Chapter 1

Leah

I slice my sword through the belly of a snarling brute, and watch as a geyser of simulated entrails paints the flickering wall in crimson and fire. The smell—pungent, metallic, unreal—mixes with the thick reek of synthes-spice that clings to the air like cheap perfume on a brothel bed. The holodeck rumbles, simulating the sway of the pirate ship, and chains dangle from the ceiling like the tentacles of some rusted, mechanical beast.

“Who’s next?” I growl, stepping over the body that’s already beginning to pixelate into nothing. My voice echoes off the metal walls, smoky and low, touched with just enough menace to match the story in my head.

The den is everything I designed it to be: rusted iron walls weeping condensation, neon flickering above a rickety bar where three-eyed degenerates gamble credits away, and a haze of smoke and stench so thick it clogs your throat with every breath. A playground of violence, sweat, and debauchery. A dream.

And I am the nightmare knocking at the door.

My simulated armor is spattered with gore—obsidian plate with silver filigree molded tight to my form, every curve accentuated, every angle sharp enough to draw blood. My power sword hums in my grip, the tip dripping illusionary blood, red as hell. I’ve painted a black streak under each eye, warpaint of my own invention. There’s a fire in my chest, roaring and heady. This is the best I’ve felt in weeks.

“Merc!” a shrill voice calls from a catwalk above, thick with static and malice. “You can’t just walk into Balrog’s den, painting the walls with his crew and expect to—”

I flick my wrist. The sword sings. The speaker’s head rolls, bouncing down the grated walkway like a rubber ball. His body topples after, thudding beside a twitching alien thug with more horns than teeth. The digital crowd gasps. A few raise weapons. Others wisely back away.

“She earned her audience!” someone mutters. “Balrog’s rules—trial by blood!”

Damn right I did.

I step forward into the pit, and a spotlight clicks on, illuminating a towering throne of bones and rusted starship plating. And there he sits—Balrog.

He’s magnificent.

Seven and a half feet of muscle and menace, horns spiraling out from his skull like a crowned demon, eyes the color of dying suns. His hide is furred, black and thick, and across his chest, scars crisscross in the chaotic poetry of a violent life. His smile? It’s pure predator. He drums thick fingers on his knee, lazy-like. The way he’s looking at me sends heat spiraling low in my belly.

"You kill five of mine, trespass in my den, and spill your perfume like you're marking territory," he says, voice low and rumbling like thunder behind a locked door. "Got a death wish, girl?"

I bare my teeth in return, heart pounding in my ears. “No. I’ve got ambition.”

Silence.

Then he laughs, a brutal, guttural sound that makes my spine tingle.

“You think you're pirate material?”

“I know I am.” I spin my sword once and slam it into the floor between us. The clang rings like a bell at a duel. “Or are your standards that low?”

Another chorus of gasps from the onlookers. Balrog rises.

Good.

I want him angry. I want him interested.

He descends the throne with the grace of a beast who knows he’s at the top of the food chain. Each hoofstep lands like a war drum, shaking the floor under my boots. When he finally stands before me, close enough for me to smell the heat and spice of his simulated skin, he leans in—just a bit.

“Pretty, cocky, and stupid. You might be fun before you die.”

“I might be the best decision you’ve ever made.”

His grin spreads wider.

Gods, this is fun.

“Balrog!” A voice from the side of the holodeck cracks the immersion like glass under a boot. “Leah, your aunt and uncle want to see you.”

Ugh. Jenny.

I pivot, annoyed, to see her standing near the holodeck entrance, trying not to gag on the dense smoke. She’s still wearing her maid’s apron—blue and white with little embroidered gears—completely out of place in my pirate fantasy. Her eyes dart nervously around the room. “They said immediately, Leah.”

“I’m in the middle of something,” I snap, hands on hips. “Can’t it wait five minutes?”

“Not unless you want another lecture about decorum,” she mutters, glancing at Balrog, who is now crossing his arms in a most unamused way.

“Then come in and be part of the scene.” I wave her over with a grin. “You can be the hostage.”

“Leah—”

Too late. I gesture, and a couple of simulated pirates leap from the shadows, grabbing Jenny by the arms. She shrieks as they tie her up with thick coils of synth-rope, gag and all.

“Leah!”

“It’s just a simulation!” I call as she’s hoisted off the floor, dangling like a parcel of laundry. “The safeties won’t let anything too bad happen to you!”

Her eyes are wide, panicked. I grin and wink. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

Balrog watches the whole scene with that bemused, feral expression. I don’t know why it thrills me so much. Maybe because he reminds me of every dark fantasy I’ve ever read—half monster, half man, and all trouble.

He leans closer. “If you were mine,” he rumbles, “you’d never be let out of my sight.”

“Too bad I’m nobody’s.”

“That can be changed.”

Shivers crawl down my spine, delicious and dangerous. My armor suddenly feels too tight.

And then the simulation freezes.

The flickering lights still. The growl of the den cuts to silence. The smoke disappears, sucked into nonexistence.

Balrog’s outstretched hand hangs frozen in midair.

I sigh, dramatically.

“Program terminated,” comes the disembodied voice of the holodeck’s AI.

“Traitor,” I mutter.

Everything goes gray when the program ends—like someone yanked my heartbeat out through my spine. The heavy smoke vanishes. The blood, the chains, the flickering neon—all gone. I’m left standing in an empty holodeck chamber, bare walls buzzing with humming emitter lines. Balrog disappears mid-reach, his promise of chaos and conquest blinking out like a faulty bulb.

Ugh.

I let out an aggravated groan and roll my eyes. “Really? Couldn’t even let me finish the scene?”

From the far side of the holodeck, the blast doors hiss open with theatrical finality. And there she is. Meru Talbot. My aunt, my guardian, my ever-watchful buzzkill.

She’s dressed in one of her usual high-collared control suits—midnight black with silver piping, so stiff I can hear it creak when she walks. Her hair’s coiled in a perfect bun like she’s expecting an audience with the Galactic Senate, and her lips are pursed into that thin, judgemental line that makes me want to chuck a blaster at her just for fun.

“I see you’ve been playing with your little toys again,” she says, her voice razor-sharp and dipped in poison.

“I was training,” I reply, exaggerating the stretch of my arms and making my armor clink dramatically. “You never know when I might have to decapitate someone at a charity banquet.”

Jenny stumbles in behind her, red-faced and muttering under her breath. Bits of simulated rope are still tangled in her hair. She glares at me, cheeks puffed with frustration. “They didn’t despawn me when the program ended. I got stuck in a barrel of grog.”

“That’s just commitment to the bit,” I say, grinning.

Meru gives her a sideways glance and waves her off. “Go change, Jennifer. And find someone to fix your hair. You look like a failed tribute doll.”

Jenny shoots me a look before disappearing down the hall. Poor thing. But she’ll survive. She always does.

Once the doors hiss shut again, Meru steps forward, heels clicking like tiny gunshots across the metal floor. She looks me up and down, her nose twitching at the faint echo of virtual blood and simulated sweat still clinging to my skin.

“Armor?” she scoffs. “Really?”

I shrug. “A girl’s gotta protect herself.”

“From who? The hairstylists in Talboton?” Her tone sours further. “Do you realize how unbecoming it is for a noblewoman—a Talbot—to prance around in gore and fantasy? It’s childish. Worse, it’s scandalous.”

I cross my arms, sword still dangling at my hip. “Then consider me a scandal.”

Her jaw tightens. A vein throbs in her temple. It’s so faint you wouldn’t notice if you didn’t know her like I do. But I do. I’ve been pushing this button since I was fifteen.

“I don’t understand why you continue to act like this,” she says, voice dropping an octave into what she thinks is maternal concern. “You have a duty. You have a name. This planet needs your leadership, your grace.”

“No,” I say, stepping close enough for her to smell the ozone still clinging to my armor. “You need my marriage contract.”

Her lips twitch. For a second, I see something flicker in her eyes. Something calculating.

“I need you to grow up,” she says coldly.

I turn away before I do something stupid. The edge of the holodeck is already resetting itself, panels humming as the processors cool down. The lights seem too bright now. Too sterile.

“Did you drag me out of my program just to lecture me, or is there a suitor waiting in the drawing room with flowers and a dowry checklist?”

Meru hesitates. Just long enough.

I spin back to face her. “Seriously?”

She smooths the front of her suit like she’s brushing dust off a coffin lid. “This one is different.”

I snort. “They always are.”

“This one is royal.”

That gives me pause.

“…Royal how?”

“Chang dynasty.”

Oh, hell.

“Xiang,” she corrects herself. “Prince Chang Xian.”

I raise both brows, skeptical. “A prince? You expect me to believe royalty is interested in Talboton nobility? What’d you promise him? My bloodline? My ancestral blade? Access to my… assets?”

Her eyes narrow. “This is a diplomatic arrangement, not a circus. His people are looking to reestablish ties with neutral houses after the border conflicts. It’s political. It’s—”

“Boring,” I finish, biting back a grin. “Unless…”

I cock my head, thinking. “Didn’t the Xiang line have some… exotic blood in it? Something about one of their ancestors consorting with a shapeshifter?”

Meru’s expression turns pinched. “There are rumors.”

“Ooh.” I clasp my hands dramatically. “So he’s half-alien, maybe? Suddenly he’s halfway interesting.”

She glares. “Leah, I’m not in the mood.”

“That makes two of us.”

“I want you to take this seriously.”

“And I want a pet chimera named Edgar. Neither of us are getting what we want today.”

“Leah.”

I sigh, leaning against the deactivated console, letting my shoulder armor creak under the weight of my indifference.

“Fine. I’ll meet him. I’ll smile, I’ll nod, and I’ll even wear something that doesn’t scream ‘whore of Babylon.’”

Her eyes widen slightly.

“But,” I add, raising a finger, “I’m doing it for me. Not for you. And if he turns out to be another breathless fop in silk shoes and limp handshakes, I’m going back to my holodeck.”

She exhales slowly. “Thank you.”

Behind my back, I cross my fingers.

She doesn’t need to know that part.