The stone corridors of the bastion were quiet in the late hour, lit by soft, recessed glow-panels. Lysandra led the way, her steps light on the polished floor. “This is the east residential wing,” she said, her voice a gentle guide in the hush. “All the family suites are here. Less marble, more lived-in wood.” She pointed out a tapestry, a gallery of portraits, a small conservatory filled with night-blooming flowers as they walked. For Laura, the tour was a blur of opulent normality, each familiar luxury a sharp reminder of the home she’d lost. She followed, her focus divided between the path ahead and the persistent, low-grade hum of vigilance in her veins.

When Lysandra finally pushed open the carved double doors to her chambers, it felt like entering a different world entirely. It was a spacious suite, all warm woods and soft textiles. A sitting area with overstuffed chairs and shelves of real books gave way to a dining nook and, through a wide arch, a sleeping chamber dominated by a large canopied bed.

“Home,” Lysandra announced, smiling. “And yours, for now.”

Laura hovered at the threshold of the bedroom. “Thank you, Lady Lysandra. The couch in the sitting area looks perfectly comfortable for me.”

Lysandra turned, her expression one of amused disbelief. “The couch? Absolutely not. The bed is enormous. We’ll both fit easily.” She grinned. “And please, call me Lysa. ‘Lady Lysandra’ is for stuffy dinners. I think we’re about the same age, which means we’re friends now. No arguments.”

The simple, unwavering kindness in her tone—the instant claim of friendship—struck a chord deep in Laura’s chest, a note of warmth in the cold isolation of her disguise. A genuine, small smile touched her lips. “Lysa,” she repeated, the name feeling like a tentative key to a locked room.

“See? Easy.” Lysa walked into the chamber, gesturing around. “This is all mine. Make yourself at home. Truly.” She moved to a massive wardrobe and swung the doors open, revealing rows of colorful tunics, soft trousers, and elegant dresses. “Borrow anything you like. I’ve got plenty.” She glanced back, her gaze thoughtful. “And… you can take all that off, if you want. I assume it comes off? It doesn’t look… permanent.”

Laura’s hand flew to the high neckline of the Myrden suit. The offer of physical relief was profoundly tempting. To shed the second skin, even briefly. But the habit of fear was stronger. “It does,” she said, her voice quiet. “But I should keep it on. To be sure. It’s… habit.”

Lysa nodded, her smile never fading. “I understand. Safety first.” She stretched, a contented sigh escaping her. “I’m going to wash the gala off. Get comfortable.”

As Lysa disappeared into the adjoining fresher, the sound of water soon filling the air, Laura let out a shaky breath. She moved to the corner of the room, partially screened by a decorative lattice, that served as a dressing area. There, with fumbling fingers, she worked at the intricate fastenings of the obscenely tight gown. She peeled the silken fabric away, hanging it with care, and was left standing in the thin, perceptive membrane of the Myrden suit, the artificial curves it enforced feeling more pronounced than ever in the intimate quiet. She quickly found a pair of loose, silken pajama trousers and a matching long-sleeved top from Lysa’s wardrobe and pulled them on over the suit, the soft fabric a minor comfort.

She was just stepping out from behind the screen when the door to the fresher slid open.

Lysa emerged, a cloud of steam following her, completely naked. Water droplets gleamed on her skin. She was utterly at ease, rubbing a towel through her damp hair, her body a study in unselfconscious grace.

Laura froze, her eyes widening. A hot wave of embarrassment flushed through her, and she spun around to face the wall, her heart hammering against the silicone forms strapped to her chest.

A soft chuckle came from behind her. “Sorry,” Lysa said, not sounding sorry at all. “Force of habit. It’s just me in here, usually.” Laura heard the rustle of fabric. “Okay, decent.”

Laura turned back slowly. Lysa had pulled on a simple, short sleep shift. She was smiling, a gentle, knowing look in her eyes. “You get used to your own skin in your own space,” she said simply, as if that explained everything. Perhaps, for her, it did.

***

The gentle light of Caledon Prime’s morning, filtered through the vast window, woke Laura. She blinked, disoriented for a moment by the unfamiliar canopy above her and the soft, clean scent of the sheets. She turned her head.

Lysa was already up, sitting at her vanity table, brushing her hair. She caught Laura’s eye in the mirror. “You sleep like the dead,” she said, her tone cheerful. “I guess you needed it. Traveling with… obstacles, tends to do that.”

Laura pushed herself up, the Myrden suit a familiar, constricting presence beneath her borrowed pajamas. “I suppose so.”

“I had a handmaiden bring breakfast,” Lysa said, nodding towards a small trolley laden with a pot, pastries, and fruit. “Before you were up. I thought you might appreciate not having to perform for servants just yet.” She set her brush down and turned fully. “So, I was thinking. Would you mind taking a stroll with me in the city today? I’d love to show you around. It’s really quite wonderful when you’re not sneaking through it under siege.”

The offer was a lifeline to normalcy, terrifying and beautiful. To walk in the open, not as a fugitive, but as a girl with a friend. Laura found herself nodding. “I’d like that.”

“Excellent!” Lysa beamed.

***

On a broad, sun-drenched balcony overlooking the capital, Sara Kerigan sipped a cup of strong black coffee. Duke Alistair stood beside her, while his wife, Elara, sat at a small wrought-iron table. The system’s twin suns were rising, casting long, double shadows and bathing the city in a peachy-gold light.

“Two suns,” Sara murmured, watching them. “Always makes the days feel longer. More time for shadows to conspire.” She turned her gaze to Alistair, the pleasantry falling away. “We need to understand the full board. Laurien was the spearhead, but the coalition had to be broader. Which of the other Houses, do you think, would have joined them? And more importantly, which of the remaining ones might be safe to approach for information?”

Alistair frowned, staring out at his world. “It’s a minefield. Loyalties are… transactional now, under the Dominion’s boot.” He thought for a long moment. “There’s one possibility. House Valerius, on Aethelstan. They’ve always been insular, obsessed with their own historical archives. They resisted the last integration decree on technical grounds. They might have observed things others missed, and they have little love for Laurien’s brashness. It would be a risk, but perhaps the safest of a bad lot.”

Before Sara could respond, a soft chime came from Alistair’s wrist-comm. He glanced at it. “It’s Lysa.” He accepted the call. “Sweetheart?”

Lysandra’s voice, bright and clear, filled the air between them. “Father, is Lady Sara with you?”

“She is.”
“May I speak with her? I have a request concerning Laura.”

Sara’s posture stiffened almost imperceptibly. Alistair offered the comm. Sara took it, her voice shifting seamlessly into its higher, matronly register. “Yes, dear?”

“Lady Sara, I was hoping I could take Laura into the city with me today. Just for a stroll through the Galleria gardens and the old merchant quadrants. She’s agreed, but I wanted your permission.”

Sara fell silent. Her eyes, hard and calculating, met Elara’s across the table. The Duchess gave a single, slight nod, her expression one of gentle encouragement. Let the girl breathe, that nod seemed to say.

Sara released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The tactical part of her mind—the part that was still Marius—screeched at the risk. But the part that had spent weeks watching Vernon fracture under the weight of his loss saw the logic, the mercy, in Elara’s silent counsel.

“Very well,” Sara said into the comm, her voice softening a degree. “Keep to the crowded, open areas. Be back before twilight.”
“We will! Thank you!” The commlink went dead.

Sara handed the device back to Alistair. For a moment, no one spoke.

Elara broke the quiet, her voice as soft as the morning breeze. “A few hours of pretending to be a normal girl, seeing a beautiful city with a friend… it won’t cure anything. But it might help her remember there’s still beauty. It might help her forget, just for a little while, about… everything else.”

Sara looked back towards the twin suns, her coffee forgotten and cooling in its cup. She gave no reply. But in the tight line of her shoulders, there was a faint, reluctant acceptance. For now, the mission included a walk in the garden.