The cold hum of the Federation flagship's data-core echoed through the command bridge. Commander Cael Thorne stood still, his silver military coat gleaming under the holographic light, eyes fixed on the incoming ship on the screen — Starlight Crown's diplomatic cruiser.
He had read the files. He knew the princess.
At least, the version they wanted him to believe in.
A spoiled noble sorceress.
Raised in velvet.
Soft. Predictable. Controlled.
But Cael knew better. He always had.
Long before war cast its shadow, before the whispers of peace-by-marriage surfaced, before the ring encoded with dual-tech magic was even forged — he and Helya had spoken through stolen tech, intercepted runes, and quantum-linked messages, hidden deep beneath diplomatic firewalls.
She was dangerous.
And brilliant.
And very, very angry.
Just like him.
"Sir," a young officer approached, her boots sharp on the chrome floor. "The princess's vessel is entering range. Shall I prepare the security escort?"
Cael didn't answer at first.
Instead, he walked toward the observation panel, watching as the cruiser's hull glimmered with soft blue magic lines — old magic. Real magic. The kind his nation feared and weaponized in secret labs.
We were born of opposite worlds, he thought. But we were shaped by the same fire.
He finally turned to the officer.
"No escort. Just me."
The officer hesitated.
"Protocol says—"
"I am the protocol."
He walked alone to Docking Bay 09, his footsteps echoing in the vast steel halls of the ship. Inside his coat, another ring — her twin ring — pulsed faintly with synchronized energy.
They hadn't seen each other in years.
But today, their plan would begin.
And the galaxy had no idea what was coming.
The Federation believed Cael Thorne was a soldier. A tool. A puppet.
They forgot that puppets with minds of their own often cut their own strings.