Page 9 of Signed, Sealed, Seduced
Curious. Yes, that’s certainly one word for what I’m feeling. She’s right, of course—I am intrigued by this small human who burst into my chambers with all the subtlety of a plasma cannon and proceeded to challenge every assumption I’d made about her.
“Very well,” I hear myself saying. “You will join me for the evening meal. We have matters to discuss regarding your delivery and departure.”
Her smile—when it finally appears—transforms her entire face. What had seemed merely pretty becomes genuinely striking, the expression lighting her features from within. “Great. A dinner date with a notorious warlord. Just another Tuesday in the life of Suki Vega.”
I don’t understand the reference to a specific day, but her meaning is clear enough. She’s treating this impossible situation with humor rather than fear—another unexpected layer to puzzle over.
“Vex’ra will escort you to your quarters and return for you at the appropriate time,” I tell her.
She nods, then hesitates, as if debating whether to say more. Finally, she simply inclines her head in a gesture that’s not quite a bow—acknowledgment without submission.
“See you at dinner, then... Hen-rock.” She emphasizes the mispronunciation again, a small act of defiance that should irritate me.
Instead, I find myself wondering what game she’s playing—and why I’m tempted to play along.
As the doors close behind her, I turn back to the window, watching my warriors below with unseeing eyes. The human’s unexpected arrival has disrupted more than just my schedule. Something about her presence feels... significant. A ripple in still waters, spreading outward in patterns I cannot yet discern.
Tomorrow, I will have the package scanned. Tomorrow, I will begin a discreet investigation into why an OOPS courier was directed to my private landing pad rather than the diplomatic outpost.
But tonight... tonight, I find myself anticipating dinner with a small human who mispronounces my name and challenges my assumptions with every breath.
Dangerous territory for a First Blade who has spent three cycles maintaining careful control over every aspect of his domain.
Yet as I return to my strategic maps, I realize I’m looking forward to it.
3
She Smiles Too Much
Henrok
Theprivatediningchamberadjoining my quarters is rarely used. I prefer to take meals alone in my study or with my senior command in the warriors’ hall. The elaborate table—carved from a single piece of obsidian and inlaid with veins of luminescent crystal—seems excessive for just two diners.
Yet tonight, as I oversee the final preparations, I find myself paying attention to details I would normally ignore. The way the crystal veins pulse with soft blue light. The careful arrangement of traditional Zaterran dining implements alongside smaller utensils suitable for human hands. The strategic placement of illumination crystals to create an atmosphere that’s formal yet intimate.
I’ve instructed the kitchen to prepare a selection of dishes suitable for human consumption, though I realize I have no idea what she might prefer. Our research on their species is extensive but clinical—dietary requirements, toxicity warnings, digestive limitations. Nothing about taste preferences or cultural food customs.
The admission bothers me more than it should. When did I begin thinking of her as more than a diplomatic complication to be managed?
A soft chime announces Vex’ra’s arrival. I turn from the window where I’d been observing the nebula’s evening patterns, consciously straightening my formal robes. The gesture is unnecessary—my appearance is always impeccable—but something about this dinner feels different from routine diplomatic meals.
“First Blade.” Vex’ra enters with practiced precision, but I note the subtle hesitation in her step. “Courier Vega is prepared for the evening meal.”
“Her belongings were returned?”
“As you commanded. Though she chose to retain certain... ceremonial elements.” Vex’ra’s tone suggests disapproval mixed with puzzlement.
Before I can ask for clarification, Suki steps into view behind my diplomatic liaison, and I understand Vex’ra’s confusion immediately.
She has indeed reclaimed some of her own clothing—a fitted black undergarment that covers her torso in practical, professional lines. But she still wears the ceremonial skirt, its emerald silk a striking contrast against the utilitarian top. The combination should look absurd, a clash of cultures and purposes.
Instead, it’s unexpectedly... appealing. The practical courier merged with exotic ceremony, neither fully contained nor completely transformed.
Her hair has been pulled back into a simple braid that exposes the elegant line of her neck, and without the ceremonial cosmetics, her features appear younger, though no less determined. I find myself cataloging the differences from our earlier encounter—the way exhaustion has softened the sharp edges of her defiance, how the warmer lighting makes her skin seem to glow.
“Whoa,” she says, taking in the chamber with wide eyes. “You Zaterrans really commit to the whole ‘obsidian everything’ aesthetic, huh?”
I dismiss Vex’ra with a gesture, noting the diplomatic liaison’s reluctance before she withdraws. Alone now with Suki, the chamber feels smaller somehow, more intimate than its formal proportions should allow.
