheeks.

“Then we have an agreement.” He moves immediately to his control panel, fingers dancing across holographic displays. “You shall have one of my best. Genetically resistant to telepathic interference. Highly decorated. Most importantly: utterly loyal.”

The pilot’s profile materializes in the air between them. “Cattica. I’ll transfer him temporarily to your command along with a suitable vessel. Educational exercise is how it will be recorded.”

For a moment, Rigel sways there with tears still wet on her cheeks, looking broken. Then something shifts behind her eyes -something dangerous and sharp-edged that reminds everyone in the room exactly who they were dealing with. Her voice carries the gravity that conquered star systems. “But understand this, Messer,” tears still there resemble war paint. “I maintain operational control. Over my pilots, over my fleet, over every aspect of this arrangement. The Orion may serve as your vanguard, but he answers to me. Always.”

Her hands stop trembling. Her shoulders square. Admiral Waldermara reasserts herself from the wreckage of the desperate mother.

“If you want war with the Pact, it happens my way. My strategy. My timeline. My rules of engagement.” Each word is a hammer blow. 

Nysari blinks. Messer does not. This is why Rigel Waldermara is in her position. Why she has persisted and earned victories unequaled -not just for her ship or her conquest, but defiance. The ability to find strength in the very depths of desperation. She is a reminder that cornering a mother in the wild doesn’t make her weak.

It makes her absolutely lethal.

Messer says nothing, merely gesturing toward the door.

As Rigel moves to leave, her glance connects Nysari’s own one final time. What passes between them is wordless but complete recognition of what it means to love someone more than one’s own self. More than your own integrity. More than advancement or titles.  More than safety, comfort, and calm. And the terrible prices that love demands.

Then she is gone, leaving only the lingering scent of desperation and the thrum of boots on metal.