“Colonel Westchester and Colonel Hackett, we have successfully pushed back the Unity Air Fleet – temporarily. LZ X-Ray shouldn’t be assault by the air. I cannot promise that state will last forever though. My pilots after action reports informed me that they had never fought (simulated or actual) combat in their careers. Lost a few drones and a manned aircraft, but at least these Alien…Unity bastards didn’t leave bloodied.

  I have a MQ-73 Epimetheus deploying into the regroup to support your Coeus. My staff got a pinged stating that they might have detected additional hostile air assist moving into Hastsano Gap. I will do what I can to keep them off your back; but half of my Squadron is dedicated to securing the three 101st Combat Aviation Brigade evacuation routes back to Salva. The enemy will not be surprised by our assault a second time.” Lieutenant Colonel Sarah Morras, 23d Fighter Squadron

  May 14th, 2069 (Military Calendar)

  Colorado Springs, Colorado, United States

  North America, Earth

  *****

  The Princess walked through the Space Force facility, annoyed by the dull, gray walls.

  She had grown accustomed to vibrant corridors adorned with cultural artwork, thoughtfully spaced and alive with history. Here, the sterile hallways held only a few computer-printed images—soulless, too crisp to be human-made. Fake plants were scattered about with little care, offering only meager contrast to the overwhelming blandness.

  Assiaya glanced at her Elvish advisor, noting the expected expression of disappointment. The problem wasn’t merely the absence of color—it was the metal-and-gray monotony. A strange purplish-glass line ran along the ceiling, separating it from the wall: a security sensor, she’d been told.

  "Routh would be disappointed," the voice in her mind murmured.

  "I am," Assiaya replied mentally. "I can tell the art is fake. It’s too detailed. Too unnatural."

  "I believe they call it computer-generated?"

  "I don’t know."

  Noticing that General Sherman had stopped ahead, she saw him speaking with the head of security, a Colonel named Fraser, identified by his blue and white Space Force uniform.

  "I heard there was an incident," Sherman said.

  "Two protestors threw mocktail bottles at the security gate," Fraser responded.

  "You mean Molotov cocktails?"

  "My apologies, sir. It’s been a long night."

  "Are people attacking?" Assiaya asked.

  The Colonel smiled, but something about it unsettled her. All the details of the gesture were correct—teeth, eyes, expression—but like the computer-generated art, it lacked a soul.

  "A few clashes outside," Fraser explained. "Some are religious protests, others are in support of the new aliens, and others are anti-racial. A mix of everything."

  “It seems destruction is your people's preferred outlet,” Assiaya said bluntly.

  "Winter’s coming to an end," Sherman remarked. “So, they need something to do.”

  Assiaya paused. That reminded her of times Kallem withheld campaigns because of bad weather. She wondered if some great snowstorm had paralyzed Earth, and now the populists were just thawing out.

  "I think I understand," she said. "Would you like me to speak with them?"

  "Let’s focus on the treaty first," Sherman said. "I don’t know what the Tsar plans afterward, but a pre-recorded statement seems likely."

  "Why wait so long?"

  "Let people process their emotions first," Sherman answered.

  "It was only last month the world thought it was alone," Fraser added. "I bet all this is shocking for you."

  "It has been," Assiaya admitted. "Your country is so different—so full of culture, entertainment, and light. Your homes are filled with such convenience, I don’t even know how to describe it."

  The officers chuckled.

  "Some say we’ve gone too far," Fraser said. "Technology puts everything at our fingertips. We’ve lost touch with the real world."

  "My father said something like that," she replied. "Something about living in the world, not off it. But his friends call him primitive because he likes disks. I don’t know what those are."

  She straightened her posture. Her tone shifted.

  "It only convinced me there is a better path. I want my people not merely to survive—but to thrive. My House ruled a forgotten backwater. No more."

  "Well, Your Highness," Fraser said, "You’re a brave one. If you need anything, come to me directly."

  She smiled at the Colonel's kindness and extended her hand—the American greeting she had learned. Fraser chuckled and accepted it.

  A flash—razor-sharp teeth, a bloodied mouth blur, with screaming echoing. It was not real, but it felt too vivid to ignore.

  Assiaya froze. Fear and confusion surged as she abruptly pulled her hand away. Fraser did the same, blinking.

  "I apologize if I overstepped," he said.

  Assiaya glanced down, unable to speak. Sherman and Yeldan noticed the tension and stepped in, allowing Fraser to depart.

  "What was that?" she asked mentally.

  "I... I don’t know," the voice replied. "It was a flash, but..."

  Sherman kneeled beside her. "Are you okay?"

  "Y-Yes," she said. "Sorry. I wasn’t trying to be rude."

  "It’s alright," he said gently. "Miss your father?"

  Of course she did. But that wasn’t what had just shaken her. During the siege, she’d grown used to her father's absences. But here—on Earth—for the first time, she felt truly afraid, and she didn’t know why.

  "Yes," she whispered.

  "Let’s focus on the meeting. That will help," Sherman said, standing.

  She followed the others down the hall into the conference room, where the American staff mingled among themselves, managing their departmental duties.

  "Nice to see you again," said Holloway. "Shall we continue?"

  "The Princess is ready," Yeldan confirmed.

  "Then let’s finish this," Atkinson said.

  "The sooner we finalize the treaty, the sooner I can return to DC and fundraising," added Sullivan.

  With the Alagore Tsar organizing the seating, everyone took their places. Assiaya struggled briefly to climb onto the double-stacked chair, but managed without assistance.

  "Princess," Holloway said, "I assume you’ve reviewed the treaty?"

  "I did," she replied. "It took almost all night, but I did."

  "Most of it is standard," West noted. "You didn’t need to read it all."

  "We value the effort," Yeldan said. "And we wish to show the same respect."

  "I’m glad someone appreciates proper statecraft," Sullivan said.

  "Please," Harrington scoffed. "All your bills are PI-generated nonsense like the rest of us."

  "There’s a difference between using tech to enhance your work and using it to replace work," Sullivan countered.

  "The Senator is correct," Yeldan said. "Statecraft is an art. That is why I exist."

  Assiaya could feel the Americans' discomfort. Yeldan’s comment, subtle as it was, touched the delicate subject of motuia. She recalled long talks with Uncle Hackett and General Sherman: Americans saw it as indentured servitude, even slavery. But on Alagore, it was apprenticeship and economic stability. As part of the accord, her Council had outlawed slavery and cruel punishments, but retained motuia. For now.

  "If you two are done bonding," Harrington said, "Let’s get to work."

  "If there are no more delays," Sullivan added, "I’ll propose the treaty to the Foreign Relations subcommittee tomorrow."

  "I’ll inform the President," Holloway said. "He’ll be pleased."

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  As the Americans spoke of logistics, Assiaya realized no one asked her opinion—only that she had read the treaty. They saw her as a figurehead. That knowledge solidified her resolve. She would be seen, not sidelined.

  She turned to Yeldan, heart pounding. When he gave an encouraging nod, she took a deep breath.

  "Excuse me," she said. "May I speak?"

  "Of course," Harrington said, surprised. "Do you have a question?"

  "No. With respect, I support the treaty. I see its value for both our peoples. I’m thankful for the trust placed in me and my House. But…there are elements I do not agree with."

  Silence.

  The room turned to her, stunned. Even Sherman looked confused, asking silently what she was doing. She was supposed to smile and nod. She had learned this from watching Kallem’s court.

  Was this a mistake? Had she misread the tone? Her heart raced. But retreat now would confirm their image of her as a mere child.

  "Oh Lord," West muttered, rubbing her temple.

  "Are you playing a game?" Harrington asked.

  "I told you she wasn’t ready for this," Atkinson said.

  "Hold on," Holloway said, raising a hand. The room stilled as he stared directly at her—cold, piercing. "Explain yourself."

  Assiaya felt the weight of her gamble. There was no retreat now. But she wasn’t foolish. She had studied Kallem’s power, learned from Yeldan’s wisdom. She didn’t have to be a [rug for others to trample].

  She nodded toward Yeldan.

  "As I said, there are... Pacific details I wish to...amdent?" She winced, realizing she’d used the wrong word again—'Pacific' instead of 'specific'. These human words still tripped her up.

  "Amendments," Yeldan corrected gently. "And specific."

  "Amendments?" Atkinson scoffed. "That’s not how this works."

  "We agreed to provide military aid," Sullivan said. "We can withdraw it. You know what that means?"

  "Shut up," Holloway said, silencing the room again. He looked to Assiaya. "Continue."

  "The treaty omits key needs of my people. Needs that will benefit you as well."

  "Do you know how many Americans died protecting your city?" Robinson asked.

  "Ninety-seven," Assiaya said. "Not counting the wounded. My militias and civilians died too."

  Harrington chuckled. "She got you there, Secretary."

  "Thank you, Representative," Assiaya said with a bow.

  "With respect," Sherman added, "The Princess was the one who netted that native flag photo we circulated. She also handed flowers to more soldiers than anyone else during the siege."

  "I meant no disrespect," Assiaya said softly.

  Yeldan rose. "The Princess seeks investment."

  She was embarrassed by needing his help—but grateful. A fresh confidence surged.

  "Correct. I’ve seen your Spring City. The lights, the Internet. I want that for Salva—and for my other cities in the future."

  "We’ve already invested in Salva," Atkinson said.

  "To be fair," Sherman replied, "Only military-related projects. My engineers' work overlaps with civil needs, but it’s not direct aid."

  "Now we’re getting to the point," Holloway said.

  "I want Salva to be a beacon for Alagore," Assiaya said. "I don’t want to be a forgotten port again. I want roads, lights, and power. And when you bring your factories, I want my people included. I want greatness—with you."

  "That’s fine," Atkinson said. "But this is wartime. Civil infrastructure can wait."

  She hesitated, uncertain—until Yeldan leaned in.

  "There was once a time when Vagahm sought our aid against Toriffa. In return, they promised better economic terms. That was three human lifetimes ago. We still wait."

  She understood instantly. She faced the Americans again, steady.

  "No. You need our forges. You need warriors. Your world struggles with birthrates—you need us. But for that, we must cooperate."

  "So," Harrington said, "You want more money?"

  The question irritated her. Not because the answer was yes, but because it implied selfishness. She wasn’t asking for charity—motuia taught value through toil.

  "I want my people to be great," she said. "To be a thankful ally—not a burden."

  Sullivan leaned back. "I hate to say it... I get it."

  "You’re buying this?" asked the Secretary of State.

  "How many allies hide behind our military?" Sullivan replied. "She wants to pull her weight. That’s rare."

  "I agree," Sherman added.

  "Thank you, Senator," Assiaya said. "That was my next point. I want a Legion."

  The room fell into shocked silence.

  "A Legion?" Holloway asked.

  "If I am to rebuild my Kingdom under my name," she said, "I need a Legion. During the siege, we fought side by side. I want to do that again—not as a dependent, but as a partner."

  "Interesting proposals, Princess," Holloway said.

  "You can’t be appeasing this," Atkinson muttered.

  "I appease nothing," Holloway replied. "I dislike her delivery. But her proposals? I do like them."

  "At least it wasn’t in public," Sullivan murmured.

  "It’s nice to see a foreign leader wanting to help carry the weight," Holloway added.

  Assiaya couldn’t tell if her gamble had succeeded. Whispers circled the room. She sat down slowly, heart pounding.

  "I believe we should take a break," Holloway said. "Let’s each review what’s been said. We’ll return in one hour."

  *****

  Walking along the hallway, she watched the grown adults—so easily surprised by her presence. Some glanced at her, others avoided eye contact. Clearly, she had left an impression. To what degree, she did not know.

  The General led the way, with Yeldan at her side, guiding them to a smaller conference room. Since the meeting had ended, Sherman hadn't said a word.

  "I think he is mad," the voice commented.

  "I thought he would respect me," Assiaya responded mentally. "Maybe I was wrong."

  "I think we did great. How often have we seen these arguments and demands in private under Kallem? As the Senator said, we didn’t go public."

  Assiaya could only replay memories of her time serving Kallem—those endless diplomatic meetings between the Houses of the Aristocracy. Most were respectful, but shouting matches weren’t rare when tensions rose. Sometimes, loud voices got what they wanted. She had seen this firsthand when her former master defied the Unity and annexed Nevali.

  So when she saw the level of arguing between the American politicians, she assumed the same tactics might work. She had shown bravery and determination. She hadn’t wanted to be a pushover. But now... she was unsure. Had she misread the situation?

  "Maybe the Altaerrie do things differently."

  "After dealing with Vagahm, I thought we’d be ready for anything."

  "I don’t know... I just feel like a failure."

  "I think things went well. You got the Senator and Tsar to acknowledge your proposals. At least you stood up for yourself."

  They entered a small room with a double-sided desk in the center. When the Princess and her motuia stepped in, Sherman followed, shutting the door behind him. He paced forward, then turned to face them, arms on his hips.

  “What the hell happened in there?” Sherman demanded.

  Assiaya looked up at the American General. He seemed like a giant now. Her mouth opened, but no words came. Shame pressed her eyes downward.

  “General,” Yeldan began, “I—”

  She grasped her advisor’s sleeve. “I wish to respond.”

  Sherman’s eyes narrowed. She steadied her voice. “I’m deeply sorry if I offended you. I only wished to represent my people—not be seen as weak.”

  The General crossed his arms, exhaling in frustration. “You made me look like a fool. You should have talked to me first.”

  She opened her mouth again, but Yeldan stepped in before she could speak. She tried to stop him, but the words caught in her throat.

  “General. It was under my advisement,” Yeldan said calmly.

  “Yours?” Sherman repeated in disbelief. “I expected more from you. Why didn’t you talk to me first?”

  “Because you are a General of the United States,” Yeldan replied. “Military and politics are separate in your system. You are honor-bound to report to your superiors, not hide information. You cannot be an independent actor during these decisions. Or is my observation incorrect?”

  Sherman stood silent for a moment. “Fair point,” he admitted. “But you shouldn’t have pulled the rug out from under us. I put my reputation on the line to prop you up, Assiaya.”

  Assiaya took a breath. “Am I an ally or a slave?”

  The question stunned him. He opened his mouth once, twice—then closed it, reflecting on the deeper meaning. The silence stretched on, shaking her inside. Her mind spiraled with imagined consequences, potential meanings, and how her words might be interpreted.

  He finally sighed, brushing a hand through his short-cropped hair. “I see where you’re going with this.”

  “Please listen,” she said. “I’m thankful for everything. I just don’t want to be seen as an afterthought—a bump to tolerate. I know we aren’t equals. But I want to show strength. We’re not baggage.”

  “Well,” Sherman muttered, “you wanted to make a point. You made it. How much did Ryder know?”

  “There had been talks of forming a Legion and rebuilding Salva for the war,” Yeldan answered. “And improving quality of life. But nothing finalized—he’s been deployed. If Ryder were here, we may have chosen a different path. Still, Assiaya had to seize the chance to show herself as a leader. Not a twelve-year-old girl in your people’s eyes.”

  The General rubbed his face. “Christ... war is easier than politics.” He looked between them. “Fine. One way or another, you made your move. Just—next time, come to me first. So... what now?”

  “We shall see,” Yeldan said. “You’ve given them something to think about.”

  A beeping interrupted the tension. Sherman fished out his phone, eyes flicking over a message. He exhaled.

  “I have to go,” he said. “Uncomfortable briefing.”

  As he walked out, Assiaya followed. “I meant what I said. I hope to help. I want your people to know they can count on us.”

  “I know, kid,” he replied. “I’ll be in Room 305. Just show your pass if you need me.”

  She was left standing in the corridor, everything echoing in her mind. She’d thought the conference room would be the hardest part. But now that it was over—and the waiting began—the silence was worse. Somewhere, behind closed doors, they debated her fate.

  “I know it feels impossible,” Yeldan said, reappearing. “But stressing over the unknown will only make it worse.”

  “I think I made a mistake,” she whispered.

  “Possibly. But not standing up for yourself would’ve been one too.”

  “But...”

  Yeldan crouched slightly to meet her eyes. “Assiaya, their reaction was expected. Of course they were upset. They didn’t expect a young female like you to assert yourself. Half of it was performance, anyway.”

  “What if they pull support?”

  “There might be a punishment. But don’t worry. Politics doesn’t die—it only reshapes. You can always rise again.”

  She listened as he outlined what would come next: the initial frustration, the complicated emotions. One might even laugh. Another might secretly admire her boldness—comparing her to their own daughter. And they would revisit the proposals and see they weren’t as extreme as they first believed.

  When the idea of forming a Legion to support the Americans had been raised—that was when Assiaya understood why Yeldan saved it for last. The rest of her requests would be softened by the image of an allied vassal shedding blood for their cause. In a democracy, that was an easier sell to the voters.

  She turned to him, surprised. “How do you know?”

  Yeldan chuckled. “I’ve been playing this game longer than anyone in this building has been alive.”

  “Is it really that easy?”

  “No. And while I believe the Altaerrie mean well... nothing is free. They must have plans. Maybe we stay a protectorate. Maybe we’re absorbed over time. I don’t know. But now, you have leverage.”

  Governing was far more complicated than she’d imagined. The Americans’ long-term goals hadn’t even crossed her mind—not while she still struggled with the daily burdens of ruling a city newly freed. Two months on the throne and already submerged in politics.

  Her stomach rumbled.

  Seeing that both were hungry, Yeldan escorted her to the cafeteria. Security checked her pass at several points before letting them through. With the summit restricting access, the place was quiet. No lines.

  What surprised Assiaya was the variety: burgers, sandwiches, prepackaged meals. It was all ready. Back home, meals were shared communally, freshly prepared. This... this felt sterile, efficient. Like everything here: designed for speed, not soul.

  They sat. She devoured her fries, savoring the salty crispness. Yeldan examined his Caesar salad with suspicion before tasting it.

  That’s when a man in a black suit approached. Unlike the rest in Guardian uniforms, this one stood out.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he said. “You dropped this.”

  The man handed Yeldan a folded slip of paper. Assiaya leaned in as her advisor opened it—only for him to shut it again just as quickly.

  “You’d think they’d be a bit cleverer,” Yeldan muttered.

  “I don’t understand,” she asked.

  The Wood Elf stood abruptly, adjusting his tunic. “Neither do I. I need to use what they call the restroom.”

  She blinked as he walked away, stiff and strange. He had never acted like this. Her trust in him had always been solid. But this—this was unsettling.

  She thought about reporting it to Sherman—but the voice inside her stopped her.

  If she told them she no longer trusted her motuia, the Americans would lose trust in her. And her father was off in Alagore, still fighting.

  "We need to know what’s going on," the voice said.

  "I agree," Assiaya replied. "But we can’t go into the men’s room."

  "Remember when we were captured? When I floated around. I can do that again—see what they’re discussing."

  "In the men’s room? That’s inappropriate. What if... we see, you know what?"

  "We’ve seen dead bodies in war."

  She couldn’t argue with that.

  If she wanted answers, she had to act.

  She entered the women’s restroom, nodding politely to the female guard outside. Inside, she scanned the stalls—all against the shared wall.

  Assiaya entered the middle one, sat, and raised her hands to shoulder height. Closing her eyes, she drew her energy inward. Focused. Breathed.

  A glow formed between her palms.

  A tiny floating spirit face shimmered into existence—green-yellow-white with faint antennae.