The Grand Aeloria's central spire pierced the sky like a spear of glass and steel, its peak lost in the thin atmosphere. The suite where Ethan and Governor Tallis Krell met was the crown jewel of the structure, a sprawling, open expanse encased entirely in glass, suspended so high above the city that the horizon curved at the edges.
The walls shifted their opacity as the two suns shined brightly in the sky, dimming to a smoky tint to soften the glare. At a word from Krell, they could turn fully opaque for privacy, but the governor had kept them transparent, as if to frame the conversation against the backdrop of Kynara's reconstruction.
They sat in floating chairs that adjusted seamlessly to their posture, hovering above the floor. Between them stretched a long crystalline table that reflected the setting sun like frozen light. A second course of delicately prepared food, local delicacies mixed with Federation cuisine, lay half-eaten, pushed aside as the conversation grew heavier.
Ethan twirled a fork between his fingers, watching the glint of metal catch the fading light. He didn't have an appetite to begin with, but the meal seemed to have somehow lost its flavor even more the moment Krell had revealed his proposal.
An honorary title. A liaison. A symbol.
In return? Access to tech and weaponry most mercenaries could only dream of. His ship, battered and barely holding together before ongoing repairs, could be fully restored or replaced by the best models in the Federation's fleet. Experimental tactical suits and power armord, prototype gadgets, and priority docking rights across the Orion Federation sectors.
And security clearance. The ability to bypass some inspections, skip certain invasive scans, and dock at restricted stations without every overzealous security officer breathing down his neck.
It was the kind of offer that made survival easier. But survival always came at a cost.
Ethan tapped the fork against the edge of his plate, jaw tight.
The cost, in this case, was his name. His image.
He'd become a banner the Federation could wave to placate the Kynaran population, proof that peace was working. A trophy to remind everyone that the war was over and cooperation had won.
The thought tasted bitter.
"You're quiet," Krell said, leaning back in his chair. His glass of golden liquor hovered just above the table's surface, suspended by the chair's subtle gravity field. He sipped, watching Ethan with the patient calculation of a man who was used to people bending under the weight of what he offered.
Ethan didn't bend.
He set the fork down, metal clinking against glass.
"I'm thinking," Ethan muttered.
Krell nodded, unbothered. "Take your time. It's not a small decision."
No, it wasn't.
Ethan's gaze drifted to the view beyond the glass walls. the skeletal remains of buildings, the glow of welding torches from construction drones, ships weaving through the sky as they ferried supplies to the surface. People working. Rebuilding.
People he'd fought to protect.
His mercenary instincts told him to walk away. To slip back into the void, free and untethered. But the part of him forged in war, the reluctant leader he'd become, couldn't ignore what was at stake.
If he accepted, he could secure what he needed to stay alive and stronger. If he refused, Kynara might still heal... but maybe not as quickly.
And Ethan had already given too much to let this place burn again.
But if they wanted to use him?
He'd make damn sure he used them right back.
Ethan leaned back in the floating chair, arms crossed, voice sharp. "I'll do it," he said, the words dropping like stone. "But on my terms."
Krell's smile barely twitched, but there was a flicker of intrigue in his eyes. "I'd expect nothing less."
Ethan raised a finger. "First, I keep full independence. I go where I want, do what I want, no strings. I don't belong to the Federation, just the Mercenary Guild."
Krell inclined his head. "Agreed."
"Second, if the Federation screws Kynara over, I call it out. Publicly. You break the diplomatic agreements, I break the illusion that you still have my support."
Krell set his glass down, the echo soft against the crystalline surface. "A fair demand," he said, voice even.
"Third," Ethan continued, voice hardening, "I'm not your soldier. I don't fight your wars. If you drag me into a conflict without my consent, the deal's over."
Krell chuckled, swirling his drink. "You won't be conscripted, Ethan. Your value lies in what you represent, not how many bodies you drop."
Ethan ignored the remark. "And lastly, this role stays honorary. You use my name for peace only. Nothing else. No hidden clauses. No manipulation."
Krell watched him for a long moment, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The governor's expression never faltered, polished, practiced. But there was a flicker of something else beneath the surface.
Respect.
"You drive a harder bargain than some diplomats," Krell said, amusement lacing his voice.
Ethan didn't blink. "Take it or leave it."
Krell let the silence linger, like he was savoring it. He cradled his glass of golden liquor, swirling the remnants as if weighing the moment in his hand. The glow of the two suns cast fractured light across the crystalline table, scattering shimmering patterns across the floor. Finally, with a slow, deliberate motion, he set the glass down and extended his hand across the table, fingers loose, palm up.
"Deal," he said, voice smooth and unwavering. "Every term. No tricks."
Ethan stared at the offered hand, his chest heavy with the weight of the decision he'd just made. He didn't trust Krell. Not fully. The governor was a politician to his bones, and even the most straightforward of men could bend words like knives when the situation called for it. But trust wasn't what Ethan needed right now.
Leverage was.
And he had plenty of it.
He clasped Krell's hand, grip iron-tight, enough that the governor's fingers flexed involuntarily. Ethan wanted him to feel the pressure, the unspoken promise that he'd break this deal the second the Federation tried to twist it.
"Deal," Ethan said, voice low and cold as stone.
Krell's smile barely shifted, but there was something sharper in his eyes. Amusement. Maybe even admiration. He eased back into his floating chair, lacing his fingers together as it adjusted to his posture, tilting just enough to seem casual without losing an ounce of authority.
"You might not like the spotlight, Ethan," he said quietly, "but you wear it well."
Ethan pushed his chair back, the subtle hum of the anti-grav field fading as he stood. His shoulders ached from the tension of the negotiation, every muscle wound tight from holding back the urge to tell Krell to shove his offer. But walking away wouldn't have changed anything.
Power never disappeared. It only shifted hands.
And Ethan would rather grip it in bloodied fingers than let it fall into the wrong ones.
"We'll see," he muttered, voice rough.
He turned to the massive window, staring down at the fractured city sprawled out beneath the spire. The reconstruction was slow, meticulous. A patchwork of steel and stone rising from the ruins of war. Welding sparks flickered like fireflies, and cargo ships floated between skeletal structures, ferrying supplies from orbital stations to the surface.
From this height, it all looked small. Fragile.
The people rebuilding, hammering together homes and lives. The glow of the twin suns casting long shadows across streets. The distant hum of engines, echoing through the sky like a heartbeat.
He didn't feel like a hero. Didn't feel like a symbol.
But he remembered the faces of those who had fought beside him. The ones who hadn't made it. The ones who had bled out on the soil of a planet they didn't even call home. He remembered the weight of their bodies, the sting of ash in his throat, and the way silence fell heavier than gunfire after the last shot was fired.
If playing this game meant he could protect the people below, meant he could keep this fragile peace from shattering, he'd play.
If it meant honoring the sacrifices of those who had died for this planet, for the hope of something better, he could live with the consequences.