The Princess Redana stands small next to the couch, fretting. Though, it must be admitted, she’s bigger than usual. The ceremonial fur capes of a pack returning to Nemesis are bulky, are anonymizing, for all that the ceremonial armor is designed to maximize exposed skin for the transcendental kiss of the winds of Capitas. (Flowers, silk and bones.) The helmets, too, are bulky and anonymizing; one sits in the crook of her arm. (Flowers, silk and bones.)

The WAX system within will kill all sound. Her companion will be the song of her own blood. There will be no need to speak aloud, because Ceron’s daughters speak through scent, through art, through instinct. No distractions from outsiders’ words; nothing spoken on the surface of Nemesis by pack or captive. This, then, is the challenge all of her training was pointing her towards.

That was the compromise that the first Shoguns made for their pleasure-palaces glutted with trophies and the art that a warrior race must make to feel civilized and distinguished and justified. They would be able to watch the swirling nebulas, the designed sunsets, the rain of jewels. They would be able to feel the kisses of the enslaved Anemoi on their skin, perfectly cool and soft, playing with their earrings and cloaks. They would taste the feasts that Azura wonderchefs prepared, drink variegated wine fresh-squeezed from Iris-grapes, drag their tongues across salt-flecked skin. And, surrounded by the subtle scents of the pack, they would converse in perfect self-control. Only a drunken sot, a hedonistic fool, would lose control of the self; so goes the ethos of Nemesis. Control the self to control the galaxy.

There will be music, Dany knows, and afterwards she will regret that she never got to hear it. There will be songs that are bridges between stars. There will be waterfalls which sing, each stone placed with perfect care. No matter how many times Sagetip has told her about the Ethos of the Shogunate, the thought of losing herself to Capitas keeps coiling around her.

Just a little peril. Just a taste. Tie her to the mast, or better yet, envelop her in Bella’s arms (but she’s still recovering). To be lost in the beauty, to be engrossed completely, to experience the whole of it at once even if it destroys her, to take her helmet off and listen—

She’s going to do it. She tells herself that she is capable of resisting, that she has an important mission to Gaia, that someone needs to look after Mosaic-named-Bella, but the absolute surrender to beauty and desire is something that she will not have the strength to overcome.

Because here, in the center of everything, is an adventure that could take centuries to play out. Here is the fulfillment of her childhood dreams, if only Bella would join her for them. Here is the great big wide world and its charms, contracted to a subjective point. Here is the knife that is made to slip underneath her ribs.

She stands by Bella’s couch, and she holds her helmet firmly against her side, and she frets, and she says nothing, even though soon there will be no need for her to say anything at all, one with the pack as they carry out their plan to infiltrate Nemesis itself.

To infiltrate Nemesis as a pack escorting dignitaries, including one of the Azura ambassadors. The Honored Dyssia, Title To Be Workshopped.