Page 2 of Signed, Sealed, Seduced
I drop my head against the headrest and close my eyes. “Fantastic.”
The Rust Bucket might be a temperamental old girl, but she’s mine, and I know how to patch her up. Fourteen hours is optimistic, but I’ve worked miracles with less before. The real problem is where I’ve landed—and who I might encounter while stranded here.
According to the OOPS briefing packet, the fortress of Warlord Henrok D’Vorr is strictly off-limits to unauthorized personnel. The kind of off-limits where trespassers might be disemboweled for sport. But what choice do I have? I need to get to my actual delivery point, drop off the package, and pray I can repair my ship and escape before anyone notices the unauthorized human bleeding oil all over their pristine landing pad.
The bigger question gnaws at me as I unbuckle my restraints: what will he be like? The stories paint him as a monster, but monsters don’t negotiate peace treaties. They don’t inspire the kind of loyalty I’d heard about from other Zaterran territories. Is he the brutal warlord of reputation, or something else entirely?
And why does part of me—a part I’m definitely not acknowledging—want to find out?
With a sigh, I push myself out of the pilot’s seat and reach for my courier jacket. The bright orange material is hideous, but it’s also the universal sign for “don’t shoot, I’m just delivering your stuff” across most of the galaxy. At least, I hope that applies to notorious alien warlords.
I pull my hair back into a tight braid, secure my emergency blaster in its hidden holster (against OOPS regulations, but Mother pretends not to know about it), and grab my courier tablet. The package manifest is still displayed on the screen, though several details are redacted. Typical. OOPS loves keeping its couriers in the dark.
Recipient: Lady Vex’ra, Diplomatic Liaison Office
Contents: [REDACTED]
Handling Instructions: Deliver directly to recipient. Signature required. DO NOT leave unattended.
Special Notes: Avoid Fortress D’Vorr perimeter. Approach from southern quadrant only.
Well, I’ve already failed that last instruction spectacularly.
The cargo hold is a mess when I get there. Several supply crates have broken free of their restraints and spilled their contents across the floor. My emergency rations are now mixed with spare parts and what looks suspiciously like engine coolant.
But the package—a sleek, black container about the size of my forearm—remains securely locked in its transport cradle. Small mercies.
I punch in my authorization code, and the cradle releases with a soft click. The container is heavier than it looks, with a faint warmth radiating through its metallic surface. Whatever’s inside, it’s either valuable, dangerous, or both.
Just another day at OOPS.
After sealing the cargo hold (the breach is small, nothing a patch kit won’t fix), I make my way to the airlock. The external sensors show breathable atmosphere but warn of high mineral content and trace crystalline particles. Nothing my lungs can’t handle for a short excursion.
I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and cycle the airlock.
The landing pad extends from the fortress like a massive obsidian tongue, smooth and gleaming under the diffuse light filtering through the nebula. The air tastes metallic, with an underlying sweetness that reminds me of burnt sugar. Strange, but not unpleasant.
I’ve taken exactly three steps toward what I hope is an entrance when the ground beneath my feet vibrates. A seamappears in the obsidian surface, widening rapidly to reveal a set of stairs descending into the fortress.
And ascending those stairs are six of the tallest, most heavily armored beings I’ve ever seen.
Zaterran guards. Each easily seven feet tall, with broad shoulders and skin in various shades of slate gray. Their armor—a mix of what looks like crystalline plates and some kind of flexible mesh—catches the light in hypnotic patterns. But it’s their eyes that stop me cold: glowing like embers in the shadow of their helmets, in colors ranging from deep amber to blood red.
Stars above, I think, my pulse quickening. If the guards look like this, what does their warlord look like?
I clutch the package to my chest and force a professional smile. “Hi there! Orion Outposts Postal Service. I have a delivery for Lady Vex’ra? I know this isn’t the usual drop point, but my ship had a bit of a... navigational hiccup.”
The guards don’t respond. They don’t even slow their approach.
“Look, I just need directions to the Diplomatic Liaison Office. I’ll be out of your way in no time.”
The lead guard stops directly in front of me, towering at least two feet above my head. His helmet retracts with a series of clicks, revealing a face that might have been carved from the same obsidian as the fortress: all sharp angles and unreadable expression. A series of faint, crystalline lines trace patterns from his temples down his neck, disappearing beneath his armor.
“You,” he says, his voice a rumble that I feel more than hear, “are expected.”
Wait, what?
Before I can process that statement, two guards step forward and flank me, their massive forms blocking any potential escape route.
