The Shape of Surrender

Tor’laen did his best to keep his gaze on the screen of his tablet.

“I think this one shall do. What are your thoughts, Tor’laen?”

He dared to glance over at the sound of Nalyra’s voice. The Crown Daughter had donned a stunning gown of dark blue, a shade that reminded the Ydani of the ocean’s depths. The dress had a plunging neckline and a slit up one side, offering flashes of one shapely leg with every shift of her body. It was significantly more revealing than her usual attire, but didn’t seem to be scandalous, at least by Tor’laen’s still limited knowledge of Zakkili social norms.

“It gives quite the showcase of your figure, Nalyra,” he replied, looking her over once more.

“It does, doesn’t it?” she purred, twisting slightly as she examined herself in the large mirror on the wall.

Tor’laen gave a small inward sigh of relief. At least she had been fully clothed this time.

Ever since their return to Kelran, Nalyra had taken to changing her clothes in the main part of their cabin, rather than in the privacy of her sizable closet. On top of that, she seemed to enjoy making a game of it, trying to lure his gaze toward her body in various states of undress.

It didn’t bother him, not really, but he couldn’t help but feel…uncertain about it. This was uncharted territory for him, and he wasn’t sure of the rules of engagement. It was exciting in a way he hadn’t encountered before, always causing his pulse to rise.

Tor’laen realized his eye had been absentmindedly lingering on the graceful curves of his wife’s hips, and he snapped his gaze upward, only to catch Nalyra’s eyes in the mirror. She smirked at him and he deliberately looked away, feeling his cheeks starting to burn. Behavior quite unbecoming of an Outrunner Captain.

“Now for you, Consort,” she said, drawing near. “Stand at attention, or however you Ydani word it in your navy.”

Placing down his tablet, Tor’laen stood up, coming rigidly to attention, a small smile on his face. Nalyra circled around him, inspecting him thoroughly like some kind of miniature drill sergeant. She made a few sounds of approval before stopping in front of him.

“Kneel, Consort,” she ordered, causing him to raise an eyebrow at her. “I cannot reach you all the way up there,” the Crown Daughter elaborated, folding her arms.

Tor’laen did as she asked, and the woman started to fuss with his collar, fixing the position of his consort’s insignia.

“It is your first true public appearance as my consort, and I will not have you outdone by Queni’la.”

“I did not think it a competition,” the Ydani remarked dryly.

“And it is not. However, there are doubtlessly going to be those who make the comparison.”

“Understood.”

Nalyra finished with his collar, moving up to his hair, smoothing and running her fingers through it. Tor’laen’s scalp tingled. He closed his eye, savoring the sensation. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had done something similar. Perhaps when he was still just a boy? Half-buried memories of his mother surfaced, hazy in his mind.

“There,” she said finally, hands withdrawing from his hair.

He opened his eye to find her looking him over, clearly satisfied.

“Now you look the proper part of my Shield Consort.”

“Glad you are satisfied, Crown Daughter.”

“Always so cheeky, Tor’laen.” She prodded him in the chest. “Now, have patience while I set my Crown Veil, then we shall descend to Kelran, and receive the gratitude and affection of its people.”

“Come, sister. Cheers!” Zikara chuckled, raising her glass in the manner of the Kelrana around them.

“I suppose, Zikara. Cheers.” It wasn’t quite a deadpan, but it was fairly close by Tor’laen’s estimation. Nalyra raised her glass, and looked mildly offended when Zikara tapped her own drink against it.

Queni’la caught Tor’laen’s gaze and raised a glass as well, which the Ydani tapped his own against.

“Cheers, brother,” the Aurelai said happily.

“Cheers indeed.”

The celebration was in full swing by now, as knots of party-goers talked, laughed, and drank. Dozens of Kelrana serving staff moved through the crowds, often carrying three plates of bite-sized snacks for the guests — one in each hand and a third balanced on their tails. Zakkili men and women also moved through the room, offering refills and topping up glasses.

The hall they were in was the largest in the entire capital complex, a literal banquet hall from the look of it. The room was currently filled with tables and decorations, the tablecloths and banners all merry shades of yellow and orange. The tables themselves were full of drinks and snacks — some piled high with sliced fruits and vegetables the Ydani had never seen before, while others had various meat skewers or cheeses, all laid out in inviting displays.

Perhaps the oddest part of the evening, for Tor’laen at least, was that nearly half of the Kelrana guests were currently above the party. They swung among and hung from the criss-cross of metal beams and walkways that were suspended above the hall, using their tails or hand-like feet. Many of them even carried plates of food or drink glasses. Still, no one else seemed to find it odd, so it was likely just normal behavior for the fur-covered aliens.

Still, the Outrunner Captain part of his mind couldn’t help but shudder at the idea of having to secure a room like this. Thankfully, that was for security to worry about this night.

“This is quite the celebration,” said Queni’la, taking a drink of his wine. “It is rather charming.”

“Charming, Queni’la?” Tor’laen raised an eyebrow at him.

“Ah, apologies. I forget that you haven’t attended many of the Monarchy’s social functions.” He gave the Ydani a sheepish look, but Tor’laen shook his head.

“No need to apologize, brother,” Tor’laen said. “As you said before, I’ll learn in time.”

“Indeed.” His feathers stiffened as he perked up. “But as for this event — Zakkili social functions tend to be less…lively. Our wives’ people tend to place a high value on ceremony and appearance. It’s not just about how you look at a Zakkili event — who you talk to, what people you greet, even the timing of when you arrive and leave — each and every one can have political repercussions.”

“That sounds…exhausting.” Tor’laen grimaced at the thought.

“They can be trying, to say the least.” The Aurelai chuckled, but his feathers drooped with remembered fatigue. “You should thank the Maker that you’ve never been to a proper party in the Core. Although, now that you are a Shield Consort, you’ll experience one eventually.”

“Something to look forward to, then,” the Ydani returned dryly.

“And how are our favorite boys finding the party?” Zikara swept into the conversation with the force of a shuttle at full burn. She brought Nalyra along in her wake, and Tor’laen noted that his wife looked less dour than usual now that she was a couple glasses of wine in.

“Rather enjoyable, Kara.” Queni’la smiled down at his wife. “We were just discussing how different it is from Zakkili formal events.”

“It is rather freeing, is it not?” Zikara deftly maneuvered herself under her husband’s arm, throwing her own around the man’s waist.

“What are parties like for your people, Queni’la?” Tor’laen asked, nodding at the other consort.

“Oh they are simply lovely,” the Aurelai gushed. “You must attend one when you have the chance. Rather than ceremony or celebration, our parties are based around music and motion. The entire event is closer to one large dance, one where everyone may find their own pace and you are able to jump in or step out whenever you please.”

“I can scarcely imagine it,” Tor’laen admitted.

“He speaks the truth, Consort,” Nalyra added, almost begrudgingly. “The Aurelai have a long history of music and dance. Many aspiring Zakkili musicians spend a few years on Aurela, studying and honing their craft.”

“It has become something of a pilgrimage for many artists.” Queni’la nodded, feathers quivering with pride.

“It is one of the things that makes the Monarchy beautiful.” Zikara gestured with her glass. “We pick up the strengths and crafts of each race we welcome into our arms.” Her gaze slid to her sister, her face turning sly. “Speaking of which, I heard that you picked up quite the prize here on Kelran.”

Nalyra looked quite self-satisfied as she took a sip of her wine.

“Perhaps I should be grateful to the governor’s House, for forcing her to hand over such a useful woman.” The Crown Daughter gestured to another nearby group of party-goers, among which stood Orli, currently deep in conversation with Vessa. The Kelrana woman had changed to a charming dress, the color of afternoon sunlight, with fluttery trimming around the edges of the garment.

“You were a step ahead of me, Lyra,” Zikara chuckled. “I would have loved to scoop her up. Well played.”

Nalyra simply gave her sister a smug look, apparently satisfied enough to even overlook her twin’s use of her sisterly nickname.

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Their conversation paused as a trio of Kelrana approached, looking to thank the Crown Daughters. Both sisters gracefully accepted their gratitude, and the natives departed shortly after, looking somewhat awed by the encounter.

“Feels slightly odd, doesn’t it?” Zikara chuckled. “I cannot say I am used to this kind of treatment, right Nalyra?”

“Mmmm.” The other Crown Daughter made a noise of agreement. “The Kelrana have ever been an…open people. Still, a reaction other than quiet reverence does make for a welcome change of pace.”

One of Zikara’s women approached, pulling the Crown Daughter and her consort into a quiet conversation. Tor’laen subtly placed himself closer to Nalyra, casually scanning the crowd.

“Always the faithful bodyguard, husband,” the Crown Daughter remarked quietly, drawing nearer to him.

“Old habits, I suppose, Nalyra.”

“Do make sure to enjoy yourself while you can, Consort,” she warned him, raising an eyebrow at him. “I doubt you’ll enjoy what comes later.”

Tor’laen raised an eyebrow at the ominous warning.

“Should I be worried?”

“Oh, nothing dangerous,” Nalyra chuckled. “Just your first taste of the unpleasant reality of Monarchy politics.”

“I see.”

Before Nalyra could elaborate, Zikara and Queni’la returned to the group, a pensive look on the other Crown Daughter’s face.

“Something the matter, Zikara?”

The woman looked up at her twin’s question. Zikara quickly arranged her face into a political smile.

“Perhaps. My Citadel received a…faintly concerning message from the High Fortress.” She linked arms with her consort. “I fear we will have to retire early this evening. We shall make another round, greet a few persons of import, then excuse ourselves. Do enjoy yourselves, Nalyra, Tor’laen.”

“Take care, sister,” Nalyra said as Tor’laen gave the other couple a solemn nod.

The pair watched them go, silence falling over them.

“Something to worry about?” Tor’laen finally asked.

“I think not, on the whole.” Nalyra tapped a delicate nail against her glass. “If it were truly urgent, she would not have time for political niceties. There’s always some incident happening elsewhere in the Monarchy, and Royal Hands are in high demand.”

“I suppose we can expect to be reassigned soon as well.”

“First we have a certain delivery to make to the High Fortress, but after that, yes,” Nalyra chuckled grimly. “Now come, Tor’laen. Let us take the chance to enjoy ourselves.”

The party was winding down, guests now filtering out of the hall. Only a small crowd was still present, and most of them were clustered around Crown Daughter Nalyra. Just as promised, the party had turned into an exercise in tedium as soon as it started winding down. Even the security detail had nearly all moved to the outer parts of the building, making sure the guests were properly filtering out of the complex.

From what Tor’laen could gather, it was the height of discourtesy to not greet the Crown Daughter, especially for the Zakkili present. It seemed that foregoing such a greeting could even threaten one’s position if they were attached to politics or government at all. Hence, they were swarming her like…like…

Like Tae’varin, Tor’laen thought. He switched to Hylec in his head after finding no Zakkili equivalent to the small, frenzied, blood-sucking parasites that infested some bodies of still water back on Ydan.

He stood behind the Crown Daughter in parade rest, his face stern. The wall she could put her back against. The bureaucrats and minor politicians were nearly tripping over themselves, showering Nalyra with praise and offers to entertain her or her representatives. The Crown Daughter acknowledged each with a cool, imperious smile, her tone not wavering in the slightest.

It made the burbling irritation flowing over their Bridge feel all the more potent.

At least the two of them had enjoyed the rest of the party after Zikara left. The food and music had been excellent, but for the Ydani, the highlight of the evening had been the alcohol. He had discovered a syrupy drink the Zakkili named “enysha.” It was rich and sweet, and the taste lingered in the back of his throat like a pleasant fog, but for someone his size, the alcohol content was nearly negligible.

“Consort.” Nalyra’s voice drew his attention, and he straightened up.

“Yes, Nalyra?”

“I believe we are finished here.” She laid a hand delicately on his arm. “Let us make for the shuttle. I wish to retire to our cabin.”

“As you wish, darling.”

Darling. He turned the term over in his mind as he followed her. Nalyra had explicitly outlined the terms of endearment he should use in front of the public, and when each would be appropriate. Just as with nearly everything else, the Crown Daughter had turned the public appearance of their relationship into a weapon to be wielded, another instrument in her arsenal.

It was another thing the Ydani found he appreciated about her. He could well understand the pressure she was under, the burden of leadership. The need to wrest every advantage, find every weak point, and press at it. He had lived that reality for almost fifty years now.

And she did it with ruthless efficiency.

“How did you find the party, husband?” She glanced back at him, a touch of bemusement in her voice.

“It was rather…illuminating,” he replied, his voice dry. “The refreshments were quite nice, though.” He noted the last of the crowd winding their way toward the exit, while serving staff were already starting the immense amount of cleaning the hall would require.

“I am glad you find Kelran delicacies to your liking. Perhaps I should procure some for the—”

A sharp crack echoed throughout the hall, and Tor’laen gave a grunt of surprise as a bullet punched its way through his abdomen. Pain tore across their Bridge, sharp enough that Nalyra cut off mid-sentence and grabbed the same place on her own stomach, her face stricken.

Even as the shock and pain registered in his mind, Tor’laen was already moving. He scooped the Crown Daughter up in his arms, clutching her tightly to him and ducking into a low sprint. The Ydani did his best to move erratically, trying not to present an easy target. Judging from the impact, the shooter was somewhere behind him. A second and third shot zipped past, glassware on the tables next to him exploding from the impacts.

The air was full of screams and panicked voices, but Tor’laen filtered them all out. His focus was entirely on his sole objective — getting Nalyra to safety. She clutched tightly at the front of his uniform.

He darted around one low table, and kicked another out of his way, sending its contents crashing to the floor. They wouldn’t even make usable cover, far too thin. Another bullet whistled past him, mere inches from his head.

He had almost reached one of the low dividing walls in the room when another bullet caught him. This one pierced him near the bottom of his ribcage, mercifully low enough that it didn’t strike Nalyra. He darted around the corner of the four-foot-tall wall, dropping into a seated position with his back to it, praying the thing was thick enough to stop any further projectiles. He hissed painfully as he hit the floor, his eye squeezing shut as nausea rolled over him.

Nalyra twisted from his grip and was beside him in an instant, her hand on his chest.

“Tor,” she breathed. “Talk to me, Tor.”

A small part of him noted that it was the first time she’d ever shortened his name.

“Two hits. Through-and-through. Small caliber weapon. Handgun, maybe,” he grunted, trying to steady his breathing. “Doesn’t feel like anything immediately fatal was hit.”

“You’re bleeding, badly.” Her eyes darted to the dark patches spreading on his uniform.

“I shouldn’t bleed out that quickly,” he said, gritting his teeth. “Ydani blood pressure is relatively low.”

Nalyra hesitated for a moment, looking him over.

“Stay down,” she growled.

Keeping low, the Crown Daughter began swiftly pulling pins from her hair, starting to free the crownthreads tied up in her hairstyle.

As Nalyra continued to dismantle her Crown Veil, Tor’laen grabbed a polished serving tray from where it had fallen to the floor. Holding it up, he angled the dish around the corner, scanning the room with the reflection.

“One shooter. Zakkili, female. She’s dressed as one of the serving staff, making her way toward us, moving cautiously. Looking for an angle. Not Taken, from what I can tell. Her eyes are alive.” He squinted at the tray. “She has…something on her head. Some kind of…circlet?”

“It must be a device to defend against psychic attacks. I cannot sense her mind easily.” Nalyra muttered, having nearly freed her crownthreads.

“Remain here, husband.” Her voice grew lower, sounding almost feral. “I have a mind to rip apart.”

She slipped away, moving quickly and keeping low, circling around toward the other end of the wall.

Tor’laen raised the tray once more, finding the shooter again in its reflection. This time, the woman noticed the polished metal, turning toward where the Ydani was taking cover.

“That’s it…I’m right over here,” he muttered, slipping into Hylec. “Yeah, keep your eyes on my reflection, you piece of shit…” He wished he had been allowed to bring his sidearm to the event. Even with a pair of bullet holes in him, he was confident that he would have been able to outdraw this woman.

In the reflection of the tray, he watched the shooter raise her weapon toward him, perhaps intending to shoot the thing out of Tor’laen’s hand. Before she could, her head snapped up, her gaze going off to her left. The woman started to bring her weapon to bear, turning to aim at something that the Ydani couldn’t see.

She never got the chance to fire.

With a sound like something large rushing through the air, Nalyra’s Cast hurled the shooter across the room, sending her flying into one of the tables. The thin wooden table splintered on impact, sending glassware scattering across the floor.

Tor’laen cautiously peeked out around the corner. Nalyra was slowly stalking toward the downed woman, her crownthreads wild, an expression of royal fury on her face. The shooter tried to raise her weapon, still clearly dazed. The Crown Daughter made a motion like she was shooing away an insect, and the gun was blasted from the woman’s hand with another sound like a swooping bird of prey.

“You dare—” Nalyra intoned, her voice low and deadly.

The downed woman moved to stand, and Nalyra made another gesture. A nearby chair flew across the room with brutal accuracy, shattering as it smashed into the woman’s shoulder, toppling her once more.

“—to hurt him?”

The Crown Daughter was almost upon the woman now, her eyes blazing with anger.

“To harm what is rightfully mine?”

The other Zakkili moved to rise again, only to freeze, her hands going to her temples. Through their Bridge, Tor’laen could feel the psychic power pouring out of his wife. He imagined that the small circlet the shooter wore would not be able to deny Nalyra for long.

“You think this trinket will protect you?” The deadly edge in the Crown Daughter’s voice was unmistakable.

Tor’laen could hear the pounding of boots approaching in the nearest hallway.

The shooter’s face was now a mask of agony, her spine arching as Nalyra cleaved her way into the woman’s mind. The would-be assassin gave a low keen of pain, fingers curling around the circlet she wore. There was a flash of triumph across their Bridge, as Nalyra managed to circumvent the device, and dive into the shooter’s mind. Then something at the base of the woman’s skull clicked.

With a sickening, wet pop, the back of the woman’s neck exploded.

Nalyra drew back, a stunned look on her face.

Security forces flooded into the room, weapons raised, moving to cover every entrance and exit. An entire squad moved to protect the Crown Daughter, while another did the same for Tor’laen, taking up positions around the injured Shield Consort. One of the soldiers knelt down next to him, pulling off her helmet.

“I need to apply first-aid, Consort. Do I have your permission to administer it?” she asked, looking him in the eye.

He nodded, his breaths starting to come in wheezing gasps. Not good. That second shot must have nicked his lung. He could sense Nalyra had moved close to him, rather than see her, his vision starting to dim at the edges.

“Do what you can,” the Crown Daughter ordered, and the soldier immediately started moving, pulling a medical kit out of her rig. “I shall message my Citadel for urgent medical extraction.”

Tor’laen allowed himself to slump against the wall, blood loss and fatigue finally draining the focus from his mind. He was vaguely aware of a syringe being pressed into his neck, and the world seemed to float away.