The sun was a molten coin sinking behind the spires of Caledon Prime, painting the administrative district in long, dramatic shadows. Laura walked beside Sara, her heels clicking on the polished permacrete. The air here was filtered, cool, and carried the faint, clean scent of ozone. As they approached the Duke’s compound, a sprawling bastion of silver alloy and crystalline glass, Laura’s eyes widened.

The beauty was staggering. Holographic gardens bloomed in the air between buildings, their illusory flowers shimmering with bioluminescent light. Levitating transports whispered past on silent gravitic fields, their running lights tracing elegant arcs against the darkening sky. It was a world of impossible grace, a testament to the Dominion’s technological zenith. For a moment, the sheer wonder of it almost eclipsed the dread coiled in her stomach.

“Eyes forward, Laura,” Sara murmured, her voice low. Her own gaze was not on the scenery but on the perimeter. The number of guards had increased exponentially from the city proper. These were not hub security; these were elite Dominion Marines in polished crimson armor, their helmets scanning the crowds with methodical, unnerving slowness. Their presence was a silent, heavy reminder of the power they were walking into.

They arrived at the main gate, a grand archway of light. A guard in the crimson armor stepped forward, his faceplate retracting to reveal a stern, middle-aged face. His eyes, hard and assessing, performed a swift inspection.

“State your business,” he said, his voice a bored monotone.

Sara offered a practiced, matronly smile. “We are here for the Duke’s gala. Invitation code Kerigan-Seven-Alpha.”

The guard’s eyes didn’t check a datapad. Instead, they raked over Sara, then slid to Laura. They traveled from the intricate styling of her wig, down over the exposed slope of her neck, and lingered on the daring plunge of the silvery gown. The look was slow, thorough, and utterly devoid of courtesy. Laura felt the fabric of the dress like a second skin, tight and revealing. She remembered Sara’s instruction in the boutique: Let them look at the costume. It keeps them from seeing the actor.

A genuine, gleeful smile touched Laura’s lips. It was a strange, fierce triumph. Look all you want, she thought, the smile widening just a fraction. You’re seeing exactly what we want you to see. The guard’s expression didn’t change, but he gave a curt nod.

“Proceed to the scanner.”

They stepped through a shimmering archway. Laura felt a brief tingle as the advanced X-ray and bioscan washed over them. Her forged sigil flared green in the system, and the Myrden polymer of her suit registered as simple, high-quality synth-silk. No alarms. The mechanical door ahead hissed open, releasing a wave of music, laughter, and perfumed air.

The gala was a vision of controlled opulence. The vaulted hall was filled with perhaps a hundred people. Laura recognized the cut of formal robes from the local royal council, but her eyes were drawn to others. A small cluster of men and women wore garments of a stark, minimalist style she’d only seen in archives: fabrics that seemed to drink the light, embroidered with subtle, geometric patterns that whispered of ancient authority. Old Earth. The heart of the Dominion itself was in attendance.

Sara’s hand was a light pressure on Laura’s arm, guiding her. Her mentor’s eyes were not on the off-world dignitaries, however. They were locked on a man standing near a panoramic window, a crystal glass in hand. He was in his late fifties, with silver-streaked hair and a strong, patrician face. He wore a formal uniform of deep blue, adorned with subtle rank insignia. Duke Alistair Riven, planetary governor of Caledon Prime.

“Stay close,” Sara whispered, and began to weave through the crowd with the grace of a social predator.

The Duke noticed their approach. His gaze flickered between the two women—the older, handsome matron with an air of quiet confidence, and the stunning, silent young woman in the dress that left little to the imagination. A polite, somewhat distracted smile touched his lips.

Sara curtsied, a perfect, respectful motion. “Your Grace. Sara Kerigan, of Kerigan’s Fall. May I present my daughter, Laura.”

Laura bowed her head, the motion causing the neckline of her gown to gap slightly. The Duke’s eyes dipped, a reflexive, male glance at the revealed cleavage, but they didn’t linger. They returned almost immediately to Sara’s face. There was a flicker of something there—recognition of a peer, perhaps. Sara, for all her disguise, carried herself with an authority that matched his own. She was older, but beautiful in a way that spoke of experience, not youth.

“A pleasure,” Duke Alistair said, his voice a warm baritone. “I trust you are finding the evening enjoyable?”

“The hospitality of Caledon Prime is legendary, Your Grace,” Sara replied smoothly. “Though, if I may be bold, the noise of the crowd makes meaningful conversation quite difficult.” She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a more intimate pitch. “I had hoped to discuss a small matter of trade permissions from the Fall. A private audience would be most appreciated.”

The Duke’s eyebrows rose. He glanced over Sara’s shoulder, his eyes scanning the room. Laura followed his gaze and saw a elegant woman in a gown of emerald green, surrounded by a group of admirers. The Duchess. The Duke watched his wife laugh at something, then turned back to Sara. A calculated look passed over his features—curiosity, vanity, opportunity.

“Of course,” he said, his smile turning congenial. “My office is just through there. A moment of quiet would be welcome.” He gestured for Sara to follow. He glanced at Laura. “Your daughter will be quite alright here, I’m sure.”

“She enjoys watching the dancers,” Sara said, not looking back. “Don’t wander far, dear.”

Laura was left standing alone, adrift in a sea of glittering strangers. She watched as Duke Alistair led Sara through a discreet door marked for private staff, her heart hammering against the silicone form pressed to her chest.

The Duke’s office was a sanctuary of dark wood and soft light, a stark contrast to the glittering hall. The wall-to-ceiling window offered a breathtaking, silent view of the city’s lightscape. As the door hissed shut, Duke Alistair moved to a console beside it and tapped a sequence. A low hum sounded as the magnetic locks engaged.

“Now then, Madam Kerigan,” he said, turning with a relaxed smile, gesturing to the sitting area before his large, polished desk. “What is this trade matter that couldn’t wait?”

Sara didn’t move to the chairs. She walked slowly towards him, her hips swaying with a deliberate, confident rhythm. She stopped before his desk, then, with a surprisingly strong push, she guided him backwards until his legs hit his high-backed office chair and he sat down with a soft oof of surprise.

Before he could speak, she settled herself sideways on his lap, one arm looping around his shoulders. She looked down at him, her expression shifting from polite interest to something smoldering and direct.

“The matter,” Sara purred, her voice still a woman’s, “is one of… mutual benefit.”

Duke Alistair was clearly startled, but not displeased. A flush crept up his neck. This was beyond his expectations. His hands came up to rest tentatively on her waist. “I… see,” he murmured, his eyes dropping to her lips.

He leaned in, intending to kiss her. Sara let him come close, her own face tilting. But as his lips were a breath from hers, one of her hands came up from his shoulder and touched the side of his neck, her fingers pressing gently against his pulse point. It was an intimate, controlling gesture.

Then she spoke, and her voice was no longer a purr. It was low, gritty, and utterly male—the voice of Marius, the soldier and spy.

“Hello, Alistair. Long time.”

The Duke froze. Every muscle in his body locked. The arousal in his eyes shattered into pure, unadulterated shock. He recoiled as if burned, his hands falling away from her. He stared, his mouth agape, at the beautiful, mature woman sitting in his lap.

That voice. He knew that voice. It belonged to a ghost, to a man supposedly dead with the rest of House Freides. His mind, trained for politics and war, scrambled to reconcile the familiar, hated baritone with the feminine form before him.

“You,” he breathed, the word barely audible. The color drained from his face. The seduction was over. The game had just become mortal.