[Alan PoV]

The shuttle bucked through its last pockets of rough air. A rattle that ran up Alan's spine through the seat frame. He had a window and through it the world unfurled. An island, tiny against an ocean that went on forever. From above, it looked like a smudge of green and rock with a landing pad carved into its center. It stirred the same amazement he felt the first time he saw the Academy islands. Only this time, he reminded himself, he hadn't been dragged out of his will.

He'd chosen this.

The landing came with a loud noise and a tremor echoing through the ship's structure. The framework creaked, pushed to its limit.

The rear entrance of the ship slowly opened, letting the wind rush in with force. Snapping at Alan's hair and tugging the edges of his coat, the air brought the tang of hot metal and weathered sea.

Beside him, one of his newest colleagues fumbled with his harness. "Finally. I hate riding in these things." He stood, already half turned toward the exit. "Sixty percent of accidents happen on intra-planetary transports."

Alan blinked. "Remind me again how you became an Admiral?"

"Look," the man said, already ticking through his calculus as they joined the slow shuffle to the ramp, "warships are next-gen. They have hundreds of redundancies. These tin cans? You'd better pray to your luck." He stepped onto the platform descending toward the grass, the wind plastering his white coat back against his legs.

Admiral Orton. Up close, he radiated the kind of contained force that bent rooms around it. He was one of the most powerful people Alan had ever met. One who chained himself to numbers and probabilities, the way others sought prayers and gods.

He wore the admiral's uniform—a long white coat to the knee. Underneath, a black high-collared tunic fastened to the neck with neat gold buttons. Black gloves and a belt gave a sharp contrast. White trousers, stiff with protective fabric, were tucked into polished black boots.

The uniform was a mix of ceremony and practicality. Its goal was obvious: to define and set his rank apart from the others. To be a symbol of power. However, he was not distancing himself from Alan. Although with slightly different responsibilities, both wore the same clothes and held the same rank.

"You're only complaining about my fears because you're insane," Orton said, words clipped, still raw from their earlier exchange. "Who in their right mind becomes a mecha pilot? After a tour like yours, it's obvious you don't value your life."

Alan lifted both hands in a pantomime of surrender. "Wasn't me who said it."

They walked on. The lawn unrolled toward a white structure at the far edge of the island. A small palace lifted from a Greco-Roman daydream and set down in the middle of the Pacific. From a distance, it looked delicate, almost ceremonial. Up close, Alan knew, the "marble" would be ceramic composite, the columns hollow and threaded with fiber. The statues doubled as surveillance. Beauty as armor. Tradition as misdirection.

A narrow path of pale stone cut through the grass to the entrance. Yet, they didn't take it.

Instead, both stopped a few paces short of where it began. Adopting the posture that came with their uniforms, hands clasped behind the back, shoulders squared, chests forward.

"They'll start arriving any minute," Alan said, gaze lifted to the sky. Far off, dots thickened into shapes. Dozens of ships were approaching, sketching white lines across the blue sky. Some were small and efficient, the same class as their shuttle, ferrying military and the lesser Houses' envoys. Others were grand, ceremonial hulls, an ostentation of color and crest. The leaders of the Great Houses did not travel subtly.

"It'll be hell," Orton murmured. "Everyone is on edge. The chance of this going wrong is nearly certain."

"Has anyone ever told you you're a pessimist with a possible gambling addiction?" Alan asked, deadpan.

"Incredibly, no," Orton said, and let the criticism pass.

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The island hummed softly. Beyond the waves and birds, they could hear the shield pylons buried underground, turrets creaking while hidden among the plants, the whisper of drones flying around the perimeter. Alan let habit take over and traced lines of approach, fields of fire, retreat paths.

"If you're that pessimistic, tell me the chances of this being a trap," Alan asked, feeling a chill as he looked back at the mansion. "This is so strange. This island wasn't known until this moment."

"Not exactly. The heirs knew," Orton corrected, eyes never stopping their measured sweep of horizon, palace, sky.

"Fewer than a hundred people, then," Alan said. "Still the best place for the Emperor to settle everything with his enemies in one stroke."

"It could be a trap, it's always possible," Orton allowed with a shrug. "But the Empire wouldn't survive after that. He has the backing of three Great Houses. Six are neutral, and three are against. If he pulls a stunt like that here, he's declaring war against all of them. They would face an enemy three times the size of their allies."

The math made sense. It didn't make Alan feel better about being there. Ever since he'd announced where his allegiance lay, old friends had begun to look at him like he was a stranger. To make matters worse, he had been put in charge of one of the most thankless tasks. Babysitting people with the power to destroy worlds

That wind rose in fits and howls as ships began to land one after another. The sky filled with descending hulls, their bellies flaring with braking flames. Hatches opened, ramps rolled out.

First came the military contingents from Houses and Great Houses. Row after row of soldiers began to gather along the main path to the mansion. Each of them standing shoulder to shoulder. They mirrored Alan and Orton's stance, with their hands clasped behind their backs, shoulders squared, faces unreadable.

Minutes later, the Houses arrived. They were lesser nobles like Alan, but only the leaders had come. They left their ships in small groups, each showing minor but clear signs of their rank. From the style of their clothes, the symbols they wore, and the accents from far-off provinces. Their talk was lively but tense, laughter quickly fading when they looked over their shoulders, titles spoken softly but with the seriousness of a loaded gun. This was no ordinary day. Today, they would all witness the future being shaped in plain view.

"He's coming," Orton said, nodding toward a ship landing on the pad. A bigger ship with a symbol on its side: three planets joined by a thin line, plain and clear.

Alan squinted to see better. The ship was ten times bigger than their shuttle; it was like a floating palace with armored edges. It landed heavy and steady, with fields that pressed down the grass in rings around it. When the stairs came down, the show of power began right away.

Dozens of soldiers stepped out in a perfect formation, spreading out in wide, overlapping circles. They moved around in small groups, with three key figures at the center circle, clearly showing who had power.

"He brought the allies?" Alan asked, surprised they weren't arriving in separate, flying their own colors.

"Some kind of last-minute summit," Orton explained.

To the right walked a tall man wearing a uniform fit for a fleet admiral. A burn scar ran down one side of his face, a pale mark that time hadn't made less sharp. This was Dawn, the heir to House Hyperion.

Alan knew a bit about him. A former soldier who fought in the Ninth and Tenth Waves, almost Alan's age. Yet, carried himself like someone who had already lived a whole life in command.

To the left came a broad-shouldered colossus wrapped in a black-and-gold cape. He moved like a storm front, dense with muscle and confidence. Sacras was the heir to the Arctos line. One glance at the thick cords in his arms told people he could break lesser men without effort.

Between them, the third person walked confidently, his red eyes shining. The three moved forward together, catching the attention of both soldiers and nobles. People stopped talking and started again as they passed by. They crossed the lawn slowly and carefully until they stopped right in front of Orton and Alan.

The man in the center walked closer until he was face-to-face with Orton. "Admiral. How are you?"

"Very well, Mr. President," Orton replied, dipping his head in a precise, unhurried bow.

The President, Mordred, turned to Alan, eyes looking him in from boots to collar, not unkindly, simply assessing.

"You look much better," Mordred said.

"Thank you, President Mordred," Alan answered, feeling the weight of a hundred unseen ears. He kept his hands clasped behind him.

Mordred lifted a hand and set it on Alan's shoulder, the gesture simple, anchoring. "How does it feel," he asked with curiosity in his voice, "to be finally free of your metal legs?"

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