The Shape of Surrender

“Must you really continue like this?” Nalyra sighed, as Sivena vomited on the floor. “Surely you can realize the cost of your petty resistance.”

“You…you do not have the right—” the High Matron gasped, glaring at the Crown Daughter.

“The right?” Nalyra returned, her voice soft, dangerous. She leaned in closer to the older woman, her voice barely above a whisper. “I know what was in that basement. The secret you were so desperately trying to peddle.”

“You know nothing, you impudent whelp!” Sivena hissed. “There are things moving beneath your little royal nose that are beyond your comprehension!”

“Hence why I shall rip them from your mind, whether you see fit to cooperate or not,” the Crown Daughter said pleasantly, then mentally reached back inside the woman’s skull.

The two Zakkili women were inside one of the interrogation cells of the Aegis, a small, barren room on the ship’s Mid Deck. The place was little more than a simple box, with bare metal walls and flooring. The only furniture inside was a basic metal table, and a pair of chairs, one of which was occupied by Nalyra. Sivena, on the other hand, was currently squirming on the floor, clutching her head. Her white gown was gone, her captors having forcibly replaced it with a dull gray jumpsuit, proclaiming the woman as incarcerated.

The woman was stubbornly resisting all Nalyra’s attempts to Delve her, to pull all she knew of the conspiracy from the matron’s mind.

Still, it did not overly bother the Crown Daughter. Sooner or later, the woman would crack. It was only a matter of time.

“Stop!” Sivena cried, as Nalyra pushed deeper into the woman’s mind. “You must stop! I am protected under Crown law!”

“Protected?” Nalyra twisted the word, her tone mocking. “Former High Matron Sivena, four of my women are dead because of your arrogance and greed, and you stand charged with Royal Treason. What protections do you think remain within your grasp?”

Nalyra had no reason to lie. Even just the act of psychically attacking a Crown Daughter and her Armswomen was enough to strip every right from the matron. The connection to the hidden laboratory had merely drained every remaining bit of hope from Sivena’s future.

One after another, Nalyra tore the woman’s memories from her skull. She had to give the matron credit — Sivena’s mental defenses were considerable. Even with her psychic powers still sealed by Nalyra’s Press, the older woman was putting up a stubborn defense.

Fake connections between memories, synthesized recollections, trails of thought that wound in upon themselves like a serpent — Sivena had clearly received extensive training in anti-Delving techniques.

Still, it would not avail her. On top of Nalyra’s greater mental strength, the Crown Daughter had gone through grueling psychic instruction in her childhood, the extent of which would even break many nearblood Zakkili.

Such were the expectations laid upon a daughter of the Queen.

“Oh? Now just what is this?” Nalyra said airily, as she uncovered a cluster of memories, tucked away deep in her prisoner’s mind. Real memories, the Crown Daughter could tell by their texture. Sivena gave a low moan from her place on the floor.

Visions of clandestine meetings, coded messages, and Sivena herself recruiting a younger-looking Rastia flowed into the Crown Daughter’s mind, even as the matron tried to claw them back into her own head.

“My dear Sivena, do not tell me that your benefactors never even saw it worthwhile to meet with you in person.” Nalyra chuckled at the irony. To think even the High Matron herself had been nothing more than a tool, able to be disposed of without incriminating her handlers. “Well, no need to worry. I think I will see fit to deliver you to the Queen Matriarch personally.”

It was not the lit fuse Nalyra had hoped would blow apart this conspiracy, but it was more than enough to damn the matron. The memories were sufficient to prove that Sivena knew exactly what was being done to those captive women, and to implicate Rastia and Meridian Operations as a whole. Enough to doom House Freika to centuries of obscurity. A poor trade, weighed against her fallen Armswomen and the ten women who records indicated had perished in Meridian captivity, but one Nalyra would have to accept.

A surge of mental resistance caused the Crown Daughter’s brow to furrow. Sivena’s continued stubbornness was becoming increasingly irksome. Nalyra had a thousand other things she would rather be doing, but this duty demanded diligence and thoroughness. She would leave no stone unturned, no memory unexamined.

Such were the expectations laid upon a Royal Hand.

Checking a sigh, Nalyra Delved deeper into the High Matron’s mind, temporarily pushing her own desires away.

Nalyra tapped the panel, and the door to her cabin slid open. Stepping inside, she allowed herself an open sigh, her shoulders sagging. Tor’laen looked up from his tablet, and Nalyra jolted slightly at the sight of both his eyes, his eye covering lying on his nightstand.

“Crown Daughter.” He nodded at her. A hint of self-consciousness whispered across their Bridge.

“Tor’laen, please. No titles, not after the day I have had.”

“Nalyra,” he corrected himself. “Were the interrogations difficult?”

“Difficult? No.” She shook her head. “Tedious. Mind-numbing. Dreary. And another dozen such words would not be sufficient to convey how bothersome they were.”

The Crown Daughter reached up and abruptly undid the clasps of her dress. The garment fell to the floor and she absentmindedly stepped out of it, leaving her clad only in her undergarments. Nalyra could feel the small spike of surprise over their Bridge.

“Nalyra, I—you—” Tor’laen sputtered, averting his gaze after a heartbeat.

“Relax, Tor’laen.” She gave him a weary smile, though the Ydani couldn’t see it, his gaze now focused on the opposite wall. “I am not ashamed of my body, nor do I have much to hide from you, consort. You may look, if it pleases you. I do not mind.”

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Tor’laen said nothing, with just a whisper of disbelief and uncertainty coming through the Bridge. Her Ydani was wound up so tightly about some things, it would seem.

Nalyra did acquiesce slightly to his sense of impropriety, turning away from her consort as she removed her bra, tossing the restrictive garment into the corner of the room, to be dealt with later. The Crown Daughter kept her back to him as she selected a fluffy robe from her closet, settling on a sky blue piece. Nalyra felt his gaze wander over her bare back, felt a small pulse of uncertain desire flow from him. There it was. Another part of her consort that she would have to nurture, perhaps.

She slipped on the robe, tying it around her waist. She noted that it still left a generous amount of her cleavage showing, as well as occasional flashes of her panties, as she twisted this way and that in the mirror. Perfect.

Nalyra turned around and caught Tor’laen’s gaze snapping away from her body.

“Come, consort.” She beckoned him over to the pair of armchairs in the lounge section of her cabin. “Sit with me.”

Wordlessly, he stood, placing his tablet on his cot, and moved to the armchairs, dropping himself into one. His movements were still slightly hesitant, but his gaze was attentive, perhaps even a bit eager. Nalyra followed him, then paused slightly when she reached the seating.

With a bit of an internal shrug, she sat on Tor’laen’s lap.

He stiffened for a breath, then cautiously brought a hand up to her shoulder, allowing her to rest her back against his forearm. She let herself sag into his arm.

“As unbearable as my sister can be at times, I suppose there is a reason she favors such a seat,” Nalyra muttered. “Still, doing such a thing at a public function…”

She rocked slightly as Tor’laen chuckled. His hand gave her shoulder the slightest squeeze. The Crown Daughter looked up, catching Tor'laen's uncovered gaze, that tiny golden flicker of his damaged eye. Looking him in the eyes, her smile faded away.

“You almost died today. I watched it nearly happen.”

Tor’laen blinked down at her at the unexpected shift.

“I have almost died many times,” he said dryly. “No one has ever managed to finish the task, though.”

“How can you be so…casual about it?” Nalyra asked softly. Her mind went back to the two times she had nearly died on Orphila, and the spans of restless nights and terrifying dreams that had followed.

Her consort cocked his head at her, as if he didn’t understand the question.

“As I said, I’m an old soldier, Nalyra. It comes with the career, at least for Ydani,” he answered. “And besides, I—”

He cut himself off, and the shape of something very concerning slipped over their Bridge.

“You what, Tor’laen?” she asked quietly. He averted his gaze, his mouth tight. “Please, tell me, consort.” Her voice was gentle. Not the voice of a Crown Daughter. The voice of Nalyra.

After a couple breaths, he answered.

“...I had already given up on my life, the moment I surrendered to you,” he continued, his voice low, his gaze still avoiding hers. “When I received my orders, when I was told what my likely path was concerning the Zakkili, I…I saw it as a kind of chosen death. I would give everything for my people, and I would receive nothing in return. You and your people would use me until I had nothing more to offer, and then I would be…disposed of.”

Something twisted in Nalyra’s chest. Something cold and painful. Her thoughts went back to their first few meetings, to how utterly fearless he had seemed. It was not that he had been fearless — it was that he had nothing left to fear losing.

“Do you still feel such a thing is true?” she managed to ask, her voice small.

Tor’laen was quiet for a long while, staring out into the empyrean. Though he kept his mind sealed, Nalyra imagined she could almost feel the conflicting thoughts warring within him. His sense of self against his sense of duty.

Gently, she brushed his mind, asking him for permission. He hesitated, then nodded. She slipped into his thoughts — now a whirling storm of honor, duty, hope, and selfishness. Delicately, she calmed the tempest, helping him settle his mind.

“Do you still feel so?” she asked again quietly.

“I…I think I do not.” The small part of Nalyra still in his head could feel just how difficult it was for him to give such an answer. His entire being seemed to rebel against it, wanting to fall back into the shelter of duty and service. Of expected sacrifice. “I have given everything for my people. But now, I have received something in return, something I would never have imagined, and I find myself unwilling to give it up.”

A smile crept back across Nalyra’s face.

“You do not have to,” she said smugly, giving his mind a soft flick. “As I have said before, you are mine, Tor’laen.” She lightly jabbed a finger into his chest. “And I will not order you, will not allow you to give up what you have gained.”

He gave a small huff, a tiny smile finally returning to his face.

“I will not keep you from the field of battle,” Nalyra added. “I know who and what you are, and I know my Armswomen are safer when you fight alongside them. Just…remember, Tor’laen, your life is no longer just your own, and I am quite terrible at parting with my valued possessions.”

“That, I do believe.”

He apparently found a dash of courage, and laid his free hand on Nalyra’s bare thigh, where the robe parted. The Crown Daughter shivered slightly, then rested her smaller hand on top of it.

The pair sat there for a long while, both gazing out at the stars.

“Nalyra, you’re still inside my head.” Tor’laen broke the silence after a few marks, raising an eyebrow at the woman in his lap.

“So I am. Does it bother you, consort?”

He took a moment to consider, before shaking his head.

“I suppose not. I had merely assumed you Zakkili went into others’ minds with a specific purpose.”

“Tor’laen, we are an entire race of psychics. Do you really think that married couples stay out of each other’s minds unless they have a certain goal?”

“I had thought this was a political marriage. You said so yourself.”

“Oh, it is quite the politically useful marriage. However, we Zakkili are just awful when it comes to not mixing business and pleasure.”

“Somehow, I am not surprised.”

He gave her thigh a light squeeze, starting to rub his thumb over her smooth skin. Though he clearly had little in the way of instincts for courting or romance, he was doing an admirable job.

It was relaxing, that was certain. After the seemingly endless day of worry, fear, and outrage, Nalyra could feel the stress flowing from her. She let herself sag even more, her shoulder coming to rest against his chest. She was vaguely aware that the change in position was causing her chest to threaten to spill from the confines of her robe, but she found she didn’t much care.

Tor’laen, on the other hand, seemed very aware of the increase in her exposure. He was clearly a little more sure of himself now, letting his gaze linger on her generous curves. The piece of her inside his head could feel the surge of his desire.

Nalyra let herself bathe in it. She had felt gazes of desire many times in her life. It was just a part of being one of Azora’s daughters — she and her sisters were, after all, generally considered gorgeous by Zakkili standards. This, however, was the first time she reveled in another’s gaze. Because it was his gaze.

A small part of her had recently been fretting the tiniest bit, unsure if he would find her, or Zakkili women in general, attractive. Clearly, it was not a problem.

Nalyra had spoken truthfully — she had originally planned for their marriage to be purely political. However, sitting here, in his lap, barely covered by a bathrobe, with his hand on her thigh, it was clear that their union had undeniably evolved into something more. She was sure it would continue to evolve, as well. There was no rush. And in the meantime, she would savor his hand on her thigh and his gaze on her skin.

Yes, Nalyra was sure that she would come to find her cabin quite relaxing in the near future.