The Throne Room

The chains were an interesting choice.

Not necessary... where exactly was I going to run in a palace full of seven-foot-tall predators? But someone had clearly decided that aesthetics mattered. The metal was dark, almost black, with patterns etched into the links. Formal restraint wear. The Kha'ari had formal restraint wear.

I filed that observation away with the hundred others I'd collected since being dragged out of the rubble three days ago.

The throne room was exactly what I'd expected from a species that thought "conquer everything" was a viable cultural identity. Black stone walls. Angular architecture that seemed designed to make you feel small. Weapons displayed like art, which I supposed they were, to these people. The ceiling stretched so high it disappeared into shadow.

And at the center of it all, on a throne carved from what looked like volcanic glass: Commander Raeth.

Blood Wind.

Conqueror of twelve worlds.

The reason Earth's major cities were craters.

He was bigger than the briefings had suggested. All Kha'ari were large by human standards, but Raeth looked like someone had taken the concept of "warlord" and made it literal. Slate-gray skin with darker patterns at his temples. Gold eyes with vertical pupils that tracked my approach with predatory focus. Black hair pulled back to reveal a face that was handsome the way a drawn blade was handsome. Every feature designed for purpose, not beauty, yet beautiful regardless.

His court surrounded the throne. Dozens of Kha'ari in military dress or formal robes, all watching the small human in chains being escorted toward their master.

I counted exits. Two visible doors. Probably hidden passages behind those wall panels. Not that it mattered. I wasn't getting out of here unless they let me.

The guards stopped me ten feet from the throne. Standard supplication distance, if I remembered my briefings correctly. I was supposed to kneel now. Lower my eyes. Show submission.

I looked up at Commander Raeth instead.

Silence stretched. His court shifted, uncomfortable.

"Cultural Ambassador Ayla Chen," one of the guards announced. "Gift from the conquered territory of Earth."

Gift. I was a gift. A very well-educated, extremely annoyed gift.

Raeth studied me. I studied him back. His face gave nothing away. A stillness that could mean anything, cultivated over centuries of command.

"You don't kneel," he said. His voice was deep, resonant, with that distinctive Kha'ari rumble beneath the words. His Standard was perfect, accent barely detectable.

"I don't," I agreed.

Murmurs from the court. Someone actually gasped.

"Interesting." He leaned forward slightly. "The other ambassadors wept. Begged. Promised cooperation."

"Sounds exhausting."

More murmurs. Louder now.

"Are you not afraid?" He seemed genuinely curious.

I considered the question. Three weeks of hiding in rubble. Watching my city burn. Knowing that everyone I loved was dead or scattered. Being extracted by soldiers who'd treated me like cargo, shipped across space to be a decorative hostage for an alien warlord.

"I'm terrified," I said. "But I've been terrified for three weeks, so it's starting to feel normal." I glanced around the throne room. "Also, your palace is hideous. Did your interior designer hate you, or is this a cultural statement?"

The silence was so complete I could hear my own heartbeat.

Raeth stared at me. His court stared at me. The guards beside me had gone perfectly still, as if waiting for the order to remove my head.

Then Raeth laughed.

It was a rusty sound, like machinery that hadn't been used in too long. The court flinched as if he'd drawn a weapon. Apparently laughing wasn't something their commander did often.

"Hideous," he repeated, looking around his throne room as if seeing it for the first time. "Aggressive minimalism."

"I was going to say 'angry architecture,' but that works too."

Another laugh. Shorter this time, but real.

His advisors were watching with expressions ranging from horrified to calculating. I'd surprised them. Good. Surprises bought time, and time was all I had.

Raeth rose from his throne. Even prepared for his height, I felt the scale difference like a physical weight. He descended the steps slowly, that predator's grace making each movement look both casual and deliberate.

He stopped a foot away from me. Close enough that I had to crane my neck to meet his gaze.

"Dr. Chen," he said. "Xenolinguist. Three degrees. Published researcher. Survivor of the Berkeley siege."

They'd done their homework. I wasn't surprised, just disappointed that they'd cared enough to bother.

"You forgot fluent in fourteen languages," I said. "Fifteen if you count my Kha'ari, but it's still technically intermediate."

"You speak our language?"

"I studied it for six years before your ships showed up. Academic interest." I shrugged, chains clinking. "Turns out that was more useful than I expected."

His attention sharpened. Not softer... he didn't seem capable of that. But more focused. Like I'd become a puzzle instead of a possession.

"Take her to the good quarters."

One of his advisors stepped forward. "My lord, perhaps the standard ambassador housing would be more..."

"The good quarters." Raeth's tone left no room for argument. "And remove the chains. She's not going anywhere."

He was right about that, at least.

The guards led me away. I kept my spine straight, my steps measured. Didn't look back.

I could feel his gaze on me the whole way out.

The "good quarters" turned out to be a suite larger than my entire Berkeley apartment.

The guards deposited me inside and left without a word. The door closed with a heavy thunk. No visible lock, but I was willing to bet the Kha'ari didn't need visible locks to keep humans contained.

I stood in the center of the main room and took inventory.

The space was decorated in the same aggressive Kha'ari aesthetic as the rest of the palace, all dark stone and sharp angles, but someone had made concessions to comfort. The furniture was sized for humans, or at least humanoids smaller than the standard Kha'ari. Soft fabrics in deep jewel tones. A bed that looked almost scandalously comfortable after three weeks of sleeping in rubble.

A window stretched across one wall. Not glass, something stronger, probably. The view showed an alien landscape: dark mountains under a purple sky, unfamiliar vegetation in gardens far below.

And directly across the courtyard, maybe fifty meters away: another set of lit windows. Larger. More ornate.

The commander's chambers.

Of course.

I watched those windows for a long moment, wondering if he was watching me back. Probably not. He had an empire to run, subjects to terrify, conquest to maintain. One annoying human wasn't worth his attention.

But he'd given me the good quarters. He'd laughed.

I sat down on the edge of the bed and finally let my shoulders drop.

I was alive. That was something.

My fingers trembled against my knees. I pressed them flat until the trembling became stillness.

You're okay. You're alive. This is survivable.

The self-talk sounded hollow even inside my own head. But hollow was better than nothing.

I looked around my luxurious prison and started cataloguing details. Exits, weaknesses, opportunities. The survival habits I'd developed in the siege applied here too, just with better furniture and fewer rats.

When I finally slept, I dreamed of burning cities and golden eyes.