A low trumpet sounded. Gaston cleared his throat, his voice amplified by a microphone and spilling from the hidden speakers. We needed a Master of Ceremonies, and he had enthusiastically volunteered.

“Her Grace, Caldenia ka ret Magren,” Gaston announced in a deep resonant voice. His High Galactic was excellent even without the translator. “Letere Olivione, Dystim Adrolo, She Who Controls Fate, the Light of the Midnight Sun.”

Caldenia walked into the room. She wore a magnificent formal gown, deep green accented with silver. An emerald tiara crowned her spectacular updo. Her makeup was flawless.

The ballroom went silent as a tomb.

Her Grace had taken three steps forward when her eyes finally registered the glowing symbols of the Dominion on the arched ceiling above the throne. For a fraction of a second, Caldenia froze. It lasted a mere heartbeat, and I committed it to memory, because it would likely be the first and last time I saw Her Grace lose it.

Our stares connected. I tried to warn you.

The miniscule moment of shock ended. She glided forward, a calm smile on her face.

Gaston moved away from the Observer Gallery on an intercepting course, approached Caldenia, and offered her a graceful bow. She gave him a smile and rested her fingers on his forearm. Gaston murmured something to her. Her eyes sparkled and she quipped something back.

What are you doing? Take her to her seat, quickly. We’ve talked about this.

The conversations resumed but at a markedly lower volume. Nobody had any idea what would happen next, us included. Sean and I had been given assurances, but no guarantees. I would protect Caldenia at all costs.

The trumpets blew a triumphant note. A man appeared at the entrance. His elegant white robe hugged his tall, muscular frame, its intricate embroidery luminescing subtly with pale gold. His skin was the darkest shade of black, with a shocking blue undertone as if someone had carved him out of onyx and dusted his cheekbones with sapphire powder. His hair, cut down to near stubble, was shaped with almost microscopic precision, and it shone with white, like swirls of the first frost on a window. His face was intelligent and long, his dark eyes bottomless, and when he strode into the room, there was no doubt that it and everything within it was his to command.

Caldenia froze again, her eyes wide.

“His Supremacy, Kosandion ka ret Maggran,” Gaston announced next to her. “Letero Kolivion, Dystim Arbiento, Sovereign of the Seven Star Dominion, He Who Is Immune to Fate, the Light of the Morning Sun.”

Caldenia’s fingers on Gaston’s forearm trembled. I had so wanted to spare her this, but she’d made it impossible.

Kosandion reached Caldenia. You could hear a pin drop.

“My dear aunt,” the Sovereign intoned, his voice a clear baritone that carried though the entire room unaided. “I haven’t seen you since you murdered my father. It’s been too long.”