Page 39 of She Who Devours the Stars
Vireleth hung in the sky above our little moon, bigger than I’d ever seen her even in simulation. She didn’t orbit, she dominated, her hull slicing the line between atmo and vacuum like she was daring the world to blink first. The edges of her silhouette glimmered with new myth, every minute shedding and growing a new set of weapons, wings, or spires depending on her mood. Half the city’s population was probably praying to her right now, or at least telling themselves they would if it meant she’d fire on their landlord.
Every time I blinked, I could feel her. Not just as a ship, but as a presence: old, hungry, and awake for the first time in a thousand years. She was watching. Not the city. Not the Accord. Me.
She’d burn the planet if I asked.
It was a comfort.
I shifted on the couch, letting my thigh rest on the silk just long enough to leave a print. I’d cleaned up as best I could, showered in the suite’s overengineered water wall, braided my hair, and even run a toothbrush over my tongue until the last of the blood-ash taste was gone. They’d left a stack of civilian clothes in the bathroom, clearly chosen by someone who thought “understated” meant “gray and covers everything.” I wore them anyway, but undid the top three buttons on the shirt. A small act of rebellion. Or seduction. The line was fuzzy.
The door hissed open at 08:00 on the atomic dot.
Dyris Vaelith stepped in, eyes already narrowed, uniform so sharp I wondered if she kept a backup in a vacuum seal. She scanned the room, then me, then the room again, as if trying to verify I hadn’t already reconfigured the furniture into a weapon. Her hair was the same platinum ice as before, but now set in a braid so tight it could have been used as a garrote. She carried no weapon, unless you counted the data-slate in her left hand, or the cut of her cheekbones, which I did.
She walked to the table and sat, posture immaculate. Didn’t speak. Just set the data-slate between us and waited for me to make the first move.
I let the silence stretch for a solid ten seconds. Then, with maximum nonchalance, I asked, “Did the Accord uniform designers go to the same finishing school as the Inquisition, or is it just a shared kink?”
Her nostrils flared. Not much, but enough.
“Uniform regulations are a matter of public record,” she replied. “But if you have input, I’m sure the committee would value your… perspective.”
The data-slate was angled so I could see the screen: my file, flashing with the words NULLARCH: ACTIVE RISK. There were five new tabs at the top, all coded red, and the last one was titled “Mitigation.” I snorted.
“You want to talk about perspective,” I said, “maybe start by explaining why the Accord keeps trying to kill every recursion that gets interesting.”
Her eyes flicked to mine, flat and hard. “Containment is not execution.”
“Says the lady who vaporized three city blocks to catch one girl,” I said. “Nice shot, by the way. Was it worth the collateral?”
Dyris didn’t flinch. “The strike wasn’t mine. High Command authorized it before I even landed.” She looked at me, and for the first time, I saw it. Not guilt, not regret, but fury. Leashed, cold, and entirely impersonal.
“But I’m the Director. I’m the one who cleans up the myths they don’t understand.”
“Then you suck at your job.”
She didn’t react, but her hand flexed on the slate, thumb tapping out a silent rhythm. It was the same tick she’d had in the stairwell, when she wanted to reach for a weapon but protocol said “no.” I found it weirdly comforting.
She took a breath, eyes never leaving mine. “You’re not here for a confession, Fern. We’re past that. The Accord wants a treaty.”
I raised an eyebrow. “With me?”
Her expression didn’t shift. “With whatever version of you still counts as politically survivable.”
I let that hang for a second. “Meaning?”
Dyris tapped the edge of the slate, pulling up a new overlay. A tribunal notice, already public across Accord channels: Field Commander Halvec Strain (House of Grel): Immediate Recall Pending Tribunal. His face was blurred, but the headline did most of the work.
“They needed a scapegoat,” she said, voice dry as static. “Strain was convenient. House Grel’s leadership is still screaming about it, but Command’s too busy triaging mythic containment protocols to care.”
I whistled low. “So, I’ve officially survived my first political coverup.”
“Congratulations.” She flipped the slate back to the Nullarch file. “You’ve made enemies with one of the top ten noble Houses before breakfast.”
I smiled, all teeth. “Better than being boring.”
I stretched my arms overhead, and pulled in deep lungfuls of clean air, popping both shoulders, then slouched farther into the couch. “You keep using ‘we’ like it means anything.”
Dyris pursed her lips. “Fine. I would prefer not to escalate. Because if it comes to that, no one on this station survives. Including you.”
