Emet

It’s getting harder to think. Thoughts come in fragments—sharp, disjointed, circling one thing: the cold. Bone-deep. Endless.

The cell is a stone box that rejects warmth. The thin gel mattress on the cot is the only barrier between me and freezing solid. Each time my bare feet touch the floor, I spend hours curled up, waiting for sensation to return.

They never bothered to give me clothes—just left me in the sleep trousers I wore when they dragged me from bed. No shirt. No shoes. Only the chill pressing in from every side.

A blanket. A meal that isn’t cold sludge. Any of that would help. But I’m not naïve enough to expect comfort. At least they still feed me. I assume two bowls a day; the only way to measure time. By that count, I’ve been here about three days—seventy-two hours of silence and darkness thick enough to breathe.

When I do sleep, nightmares drag me under. When I’m awake, I keep dissecting the past, turning over every decision like shards of glass, searching for the one I could have changed. But there wasn’t much choice to begin with. Every move felt right—logical—given what we faced.

The kids… gods, the kids. Barely grown, full of fire and impossible dreams—saving the planet, fighting tyranny. What else could I do but stand with them? Try to protect them?

And I failed. They’re gone. All of them. And I’m still here. Of course, I am. They left me alive on purpose—to use me. An example. A scapegoat. A warning. I just hope they won’t stain the memory of those who died. That’s the only thing that still matters. The rest—me—doesn’t.

A scrape of metal yanks me back. The lock turns.

Until now, they’ve shoved food through the slot. This time the door opens. Light floods in—dim, but after so long in the dark it feels blinding.

“Up,” a guard barks. “Hands behind your back. Don’t twitch, or I press the button.”

The button—right. I’d almost forgotten. The control bracelets on my wrists and ankles, the collar at my throat—they’ve become part of me, easy to ignore until someone reminds me. As if I could fight them. I’ve never learned combat. Even if I hit one, the other would take me down, and the control current would finish the job. They showed me once, when they fitted it—just to make sure I understood.

I rise—slow, stiff. The guards fall in behind me, close enough that I can feel their breath. A shove between my shoulder blades sets me walking. Corridors blur together—stone, metal, echo. We descend stairs, turn corners, keep moving. Then we stop. One of them opens a door and pushes me through.

The room gleams under cold light—chains, instruments, everything clean and orderly. A torture chamber disguised as a laboratory.

Why? They already know everything. They knew before they captured us. What could they possibly want now?
I’d accepted I wouldn’t leave this place alive. I only hoped the end would be quick. Seems that was too much to ask.

Chains clink as they fasten me to the frame—wrists, ankles, stretched apart.

The door opens again. The High Hierarch himself enters—the sacred carrion.
He settles into a cushioned chair brought for his frail holiness, folding those skeletal hands on his chest, lips twisting into a smug half-smile.

“Well then,” he croaks, voice thick with relish. “Shall we begin?”

The punch to my gut knocks the air out of me.

Miranda

I stand on the balcony, leaning against the railing, eyes fixed on the ocean. My mood doesn’t match the soft, awakening calm of early spring around me. A gentle breeze brushes my face, carrying the scent of salt and flowering shrubs. The day slides toward evening—my favorite time. By now, the work is usually done; there’s time to think, to watch the sunset—something I never seem to tire of.

But not today. Tonight, even beauty can’t quiet the ache beneath my ribs.

That same restlessness has been eating at my focus all day. The two screens in my office behind me flicker patiently without a viewer—one glowing with engineers’ blueprints, the other with economists’ projections. Both demand attention I can’t give. So, I came out here for air, hoping it would help. It doesn’t.

The door opens behind me. I don’t turn; I already know it’s Alex, bringing news. He steps up quietly and lays my cardigan over my shoulders. Typical Alex—always noticing what I need before I say a word. His arm slides around me, warm and solid. I’m grateful for that effortless steadiness.

“Did they confirm it?” I ask.

“They did. Ten days from now, we’re expected on Garantia. Everything’s ready; there’s no need to rush. We’ll keep working as usual.”

“Thank you for handling it,” I sigh. “Dealing with them is exhausting before it even begins.”

“Always a pleasure,” he says lightly. “They irritate me too—more with every interaction. Maybe when we get back, we’ll finally tackle the Alliance properly?”

“We’ll see how things go. Once the contracts are signed, we can start planning. One step at a time. We can discuss options during the flight. For now, I just want to finish what I can, so the work won’t stall while we’re away.”

He nods. “Fair. When are you heading home?”

“I have to stop by the dressmaker. Apparently, I need a suitable outfit.” I roll my eyes. “That means fittings, stores, a week of suffering. The first appointment’s tonight—Odaya already set the time. So, my evening is taken. But the night is free,” I add, trying for a playful tone, though it comes out weaker than I’d hoped. This trip already has me on edge.

“Perfect,” he says, smiling. “Then I’ll be waiting. Dinner, wine, and a relaxing massage—all at your service.”

He kisses the top of my head and leaves the office. My perfect man.

And yet my thoughts drift backward—to our last visit to Garantia, my first time traveling there alone. Grandmother had already grown too frail to make the trip, so Alex’s father went with me, taking on the real work while I merely had to show my face. Even that drained me: the hypocrisy, the constant manipulation that makes my skin crawl.

If only we were stronger. If only we didn’t depend on them so completely. But we are—and we do. At least the ordeal comes only once every five years.

Emet

I wake on the cot in my cell. No idea how they dragged me back here, but somehow, they managed. They didn’t ask a single question—just broke me down piece by piece, trying different methods. Whenever I blacked out, they doused me with cold water and began again. How long did it last? An hour, a day, a lifetime—everything blurs into one endless stretch of pain.

I can still see his face—the High Hierarch. That expression of satisfaction twisting his mouth as he watched. Was it cruelty? Or did he truly believe he was doing something holy? I can’t tell. Every thought splinters under the pain. Even the concept of time disintegrates. My entire world has shrunk to pain—and the moments between. I fall asleep.

Someone kicks me under the ribs waking me up. Another round, then. They haul me up, march me back to the chamber. Same routine. No questions. Just pain. At some point, I start slipping away, letting my mind drift far from my body. Detachment becomes the only way to stay sane.

The next thing I know, I’m back in the cell. Alone. Darkness and cold—almost comforting now, compared to the instruments. I must have passed out again, because when I open my eyes, the door creaks.

A figure steps in, face lost against the light behind him. His voice is steady, formal.
“There will be a trial today. You’ll be taken to wash and dressed appropriately. Follow instructions, and you’ll be spared unnecessary pain.”

A trial. They’re staging a show.

My first impulse is to laugh—it comes out as a dry cough. What could they possibly want from me now? They’ve already decided everything. Justice here is theater, and I’m the lead actor.

Still, the thought of water—real, clean, and hot—pulls me forward. I let them lead me to the shower. The guards watch me scrub the filth from my skin. No matter. I take my time, dragging it out in petty rebellion. My small revenge.

They hand me new clothes. Not mine—everything black. Something between a uniform and a costume. I’m too tired to question it. Then I realize they’ve avoided touching my face this whole time. No bruises where anyone will see. So that’s part of the plan too.

Outside, I barely have time to look at the sky and make breathe in some fresh air before they shove me into a car between two guards. I stare out the window as the city slides past—unreal, distant, like someone else’s dream. Then we stop.

Of all places, they’ve brought me to the university – my university.

A man in a flawless suit gets in—plump, perfumed, all practiced charm. He sits across from me and extends a hand, as though we’re colleagues. “Good day. I’ll be representing you in court,” he announces with satisfaction. “Our planet prides itself on due process, even for the deranged. You’re accused of leading a cult, corrupting young minds, and sacrificing your students to the Anti-God.”

I stare at him. He’s rehearsed every word. So that’s the story—they’ve made me a lunatic prophet and murderer. They even invented Anti-God.

I try to protest, but he raises a manicured hand. “Oh, you’ll confess. With great remorse. The narrative is perfect: a gifted orphan, granted an education by the state, lost in his own obsessions until envy and delusion drove him to fanaticism. It explains everything.”

He takes facts from my life and twists them into a grotesque parody. My stomach turns.

“I’ll tell the truth,” I manage to say.

He smiles thinly. “The truth, Professor Everett, is what the public believes. And by six o’clock this evening, they’ll believe your zealot follower detonated an explosive under your apartment… Unless you cooperate. Your confession could prevent that—and save lives. Maybe even your own, for a few days longer.”

For a moment, I can’t breathe. “You wouldn’t dare. There are students—”

He shrugs. “We wouldn’t. But your imaginary disciple might.”

I close my eyes. My hands shake. I’ve lost already. “Fine,” I whisper. “I’ll do it.”

“Excellent.” He beams. “The collar will be removed during the trial, so you can perform your repentance properly. Don’t worry—no one expects you to survive long afterward.”

He leans back, smug. I look past him, at the window, at the university spires fading behind us. At least they won’t stain the students’ names. Their memory will stay clean, even if I can’t.

Miranda

Osip Galun is giving final instructions for preparation and departure. He’s tense—he always is before a mission to Garantia. As Head of Security, he despises these trips, and honestly, none of us enjoy them either. But his reasons run deeper. Once we cross into their jurisdiction, he can’t control a thing, and for a man like Osip, that’s a nightmare.

We’re forced to trust our neighbors’ good intentions. Officially, there’s no war between our planets. Yet it never feels like peace. Maybe it’s just my paranoia leaking into everyone else, but I can’t shake the sense that we’re walking into the enemy’s camp—not into a trade.

Our worlds are chained together by necessity. Call it irony—or the will of a deranged demiurge—but we can’t survive apart. The essential components of life—minerals, gases, organic compounds—are split unevenly between us, as if the universe once tore a single whole in two and scattered what belonged together. So we trade. We cooperate. We tolerate each other. Because without that, both worlds would die.

Our scientists keep searching for ways to end this dependence. In some fields, we’ve succeeded, but we still lack the one resource we need most—the raw material for ship fuel. Without it, the stars remain a dream.

Garantia has it. That’s why I’m going—to renew our supply contract, to keep the ships running and our future alive for another cycle.

Osip finishes the briefing, and Captain Bina Fless-Dollanger takes over. She commands the Ariadne, our cruiser. “Space fleet” sounds grand, but in truth it’s only a handful of patched-together vessels, older than we are. Interplanetary flights are rare—each one an event, and a risk.

Still, there’s progress. The shuttles for this mission are new-built here on Azur, tested flawlessly. The thought gives me a flicker of pride.

I think of the engineers’ latest proposal—a new propulsion system, more efficient and adaptable. If it works, we could retrofit the Ariadne itself. The chief engineer swore it doesn’t violate any Alliance patents, meaning we might even patent it ourselves. Tempting prospects.

I’ll discuss it with Alex during the trip. He’s buried in diplomatic prep, too busy to look at the data. Maybe that conversation will help—numbers and plans are the best way to keep my nerves quiet.

Three days for final checks. Then we take off.

Emet

By the time we reach the courthouse, the trial has already begun. Witness statements are being read, followed by the so-called evidence of my guilt. I listen, but there’s nothing I can say against this madness.

The parents of my students are crying. Curses rise from the crowd—hurled in my direction.

After half a day in court, they drive me back to the cell. No more beatings—but that doesn’t make it easier. The pain has moved deeper now. My soul feels torn apart by injustice and helplessness.

Three days of this farce unfold exactly as scripted—an imitation of “a fair trial.” The prosecutor demands the highest measure. My “lawyer,” masterfully juggling words, never manages a single argument in my defense.

The judge listens to both sides and even grants me a final word before reading the verdict. I can’t tell the truth, and when the Chief Judge asks if I admit my guilt, all I can do is ask for forgiveness.

“I admit my guilt in being arrogant and proud, full of false hopes. I realized the danger too late and failed to prevent the consequences. If I could turn back time, I would give everything—my own life—to let them live. Forgive me, if you can.”

The judge’s voice is calm as he reads the sentence:

“Emet Everett is found guilty of the murder of ten students of the State University and of spreading the false teachings of the Anti-God. His guilt has been fully proven. In three days, Emet Everett shall be executed at the Square of Justice. The execution will be public—one hundred lashes, ten for each of the deceased. If Emet Everett remains alive, he shall then be hanged for propagating a false faith. The verdict is final and not subject to appeal.”

I am broken. Everything that follows happens as if to someone else. They drive me back to the dungeon. Along the way, they fasten a collar around my neck, saying something I don’t catch. The words pass by like noise.

They take me straight to the torture chamber. A blow to the stomach knocks the air out of me, snapping me briefly back to awareness. They kick me a few times, then drag me onto a chair. A hand grips my neck—tight—and then I see it: a piece of red-hot metal moving closer.

Pain explodes through me as it touches my skin. They’ve branded me. Darkness closes in.

After that, they no longer beat me—but they don’t let me sleep either. If I drift off, they wake me with cold water, or jolt me through the collar, or slap me back to consciousness. Time dissolves. Thought dissolves. In the rare flickers of awareness, faces, voices, objects—all melt into fog.

Now I dream only of death. Death as deliverance.

Miranda

We’re holding in Garantia’s orbit. One thought runs through me like a pulse—raw, insistent: I don’t want to go.

I press my forehead against Alex’s shoulder and whisper it, a plea more than a thought. He doesn’t argue. Just holds me, lets me have this minute of weakness. His lips brush the top of my head.

“Everything’s ready for descent, my Queen,” he murmurs.

“Can’t we stay in orbit a little longer?”

“Mira, you know we can’t. We have to go through with this.”

“Why?” The word bursts out sharper than I mean it to. “Why can’t we just live without them?”

“Rhetorical question,” he says with a faint smile. “But if you want, I can answer—would you prefer a lecture from a bore or comfort from a friend?”

He’s trying to make me laugh. It doesn’t work, but I appreciate the effort. I pull myself together, straighten my back, and step into the shuttle.

Osip stays aboard the cruiser. His job is to cover us from orbit. Garantia isn’t our enemy—not officially—but we all know better than to trust their goodwill. Our protocols require backup, even if it’s only symbolic. It’s absurd, really: if something happened to me and Alex, Osip wouldn’t attack. But they respect only a show of force, so we play along—their game, their language of power.

Alex takes his seat beside me and gives the order to launch. The escort shuttles go first; we follow. It’s easier when he’s near—always has been. With him, even fear feels manageable.

For an empath of my level, being on this planet is agony. The emotional field here is dense—aggression, despair, resentment, pain—crashing down like a storm. I’ll have to keep my shields up constantly. Even so, I know it will drain me.

At least Alex arranged for us to land directly at the palace and park the shuttle nearby. Maybe I can slip away sometimes, hide in its protective field, even sleep there… A bitter smile. No, that won’t happen. Protocol dictates I stay in the guest quarters—to avoid offending our hosts.

Two days. Just two days of ceremony, signatures, and diplomacy to renew the trade contracts. It was supposed to be five, but Alex worked a miracle and cut it down. Everything’s pre-approved; all documents prepared. We only need to endure the ritual. Two days, and I’ll be home.

But even that thought doesn’t calm me. The weight of the planet’s emotions presses closer the lower we descend. My pulse quickens. I reach for Alex’s hand. He squeezes back—steady, grounding.

I look out the window. The city sprawls below—gray blocks, factory chimneys, long shadows. Garantia’s shuttles rise to escort us. Following them, we descend into a labyrinth of streets, moving toward the palace. Then the square opens beneath us—vast, crowded.

We can’t avoid flying over it, so the shuttle tilts slightly for safety. On a giant screen, a scene plays out: a man tied to a post. Maybe it’s a reenactment, a film shoot… Even if it’s theater, I can’t understand such entertainment.

Then I see the whip rise and fall. The crowd gasps in rhythm. For a heartbeat I can’t process it—don’t want to believe what I’m seeing. Then the psychic backlash hits me like a blade. His pain isn’t acted. It’s real.

“Stop the shuttle.”

“Mira—” Alex starts, but he knows it’s useless.

I can’t look away. The punishment continues, each strike tears through my shields like paper. My breath quickens, fists clench, every nerve screaming interfere.

Alex exhales softly, calculating a way to stop this without igniting a diplomatic crisis. Then he says quietly:

“Article 311 of the Interplanetary Convention. Subsection 52—you have one right of request as an honored guest. The host planet must grant it unless it violates planetary security.”

“Then use it,” I whisper. “Now. Please. Before they kill him.”

I shut my eyes, trying to center myself, to stop shaking.

Alex opens a channel to the Chancellor. The conversation plays on loudspeaker. The Chancellor explains that the man is a heretic—a sectarian who lured students to their deaths. He calls it justice and mercy.

But every instinct I have screams lie. I meet Alex’s eyes—he reads me and presses harder. After a tense exchange, the Chancellor yields. The execution will be halted immediately, and the prisoner released to me—under one condition: full responsibility transfers to Azur, and the judgment stands.

I nod for Alex to confirm.

The Chancellor’s tone is clipped when he ends the call. The guards will deliver the man to the palace for formal handover during tonight’s reception.

I can barely breathe. Savages. Cultured, polished savages.
My hands tremble; my shields flicker. Alex’s arm comes around me again, steady, grounding.
He murmurs something reassuring, but I barely hear. The image burns behind my eyelids—a man stripped and broken, the crowd’s roar drowning his pain.

Two days, I remind myself. Just two days.

Emet

They wake me by dousing me with ice-cold water. Then they order me to strip off the bloody, filthy rags that used to be clothes and put on a T-shirt and loose trousers. Even that takes effort. Weakness and pain turn every movement into work.

They yell at me to hurry, but how could that help? My head barely works; thought drifts sluggishly, scattered. The way up feels like moving through fog. In the car, I pass out almost immediately. It’s almost funny, in a grim way—my body no longer cares. Execution or no execution, sleep feels more important.

Only a moment later—or so it seems—someone jabs me awake. They drag me from the car and “escort” me to the scaffold. A court official climbs up after us and solemnly reads the verdict aloud. Then they tie me to the post by the control bracelets on my wrists. The executioner tears the shirt from my back. A stray thought flickers: What was the point of putting it on at all?

The absurdity of it all numbs me. As far back as I remember, executions were always done quietly, hidden—so as not to disturb the citizens’ peace. But I have no strength left to think. Everything registers somewhere deep in the background, beyond will or reason.

The first lash burns across my back, sharpening the edges of consciousness for a heartbeat. This is my road to death. All I can do is count the blows—no coherent thought left, only one wish: that it ends.

At the fifth strike, the executioner suddenly stops. A commotion follows—shouting, movement, confusion. Then they untie me and shove me into a car. I’m still alive, though I’m not sure my mind is. But I have no strength left to think—or to fear. I just let go, and sleep.

Miranda

In the chambers assigned to me, I take a moment to pull myself together. According to protocol, I’ve been given a “lady’s maid”—supposedly to help with dressing and hair, but in truth she’s here to observe and report.

Alex’s quarters are next to mine, a connecting door between us—a subtle reminder that our relationship isn’t exactly a secret. It’s hardly a scandal, yet the way it’s arranged feels intrusive, deliberate—an unspoken pressure that never lets up. Or maybe I’m imagining it. I have to calm down.

Tonight, will be the hardest part. Tomorrow will be easier—the signing ceremony, the farewell speeches. But tonight, I’ll have to keep my composure and make sure nothing goes wrong. I’ve already complicated things for Alex with that man—I still don’t know what to call him: criminal or rescued. I gave in to an impulse, forgot my role. Now I regret it—too late—but I also know I couldn’t have done otherwise. I only hope I haven’t damaged our mission too much.

I look at myself in the mirror and can’t help a wry smile. I look… impressive. A gold gown of intricate cut, heavy with embroidery and gemstones. My hair is piled high, threaded with pearls. Around my neck, a necklace that feels more like a chain. I feel like a mannequin at a jewelry exhibit. Unfortunately, here they understand only one language—wealth displayed loudly—and I have no choice but to speak it.

Two days, I remind myself. Then I slip into character, pulling on the mask of arrogance and indifference. Even I almost believe it. At least Alex will be there to cover for me. Still, I must do everything possible—and impossible—to make this visit end well.

Alex enters, smiling encouragingly. I force a smile in return. He takes my hand with mock ceremony and kisses it.

“You’re stunning, Your Majesty. Piercing straight to the heart.”

“Stop teasing me. There’s none of me in this ridiculous display of wealth.”

“I mean it,” he says. “You’d be beautiful in anything—even in this.”

He offers his arm; I take it. We step out. An officer in full dress uniform escorts us to the Grand Hall. So much here is grand. The palace radiates ornate excess. I study the details with detached curiosity. There is beauty, perhaps, but it’s a suffocating kind—designed to impress, not inspire. I want to go home.

But first, the reception. We enter the Grand Hall—an overwhelming spectacle of wealth and pretense. The air is thick with false smiles and hollow words. I feel the emotional storm before the crowd’s energy even hits—fear, envy, ambition, the desperate hunger to please. I shield myself as best I can, but it’s hard, especially when you’re the center of attention.

The President gestures for me to sit beside him on the dais. I move with ceremonial grace; Alex stands just behind me. I wear my protocol smile and engage in polite conversation—this is my part of the work.

Our delegation is doing theirs too, circulating, building informal bridges. The visit is ritual—a performance of respect, the usual dance of diplomacy. Business between our worlds will continue as always. The evening crawls on, each minute heavier than the last. I’m glad it’s nearly over, though the morning’s incident still hangs unresolved. They’re waiting for me to bring it up—I can feel it. I force myself to stay silent, giving Alex room to manage it his way. I’d only make things worse.

“By the way, about this morning, Your Majesty…” – The President’s gaze fixes on me, weighing every reaction.

I control everything—breath, face, eyes. I think I manage mild, polite interest.

“Although I understand, dear Miranda—may I call you that? —that a woman of your kind heart couldn’t ignore such a sight, still, we are talking about a religious fanatic and a murderer. Perhaps, you’ll reconsider whether this request is worth pursuing. We would gladly fulfill some other wish of yours—anything within our power.” His tone drips courtesy: I can barely stand the sweetness.

“Mr. President, sentimentality is a lady’s weakness. It seemed romantic to save a condemned man—to give him a second chance, you understand?” – I speak nonsense deliberately, while holding my ground.

“We’re always happy to grant your wishes,” he replies smoothly. “I only wish to warn you of the possible consequences. It would pain us if you were to encounter… difficulties.”

“Thank you for your concern, Mr. President, I truly appreciate it. Alex will handle any difficulties, won’t you, dear?” – I glance back at him.

“Of course, my Queen,” he answers with a slight bow.

The President’s satisfaction radiates like heat, and I freeze inside. Why satisfaction? What does he know that I don’t? My intuition screams trap.

I can’t speak to Alex—can’t risk being overheard. He senses my unease, of course, but we both know we must keep playing the part, minimizing the damage as best we can.

Alex

It’s my first mission to Garantia as Chief Advisor — the first time I’m fully in charge. Before, my father handled everything; I only observed. Now the responsibility is mine alone, and despite all the preparation — months of work, endless revisions, every contingency checked a hundred times — I can’t relax.

Technically, every protocol has been agreed upon, though nothing is signed yet. Anything could go wrong. Something already has. But I can’t show my worries. Mira is already on edge — this trip is pure strain for her. And then that public execution… I can’t shake the feeling that we’ve become part of someone’s play.

As if to confirm it, the doors of the hall open and guards march in. They bring the prisoner. He looks barely alive. I feel Mira tense. I have to shield her as best I can.

The President turns to her, voice smooth as oil. “Will you change your mind, Your Majesty?”

I know her. She isn’t impulsive; she weighs every choice. Once she decides, no pressure will sway her. So, I’m not surprised when she answers, calm and firm, “Let’s finish this, please. We’ve had a long day, and I’d like to rest. I’d be very grateful.”

“Of course,” the President agrees, all graciousness. “Chancellor.”

The Chancellor approaches, a folder in hand. I reach for our copy, scanning quickly. Mira stays composed, trusting me to handle the formalities. Everything appears standard—until one phrase stops me cold. I force my anger down; she can sense emotion, and I can’t let her feel mine. If only we could talk…

The Chancellor’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “As soon as Her Majesty signs these papers, the slave will become her property.”

A slave. I see the flash in Mira’s eyes. She looks at me; I give the smallest nod. A trap, confirmed. That’s why the President looks so pleased.

She buys time, voice light but measured.

“I didn’t know you practice slavery.”

The Chancellor smiles, thin and poisonous.

“In general, no. But in exceptional cases we apply extraordinary measures. To restrain and neutralize a fanatic who performed a ritual sacrifice, we branded him with a mark of obedience — a control sigil. Once you sign the transfer, His Holiness will pass that control to you, Your Majesty.”

I feel her unease; she’s trembling. But I can’t interfere — the choice is hers, and I’ll follow it. We’ve known each other too long; I can almost hear her thoughts: If I refuse, they’ll kill him. If I agree, I bring home a political disaster. But he’ll live. And what is worth more than life? And I agree with her, every word. We’ll deal with the rest later.

Under the crowd’s watchful eyes, she performs flawlessly — the perfect mask of privilege.
“Alex, are the documents in order?”

“Perfectly, Your Majesty,” I answer, acknowledging her decision.

“Then let’s proceed. Mr. President, are you ready?”

He beams. “I’m in awe of your determination, dear Miranda. Let’s sign and conclude this business.”

They sign. I take our copy; the Chancellor takes theirs. Mira glances at the President, waiting for what comes next.

The Chancellor’s tone drips with satisfaction.
“His Holiness will now perform the transfer ritual. He’ll renounce control, and then you, Your Majesty, must accept it. A rare rite — a historic moment.”

We watch His Holiness prick his finger and let a drop of blood fall onto the man’s branded chest.
The President turns to us.
“Your turn, dear Miranda. You must drop your blood on the mark, so it recognizes you as mistress and binds his will to yours.”

Mira’s voice stays even, trying to deflect.
“Is that necessary? I have no need to control his will.”

“Unfortunately, if you don’t take control, he’ll die in agony. See? It’s already starting.”
The President smiles pleasantly, enjoying every second.

Mira has no choice. She steps closer, pricks her finger, and lets her blood fall onto the mark.

“Now say: From this day until death, you are my slave,” His Holiness instructs.

I know she’s screaming inside, but she repeats the words. Then lifts her gaze, steady.
“Is that all?”

“Oh yes,” he replies, smiling. “From now on, he is yours, Your Majesty. His life is in your hands. He’ll obey your every command — the mark won’t allow resistance.”

Maintaining outward calm, Mira replies, “Very well. Have him taken to my quarters.” Then, turning to the President, “Thank you for accommodating my request, Mr. President.
Now, if you’ll excuse me — I’m a little tired, and tomorrow will be a busy day.”

“Of course, dear Miranda. I wish you a pleasant night. Until tomorrow.” His courtesy is flawless.

I offer her my arm. We leave the noble assembly, walking as fast as we dare — every step calm and measured, every face composed. Together we radiate quiet indifference. Inside, both of us are burning.

Emet

I have no idea how much time has passed—or what’s been happening around me. For me, it’s been a brief, blissful fragment of rest that ends the moment they yank me from the car and lead me somewhere again.

What stirs in my head aren’t even thoughts, only the shadows of them. I feel like a puppet, an empty shell moved by invisible strings. They drag me back and forth, forcing me to take part in a performance whose script I never saw.

It feels like a play—its logic beyond my reach. In a fogged attempt to understand, I glance around and realize we’re in the Presidential Palace. I’ve been here once before, when they honored the university’s top students. Back then, it had felt solemn, meaningful. Now it’s absurd—a half-naked, half-dead man paraded through a hall of ostentatious grandeur.

The doors to the Grand Hall swing open. The elegantly dressed crowd stares in bewilderment, parting to let us through. On the dais sits the President, same as before—but now the scene feels like a grotesque dream. I want to wake up or at least shake off the illusion.

A blow to my legs sends me to my knees. Rows of jeweled faces stare down—puffed-up peacocks in human form. Let them look. It no longer matters.

His Holiness shuffles closer, the same repulsive old man, and pricks his finger with a needle. A drop of blood falls onto the brand on my chest. “I release you from my will,” he says—and adds, almost kindly, “You’ll have a mistress soon enough.”

Pain erupts, blooming outward. Every nerve ignites; every cell screams. I clench my fists and teeth, fighting the cry that rises in my throat—but control is slipping. If this continues, I’ll die from it.

Through the haze I glimpse her—the adorned woman who had been sitting beside the President—step forward. She mirrors his gesture, pricking her finger, letting a drop of blood fall onto the mark. Her voice reaches me, distant, unreal:

“From this day until death, you are my slave.”

Slave?

A final convulsion seizes me. The world folds in on itself—light, sound, pain—and disappears into darkness.