Page 6 of Signed, Sealed, Seduced
“First Blade.” Vex’ra stands at attention on the opposite side of the table, her posture perfect despite the tension I sense beneath her ceremonial armor. “The offering has been prepared. She awaits your inspection.”
She. Not it.
I continue studying the strategic maps spread before me, tracing the crystalline borders where Zaterran territory meets STI-controlled space. “This... gift. It was not requested.”
“No, First Blade.” Vex’ra’s voice remains neutral, though the subtle shift in her stance betrays discomfort. “The Corsairian delegation insisted it was customary. A gesture of goodwill to commemorate the third cycle of the treaty.”
“A human female.” The words taste foreign on my tongue. Bitter. “They send us a human as if we were savages from the ancient texts, trading flesh for favor.”
“The Corsairians believe we still practice the old ways.” A faint note of disdain colors Vex’ra’s tone. “They have studied our history, but understood nothing of our evolution.”
I straighten to my full height, allowing myself the small satisfaction of watching Vex’ra—herself impressively tall for a Zaterran female—tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. “And you accepted this... offering... without consulting me.”
It is not a question. We both know the answer.
“Protocol dictated—”
“Protocol,” I interrupt, the word a low growl, “dictates that all diplomatic exchanges must be approved by the First Blade. Especially those involving living beings.”
Vex’ra does not flinch. She has served as my diplomatic liaison for too many cycles to be easily cowed. “The alternative was diplomatic incident. Refusal would have been interpreted as rejection of their gesture, potentially undermining the fragile peace we have established.”
She is not wrong, which only deepens my irritation. The treaty hangs by threads thin as spiderus silk. Three cycles of uneasy coexistence after centuries of war. Three cycles of watching my warriors grow restless, my people uncertain of their place in this new order.
I have killed for less provocation than this insult disguised as honor. But I cannot afford the luxury of pride.
“Return it,” I say finally, rolling up a strategic map with more force than necessary. “Construct a suitable excuse. Claim incompatible biology, religious restriction, whatever fabrication will cause least offense.”
Vex’ra hesitates, the crystalline patterns along her temples pulsing once with suppressed emotion. “First Blade, the human has already been processed through the ritual cleansing. The acceptance bracelet has been applied.”
My head snaps up. “You authorized a bonding bracelet?”
“A tracker only,” she clarifies quickly. “The ceremonial variety, not a true bond. It can be removed without consequence.”
Small mercies. Still, the knowledge that this unwanted “gift” now wears even a symbolic Zaterran marker sends a fresh wave of irritation through me. The ancient traditions were abandoned generations ago, when we evolved beyond such primitive exchanges. That outsiders still believe us capable of treating sentient beings as property is an indignity I struggle to tolerate.
“I will see this human,” I decide, the words clipped. “Briefly. Then you will arrange transport back to Corsairian space with appropriate diplomatic language expressing our... gratitude.”
Vex’ra inclines her head in acknowledgment. “As you command, First Blade. Shall I have her brought to the formal reception chamber?”
“No.” The thought of this farce being witnessed by others is intolerable. “Here. Now. I wish this matter concluded before the evening security council.”
“At once.” She activates her comm unit with a subtle gesture, speaking rapid instructions in our native tongue.
I turn away, moving to the tall windows that overlook the fortress’s central courtyard. Below, my warriors train in precise formations, their movements a deadly dance I could perform blindfolded. The familiar rhythm should soothe me, as it has countless times before. Today, it only highlights how much has changed.
Three cycles ago, those warriors would have been preparing for battle, not performing exercises designed to maintain skills they may never use again. Three cycles ago, I led from the front, blade in hand, not from behind diplomatic tables and compromise-filled treaties.
The peace has cost us all. Some prices I accepted willingly. Others...
A sharp series of sounds from the corridor interrupts my thoughts. Raised voices—one distinctly not Zaterran—followed by what sounds suspiciously like a curse in at least three different languages.
Vex’ra’s eyes widen fractionally. “First Blade, perhaps I should—”
The massive doors to my chambers burst open with enough force to startle both of us—no small feat, given our warrior training. A small figure stumbles through, clearly mid-argument with the guards outside.
“—absolutely ridiculous! If one more person calls me ‘offering’ instead of my actual name, I swear I’ll—” She stops abruptly, finally noticing our presence. “Oh. Um. Hello.”
I stare, momentarily speechless.
