Page 79 of Alien Mercenary's Wife
T'Raal looked around the table at his crew… his family. They were about to risk everything on a plan that required him to become someone he'd spent decades rejecting. But the alternative was losing Reese. And he wasn't going to do that.
Thesedraanthichad made one critical error. They'd taken something that belonged to him.
And he would burn down reality… or claim a throne… to get her back.
His mother had once walked here.
The Imperial reception hall stretched in front of him. Marble columns soared toward a vaulted ceiling painted with scenes of conquest and glory, each panel depicting the Empire's expansion across known space. T'Raal's steps echoed against polished stone as he walked, aware of every courtier and noblewho paused to stare at the mercenary captain daring to sully these hallowed halls.
He'd never wanted to be here. The opulence made his skin crawl—gold that could've fed entire colonies, tapestries worth more than most ships… wealth built on the backs of conquered worlds generations ago. This was everything his mother had fled from all those years ago.
But Reese was dying in a human detention cell, and pride was a luxury he could no longer afford.
"T'Raal Verran, requesting audience with His Imperial Majesty," he announced to the protocol officer who approached.
The man was young, probably born into court service, with the precise movements of someone who'd spent years in the service of bureaucracy. His expression remained neutral as he checked a data tablet. However, T'Raal caught him staring at the heavy weapons and combat clothing that probably violated at least a hundred court dress codes.
"Captain Verran," the officer said carefully. "His Majesty's schedule is quite full today. Perhaps you could submit a formal petition through proper channels?—"
"Tell him M'Arni's son is here." T'Raal kept his voice level as his hand dropped to his sidearm in threat. "And that I need to speak to him now."
"One moment, please." The officer activated his comm unit. "Your Majesty, a mercenary who says to tell you that M'Arni's son is requesting immediate audience... Yes, Your Majesty. Of course."
The connection ended. The officer's demeanor shifted from bureaucratic efficiency to deference.
"His Majesty will see you immediately," he said. "Please follow me."
They walked through corridors lined with portraits of previous emperors. Servants stopped as they passed, heads bowed to anyone granted Imperial access.
T'Raal had grown up hearing stories about this place from his mother. Not fond memories, but warnings about power that corrupted everything. Walking through halls where his mother had served as bodyguard felt like betraying her memory, but he still couldn't help the slightest curiosity about what her life here had been like.
Guards flanked every doorway. These were the Imperial warriors, the emperor's personal guard, chosen for their exceptional training and unwavering loyalty. But they weren't Praetoviatt. Not anymore. The last of the Praetoviatt, the emperor's legendary bodyguard, had died in the plague that had taken all latharian women.
But he'd been trained by a Praetoviatt. One of the best.
He could take at least three of these draanthic before the rest even figured out what was happening.
"The Emperor's private study," the protocol officer announced as they approached a set of doors that looked like they could stop artillery. "His Majesty is waiting."
The doors opened to reveal a space smaller than T'Raal had expected, but still impressive. Books lined the walls—real books, not data tablets, the kind that cost a small fortune and would have Beauty trying to figure out how many he could carry and get away with it. A massive desk dominated the center of the room, its surface covered with star charts and military reports.
Emperor Daaynal K'Saan sat behind the desk, and T'Raal's breath caught as he looked up.
Daaynal looked exactly as he had during their previous meeting—a man in his prime, looking late thirties despite his actual age. His dark hair was pulled back in traditional braids, and his face showed the controlled stillness that marked an apexpredator. He had a commanding presence with broad shoulders, scarred hands that had seen personal combat, and the bearing of someone who'd earned authority rather than inherited it.
"Your Majesty." T'Raal inclined his head the bare minimum required by protocol. He wouldn't grovel, even here. Especially not here. Especially not now.
"Captain Verran." Daaynal rolled away the scroll he'd been reading. "You look troubled."
Draanth. He wasn't going to make this easy.
"I need your help." The words came out rough. "I need... I need your help."
Daaynal stood slowly, gaze locked onto T'Raal's. "Tell me."
"There's a female. Human. Reese Payne. She's a former military commander." T'Raal's hands clenched into fists. "Corporate thugs have taken her. Fabricated terrorism charges against her. They're going to kill her."
"And you want Imperial intervention to save her."
