Frustrated, Roden massaged at the muscles in his forearm where phantom pain sent streams of fire coursing up his arm at regular intervals. The blasted humans had cut off his hand midway up his forearm without even trying to save it. Had they even apologized? Hells, no. To make matters worse, he was stuck without an appendage while his med-techs worked on an artificial replacement.

Even more frustrating was the fact that Otas had somehow managed to escape, despite all the ground forces around the base. He’d left his loyal guardsmen behind to die. Guardsmen like Elng, whose confused loyalties had stolen a life of promise.

Hillas’ remaining guardsmen had been taken into custody while Roden worked at transferring them under his command. Elng was just another casualty in a war that never should have happened. Roden didn’t believe in slavery; never had. The things he’d had to fake to not get caught while he worked to align the Sephians and Draeken… he fought back the revulsion. He still found himself retching late at night when jagged memories returned.

He glanced up to see Nalea across the table, sitting on the Sephian side as a member of a trinity. She now bore a nasty scar across her neck from where his blade had nearly killed her. She should be at my side, and she knows it. When she caught his gaze, she shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

He flicked his wings intentionally, and grinned when her eyes narrowed then widened. The day before, he’d had her soullare tattooed across every inch of his wings. Darker than it appeared on her skin, the shade matched what a soullare would look like on a Sephian man. She jerked away before turning back to him with a frustrated glare.

Content, he turned back to the speaker. A human leader—an American general—was talking about their expectations from Roden and his people in exchange for a peace treaty, and—more importantly—amnesty for the Draeken. Earth was now entering into the next stage in its evolution. Blah, blah, blah.

Time was of the essence. With nearly all their power cells on earthside updated, the Sephians could now return to their home planet. In fact, Apolo would be taking the first humans to Sephia on his return trip next month. All the Sephians could return home if they wanted, but the humans had made it clear: no more came to Earth without prior clearance.

The situation was very different for the Draeken. Even if Roden signed a peace treaty with Apolo on Earth, his people wouldn’t be welcomed on Sephia. Earth was currently their best hope, and he planned to make it work.

The humans had treaded carefully throughout negotiations. They knew Roden was the only thing standing between the core ships and Earth. As Sommers said, they were smart enough not to “poke the bear.”

Until Roden could gain control of all four core ships, the war was at a standstill, but it was still a war. Apolo still called him Kreed in private, but they’d both agreed that Lord Commander Roden Zyll could accomplish far more for the Draeken people. He’d never given much thought about which identity he’d maintain. He figured he’d be dead by now. Surprisingly, Kreed had won him Apolo’s support, while Roden maintained Draeken backing. Rather than canceling each other out, it seemed as though the two identities had merged seamlessly into one; the first—and only—thing that had been easy this month.

While the general talked of demands, Roden was confident of two things. First, the general couldn’t refuse the Draeken technology and knowledge Roden offered, or else another country on this world would make a bid for it. The United Nations forces couldn’t flat-out take the technology without getting a war on their hands. And second, Roden would accept any proposal to secure a place for his people on this new world. It made for a precarious peace indeed.

As if to sweeten the deal, the Americans had walked in Talla, one of his best soldiers, taken in the same tousle during which he’d captured Nalea. He knew it was the general’s way of saying ‘You want her back, you sign the treaty’.

Talla looked unharmed and healthy, though her wings were banded and her wrists were restrained. A human soldier he recognized stood at her side. The soldier had positioned her in the corner, either for her protection or the protection of those in the room. Roden suspected both, and he made a mental note to keep tabs on that particular soldier.

Talla, with her head held high, scanned the room, finally coming to meet his gaze. Roden smiled, and she gave him a nod. It was good to see her, but what of Laze, Talla’s brother, as well as the others taken at Club Mayhem? Roden suspected he wouldn’t like the answer much at all. But he’d deal with that issue later.

“So, you will move all your people to this base, and we’ll transfer any remaining Draeken we have to you,” the general said. “But you’re a feudal race. How can we trust you to not attempt aggression toward us?”

They’d consistently misinterpreted Roden during the negotiations. While Roden had said he’d move his people on earthside to the human base, he’d said nothing about the core ships orbiting in this solar system, where most of his people remained.

Upon hearing of the death of Hillas Puftan, three of the four core ships had quickly pledged full allegiance to Roden. His people understood the value of Earth and the importance of peace.

The fourth ship, however, had never responded, making it clear which ship Otas had fled to. Though they knew their Hillas was a doppelgänger through Roden’s communiques, that ship was clearly under the control of the imposter; either by force or apathy.

He glanced up at the general and cocked a half-grin. “You’re incorrect, General. I’ve never been a feudalist. I’ve always seen myself as more of an anarchist.”

That didn’t appease the human. Roden sat back and listened to him drone on and on, knowing that within days, a week at most, they’d sign a peace treaty, and his people—at least those on earthside—would be safe for the time being. But he had serious doubts about the integrity of the humans in keeping their side of the bargain.

Two days later, Roden signed his name to a piece of paper filled with long words and flowery rhetoric. He smiled at the primitive custom. All Draeken currently earthside—four hundred and sixty-four, to be exact—would live on this base, brought in as full American citizens. Talla had been released, as well as the three survivors of Club Mayhem, but he’d yet to see them. Talla stood behind him, with a Leash—a human soldier who’d been assigned to watch her and keep her in line.

His people were to be incorporated into the current military structure, all with ranks comparable to their current positions, though Roden noticed that their ranks were all lower than their human counterparts. Roden would be a general, a rank lower than his current status, but deemed acceptable as he continued to be called Lord Commander by his people.

The Draeken and Sephian refugees would remain incognito until the United Nations apprised other governments around the world of their existence. Then, his people would be able to live where they desired, within certain constraints. In exchange, Roden freely offered their technology and knowledge, propelling human science hundreds of generations forward. Somehow, he suspected the humans would move very, very slowly.

The humans clearly felt like they’d won. They’d gained undreamed-of power while keeping both Draeken and Sephians under their control. And yes, a hard rock sat in Roden’s stomach, knowing how fragile the balance of power was, but what the humans didn’t realize was that these concessions were miniscule compared to the survival of his race, and of a long-awaited dream being realized. My people have a chance to live in peace.

Instead of setting down the pen he’d used to sign his name, he held it out to Nalea, who stood several feet away. Her eyes narrowed before widening in understanding. Her jaw tightened.

Roden turned to the general. “As you said, the Draeken are a feudal people. I’ve signed my name, but a member of the royal family should also sign to ensure the Draeken people are fully represented.”

The general looked confused, and Apolo stepped forward, clearly displeased. “You sure you want to do this?” he asked quietly.

Roden raised a brow at his friend before turning to Nalea. “Your signature ensures all Draeken will adhere to the treaty.”

Apolo nodded, his lips thin. “It would make the treaty acceptable to any Draeken loyal to the Puftan bloodline.”

“I thought Hillas was the last member of the royal family,” the general said.

Nalea stepped forward and yanked the pen out of Roden’s hand. She shot him a hard glare before addressing everyone in the room. “I’m Nalea Puftan Zyll,” she said, making the two surnames sound like curse words. She glanced back to Sienna—who, Roden noticed, looked aghast—before she turned once again to the general. “I am the daughter of the late Grand Lord Hillas Puftan and consort to Lord Commander Roden Zyll. I sign my name on behalf of the royal family and in alignment with the Lord Commander to ensure the Draeken people are fully represented in this treaty.”

Whispers erupted across the room as Nalea signed her name. She dropped the pen on the table and spared a glance in Roden’s direction. Her thoughts were clear. You better not screw this up.