Chapter Text
The silence in the Viceroy’s office was not an absence of noise, but a heavy, suffocating pressure. It was the silence of a tomb suspended a mile above the earth.
Slaine Troyard stood before the massive, floor-to-ceiling reinforced glass window of the primary Landing Castle. Below him lay the scarred remains of a North American metropolis, its skeletal skyscrapers reaching up like the fingers of a buried corpse trying to claw its way out of the dirt. The sky was permanently bruised, choked with the grey ash of orbital bombardments and the exhaust of heavily armored patrol transports.
Slaine did not see the ruins. He saw the reflection of his own immaculate, blindingly white uniform against the glass. He hated it. He hated the pristine fabric, the heavy gold epaulets, the meticulously polished boots. It was the costume of a conqueror, a tailor-made skin that he wore to terrify a planet he had once called home.
Behind him, a massive holographic tactical table dominated the center of the dimly lit, opulent room. It cast a sickly, pale blue light over the velvet draperies and mahogany furniture—plundered luxuries from a conquered world. The map was a digital nightmare. Swarms of tiny red markers pulsed like an infection across the European and Asian sectors. Terran Resistance uprisings. They were disorganized, poorly armed, and dying by the thousands, but they refused to stop.
Worse were the orange markers. Massive, terrifyingly dense clusters of Vers armadas, commanded by the Orbital Knights, hovering at the edges of the atmosphere. They were waiting. Circling like vultures.
The heavy oak doors at the end of the office hissed open, breaking the stifling silence. Harklight strode in, his posture rigid, his boots clicking in a sharp, rhythmic cadence against the marble floor. He stopped a respectful distance from the tactical map, a data-pad clutched tightly in his gloved hand.
"Lord Slaine," Harklight began, his voice tight with suppressed agitation.
"Report, Harklight," Slaine said, not turning away from the window. His voice was cold, thin, and stretched to the absolute breaking point.
"Another petition has arrived from Count Marylcian, My Lord. It is co-signed by Count Barouhcruz and Countess Selm." Harklight paused, his jaw clenching. "Following the bombing of the Aldnoah refinery in Sector 4 two days ago, they are no longer requesting authorization. They are demanding it. They intend to execute a localized orbital bombardment of the three surrounding Terran population centers in retaliation."
Slaine closed his eyes. Three population centers. Millions of lives, extinguished in a matter of seconds, reduced to glass and radioactive ash.
"They cite the safety of the Martian occupation forces," Harklight continued, his tone carefully neutral, though Slaine knew Harklight despised Marylcian just as much as he did. "Marylcian claims that your leniency is breeding insolence among the Terran rats. He implies... well. He implies that your Terran blood is making you sympathetic to the insurgents."
Slaine finally turned. His face was a mask of pale, carved marble, his teal eyes devoid of whatever warmth they had once held. The dark, bruised circles beneath his eyes were the only testament to the fact that he had not slept in four days.
"Let him imply whatever he wishes to his sycophants in the court," Slaine said softly. "The moment Marylcian fires a single beam from his fortress without my express, written decree, he commits treason against the Vers Empire. He knows this. He is testing my leash."
"My Lord, with respect, the leash is fraying," Harklight warned, stepping closer. "The Knights are bloodthirsty. They expected a purge, not an occupation. If you do not give them a victory—a show of absolute, uncompromising strength—they will depose you. And if they depose you, they will glass the entire planet."
"I am aware of the geopolitical reality, Harklight. Leave the petition on the desk. And leave me."
Harklight hesitated, looking as though he wanted to argue, but the absolute deadness in Slaine’s eyes stopped him. "Yes, My Lord."
The doors hissed shut. Slaine was alone again.
He walked slowly to his heavy desk, his boots feeling like they were cast in lead. He didn't look at Marylcian's petition. Instead, he reached into the collar of his uniform and pulled out a small, encrypted pendant. He placed it onto the desk's interface.
A small holographic waveform appeared. Slaine hesitated, his hand trembling slightly, before he pressed play.
The audio was degraded, routed through dozens of secure Martian relays to avoid interception by the Knights, but the voice was unmistakable.
“Slaine...”
Empress Asseylum Vers Allusia.
Slaine’s breath hitched in his throat. He leaned forward, gripping the edges of the desk until his knuckles turned entirely white.
“I... I received the latest casualty reports from the Earth occupation. Slaine, please. You have to stop this. The war is over. I woke up to a nightmare, Slaine. The things they tell me you did in my name... the blood you spilled... I cannot bear it.” Her voice cracked, wet with tears. “They are saying the Knights want to burn the cities. You cannot let them. Please, Slaine. If you ever truly cared for me... if the boy who saved me is still somewhere inside of you... find a way to spare them. Please.”
The message ended with a soft click.
Slaine collapsed into his high-backed leather chair, burying his face in his hands. A dry, ragged sob tore its way out of his throat, but no tears came. He had cried himself dry months ago, in the dark hours after she had first awakened.
He remembered the look in her eyes when she finally understood what he had become. She had not looked at him with the love of a savior. She had looked at him with absolute, unadulterated horror. He had slaughtered his way to the top of the universe to lay a peaceful, unified world at her feet, and in doing so, he had transformed into a monster she could not stomach.
If you ever truly cared for me.
"I did it all for you," Slaine whispered to the empty room. "Everything. Every drop of blood on my hands is yours."
But she couldn't know the truth. She didn't understand the precarious, terrifying tightrope he was walking. If she abdicated her throne to save Earth, the Orbital Knights would assassinate her before the broadcast even finished. She had to remain pure. She had to remain the benevolent, untouchable Goddess of Mars.
And for her to remain the Goddess, Slaine had to be the Devil.
He was the Sin Eater. He would absorb the hatred of the Terran Resistance, the venom of the Orbital Knights, and the terrified disgust of the woman he loved. He would carry it all, as long as she was safe.
But Marylcian was forcing his hand. He could not order the Knights to stand down without sparking a civil war that Earth would lose. He needed a political maneuver so drastic, so legally binding, and so publicly humiliating, that it would completely paralyze the Knights' legal authority to attack Earth, while simultaneously breaking the morale of the Terran Resistance.
Slaine opened his eyes. They were cold, hardened, and utterly devoid of hope. He knew exactly what he had to do.
He pressed the intercom on his desk. "Harklight. Prepare a security detachment. I am going down to the black site. I need to speak with the prisoner."
Deep beneath the opulent halls of the Landing Castle, far past the reach of sunlight or the hum of the Aldnoah drives, was a corridor of stark, blinding white.
Inside Cell Aurelius-4, there was no day, no night, no weather, and no sound. There was only the harsh, fluorescent glare of the ceiling panels and the rhythmic, metronomic breathing of its sole occupant.
One hundred and forty-seven.
One hundred and forty-eight.
One hundred and forty-nine.
Inaho Kaizuka pushed himself up from the cold steel floor, his arms perfectly steady, his core locked in rigid discipline. He wore standard-issue Vers prisoner scrubs—thin, grey, and completely devoid of insignia. He was barefoot.
[HEART RATE: 65 BPM]
[RESPIRATION: STEADY]
[MUSCLE FATIGUE: 12%]
The red tactical overlay of his cybernetic left eye scrolled silently across his field of vision. He didn't blink. He lowered himself again, his chest hovering a millimeter above the floor.
One hundred and fifty.
He stood up smoothly, adjusting his breathing. Inaho did not pace. He did not talk to himself. He did not exhibit any of the standard psychological markers of a prisoner suffering from prolonged solitary confinement. The Vers interrogators had tried everything: sleep deprivation, sensory overload, pharmacological truth serums. Inaho had simply processed the stimuli, cataloged the interrogators' questioning patterns, and remained completely, infuriatingly silent.
He knew the war was over. He knew the Deucalion had fallen. He knew that when the Tharsis had crushed the Sleipnir’s mainframe on the lunar surface, Earth had lost its last tactical advantage.
Logically, he should have been executed months ago. The fact that he was still alive, being kept in peak physical condition, meant only one thing: he was a high-value asset. A bargaining chip. Slaine Troyard was keeping him in reserve for a specific, calculated purpose. All Inaho had to do was wait for the variable to reveal itself.
His cybernetic eye suddenly flashed, a small audio waveform spiking in the corner of his vision.
[PROXIMITY ALERT: MULTIPLE FOOTSTEPS DETECTED.]
[TIMING: ANOMALOUS.]
Inaho stood in the center of the cell, dropping his hands to his sides. The guards usually came at 0800 and 2000 hours to deliver nutrient paste. By his internal chronometer, it was currently 1432. This was a deviation from the established pattern.
Heavy mechanical clanks echoed through the reinforced walls as the outer blast doors disengaged. The complex array of magnetic locks on his cell door whirred and snapped back in rapid succession.
The heavy steel door slid open.
Four Royal Guards in full ceremonial armor stepped into the room, their assault rifles raised and leveled directly at Inaho’s chest. Inaho did not flinch. His organic eye remained dull and heavy-lidded, while his cybernetic eye instantly began pulling telemetry data.
A moment later, Slaine Troyard walked into the cell.
Slaine stopped a few feet away. The contrast between them was violently stark. Slaine was draped in the wealth and power of an entire empire, his white uniform practically glowing in the sterile light. Inaho was in rags. Yet, the air in the room shifted, immediately charged with the bitter, unresolved gravity of two apex predators locked in a cage.
Inaho analyzed the Supreme Commander of the Vers Empire.
[SUBJECT: SLAINE TROYARD]
[HEART RATE: 110 BPM (ELEVATED)]
[MICRO-EXPRESSIONS: MUSCLE TENSION IN JAW. PUPIL DILATION. SIGNS OF CHRONIC SLEEP DEPRIVATION AND SEVERE STRESS.]
"Orange," Slaine said. The name was spat out like a curse, laced with an exhaustion so profound it bordered on physical illness.
"Troyard," Inaho replied, his voice flat, devoid of any inflection. It was the first time he had spoken aloud in sixty-two days. His vocal cords felt slightly rough, but his tone was perfectly even.
Slaine stared at him, his teal eyes burning with a mixture of profound hatred and resentful necessity. "Guards. Wait outside. Seal the door behind you."
The guards hesitated. "My Lord, it is not safe—"
"I said out!" Slaine snapped, his voice echoing sharply off the steel walls.
The guards backed away swiftly, the heavy door sliding shut and locking them in. They were completely alone.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The silence stretched, tight and brittle as a wire.
"Have you come to execute me?" Inaho asked finally. It wasn't a provocation. It was a genuine request for data.
"If I had my way, you would have been thrown out of an airlock the day you were brought aboard this station," Slaine said coldly, clasping his hands behind his back to hide the slight tremor in his fingers. "But unfortunately for both of us, you are more useful to me breathing."
"State your parameters."
Slaine’s jaw clenched. The Terran's absolute lack of emotion, his infuriatingly calm demeanor in the face of his own captivity, made Slaine want to scream. "The Terran Resistance bombed an Aldnoah refinery two days ago. Three hundred Martian civilians and a thousand Terran laborers were killed in the blast."
Inaho processed the information. Yuki. Marito. They were still fighting. [TACTICAL ASSESSMENT: RESISTANCE MORALE REMAINS ACTIVE. STRATEGIC IMPACT: HIGH.]
"A logical target for crippling infrastructure," Inaho noted neutrally.
Slaine took a threatening step forward. "Do not speak to me of logic. Your resistance is fighting a ghost war. Count Marylcian and the Orbital Knights have petitioned for an immediate orbital bombardment. They are going to glass Sector 4. Millions of your people will burn to ash by tomorrow morning."
Inaho’s eye whirred softly. [CALCULATING PROBABILITY OF VERS RETALIATION: 99.8%]
"Why are you telling me this?" Inaho asked. "You are the Viceroy. If you wanted the sector destroyed, it would already be gone. If you did not want it destroyed, you would order the Knights to stand down. Your presence here indicates a variable you cannot control."
Slaine let out a bitter, humorless laugh. "You think I control them? I hold them back on a thread. They are purists, Kaizuka. They despise me. If I order them to stand down and show leniency to Earth, they will accuse me of treason, depose me, and wipe this planet clean."
"Then you need a legal deterrent," Inaho deduced instantly, his brilliant mind clicking the political pieces into place. "You need a mandate that supersedes the Knights' military authority. An imperial decree, or a legal binding that makes an attack on Earth an attack on the Vers crown itself."
"Exactly," Slaine whispered, his eyes narrowing.
"And you need my submission," Inaho continued, his voice monotone. "As long as I am a prisoner, I am a martyr. The Resistance fights in my name. If I publicly submit to the Empire, their morale breaks."
"You are as perceptive as you are insufferable," Slaine said, stepping into Inaho's personal space. The height difference was negligible, but the power dynamic was staggering. Yet, Inaho did not yield an inch. "I am going to stop the bombardment. I am going to grant a blanket amnesty to all Resistance fighters who lay down their arms. But to do that, I need to legally bind the fate of the Terran populace directly to the Viceroy's administration."
Inaho stared at him. "How."
Slaine swallowed hard. The words tasted like ash in his mouth. "By Vers aristocratic law, an attack on the legal consort of the Viceroy is an act of high treason against the Empire, punishable by immediate execution without trial." Slaine locked eyes with Inaho. "You are going to marry me."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Inaho’s organic eye widened just a fraction of a millimeter. His cybernetic eye immediately began throwing error codes, struggling to process the sheer absurdity of the input.
[ERROR: LOGICAL INCONSISTENCY DETECTED.]
[RECALCULATING...]
[PROBABILITY OF DECEPTION: LOW.]
"A political marriage," Inaho said slowly, testing the words. "You intend to elevate a Terran prisoner of war to the status of Vers royalty to create a legal shield for the Earth's surface."
"Yes."
"You hate me," Inaho stated plainly.
"I despise you," Slaine corrected, his voice trembling with venom. "I hate everything you stand for. I hate the way she looked at you."
"Then why?" Inaho asked, tilting his head slightly. "You hold all the cards, Troyard. You could let the Knights burn the planet. You could retreat to Mars. Why bind yourself permanently to an enemy you loathe, in a marriage that will humiliate you in front of your own court?"
The question struck a nerve. Slaine’s stoic mask shattered. His composure broke, and for a terrifying second, Inaho saw the broken, desperate teenager beneath the Viceroy's uniform.
Slaine grabbed Inaho by the collar of his prison shirt, slamming him hard against the steel wall. The metal banged loudly.
"Do not flatter yourself, Orange!" Slaine snarled, his face inches from Inaho's, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "I am not doing this for you! I am not doing this for Earth! Her Majesty..." Slaine’s voice broke, a sickening sound of pure anguish. "Her Majesty wept. She begged me to spare your miserable planet. She looked at me like I was a monster. I will bind myself to a rat, I will endure the mockery of the entire solar system, if it means keeping her conscience clean and the blood off her hands!"
Slaine shoved Inaho back, breathing heavily, his chest heaving as he tried to regain his composure. He smoothed his white tunic, refusing to meet Inaho’s eyes. "That is the reality, Kaizuka. I am throwing my life away to save yours, entirely against my will. Now. Give me your answer."
Inaho leaned back against the cool steel wall. He did not rub his collarbone where Slaine had shoved him. He simply watched the Viceroy.
His cybernetic eye processed the data.
Variables: Slaine Troyard’s absolute devotion to Asseylum. The Orbital Knights' imminent attack. The mathematical certainty of Earth's destruction.
Solution: A piece of political theater. A piece of paper. A ring.
It was a transaction. Slaine was offering the survival of the human race in exchange for Inaho's freedom, his pride, and his life.
It was the most efficient, logical trade Inaho had ever been offered.
Inaho pushed himself off the wall. He stood perfectly straight, his eyes locking onto Slaine's tear-rimmed, furious gaze.
"Understood," Inaho said, his voice entirely devoid of malice or fear. "It is the most efficient deterrent. Draft the contract."
Slaine froze. He had expected a fight. He had expected rage, or defiance, or a desperate attempt at negotiation. The immediate, emotionless capitulation was unnerving. "Just like that? You agree to become a puppet of the Empire?"
"My personal autonomy is statistically irrelevant compared to the survival of the species," Inaho replied bluntly. "If marrying you prevents an orbital strike, then I will marry you. When does the broadcast happen?"
Slaine stared at him, a shiver running down his spine at the Terran's chilling pragmatism. "In two days. We will broadcast from the Grand Hall. You will read the vows of submission. If you deviate from the script by a single syllable, the treaty is void, and Sector 4 burns."
"I have a perfect memory, Troyard. I will not deviate." Inaho walked back to the center of the cell and calmly lowered himself into a push-up position. "I suggest you get some sleep before the ceremony. Your micro-expressions indicate severe cognitive fatigue. You will need to look convincing for the cameras."
Slaine’s hands balled into fists. He wanted to strike the boy. He wanted to break that emotionless facade. Instead, he turned on his heel and slammed his fist into the door console.
The heavy doors hissed open. Slaine marched out without another word, the Royal Guards falling in step behind him. The doors sealed shut, plunging Inaho back into the silence.
One hundred and fifty-one. Inaho resumed his count. [NEW OBJECTIVE REGISTERED: MAINTAIN COVER SYNERGY. PREVENT PLANETARY ANNIHILATION.]
Two days later.
The dressing room adjacent to the Grand Hall was a masterclass in Martian excess. Gilded mirrors lined the walls, reflecting the velvet chaises and the tables laden with untouched delicacies.
Inaho stood in the center of the room, surrounded by three Vers tailors who were practically shaking with terror. They hovered around him, pinning, adjusting, and smoothing the fabric of his newly tailored uniform.
It was a stark, militaristic cut. Midnight black, tailored tight against his frame, with silver trim that felt heavy and oppressive. The high collar dug uncomfortably into his throat. It was the negative image of Slaine’s brilliant white. It was a visual broadcast of submission—the dark shadow standing behind the shining conqueror.
Inaho remained perfectly still, his eyes focused on a fixed point on the wall. He cataloged the weight of the fabric, the stiffness of the boots, the restrictive range of motion in the shoulders. Not optimal for close-quarters combat, he noted internally.
"Get out."
The sharp command cut through the quiet rustle of fabric. The tailors scattered like frightened mice, bowing profusely before fleeing out the side door.
Harklight stood in the entryway. He wore his full ceremonial uniform, but his face was twisted in a rictus of pure, unadulterated hatred. He stepped into the room, the door clicking shut behind him.
"You look ridiculous in our colors, Terran," Harklight spat, walking slowly toward Inaho.
Inaho turned his head slightly. "The color palette is inefficient for heat dissipation, but the tailoring is adequate."
Harklight’s eye twitched. He closed the distance between them and violently grabbed Inaho by the lapels of his new jacket, hauling him forward. Inaho’s hands remained relaxed at his sides. He did not struggle.
"Listen to me very carefully, Kaizuka," Harklight hissed, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "I do not care what legal fictions Lord Slaine has constructed. I do not care about this charade. You are a rat. You are a murderer who has killed countless of my comrades."
Inaho maintained steady eye contact. "We were at war. Your comrades fired first."
Harklight tightened his grip, shaking Inaho slightly. "If you try anything during this ceremony. If you embarrass him. If you make a move toward him, or look at him with anything other than absolute subservience... I swear on my life, I will take you down to the black site myself and I will peel the flesh from your bones."
Inaho analyzed Harklight’s bio-signs. [ADRENALINE: PEAKING. AGGRESSION: HIGH. THREAT LEVEL: CREDIBLE, BUT TACTICALLY FLAWED.]
Inaho calmly reached up and placed his hands over Harklight’s wrists. He didn't use force; he just established contact.
"Your threats are mathematically redundant, Harklight," Inaho said, his voice quiet, calm, and utterly rational. "If I kill him, or if I ruin this treaty, Count Marylcian will annihilate my planet. I have zero tactical incentive to harm your Lord. My compliance is guaranteed by mutual assured destruction."
Inaho gently but firmly removed Harklight’s hands from his lapels. He reached up and smoothed the silver trim on his chest. "You should be more concerned with your own Orbital Knights than with me. I am the only thing keeping your Viceroy on his throne today."
Harklight stared at him, a mixture of rage and sickening realization washing over his face. He wanted to argue, but he knew the Terran was right.
"The broadcast begins in three minutes," Harklight snarled, taking a step back. "Move."
The Grand Hall of the Landing Castle was a cavernous, terrifying spectacle of imperial power. Massive banners bearing the crest of the Vers Empire hung from the vaulted ceilings. The air hummed with the energy of the Aldnoah drives and the low, murmuring hostility of the Martian aristocracy.
The front rows were packed with Orbital Knights in their finest regalia. Inaho’s cybernetic eye scanned the crowd as he was escorted down the long, crimson carpet.
[FACIAL RECOGNITION MATCH: COUNT MARYLCIAN. STATUS: HOSTILE.]
[FACIAL RECOGNITION MATCH: COUNT BAROUHCRUZ. STATUS: HOSTILE.]
Every eye in the room was fixed on him, burning with contempt. They were looking at a conquered animal being paraded for their amusement. Dozens of floating camera drones buzzed overhead, broadcasting this humiliation live to billions of screens across Earth and Mars.
At the end of the aisle stood the altar, bathed in harsh, blinding spotlights.
And waiting at the altar was Slaine.
Slaine looked ethereal and completely untouchable. His white uniform was flawless. His posture was military-perfect. But as Inaho stepped up onto the dais beside him, his cybernetic eye caught the truth.
[SUBJECT: SLAINE TROYARD. MICRO-TREMORS DETECTED IN EXTREMITIES. RESPIRATION SHALLOW. CORTISOL LEVELS CRITICAL.]
Slaine was terrified. He wasn't looking at Inaho; his eyes were fixed rigidly on the High Officiant standing before them.
The Officiant, an ancient Martian noble draped in heavy gold robes, raised his hands. The murmuring in the hall died down, replaced by a suffocating, breathless anticipation.
"We are gathered under the light of Aldnoah," the Officiant intoned, his voice booming through the hall's acoustic amplifiers. "To witness the binding of two souls. To seal the pact between the Viceroy of the Vers Empire, and the representative of the Terran sphere."
It was a gross sanitization of what was actually happening. It wasn't a union; it was a surrender document signed in flesh.
The Officiant turned to Inaho. "Inaho Kaizuka. Do you submit yourself to the authority of the Vers Empire, and bind your fate, and the fate of your people, to Lord Slaine Troyard?"
Inaho looked out at the cameras. He knew Yuki was watching. He knew Inko, Marito, and the rest of the Resistance were watching from underground bunkers, likely screaming at the screens, viewing this as the ultimate betrayal. He felt a phantom ache in his chest, a rare flicker of human sorrow, but he ruthlessly suppressed it.
Logic. Survival. Efficiency.
"I submit," Inaho said clearly, his voice carrying through the hall. "I bind my fate to his."
The Orbital Knights sneered. Marylcian looked like he had swallowed a lemon.
The Officiant turned to Slaine. "Slaine Troyard. Do you accept this submission, taking this Terran as your legal consort, extending the absolute protection of your title over his life?"
Slaine closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. He was thinking of Asseylum. He was thinking of her tears.
"I accept," Slaine said. His voice didn't waver, but it lacked any life. It was the voice of a man reading his own eulogy.
"Present the rings of binding," the Officiant commanded.
A servant approached with a velvet cushion bearing two heavy, Aldnoah-forged rings. They were deep crimson, almost black in the heavy light.
"Lord Slaine, you will bind him first."
Slaine reached out. His hand was visibly trembling now. The adrenaline was crashing, and the sheer, sickening reality of what he was doing was hitting him. He was permanently shackling himself to the boy who had stolen Asseylum's heart. He picked up the ring.
He reached for Inaho’s left hand.
When Slaine’s skin made contact with Inaho’s, Slaine flinched. His fingers were ice-cold, clammy with cold sweat. He fumbled slightly with the ring, his hands shaking so badly he couldn't align it with Inaho's finger.
It was a moment of weakness. The Orbital Knights leaned forward, smelling blood in the water. Marylcian’s smirk widened. If the Viceroy humiliated himself here, on live broadcast, his authority would crumble before the day was out.
Inaho saw the tactical disaster unfolding.
Without a word, Inaho shifted his stance. He didn't pull his hand away. Instead, he turned his left hand over and firmly, deliberately, clasped Slaine’s shaking fingers.
Inaho’s grip was warm, solid, and completely unyielding. It was the grip of a soldier pulling a comrade over a ledge.
Slaine gasped softly, his teal eyes snapping up to meet Inaho’s mismatched gaze. For a second, the cameras, the Knights, and the hatred faded away. There was only the startling, heavy reality of Inaho’s hand anchoring him in the storm. Inaho’s organic eye conveyed absolutely nothing, but the physical contact spoke volumes: I have you. Finish the mission.
Steadying his breathing against Inaho’s solid grip, Slaine slid the heavy crimson ring onto Inaho’s finger.
Inaho then picked up the second ring. With smooth, methodical precision, he slid it onto Slaine’s finger. The metal clinked softly against the quiet hum of the room.
"By the mandate of the Empress, you are bound," the Officiant declared. "Turn and face the Empire."
Slaine and Inaho turned slowly in unison to face the sea of hostile faces and the floating cameras.
The director in the shadows threw his hand down. "Flash!"
Dozens of camera bulbs erupted simultaneously, a blinding, strobe-light barrage of pure white light.
In the frozen, overexposed frame of the photograph that would be transmitted across the solar system, they looked like the perfect, tragic portrait of a new era. The Conqueror in white, looking haunted and utterly exhausted. The Captive in black, an unreadable, stoic shadow at his side.
They did not look at each other. They did not smile. But down where the cameras couldn't easily focus, half-hidden by the drape of their military jackets, their hands remained locked together. Not out of affection, and not out of love.
But because they were two men falling off a cliff, and they were the only things holding each other up.