The sensation of thick cosmetic dragging over her skin was unpleasant, how they tinted every last ounce of flesh, pointless in Sigil’s opinion. But she stood stagnant while five women, all so different it seemed they’d been chosen as art, painted her body white.

The attendants were quiet, focused on their work, just as they had been each time they had invaded her space. The Convert females, Sigil found, were harmless. Weak. They behaved as complaisant dolls, wandering about in a fixed internal state of awe. But she wasn’t sure if it was her they were in awe of, or the High Adherent overseeing the dressing of the Imperial Consort.

The women wouldn’t meet Sigil’s watchful eyes, too busy in the artful application of inky script flowing down her limbs; they were too busy painting a new face over the one she already owned. But they did send furtive glances toward Dryden, constantly gauging his appraisal.

He, apparently, was the gatekeeper to a position of high desirability. He was also exacting no matter how softly he smiled. Done up in full regalia far more ornamental than the military uniform of Brotherhood soldiers or the tailored tunics of Heralds, his short cropped hair hidden under a miter etched with the same symbols a doe eyed attendant painted between Sigil’s breasts, Dryden looked ridiculous.

It was nothing compared to the layers of fabric they would pull over her, constructed gowns the attendants would lace and tighten, layer and hook. And once they were done, all clothing would be removed, an hour’s effort wasted.

Sigil did not like restrictive garments. She didn’t like the paint, the jewels, the weight of complex headpieces, or the taste of black lacquer on her lips.

More importantly, Sigil refused to leave her rooms, making the dressing unnecessary—mere practice for future excursions.

Three days she’d remained sequestered. For three days Dryden had tried to tempt her out, offering to show her the palace, the gardens, the tombs, anything he thought might entice. Arden had remained neutral on the topic, always near, the Herald’s arms crossed over his chest and a sly smirk on his mouth as he watched the procedure.

Sigil suspected the Herald remained silent because Arden was getting what he wanted. She spent her waking hours reading his vast collection of journals—much to her frustration. Even after ten volumes, she had yet to come across mention of the word ‘Soshiia,’ but she could name every last Brother who had died since the formation of the Empire. She could list battles, and noble houses. She knew the names of Imperial planets, how they were captured, if they were converted or slaughtered.

Sovereign had not commented on the matter of her isolation. Nor had Karhl. Perhaps they condoned it; Sigil didn’t know, and she didn’t want to know.

All in all, time in the Imperial Palace was similar to her seasons on the water planet. Always food waited in a hall austere in its black stone and bronze veined walls. Rooms were filled with items collected to entertain her. But where the Water Palace soaked rooms in sun, there was scant natural light in these new vaulted caverns. Every room faded into the shadows, every space seemingly carved out of the mountains of Irdesi Prime.

But there had been a glowing room she’d seen upon being dragged in by Karhl days ago. A domed ceiling of stained glass, tier after tier of arcades circling up like a cathedral—the gallery at the heart of the family rooms, she’d been told. Rooms for her children. For her children’s children. For visiting Brothers invited inside. All empty at present.

It was through that vast space she’d have to pass to reach the massive armored gates that separated her from the remainder of the palace.

Seeing Sigil was lost in thought, Dryden, again, made a play for her attention. “Reports indicate Jerla is responding well to his immunity fortification. He may wake tomorrow.”

The boy had only been allowed to see her once upon his arrival to this human cesspool, before Arden had carried the strangely lethargic boy away. Sigil had been denied the child since, left only with a hologram projection so she might watch Jerla’s sleeping response to the seemingly necessary, invasive vaccines all Tessans had to undergo to survive amidst the Convert worlds. Unlike her, he lacked an advanced immune system, Jerla’s weaker still from the subpar environment of his hatchling years.

Her eyes went back to the projection, watching the physician attending the boy. It was the same Brother who had attended her in her sleep. The High Adherent Corths, sat with the child, monitoring his stasis, his vitals, beefing up a fragile system so her toy might be returned to her.

That was how they treated her Jerla—as an extension of whatever made Sigil happy. In the Brotherhood’s eyes, he was a tool. If that were not the case, Arden, the one charged with tending him on the water planet, would have been with him and not with her. His affection was not sincere. The thought made Sigil bitter, made her narrow her eyes at the Herald.

“Are you feeling unwell?” They were the first words Arden had spoken since the attendants’ arrival.

Movement came from the hologram. Sigil looked back to see Corths take the boy’s hand and pat it as he spoke. The image lacked audio; she could not make out what was being said.

Arden, it seemed, understood. “He’s telling your boy a story.”

Her question was harsh. “Why?”

A golden head cocked, the Herald taking measure of their female. “Corths held your hand often in the decades you slept. He told the same stories to you. When he did, your vitals steadied, your brain waves calmed, and you rested more soundly.”

Sigil offered a hiss. “I don’t much like your stories.”

The room went quiet, the females who had been combing something viscous through all her hair, who had been sculpting the clay-like mass into intricate fans about her skull, stepped back.

“I ordered Corths to attend him.” Sovereign slipped into their company, a commanding presence that diminished all others. “There is no better physician in the Empire, beloved. Nor will your Brother leave the child’s side until the therapy is complete. You do not need to worry.”

Only half dressed, half painted, and with little more than half her hair attended to, Sigil stepped off the dais.

There was a smile, a caution in Sovereign’s tone. “All Tessans who come to Irdesi must undergo the same treatment. Even seclusion those first hours was not enough to keep him from growing sick in the presence of aggressive microorganisms. The bacteria here, the viruses, are not compatible with their unaltered systems. Jerla will be made stronger for this.”

“He never got sick on Pax.”

“He was constantly sick on Pax, riddled with parasites and tumors that squeezed his digestive tract. They were removed and treated while you slept, while he slept waiting for you. Had they not, he would have died in a matter of years, no matter where he’d been freed.”

Then what of all the other children she had set free? Had they too been eaten from the inside out?

Her fingers flared, her face one of horror at her thoughts. A moment ticked and Sigil searched for something to say. “Then why was this procedure not conducted back then? Why now that I’ve been dragged here?”

“We were not sure if you desired to keep him or if he was to be sent to a Tessan world. The gift of survival on our planets is not given to foreigners. Only ambassadors granted approval are offered such a boon. And, they are not permitted to leave the Empire, ever.”

Pacing nearer the emperor, Sigil measured what she’d heard. “Jerla will not be allowed to leave?”

“Do you wish to send him away?”

“No.”

Sovereign reached out to twist a decorated bit of Sigil’s hair between his fingers. “Have you not accepted him into your family?”

What did that matter? “Yes.”

“Then what is the issue that upsets you?”

A jumble of arguments banged around in her skull, her face a mixture of expressions. “Once grown, he might not wish to stay. One day he’ll desire a mate. How will he find her? What if he grows unafraid of the sands and wishes to pilgrimage...?”

“Your chosen child will not leave you, Sigil. Tessan family bonds are distinct. As for a mate, he may choose a human. Otherwise, there are years yet to solve that riddle.” Sovereign slipped closer as if to take her in hand and force calm. “If he wakes and sees you so unsteady, it will worry him. Jerla needs you to remain collected. You’ll have him back soon enough.”

Every time she twitched it was as if the Brothers thought she might pop. But she was fine. Sovereign had fucked her often enough to assure it. Sigil was fine so long as she remained parted from humans that might incite her irrepressible reactions. It did not change the fact that she wanted to return to the Water Palace, that life in Irdesi’s Capitol made her skin crawl.

It had been only three days, but it felt like eons, like grit under her fingernails she couldn’t pick out.

The damned journals were a part of it, that much was true. The information Arden, Sovereign—all of them—wanted her to absorb from their histories plagued her thoughts. And for good reason; there was inconsistency in the story, facts recorded wrongly that made no sense to the female who’d lived what Arden thought to recreate in text.

The first volume was the most flawed. In decisive script the entirety of the book detailed her childhood, initially correct to a point Sigil found it greatly disturbing to relive in reading... and then the tale grew blaringly inaccurate. The chronicle outlined her incarceration on Condor—her routine, meals, behaviors, training—all leading up to her violent escape. From that point, several Brothers’ accounts were written. Karhl’s version was there, his explanation of how a child had almost killed him cautioning heavily against anyone approaching without a cage already constructed to contain the little girl. Arden had been there too; he had seen her from a distance when she ran through Sector C. The former assassin had given chase, only to be crushed by debris when Sigil began tearing down the walls of the compound. On and on stories went, piecing together the first moments of the Alliance’s fall into a timeline the Brotherhood could trace and agree upon—their profile of her behaviors haunting.

Her memory of that day, even though she’d been caught in a rage, was precise. She remembered hearing her mother’s mental screams. Sigil remembered that first burning wave of childlike panic distorting the walls of her cell. Psionics clicked into place, and it was easy, so very easy, to enact long imagined vengeance.

That’s where the book began to fill with outright lies. Unwilling to draw attention by staring at one page longer than another, Sigil had continued reading Arden’s collection of eyewitness accounts. Then her escape from Condor ended, replaced by boring pages filled with confirmed sightings over the decades, suspected places she’d been, interviews with witnesses—a nightmarish psychological profile stared back at her, wherein Sigil was the villain of every story, the bringer of tragedies. Damaged.

Through all those pages, Sigil was left with an utter lack of progress on her original question.

Who were the Soshiia?

But it seemed that was no longer the only relevant question. It was that last day on Condor. Why did the canon of her breakout claim she was responsible for the death of a potentially valuable human hostage, a female someone else had murdered? Why had the only Brother she’d shared any significant contact with that day omitted such an important fact in Arden’s histories?

Why should she care?

After all, Sigil was not willingly involved with any of the survivors of Project Cataclysm or their fabricated culture.

Life had once been simple at the Water Palace. Stuck on Irdesi, with every passing hour, Sigil grasped that she lacked the aptitude to balance complicated.

But Sovereign could.

It was the oddest sensation, allowing Sovereign to stand so near her, pretending to be unaffected by the immensity of his presence, to let him touch her because it was simpler than trying to detach his arms from his body.

The truth was, compared to Sovereign, she was meek without her once titanic psionics. Coming to terms with the loss of such uncontrollable, terrible power, was beginning to feel burdensome, not liberating. Were she to fight Sovereign, to fully attack him, he would defeat her every time.

Strong as she was, Sigil was lesser than the humans’ overlord.

And Sovereign paid for it. Frustration over such thoughts had cost the emperor a good deal of blood when he fucked her. Sigil attacked outright, dug in her nails, bit in her frenzy—as if to prove to them both she was strong enough to dislodge him should she want to. When he held her down, when he fought back and gnawed her nape, Sigil came so hard she blanked, and then she’d keep coming until he filled her with that poisoned ejaculate that altered her chemistry.

After that first morning she’d sucked Karhl’s pierced cock down her throat, she’d also rejected the Lord Commander’s advances—his company—for the last three days. That left her with the constant presence of Arden, who would sometimes just hold her hand, and pretend he could not see her searching out exits when she spent too much time thinking and not enough time reading.

This new person inside her, this acquiescent player on the stage, Sigil didn’t know her. This new person was almost always wretched, felt fear, worried. This new person found herself comforted simply being near the creature she hated most... a creature who was stronger than her, who had hurt her, who’d brought more misery into her life, but who could make her feel so very good.

“You feel suffocated with all of this.” Sovereign spoke as if he could understand her thoughts, rubbing at her nape until wild eyes lost some of their passion. “There is a terrace outside our bedchamber, secluded away from the eyes of any others. Fresh air, the sun, might be a welcome change?”

What terrace? There were no doors beside the vast archway that led to her chamber. There was only more of that jewel-toned, silvery stained glass Sigil could not break. She’d tried.

Uncustomarily quiet, she let him lead her from the room, through dark halls, to the place where the emperor had fucked her only hours ago. He waved his hand over carved wall and it parted, sunlight breaking through a seam so well crafted, Sigil would not have found the portal otherwise.

Back in the dressing chamber, Dryden snarled at Arden. “You are not doing well enough!”

Golden eyes snapped to the man swishing black embroidered robes in his pacing. “Sigil hates your contrived pageantry. Your attempt to force our female into the role of the Adherent’s crafted Imperial Consort bore her. The demigod you feed the masses does not exist, no matter how much you long to parade her about for humans to gawk at.”

Outranking the Herald, Dryden lifted his chin and spoke snidely. “What would you have her do? Walk the halls naked as she walks these rooms, as she existed in the Water Palace? Her success within the imperium requires assent to politics. Court dress displays power, rank. Centuries lie ahead of her, but her actions now will forever define the tenure of Convert sentiment, of alien regard. Adherents exist to assure her success. It is my duty to see her prosperous!”

***

The fourth day Sigil woke to the feel of Sovereign already inside her—his latest trick—so he might mount her before her full physical onslaught might begin. Rolling his hips, grinding to tempt her to sensuality, to coax a soft response, drew out a pleasured gasp and a few precious moments of Sigil’s compliance. He whispered in her ear that he loved her, fought to keep her between waking and dreaming so she might be taken without her penchant for violence.

Sovereign craved softer connection.

She refused. Understanding what she needed from the male to keep her mind sharp, even acquiescing to the act, was one thing. But she would not lay with Sovereign as she had sometimes lain with Que.

If she had to mate him, then they would fuck. Period.

By the time Sovereign came roaring, she had bitten him, torn off pieces, left marks around his neck from the powerful squeeze her grip offered his throat. As always, Sovereign had brought her body to a point that climax made her vision go white. She’d lay panting, sated and pleased, and let him pet her when she was too scattered to scratch or claw anymore. He’d kiss each wound their play had inspired, tease his tongue in her mouth until she was drunk on him, and if he was clever, slip his cock back into her body to ride her as a lover rode what he adored.

The claws would return as soon as her pleasure began to crest. Restraining her was the only way to take her gently. Even so, he could only manage a few minutes.

“Karhl longs to return to you Sigil. You enjoy his touch.” Warm words Sovereign cooed at her ear. “We could share you again.”

Knowing her resistance to soft touches aggravated the emperor only brought Sigil more joy in denying them. Furthermore, Sovereign wanted the Lord Commander there to further his own agenda, she was sure of it. No answer was given, only a groan when clever fingers pinched down each bone in her spine.

“He personally stands guard at the gate to this wing, has not slept in his vigil—allows none to enter or disturb your peace, though some have tried.”

Voice hoarse, Sigil refuted, “Dryden enters. The women enter.”

“They have never left, Sigil. They keep to their rooms when not in use to you. Only I enter and exit that gate.”

The all-important High Adherent was locked in with her? The concept seemed a bit ridiculous. Sovereign caught the twitch at the corner of her mouth, and gave it a lingering kiss. “Why do you dislike the Adherents?”

“I dislike you all.”

With a smug smile in his voice, Sovereign disagreed. “That is not true, beloved.”

His touch on her spine ended, the male rolling their bodies until the mattress was at her back. Eyes holding hers, he waited for an answer. Instead, Sigil chose a subject that made no sense, that pestered her thinking. “On the hologram, Corths holds Jerla’s hand. Does he do so because he knows I’m watching?”

Sovereign seemed to consider, lightly pursing his lips. “Corths is unusual. Though stronger than any human, comparatively he is physically inferior to his Brothers. Had he not been only a child when the Alliance fell, he would have died in battle. His strength lies in an intellect both creative and brilliant. He is one of the greatest medical minds in our universe.” Three awkward words summed it up. “He is soft.”

Weakness did not advance one through the ranks of the Brotherhood. “Yet he claims a high rank.”

Scoffing, Sovereign nuzzled her cheek. “Did you imagine I would leave you in the care of an unworthy Brother for forty-seven years?”

The tension left her limbs, Sigil went lax. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she kept her eyes shut. Face in a grimace, she longed to scrub her eyes with the meat of her palm, to roll onto her belly and hide in her pillow. “I want...”

Enthusiastic fervor came too eager in Sovereign’s voice. “What do you want?”

The obvious answers—freedom, Jerla, the death of the empire—seemed too simple. Like a rope pulled too tight, the fibers holding Sigil together snapped, the cord frayed, and a fragmented girl looked into eyes like the ocean. Impulse moved her when perhaps she should have been still. But it was too late. Sigil’s lips crashed into the surprised, parted mouth of a thrilled man, her hand cupped his cheek, and she acted.

A crack, a wheeze of breath, and Sovereign lay under her, his neck broken. Eyes rolling in their sockets to find her, the emperor took in her confusion. How she’d manage it, he was not entirely certain—how she seemed to hover, to lay his body in a position that might increase comfort, bizarre.

Pulling at her hair, Sigil sat on her haunches and stared down at the strongest of the Brotherhood laid out before her. It was hard for her to breathe, though not as hard as it was for him. Sovereign’s spinal cord, though not severed, was severely compressed.

He couldn’t move.

He couldn’t speak, lips parting like a fish out of water.

She could kill him at that very moment... and she wanted to—longed for it greatly.

“It would be so easy...” Her voice, the grain to it, sounded nothing like her. Tears fell down reddened cheeks to behold such a sight, the little rivers rubbed away by the back of her hand. “You cannot change what I am.”

Icy eyes darted to the invisible door between her and the terrace, the one she could not open, though she’d tried in passing when watchful eyes might not notice. Sovereign was the key. Thoughts of gnawing through his wrist, of taking his hand for a trophy, were quickly abandoned, for Sigil did not know how long she had before the call to arms was made.

She hefted his dead weight, lifted the emperor’s limp arm, and heard the hiss of lock decompression when it was waved before the wall. Laying him carefully down, smoothing back tousled dark hair, she left Sovereign with a view of the broken sky over Irdesi Prime and leapt naked from the balcony and into the dark.