"… Conflict is the driving force of everything.
Life as we know it exists because the second bacteria that evolved ate the first.
Planets exist because the bigger rocks consumed all the smaller rocks and grew larger.
Ever since its inception, the universe has been governed by this single, immovable law.
Such is the way of things. Survival of the fittest, from the dawn of existence,
until the end of time…"
- Warlord Kainan I
~~~~
Dra'lok's knuckles turned white as he wrung his shaking hands around the shaft of the golden scepter in his hands, a rod shaped to resemble a long leg bone with a stylized skull on the top. His thumb ran over one of the runes engraved along its length, the oldest one, representing his first triumph, his first commendation. His concubines huddled at his side, casting fearful glances at the shadows, hissing at the other figures cowering in the corners, as if staking this small claim on territory helped them reassert some semblance of status. They had once been formidable women, of good stock, with good genes to pass on to his heirs. Now, their once resplendent coiffures were matted, tangled messes clinging to grimy, muddied skin and their tattered, filthy dresses bore but a faint echo of the wealth and splendor they once signified.
He was in not much better shape, himself. His robes, woven from the finest fabrics and embroidered with stylized representations of his genetic code, were torn and stained with blood. Black blood, not the blood of slaves, but his own, from the cut on his forehead where the heavy stock of the Terran weapon had struck him. He had once been a slavemaster, a respected member of the Dra'var'th middle class, afforded such privileges as two concubines for pleasure and reproduction, a luxurious mansion with a view of the sunset and most importantly, the right to consume a slave's soul once a year, growing his power and prolonging his lifespan. Now, he was the same as all the other figures huddling near him.
His mansion had been replaced with this cage, this thing once used to house slaves, not men of his station. It was cold and wet and far too dark, yet never silent, for the ventilation openings were designed to whistle in the wind, producing sounds intended to appeal to that most primordial instinct all living beings shared, the instinct which told them that a predator was near. Now, he was the one subjected to its terror, yet it was not that, nor the whimpering of the other captives, that truly chilled him to the bone.
Rat-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-tat. There it was again, that horrible sound that haunted his every waking moment. It was a staccato beat from ancient history, one not heard on a Dra'var'th world in thousands of generations. It was their sound, the sound of primitive, kinetic weapons. Of human weapons. And every time he heard it, he couldn't help but flinch.
He forced his eyes shut, as if doing so would somehow dispel that horrible sound, as if it would somehow make life go back to the way it used to be, when things made sense, when he had comforts and safety and respect and status and could demand that his whims be catered to with a mere frown. But of course, as he opened his eyes again, none of those things returned. For they were gone and the world he knew had changed forever.
Rat-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-tat. His concubines flinched and whimpered at his side, seeking reassurance, seeking comfort and promises of safety. He kicked the first one away and struck the other with his scepter, for he had no reassurances to give, seeking his own in this basic gesture of cruelty. "Know your place, whores," he snapped at them. Once, his voice would have sounded imperious, unyielding, demanding absolute obedience. Now, it was as feeble as the looks in his women's eyes. Rat-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-tat.
It was just his rotten luck. Or, perhaps, Lord Golgoth's displeasure, for he had survived the gassing of the capital by sheer chance, a rogue wind blowing that horrible mist away from the suburb where he resided, only to be found by a Pact patrol as he tried to flee. His heirs had not been so fortunate. Both of them were further in the city when the Terrans and their allies shelled it. Rat-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-tat. He flinched again, cursing his luck, cursing Lord Golgoth, wondering just what sin had he committed to earn his god's ire. He had been a good slaver. He had broken many wills. He had served his own masters, just as his religion commanded him to, yet here he was, forced to listen to that horrible, nightmarish sound.
The door to the cage swung open, illuminating the darkness with the baleful, crimson glow of the planet's twin stars. A voice called out, harsh and guttural, in Thralltongue, the language reserved for the slaves, meant to sound servile and meek, yet now somehow laden with authority even he felt compelled to obey. "Prisoners numbers seven hundred and thirty-nine to eight hundred and eleven step forward!"
Seven hundred and eighty-one. That was him. Eighty-two and eighty-three were his concubines, as luck would have it. "Move it, prisoner! We have a schedule to keep!" barked the voice of the soldier. Dra'lok didn't want to move. As much as he hated his cell, he wanted to stay there, to make himself small, maybe the humans would just forget about him, maybe they'd just-
He felt himself being hauled up by the collar of his robes. He hadn't even heard them come in, hadn't heard their metal boots on the floor, so lost was he in his own fear. He was shoved forward and out into the sun, his concubines shuffling after him. Outside, the rain had stopped, at the very least. Yet, as his bare feet sank into the soft mud of the plaza, all he felt was dread.
Around him, the suburb had been cleared out. Many of the mansions were still smoking, the humans having decided to simply burn them down after having difficulties with all the traps. The luxury skiffs that flitted about, were just smoldering wrecks now, or gone completely, probably taken elsewhere to be dismantled and analyzed for any useful technology. Instead, the skyway was filled with Terran drones and military craft, always moving in convoys led by one of those tanks, human war vehicles armed with railguns and missile launchers.
Once, slaves would have scrubbed the street clean by now, their eyes downcast as they rushed to finish their chores, for the last one to finish would get beaten or executed. Now, there were no slaves left. Or rather, they were all wearing those ashen-gray uniforms, now. Watching impassively as their former masters were marched off and loaded into one of those armored skiffs the Terrans used to transport cargo and troops, though Dra'lok didn't know what they were called. The antigrav generators on this one whirred and growled incessantly, the primitive technology was infuriatingly loud.
One of the other prisoners decided to make a run for it. A female, Dra'lok noted, the females of his species were always the most unpredictable and it seemed even the humans had their hands full with them. She shoved the nearest soldier away and darted towards the ruined buildings, her shoes slipping on the muddy ground. Just a bit further and she would reach safety, just a bit more and she would be free, just-
A shot rang out across the plaza. The woman jerked, then stumbled and fell face-first into the mud. One of those damned Nyxian sharpshooters, of course, perched somewhere nearby, though Dra'lok couldn't see where. Dra'lok's concubines whimpered and all he could feel was disgust. At their weakness, for cowering, at himself for the numbness and fear he felt, at the entire universe for upending his life. He forced himself to move forward, one step at a time, one foot in front of the other. At least he wouldn't be shot in the back like some damned beast, he thought as the vehicle's doors slid shut.
It was not a long journey. Just a few minutes, really, it couldn't have been more. When the doors opened again, Dra'lok could see he'd been transported further downstream, where the canyon widened into a broad depression that had once been fertile agricultural land. Now, all he could see were rows upon rows of pits, evenly spaced out. He was shoved forward, roughly. He hissed as someone tore the scepter from his hand, only to earn himself a cuff behind his ear and another rough shove.
They made him stand in front of one of those pits, his concubines still whimpering at his sides, clinging to his robes as if trying to hide behind him, as if that would do anything. Others were lined up alongside him, at the edge of that pit. Prisoners, just like him, once minor Dra'var'th nobles and colonial officials, now reduced to this. In front of him, a squad of human soldiers waited silently as one of their officers pulled up a file on his datapad. At either side of their formation, two of those horrible weapons had been mounted on tripods, the ones that made that horrible sound. What were they called? Dra'lok was fairly certain he'd heard someone mention it.
"… Seven hundred and eighty-one! Dra'lok! Middle caste, slaver!" The officer's voice snapped him out of his reverie and called his attention back to reality as his name was called out. "Prisoner seven hundred and eighty-two! Dra'zora! Middle caste, torturer!" That was his first concubine, a fine woman, a respected woman, now flinching as if struck by a pain baton as her name was mentioned. "Prisoner seven hundred and eighty-three! Dra'noxa! Middle caste, fleshcarver!" His younger concubine, a true artist said to be unmatched in her generation. On and on that officer went, listing numbers, names and occupations, some of which Dra'lok had known, until he reached the end of his damned list.
These humans… Once, he had laughed at them, dismissed them as primitive, barely more than beasts. He had called them soft, had called them weak, incapable of understanding the fine arts of sadism and grasping the intricacies of fear. But now, as he listened to that horrible, mechanical sound of their weapons, to the tone of that officer reciting names off a list, he knew otherwise. For theirs was an altogether different kind of cruelty, a colder thing, devoid of the pleasure and joy of asserting superiority, one born of indifference and efficiency, yet so profoundly horrifying, that its implications shattered him.
The humans did not refuse to torture their prisoners out of softness and squeamishness. They simply did not give their captives the basic courtesy of hating them. That would have required an expenditure of mental energy, an emotional investment, however small, afforded to a living being. And what did that make him, then, in their eyes? A person? No. A beast? Not even that. He and his entire legacy, his bloodline, his everything, were just numbers to be crossed off one of their damned lists. "For crimes against humanity and gross violations of sentient rights, under article seven of the Pact charter, you are hereby sentenced to summary execution!"
A pair of soldiers racked some kind of levers on those horrible weapons of theirs. Machineguns! Yes, that's what they were called. His concubines whimpered. Dra'lok wanted to shout, to hiss, to protest, to plead for mercy, to order these primitives to fall at his feet, to-
Rat-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-tat. He felt the projectiles tear into his flesh with the force of an antigrav skiff, ripping through flesh and bone alike, tearing holes into his very existence. The world tilted, or rather, he did, he realized as his cheek slammed into the mud. In the corner of his vision, he saw his concubines falling backwards, disappearing into the pit while he had somehow remained halfway out, his upper torso balancing precariously on the edge while his feet hung over the abyss. If only he could get up, maybe he still had a chance, maybe he would survive!
Above him, the sun was obscured by a looming shadow. Dra'lok's eyes sought its source, only to fall upon the armored boot of a human soldier. Slowly, with what strength he could still muster, he looked up at that impassive figure, face obscured by that expressionless helmet. He tried to speak, but only blood came out of his mouth. The human glanced down at him as if just noticing an insect. He drew a pistol from his belt, then pointed it at him…
The last thing Dra'lok heard was the mechanical sound that weapon made as the soldier's other hand racked some sliding part. And then, the darkness claimed him.
~~~~
The princess absently scrolled through the file pulled up onto her datapad, her thumb rhythmically sliding across the touchscreen. It was some introductory material on the structure of the Imperial diplomatic corps, normally meant for fresh recruits of that very same institution that was responsible for the humans' many political achievements, from the peace settlement that ended decades of civil war, to the creation of the Pact, itself. It was an informative, detailed document, with charts and numbers and bullet point lists breaking down every relevant detail a new member needed to know.
Normally, she would have devoured such a thing with an eagerness born from a sharp mind that finally found something interesting to satisfy her boundless curiosity. Now, though… Valyra found herself unable to focus. Her other hand drummed a slow beat into the surface of the desk of the waiting room she'd found herself in, just a multipurpose office space attached to the Agamemnon's detention block. With a sigh, she set the datapad down and reached for the cup of stale coffee that sat half-empty where she'd left it hours ago, long since grown cold. She'd raised it halfway to her lips when the door slid open and the silver-haired Kalidani duchess stepped in. "She's awake," Yelena announced in a tone that was as coldly professional as the perfect severity of her posture, though the barely-perceptible stiffness of her shoulders betrayed the cold fury she felt, a sentiment that matched the Alvari heiress' own.
Valyra needed no other invitation. She stood up and followed Kainan's protege deeper into the battlecarrier's detention block, her own expression guardedly neutral as the duchess briefed her regarding the situation. "We have not yet informed her of what transpired after her capture," Yelena said as she led the way. "And our silence led her to conclude that the planet was destroyed, a belief I haven't deemed advantageous to correct."
Once again, the princess could see why this woman had climbed so high in her species' hierarchy in spite of her young age, for she'd been gifted with a remarkable degree of shrewdness on top of a sharp eye for detail that gave her the ability to not only notice the smallest and often overlooked details, but dissect them for advantages to apply in any given situation and swiftly formulate the optimal strategy to employ them. Had she not known otherwise, she might have assumed her to be Alvari, for she certainly had the intellect to match her species. Then again, it seemed that all the humans did.
This section of the massive vessel was as stark as the rest of the Terran flagship. Everything there was designed purely for function, for efficiency, every inch of space optimized for maximum usefulness, even more so than the habitation quarters, for while crewmembers would be afforded such necessary comforts as were required for maintaining optimal mental health and psychological stability for the human species, the brig, as the humans called it, was given no such considerations. Every cell was a box, exactly four meters, by four meters, by three. There was a bunk, really a simple slab of metal, bolted to the left bulkhead and a sanitation unit on the opposite one. The lighting was the same stark, impersonal white that seemed to be the default setting aboard every human vessel, provided by a pair of strips embedded alongside the edges of the ceiling, while a small black dome housed surveillance sensors used by the ship's AI to monitor the cell's occupant. And that was it. No viewscreens, no decorative embellishments, no devices meant to provide any kind of mental or emotional stimulation.
Not that Valyra cared for the comfort of prisoners right now, especially the one currently occupying the cell at the end of the long corridor, separated by a forcefield that vibrated with a frequency which caused the tips of her elfin ears to tingle, resonating with the nerve clusters there, which were responsible for the extraordinary sense of balance her species was known for. "Open it," ordered the princess in a tone that was as cold as the polar ice of Kalidan. The guard hesitated, but a small nod from the duchess prompted him to obey.
Inside, Domina Dra'milla idly toyed with a lock of scarlet hair. She'd been stripped of her ceremonial and utterly useless armor and had been forced to don a set of drab, mustard-colored overalls of rough synthetic fiber, the kind worn by prisoners of the Terran Empire, without any pockets or metallic parts and whose sole embellishment, if one could call it that, was the number printed on its back and above the left breast. She did not look up as the princess entered her cell, though she did scoff, maintaining that infuriatingly smug expression on her features. Valyra was not in the mood to put up with her attitude, though. She flicked her wrist and her skin lit up with cyan-tinted bioluminescent patterns as the Dra'var'th woman was lifted off the bunk and pinned against the wall by the invisible grip of her psionic powers.
Dra'milla laughed, a sound that earned a mild scowl from the Alvari princess, followed by a telekinetic slap across the face that violently jerked her head hard enough for her to bite her tongue. She spat the blood on the stark floor of the cell before slowly turning to regard Valyra with a smirk. "My, oh, my…" she taunted, her tone laden with cruel condescension. "Has the scorned princess finally grown some fangs? Have you come to get your hands dirty? You'll have to do better than that if you want to break me."
Valyra ignored the barbs, keeping the haughty royal mask in place, her features the very definition of imperious disdain as she listed her demands with an air of boredom as if she were reciting a grocery list rather than conducting an interrogation. "My brother's resources. His allies at the High Table. The disposition of his fleets."
Dra'milla tilted her head back as far as she could and cackled defiantly. "Is that all, princess? And here I thought you were going to ask me about something that's actually interesting," she responded, earning her another telekinetic slap, which only prompted another bout of cackling. "The fact that I am still alive shows how weak you are. And soft, like that human whose bed you have been warming. How is he, by the way? Still alive, or has he given up the ghost along with the rest of the planet?"
Yelena stepped forward, but Valyra stopped the duchess with a gesture. Her hand shot out and roughly grasped the Domina's chin, slamming her head against the bulkhead and forcing her to look at her. Her Eryndai was already in her other hand, the crystalline blade glowing with the same color as her eyes and the patterns on her skin as its deadly edge pressed against the Dra'var'th woman's windpipe. Her lips curled into a smile that did not reach her eyes. "Let me tell you something about that human," she said with a deadly edge to her voice. "Yesterday, he bombarded that entire city with poisons to stop your weapon. This morning, he ordered mass executions to be carried out. Tomorrow, he might glass a planet, or a hundred."
The smugness in Dra'milla's look was replaced by a look of uncertainty. "You're lying," she stammered, her tone feeble and trembling. Valyra nodded to the duchess, who tapped something on her wristcomp, causing a holographic projection to appear in the air. It scrolled through a list of names and Dra'var'th faces, the faces of all the local nobles that had already been executed. At its side, the projection cycled through drone footage depicting hundreds of pits, some already filled in, others still awaiting their future occupants.
"No," the Domina muttered, terror slowly dawning on her features, but also a resolve that surprised both Valyra and the duchess. "No, no, no, no… I will not betray him. I will not betray Vaeloryn to you…" she repeated, over and over as she hugged her knees and started rocking, as if seeking to steel herself. Yet even that revealed something useful, for it indicated the extent of her loyalty towards the princess' loathsome sibling. Another telekinetic slap sent her sliding across the floor until she slammed against the edge of that bunk, one of her horns cracking.
It was Valyra's turn to smirk. "The only reason you are still alive, Dra'milla, is because we still have some uses for you," she said, releasing her captive from her telekinetic grasp. The Dra'var'th woman slid to the floor like a sack of vegetables, a hand reaching up to rub the back of her neck. Valyra pressed on. "Now, we could simply pluck all the information we need directly from your mind. It would take me a few days to do it and likely a little longer for the humans, but we have more than enough time to do that. So, you had better start thinking of many, many ways in which you can be useful, because the thing you need to be concerned about, is what exactly is going to happen when your usefulness comes to an end."
Yelena reached out and placed a hand on the Alvari heiress' shoulder. "A word, princess?" she asked, a weary look in her eyes. Valyra nodded and accompanied her outside, the forcefield snapping shut behind them as the two women walked away. They both stayed silent until reaching that waiting room Valyra had been sitting in, before. The duchess tapped a command into her wristcomp, temporarily shutting down the surveillance in the chamber. "Your highness, you should let me handle Dra'milla's interrogation, you need not waste your time with this."
Valyra's eyes studied the duchess' expression. Until a few days ago, Yelena had despised her and she had regarded the Kalidani woman with an equal measure of disdain. A few days ago, the princess would have assumed such a request to be no more than yet another jab, but things had shifted since the battle aboard the relay station and Kainan's protege now held a degree of respect towards her that she'd previously lacked. No, this was not some attempt at jostling for position, this was something else.
Yelena pressed on. "You should… go to him." she muttered the words with no small degree of effort, her eyes looking at the floor, a small tremor in her hands. Valyra's eyes widened in surprise, for this… This, she had not expected, not from the proud and jealous duchess.
"What is he to you, Yelena?" she asked, for the first time calling her by name rather than title. It was a question that had occupied her thoughts a few more times than she cared to admit, even to herself. It was fairly evident she and Kainan were close and that they'd known each other for some time.
The duchess let out a sigh, her shoulders slumping slightly. "I was a slave when he found me…" she began to recount, her voice small and vulnerable. "Barely more than a child when the slavers deemed me… not useful enough to be kept alive. I was to be placed in one of their machines and…" Her voice trailed off, the memories still raw.
Valyra's expression softened as she realized where this was going. "You're in love with him," she said and it was not a question. The duchess flinched as if she'd been physically struck. The princess had suspected it for a while, though. Yelena hid it well and others would have missed it, but the poor girl idolized him and a woman knew how to recognize such things.
"He… doesn't look at me that way, though," the duchess muttered, her head bowing in defeat. She sighed, straightening her posture, steeling herself as she finally forced her gaze to meet Valyra's eyes. "You know… For a time, I thought you were trying to use him. That you only sought to take advantage, to seduce him into serving your political ends." And now, it was Valyra's turn to sigh, for she, herself, thought she had concealed the extent of her relationship with Kainan well. But of course, a woman knew how to recognize such things.
"When he looks at me, he sees a sister, not… what I wish he saw," Yelena said, fighting back tears that glistened in her eyes. "And right now, he needs something I can't give him… Something only you can give him. So, you should… let me deal with things here and…"
Valyra stepped forward and pulled her into a brief, but warm embrace. "Thank you," she said. "For telling me this. And for being a better person than I thought you'd be." With that, the princess turned and left the waiting room, a thousand conflicting burdens warring within her own soul, but at the same time, feeling like at least one of them had been lifted from her shoulders.
~~~~
The warlord sat at the grand table of the pavilion once reserved for the planetary governor and his entourage, or for high officials visiting the world. It was the only solid piece of furniture here, aside from the simple folding stool he'd brought with him, as the regular seating arrangements typically were hardlight projections, configured to the preferences of their users. Kainan opted not to use that system, it was probably still laden with traps.
His stormcloud eyes cast an empty glance at the space below the pavilion. The layout was roughly octagonal, though slightly asymmetrical in that jarring, discordant style favored by the Dra'var'th. Tiered rows of pews rose around the central space, filled with hardlight seating that could be configured for up to a hundred thousand spectators, while down below lay a flat, metallic-looking deck that Kainan knew wasn't really metal any more than the table was genuine obsidian. Rather, it was another one of those non-entropic materials humans collectively referred to as hyperdiamond, a catch-all term that existed simply because human languages didn't have the concepts required to describe the scientific principles of their function. They could be destroyed, of course. Melted, broken, vaporized in a thousand ways, but if left undisturbed, things fashioned from such materials would outlast the heat death of the universe and literally last forever. It was yet another reminder of the gap which existed between the Great Houses and humanity.
It was the planet's main gladiatorial arena, where slaves once fought each other, or against beasts and machines, for the sadistic entertainment of the world's cruel masters. The warlord knew just how many ways that central platform could be reconfigured. It could be raised up and down by antigrav fields. Solid floor could become molten liquid in an instant and all manner of traps, obstacles and lethal implements could materialize out of thin air at any moment, while gravity could fluctuate from almost weightless, to bone-crushing without warning. His eyes returned to the holographic projection displayed onto the table by the portable emitter he'd brought with him. On one side, a list of casualties was scrolling, the number at the top updating in real time. The other side displayed the latest reports from the rest of the Pact, accounts of battles fought, intel on the position of enemy forces, the situation along the border.
Pact fleets were poring into the system every hour. Supply convoys from the furthest reaches of the alliance, reinforcements from every species, massive armadas bristling with weapons, some bruised and scarred from battles fought, others fresh and eager to taste blood. Above, the map painted a clearer picture. The Pact had carved a bloody path across the Inner Rim, all across Dra'var'th territory, forming a corridor that not only led all the way to the Terran Empire, but also nearly cut the Dragon House's core worlds off from the rest of their territory. It had taken years to prepare for this plan. Secret outposts had been constructed in deep space, entire fleets had been dismantled and smuggled across Dra'var'th sectors piece by piece, quietly reassembled at Terran and Orkyn shipyards, forming the spearhead that led the assault which seized strategically positioned Beta Draconis.
The efforts had clearly paid off, the Dragon House had been completely blindsided and the plan was working. It would take months for their scattered fleets to reorganize, for information and orders to be relayed back and forth and by then, it would already be too late. Even now, Pact fleets split off from the main corridor, punching deep into the Dra'var'th core worlds, capturing a few strategic ones, while laying siege to all the rest. And yet, the cost was enormous. For every Dra'var'th ship the Pact destroyed, they lost five. For every world they captured, casualties were in the tens of millions, including all the civilians caught in the crossfire. On some planets, the local authorities enacted plans similar to Dra'milla's, forcing Pact forces to enact drastic and bloody measures that didn't always work. Two planets had completely ceased to exist that way.
The number of casualties was astronomical and it would haunt Kainan forever. This was his doing and whether or not he had a choice in the matter, was irrelevant. All that blood was still on his hands. He hadn't even realized how hard he was clutching the glass of vodka in his uninjured hand until it shattered, jagged shards biting into his flesh and drawing blood. His other hand was still a mangled ruin, wrapped only in a bloodsoaked strip of medipolymer. He'd sent away all the medics that had tried to tend to it, his withering glance dispelling any protests they might have voiced.
Nearby, the resting whisper cat lifted her head up from her massive paws, her ears flicking. "Nine billion, seven hundred and thirty-two million, one hundred and seventy-six thousand, two hundred and ninety two…" he muttered without looking up, his voice raspy and ragged. He knew who was there. "Make that two hundred and ninety three, now… That is how many people I have killed."
Valyra's hand closed gently around his wrist, her nimble fingers peeling loose the bloodsoaked bandage. She couldn't hold back the wince as she saw the extent of the damage below. Nevertheless, she didn't pause her ministrations, cleaning the wounds with antiseptic solution before lifting a device over his palm, attached by a tube to a larger, backpack-sized machine she had deposited onto the table. A tissue regenerator, one she had obtained from Shyiuna's ship after a few minutes of negotiation. Far bulkier and less advanced that the Alvari ones, but it would do the job for now. The device hummed to life, processing his genetic profile and crackling with pulses of green light as the eldritch energies slowly began to knit and weld the warlord's wounds shut. "You will have to avoid putting too much strain on that hand for a few days," she said in a soft and soothing voice.
Kainan tried to pull his hand away, but her grip remained firm. "I grew up in a place much like this one, where you lived if you killed and you clawed for it," the warlord muttered, his voice devoid of any warmth. "Made my first kill when I was six years old. Six. And ever since that day, I haven't found a way to stop killing."
"I'm sorry," Valyra whispered. She'd known just how difficult his life had been, yet it did not make it any easier to hear him say it. The warlord slowly shook his head, his shoulders slumping. "We have to stop doing this," he said without looking up at her. "You can't be close to me, Valyra. I have killed more people than all the wars in human history, combined," he growled, shaking with fury and loathing directed not at her, but at himself. "By the time the dust settles, I will have killed many times more. It does not matter why I did it. It does not matter who pulled the trigger or who lit the fire. It does not change what I am."
The princess slid her hand up along his arm and squeezed his shoulder. "You do not have to carry this burden by yourself," she said softly. Kainan gritted his teeth and shrugged her hand away. "That's just the bond making you feel that way," he said to her, even though he knew it was a lie. But he had to shut her out, to push her away so she could have a chance at a happiness a man like him could never give her. "I am a mass-murderer, Valyra. Anything I touch, is stained with blood. You deserve better than this, if you stay close to me, if you…" He sighed, finding himself unable to finish that sentence, afraid of what would happen if he said the words. Bitterness was easy. Loneliness was comfortable and familiar. Those were the price he had to pay, the price exacted by the burden he had to carry, to shield others from the darkness in his life.
The princess circled around him and sat down in his lap, her hands tilting his head up and forcing him to look at her. The sorrow in her eyes took his breath and he found himself unable to tear his gaze away from those beautiful, exotic, iridescent eyes, now glistening with tears.
"Listen to me, Kainan…" she spoke, her voice soft, yet commanding his attention. There was steel beneath that softness, an unshakable determination, a finality in a decision she'd made long ago, even if she had avoided dwelling on it too much or examining it too closely for fear of its implications.
"The fact that you are sitting here, thinking of these things, trying to carry the entire galaxy on your shoulders and bear this guilt, it means you are not the monster you think you are. Monsters do not have a conscience. Monsters do not feel guilty for the consequences of their actions, whether justified or not. A monster would not push me away right now, or try to protect me from himself," Valyra said, placing a finger on his lips to keep him from trying to rebuke her. "You are a good man, Kainan. A better man than most, for stepping up and taking responsibility, for choosing to shield others even at the cost of your own soul."
"Even without the bond, you are still the man I would have chosen," she murmured, her words as tender as her touch as her fingers traced the rough stubble on his jaw. "Not because of the politics, or what you are, but because of the way you look at me and see the woman, not the crown. Because even now, you are thinking of my wellbeing, my needs, my happiness, even when my family's choices are what led you into the position you find yourself today. And those are just some of the reasons why I love you."
"The last time someone loved me, she lost her life because of it," Kainan whispered, his voice ragged with old pain, a pain he had buried deep inside, under layers of steel and bitterness and grim determination. "She was a slave, like me… We tried to hide it, but we were young and foolish…" he recounted, forcing himself to relive the memory even as it tore him apart, because Valyra had to hear this, she had to know why she should never love him, why he couldn't allow it. "When the slavemasters found out, they made us fight each other in the arena. I refused to do it, told her to take that knife they gave us, to do what she had to, to live…" he said, his voice as laden with bitterness as the grim fire in his eyes. "Instead, they executed her to punish me. So, you see, Valyra. Everything I touch, withers and dies. Anyone who gets close to me, gets burned."
That was why he did the things he did, walked the path he walked. Because he had no humanity left to lose and so, he was best suited to make the sacrifices he was forced to make. He had already been forced to shed everything good in him, had it ripped away from him when the slavers killed his parents right in front of him, when they burned his town and put him on that ship, when they killed the first woman he loved and all the friends he had outlived over the years. For him, it was already too late. But if he could make it so that others wouldn't have to live through the same horrors, then maybe at least all his pain would have meant something. At least then, maybe it wouldn't have all been in vain.
Valyra listened, her breathing just as ragged as his own, tears flowing freely as his walls came down and she finally felt the true depth of his pain. Yet, she did not pull away. "Growing up, everything felt so… certain," she murmured. "My life was planned out for me before I was even born. I didn't have parents, I had tutors. I didn't have siblings, I had rivals. I didn't have lovers, I had suitors. Everything was a performance, a role, a game everyone in my life was required to play according to rules that were written lifetimes ago," she sighed, a heavy, hollow sound, one that echoed the crushing loneliness in her own soul. She had spent her entire life surrounded by people whose sole purpose was to cater to her every whim, yet she had always been alone. And never free.
"Nothing in this universe is certain. Nothing is safe and I have known that ever since I was old enough to understand such things. We can not know what tomorrow will bring, Kainan. But today, we have this," she said, gently taking his hand and pressing it over her heart. It was the first time in her life when she had chosen something for herself. Not for the crown, not for her duties, not for political necessity, but for herself. All the uncertainty vanished from her eyes and when she spoke again, there was no waver in her voice. "And I would not have it any other way."
The warlord wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her closer. She leaned forward, closing her eyes and resting her forehead against his. He said nothing. He didn't need to. She already knew. They sat together like that for countless minutes, just holding each other and breathing the same air. The kiss was soft and tender and full of promises that did not need to be spoken. Tomorrow, they would depart this broken, bloodsoaked planet and leave its horrors behind them. Tomorrow, they would set off towards Alvari space and all the uncertainty that would await them there. And then, they would fight all the other battles that still needed to be fought. But today, they had each other. And that was enough.