“It was day twenty-one days since what many are labeling “The Battle of Colorado Springs”, being the epicenter of the rioting because of the location of the alien device called the Bridge. Tens of Thousands of protesters and agitators flooded the medium-sized city. This made the city one of fourteen zones where the President triggered The Insurrection Act, allowing federal forces to intervene and bring stability to the city, supporting local law enforcement, National Guard, and Colorado State Guard. These forces though had to come out of state and not the two Divisions from Fort Carson – as all available forces are on Alagore engaging the enemy.

  Most of the fighting had been contained by the second week; with the city Mayor stating that the majority had gone home after expressing their feelings. However, thousands still march with most of the rioters coming from out of state, and maintain their attempted looting or violent outbursts. As our earlier reports stated, violent responses across the nation required the mobilization of all military and law enforcement to maintain stability and restore order.

  The lines have evolved as more information has been released by the White Houses with most rioters either siding with the newly declared war and those who wish for the destruction of the Bridge – with each group having multiple subgroups within them.

  Most of the focus has shifted to the upcoming trials of 31 prisoners from Alagore, all those who took part during the Siege of Salva and outlining battles. According to the recent joint statement with Secretary of Defense Charles Robinson and newly appointed Tsar Grant Holloway of all Alagore related subjects, these prisoners committed many crimes against the Gevena Convention ranging from murder, execution, torture, and more gruesome details that they said were to inappropriate to disclose.” Indi News

  May 11th, 2069 (Military Calendar)

  Wordton Hotel, Colorado Springs, Colorado, United States

  North America, Earth

  *****

  Staring through the hotel balcony, Mathew Ryder gazed at the peaceful city, so unlike the besieged ruins of Salva. Even at night, everything glowed—streetlights, headlights, neon advertisements flashing across towering structures. A city untouched by war.

  The Captain took a slow breath, savoring the comfort of being on home soil again. His military career had taken him from raids on cartel strongholds in the Southwest to counterinsurgency in northern Mexico. He’d seen chaos, scorched towns, and political unrest. But this—this was sterile peace.

  Yet despite the warmth of familiarity, a knot twisted in his gut. He was home—his country—yet it didn’t feel right. The city lights stirred no comfort. Instead, they reminded him of memories: lamplit cobbled streets, wind rustling trees, woodsmoke drifting from homes—the calm before another storm.

  “What are you looking at, Father?”

  Ryder turned to see his daughter perched on the edge of the bed, her blue and gold eyes watching him curiously. He smiled and crossed the room. “Just admiring the view.”

  “It is very different than Salva and Cornet,” Assiaya said, her voice soft. “No fire...” She tilted her head. “That is right…, besides the non-legged walkers that were on fire.”

  He chuckled, recalling the images of rioters setting fire to police drones. He glanced at the TV and noticed she had tuned into the Logan Channel, a popular podcast. The host was, of course, talking about the war—specifically, the Battle of Salva. They showed footage of American soldiers and alien civilians gathered beneath Assiaya’s handmade flag. The host praised the dual-eyed princess, calling it a rare moment of unity.

  There were questions about why America was involved in an alien war, but the host noted it was refreshing to be welcomed rather than being forced into a foreign conflict.

  The conversation shifted toward the people of Salva, their diverse cultures, and the strange blending of ancient humanity and alien races. Unlike most streamers, this host seemed genuinely interested in the people, not just the politics.

  Ryder didn’t agree with all the podcast’s points, but he appreciated the nuance. At least someone was treating the topic with more than the usual binary rhetoric.

  “Your world’s propaganda is strange,” Rosanhi said.

  “I’m just happy to see someone like me being talked about,” Assiaya replied with a proud smile. “I worked hard on those flags.”

  “You two should be watching something a little more fun,” Ryder suggested.

  “Why?” Rosanhi asked flatly. “I’m here to observe your world and gain a better understanding.”

  “I get that,” Ryder said. “But too much politics will rot your brain.”

  “Then is your brain already rotten?” Rosanhi asked, eyebrow raising, lips tugged in the faintest smirk.

  He laughed, noting Assiaya trying to stifle her giggle. “Probably,” he said. “Still, there’s more to a culture than its politics.”

  “I believe I saw enough of your culture on the way here,” Rosanhi remarked.

  “Do not be mean,” Assiaya scolded.

  “It’s okay,” Ryder said. “We didn’t exactly make the best first impression. But that’s not a bad thing. Now you know how we felt when we arrived in your world.”

  “I remember your hesitation with Ceka,” Rosanhi said. “Our Head Maid was embarrassed. She thought she had failed to train her apprentice properly.” She turned her gaze back to the television. “Father was pleased to hear you opposed slavery. But we didn’t understand your rejection of motuias. We thought we had common ground against the greater evil.”

  “That was to oppose Affrooliea, right?” Assiaya asked.

  “Yes,” Rosanhi replied. “But for people who value individual freedom, your resistance to indentured servitude confused us. I think I’m beginning to see just how different our worlds really are.”

  “Like burning things in the name of free speech,” Assiaya added.

  “They did say that was illegal,” Rosanhi replied. “But clearly, the plebes do not consider the consequences a deterrent. Yet you allow the lower classes to carry weapons—with surprisingly little bloodshed. Perhaps our Duke is onto something.”

  “As we said,” Ryder said, “being free doesn’t mean we’re always orderly. Sometimes freedom gets messy. We allow peaceful protest as long as it doesn’t turn violent. Suppressing emotion too long only leads to explosions later.”

  “Fascinating,” Rosanhi said. “This has always been a struggle on Alagore.”

  “I can attest,” Assiaya added. “My former master constantly worried about unrest among the many races in the Empire. He feared any spark could ignite rebellion.”

  “That might be the difference between us,” Ryder said. “The United States is an empire, but not in the traditional sense. We’re nationalistic, and we have a dominant culture. People from all backgrounds make this their home and bring their religions and customs—but they’re expected to embrace the American identity. There’s no official segregation. We’re Americans before race, faith, or clan.”

  He rubbed his beard, still struck by the maturity of the conversation. These weren’t children anymore—not really. The mention of Affrooliea brought back memories. The noble city-state, propped up by slavery, had been a lingering enemy. When Assiaya outlawed slavery in Salva, the Americans hadn’t objected—but there had been fears of local backlash.

  It always puzzled Ryder why Lord Folen Elstina, a prominent elf noble, had immediately backed the reform. He’d assumed it was gratitude for saving him from the Unity camps. But now, hearing Rosanhi, he wondered if there was more—perhaps a rivalry between pro-slavery Affrooliea and the pro-motuia Elstina.

  A sound at the door pulled him from his thoughts. Instinctively, he reached for his sidearm—then relaxed when he saw Varitan Yeldan enter.

  “Master,” Yeldan said, bowing slightly.

  Ryder nodded. His political motuia was to prepare for the upcoming meeting with the American delegation. It was supposed to be a mere formality—the U.S. formally recognizing the Daru’uie Protectorate and Assiaya’s rule. But Ryder had other goals: investment, autonomy, and security.

  Grabbing his phone, he synced it to the television and scrolled. “Let’s try something a bit lighter.” He pulled up the Amitoon streaming service and queued up Stellar Princess, a popular shōjo anime about teenage princesses spreading love and justice across the galaxy while protecting their kingdom from evil.

  The girls looked bewildered.

  “Why are princesses fighting evil?” Assiaya asked.

  “Did all the males die?” Rosanhi added.

  “No,” Ryder said, suppressing a sigh. “It’s just… for fun. There are male characters. They help. Sort of.”

  “How is that fun?” Assiaya asked. “If the males are still alive, are they lazy? Is that why the females are fighting?”

  “I do not think I will enjoy this thaum-ink story,” Rosanhi said flatly. “Too many of my male friends and … died defending the city, protecting us.”

  Ryder sighed. While he could see their perspective, he was not expecting to deal with these cultural differences in mindset. Gender roles were far more heavily ingrained in Alagore society than in the United States. The American Duke couldn’t blame them, as that is the norm throughout history. It was always a means of survival over liberty, which only highly safe countries have ever broken that trend. Even he was playing into those politics out of necessity.

  Then, an idea hit him. “If you watch it until I’m back and still don’t like it, I’ll buy you ice cream.”

  The proposal got their attention as their eyes locked onto him with great appreciation.

  He smirked, remembering what his mentor once told him before a mission. Bribery always works.

  Leaving the girls to their anime, Ryder followed Yeldan out. In the hallway, a third figure joined them—Xilnan, a feathered humanoid Yalate with brilliant plumage in tones of cyan, purple, and flecks of gold and green.

  The trio walked the marble halls of the five-star hotel, passing murals of Colorado history—cattle drives, coal strikes, national parks, and spaceports. Ryder admired the artwork, but memories of Kallem Verliance’s estate—its towering statues and endless paintings glorifying the Aristocracy—kept creeping back.

  In the quiet lobby, the three sat on lush furniture beneath soft, golden light.

  “Alright,” Ryder began. “What do we need to address first?”

  “Master,” Xilnan said, bowing low, her cyan and violet feathers shimmering under the overhead lights.

  “Xilnan, please,” Ryder said. “We’ve had this conversation. In private, call me Ryder—better yet, Matt or Mathew. Especially here, in my country.”

  “It is... improper,” she replied, ruffling slightly in embarrassment. Her mantle feathers lifted in subtle protest.

  “I warned you,” Yeldan said with a wry glance. “Americans are sensitive.”

  “I did not believe you,” Xilnan admitted. “When I joined your council, I wasn’t expecting everything to feel so... exotic.” She adjusted the decorative chest wrap she wore—woven fabric designed to frame the upper bands of her plumage in ceremonial contrast.

  “Welcome to the party,” Ryder said dryly. “Now, let’s get to it. Reconstruction—what’s the latest from the Council?”

  Xilnan folded her long limbs and sat upright, feathers settling. She explained that many roads and essential facilities had been repaired, but only within military zones. The rest of the city was left untouched. While trade had resumed with outlying towns, the civilian sector of Salva was stagnating. The city’s core wasn’t just damaged—it was ancient—much of the infrastructure needed total replacement, not just patchwork.

  This alone would be difficult, but now the arrival of American settlers had complicated matters. Salva had space to accommodate them, but not the updated housing. The residential zones were stuck in another era—crumbling, inefficient, and unfit.

  Xilnan’s tone remained formal, but her pride showed in the way she spoke. She had come from Vagahm, a city-state prosperous in commerce and forging, and her feathers were carefully arranged in ceremonial tiers reflecting her professional caste. She was here not just to advise, but to help remake Salva into something worthy of a legacy.

  “Housing isn’t our biggest concern right now,” Yeldan said, voice sharp. “Villages loyal to the Protectorate are being raided—by goblins and Aristocracy agents.”

  “I thought we cleared the last of them?” Ryder asked.

  “If that were true,” Yeldan said, “the Princess wouldn’t have flown to Iriskia. The goblins are clever. They avoid highways and cities, attacking only the remote and defenseless.”

  “Can’t we ask the Americans to deploy?” Xilnan asked.

  “I’ve already tried. Twice,” Ryder said. “VII Corps says they’re stretched too thin.”

  “Why?” she asked, feathers tilting in confusion.

  “Unity and the Aristocracy are pushing hard. Colonel Burke told me directly—he can’t spare anyone to garrison every village. And besides...” He paused, glancing toward Yeldan. “Many don’t take me seriously.”

  “Because of the title,” Yeldan explained. “Americans don’t have nobility. When the Captain accepted his Dukedom—via his daughter—it created cultural dissonance. Some see it as undemocratic. While the chain of command remains professional, there’s a clear tension.”

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  Xilnan gave a soft trill of thought, the Yalate version of a hum. “Still... if the Americans now hold a stake in our lands, should they not wish to protect it?”

  “They do,” Ryder said. “But they also need to prioritize the frontlines. Committing a platoon for a week-long patrol just to deter a raid isn’t sustainable. And we can’t post garrisons everywhere.”

  “I do not speak for generals,” Yeldan said, “but I do know politics. If we fail to protect those who’ve pledged loyalty to the Daru’uie, resentment will spread. Even though those who wish to rebel against the Katra will not do so out of fear.”

  Ryder’s gaze darkened as he remembered the slaughtered village. They had pledged allegiance in his name—without ever meeting him.

  “Agreed,” Ryder said softly. “No more dead villages.”

  He stood and turned to the artificial fireplace, watching the synthetic flames flicker. They reminded him of Kallem Verliance’s castle—grand, rich in art, and devoid of mercy.

  “We need to become self-sufficient,” he continued. “At least as much as we can.”

  “With what coin?” Xilnan asked bluntly. “An army eats silver as much as it eats bread.”

  “Forget the coin for now,” Ryder said. “If we can’t count on the Army, then we create our own force. A Legion. Something fast, mobile—ours. Not just to protect roads, but every village that stands with us.”

  “Then are we halting reconstruction?” Xilnan asked, crest feathers rising.

  “No. We fight on both fronts. The Militia takes priority—but Xilnan, I want you to design tax brackets and a phased infrastructure plan. Something that could lure early investment. Give Salva a foundation to grow.”

  She gave a solemn nod, feathers rippling in a formal acceptance gesture.

  “I must also raise the matter of the treaty,” Yeldan said. “We still haven’t seen the details. I want time to review before we sign anything.”

  Ryder gave a dry chuckle. “You’d hate software license agreements.”

  Yeldan looked puzzled. “This... is a form of legal doctrine?”

  “Close enough,” Ryder muttered. “The Ambassador’s been dodging me. We’ll force the issue at the meeting.”

  With their plan laid out, Xilnan left to draft her financial models. Yeldan began outlining a proposal for a reformed Protectorate military. With that, they all departed the lobby.

  Back at his suite, Ryder paused before entering. He remembered the girls’ earlier skepticism. Recommending a fantasy anime to people who lived in literal empires of magic and war… maybe that had been tone-deaf.

  He opened the door.

  “Hey girls, I’m back. So... am I getting ice cream or what?”

  No answer.

  He stepped into the room and stopped.

  Assiaya and Rosanhi were nestled together on the couch, clutching throw pillows, eyes glued to the screen. The Stellar Princess theme echoed through the room, bright and sentimental.

  He chuckled and joined them.

  “I take it..., no ice cream?”

  “Ice cream, yes,” Assiaya said, still refusing to meet his gaze.

  “Can you get it?” Rosanhi asked without looking away.

  Ryder smiled, glad that they were engaged with his world’s entertainment. For a fleeting moment, they weren’t political figures, heirs, or warriors. They were just girls. Kids. Laughing at cartoon villains and swooning over melodramatic plot twists.

  He stood, ready to fetch their reward—when his phone rang, loud and unfiltered through the silent mode.

  Ambassador West.

  His gut sank. “This is Captain Ryder... wait. She did what?!”

  May 5th, 2069 (Military Calendar)

  Colorado Springs, Colorado, United States

  North America, Earth

  *****

  Natilite stared out into the city. It was a dark night on Earth, but to her surprise, this was every night here. In Alagore, Tekali—their host world—nights were brighter, illuminated by their moon orbiter. The only true darkness came when the moon turned away and faced the void.

  She hadn’t realized how much she had taken her own world for granted. It wasn’t just the absence of Altaerrie technology. Everything was different.

  "What are you looking at?" Fraeya asked.

  "The night sky," Natilite replied, glancing at the elf’s relaxed attire. Fraeya wore little clothing, common for elves once they retired for the day. Among them, clothing was more about public respect toward other species. In private, especially among family or those one trusted, the customs were more relaxed.

  "You should cover up. There’s a spring chill, this high in the mountains."

  Fraeya wrapped the hotel robe tighter, clearly enjoying the soft Earth-made fabric. "You do not seem cold."

  "I’m a Valkyrie," Natilite said with a smirk.

  "Oh, yes." Fraeya nodded. "I’ve only seen your kind in the city. I forgot."

  Natilite giggled softly at the elf’s naivety. She found it charming. Flying humans like herself preferred high-altitude homes—mountains provided natural defense against rivals. It was common among Valkyrie. Their white, silver, or platinum hair was adapted for this colder, elevated environment—regardless of their skin tone.

  "Your loss."

  She glanced again at the glowing city, a hunger to explore stirring inside her. It reminded her of her younger days—newly anointed as a Templar, brimming with wanderlust. She longed to spread her wings and feel that same freedom again.

  "I used to wonder why the Altaerrie humans were so baffled by our two types of night. Now I get it."

  "I felt the same when I arrived." Fraeya pointed upward. "See? Only one moon."

  "I noticed. A world with a single moon… and they orbit the sun. Everything Matthew said was true."

  "You thought he lied?"

  "No. I just could not fathom it. But seeing it in person… now I can understand."

  A thunderous echo rolled across the sky. Natilite’s instincts kicked in—her head snapped toward the skyline, eyes scanning. To her astonishment, she saw a massive object lifting into the heavens. The unfamiliar sight froze her mind.

  "You saw it!" Fraeya gasped and pointed excitedly. "Those are rockets—or boosters, I forget. They fly into the cosmic sea, where the Altaerrie humans have colonies on other worlds."

  Natilite didn’t reply. She watched, awestruck, as the rocket disappeared into the sky. So many of her conversations with Matt came rushing back. His passion for the stars had always felt distant from her. It wasn’t a lack of interest—just a disconnection. And now, she understood why.

  She looked back to the city. Though it was the middle of the night, there was still life moving below—less than before, but not silent.

  A chilly breeze swept across the Wordton Hotel balcony. Natilite looked over and saw Fraeya shiver. She giggled. "You should go back inside."

  Then she stepped forward, flexing her wings and gripping the balcony rail.

  "Wait!" Fraeya warned. "The Ambassador said we must stay here."

  "I am a Templar," Natilite said. "I’ve explored countless cultures. I’ll be fine. Besides… I won’t be caged on my first visit. I want to see Altaerrie."

  With a final wing flex and a running bend, the Valkyrie launched into the sky.

  It took only moments for her wings to adjust. Gliding through the cool mountain air, the city unfolded beneath her like a glowing tapestry. The lights of thousands of streets flickered like veins. What caught her eye first were the endless vehicles—cars, moving in streams, unlike anything back home. In the skies, bird-like machines—jets—soared upward from runways. Small seekers buzzed between buildings, carrying packages.

  She flowed through the city’s currents, marveling at the contrast. Streets were wide—wider than anything on Alagore. On her world, hundreds of wagons and cages filled the roads, along with walkers, crawlers, and constructs built by wealthy craftsfolk.

  Here, there were no beasts of burden. Everything was powered. Personal locomotives driven by refined petroleum, supported by battery systems. Altaerrie humans didn’t shun batteries—she’d seen the military’s use of them in gadgets and robotics—but the scale and application were so different.

  She slowed before a tall building, landing softly. The concrete under her boots and the wintry breeze brushing her cheeks added to the surrealness of it all. She turned toward the skyline again.

  In the distance, a passenger airliner soared into the air. It was nothing like Unity’s skycraft. She wondered if the Crusaders' home continent had similar vessels—or if Altaerrie humans stood alone in mastery of the sky. Her kind knew the Crusaders had achieved flight—an advantage in the war—but this felt… refined.

  When she had first met the Altaerrie humans, she doubted them. A world without magic? Without magitech? It seemed absurd. She didn’t think they were lying, but it was too much to accept.

  But now? It was all true. This was their first visit to Earth, and Fraeya had been right. Nothing was the same. At first, the unknown terrified her.

  Now, she thought—maybe this is what we need to defeat Unity.

  Then came the scream—not fear or pain, but fury.

  She leaped from the rooftop and soared across the city. The commotion came from a street filled with shouting, fire, and flashing lights. Hovering above, she surveyed the chaos.

  Protesters clashed. Some carried religious banners. Others shouted for the end of religion altogether. A few screamed that aliens would bring the end times. Some demanded the Bridge be destroyed. Others insisted Earth strike first.

  Flames licked parked cars. Stores were broken into. Police in full armor formed lines as violence erupted between opposing mobs.

  Natilite had seen this before—majority races targeting minorities, civilizations using scapegoats in times of fear. But it saddened her. Riots like this were spreading across Earth.

  Law Enforcement clashed with the mob. It resembled a melee more than a police action. Strangely, the officers didn’t carry lethal weapons. That surprised her. On Alagore, the State would’ve ended this in blood and called it peace.

  "If this is freedom," she whispered, "I do not know if I want it."

  Then she calmed herself. No, Natilite. Be fair. They are afraid.

  "If Tekali truly wishes for us to reunite…" She glanced at the half-moon. "Father, the Cosmic God… give them strength."

  As she hovered, something caught her eye—off to the side, far from the main unrest. A row of two- to four-story buildings. Shops on the first floor, apartments above.

  Down one street, a group of men was breaking into a shop. They weren’t reacting to the protest. They were exploiting it.

  She was about to dive when she remembered the Ambassador’s warning: no involvement with locals.

  She clenched her fists. Calm yourself. Remember what Matt said.

  Then came the gunshot.

  She turned. A man lay bleeding. A woman and her children were held at gunpoint. Rage surged through her body, holy and righteous.

  “No…” she whispered. “I am a Templar. It is my duty to spread Tekali’s justice—no matter the world.”

  She dove into the scene. Five men were unloading tech into a van. One tied up the mother and children. The father lay unconscious nearby.

  They froze at the sight of her—a woman hovering.

  The wife cried out, begging her to flee. These men were from the Manos de la Parca—the Grim Reaper Cartel.

  Natilite had heard of them from her Comanche allies—rapists, traffickers, slavers.

  "I cannot let you harm these people."

  The men laughed. Some whistled and catcalled in words she didn’t understand—though she caught familiar insults like bitch and beauty.

  One approached. Towering. Muscles like boulders. He reminded her of Wallace and Barrios—the muscle of the Minutemen.

  She could tell what he intended.

  She rolled her eyes.

  In a blink, her hand was around his throat. She hurled him into the van with a sickening crash. Then, with divine strength, she threw him through the shop window.

  The others froze.

  One attacked—but she kicked him mid-air, launching him back. Then came a metallic fist.

  She dodged just in time—an IRiSS unit. Crude. Industrial. Dangerous.

  "Oh, I wasn’t expecting that."

  It attacked. She dodged left, then vaulted upward and kicked its head—barely moving it.

  It lashed out again. She darted around, looking for a weakness. But without her Templar gear—left in Salva for diplomatic reasons—she was improvising.

  A chain wrapped around her leg. She looked down—two men pulling. One shoved a crowbar into his waistband.

  Perfect.

  She landed, struck one in the chest, and snatched the chain. She swung it to entangle the second, knocking him out and grabbing the crowbar.

  The robot lunged. She dodged, leapt atop its back, and jammed the crowbar into a neck joint.

  It thrashed. Slammed into the van. But she braced, pushed, and with one final wrench—crack—the head tore off. The IRiSS collapsed.

  Hovering above the wreckage, she scanned for threats.

  Clear.

  She landed and freed the family.

  Then she noticed the crowd.

  Dozens of people, in the street, from their windows. Many held [phones], staring. Recording.

  She blinked, realizing—this must be how the Altaerrie humans felt all along.

  Some began to cheer.

  She kissed her fingers and threw it to the crowd, bowing. "Mother’s love blesses your grace."

  Then came the flashing red-and-blue lights.

  Three police cruisers arrived.

  Officers exited, weapons raised. Fear etched on their faces as they stared at the hovering, silver-haired warrior.

  *****

  Natilite sat stiffly on the uncomfortable metal bench in the center of the cell, arms and legs crossed in visible annoyance. The other women in the holding area had given her as much distance as possible—one clutched her arm in terror, another pressed her hand to her chest in pain.

  Beyond the flimsy metal bars—bars she could easily bend, or simply push open—stood her so-called containment. She almost felt insulted by the structure’s inadequacy. The memory of her captivity under the Aristocracy flashed unbidden—chains driven into her limbs and wings, her body bound to a stone wall. This? This was nothing. She had only stayed in that cell because of him. Were it not for Ryder, the bars—and likely the building—would have crumpled around her. But for diplomacy’s sake, she had chosen to comply with these Earth law enforcers.

  Outside the cage stood Captain Mathew Ryder, a man she had come to respect deeply. What endeared him to her was his calm, cheerful presence—even under pressure. But today, he wasn’t smiling. He stood behind the bars, speaking to the police in quiet frustration, explaining the situation. It was the first time she had ever seen him like this: disappointed.

  When the door opened, Natilite stood and adjusted her clothing. Once satisfied that she looked presentable—like an Angelic woman should—she approached the pitiful excuse for a cell door. Before stepping out, she turned to the woman clutching her arm and the one holding her chest.

  “Do you still wish to touch my wings?” she asked.

  The words were lost in translation, but the meaning wasn't. The criminals, rioters, and drunks all shook their heads in fear, shrinking away from her. Satisfied that her dominance had been reestablished, she stepped out and followed Ryder through the police station. She noted the mixed reactions from the officers—some stared in fear, others with awe or attraction, even admiration for her citizen service.

  To her, it was a sad imitation of an Adventurer Guild—lacking banners, warrior spirit, or even proper metalwork. However, she couldn’t question the level of equipment and professionalism. It almost felt like she walked into another military base with the universal uniforms, multiple weapons, and robotic law enforcement. And most importantly, Altaerrie human obsession with bright screens.

  “I cannot believe this,” she muttered once they stepped outside. “How could they treat me in such a manner? I am a Templar, a servant of Tekali.”

  To her surprise, Ryder didn’t respond. He kept walking, heading straight for the parking lot. She hesitated, unused to silence from him. He always replied—banter, sarcasm, something. She looked back at the towering police station, then quickly caught up.

  “Ryder... Matt?”

  Still no reply.

  He stopped beside a large tan rental SUV and opened the rear passenger door, silently gesturing for her to get in.

  “I should ride on top,” she said. “My wings will get in the way. In fact, I can fly and follow you.”

  “Natilite,” Ryder said, his voice firm, his glare unyielding.

  The look in his eyes made her pause. It wasn’t anger. It was fatigue. A quiet disappointment that pierced deeper than yelling ever could. She rubbed her hip in frustration, eyeing the narrow car door. After adjusting her wings, she folded herself into the middle seat, leaning awkwardly against the inner gap. Once the door shut, she realized she was cramped—her wings prevented her from reclining. The only solace was that she was alone in the back.

  Her wings cramped, pressed against the seat—an echo of the way Earth’s laws pressed against her very existence.

  Ryder tapped the hotel on the interface, and the vehicle began to drive itself. She had seen this before with limousines, but she’d never asked about it. Now, she found it fascinating—a machine with no driver. Even the Constructs on Alagore required an operator, typically stationed behind battle lines.

  They called these machines constructs, too, though no summoner or mage commanded them.

  Up until now, she’d only seen Americans—mostly soldiers—driving on Alagore. It hadn’t occurred to her that moving was a learned military skill. Plebes and statesmen didn’t know how. It was another odd contrast between the military, civilian, and elite classes of Altaerrie.

  She leaned forward, peering at the wheel as it turned on its own. “Are all your vehicles Constructs?”

  “There are built-in sensors around the vehicle,” Ryder replied. “Powered by programmable intelligence to navigate.”

  “Then why do you drive on my world?”

  “Military conditions are different than some husbands taking the same route to work every day.”

  “Interesting. So, most of your people do not drive? Only military and your Police Adventurers?”

  “Correct.”

  Natilite usually didn’t concern herself with the inner workings of magitech or any technology, Altaerrie or otherwise. If it served her purpose, that was enough. But this difference intrigued her. Still, she noticed his tone—how flat it was. Detached.

  “Are you mad at me?” she asked gently. “It was not my fault. Those criminals were robbing a store. My duty as a Templar is to stop evil and bring justice.”

  “Natilite,” Ryder said, his voice tight, “it’s been less than a day, and I had to bail you out of jail.”

  “I never should have been jailed,” she said defensively. “They’re lucky I was diplomatic. I could have easily broken out of that guild hall. I could have killed them. I did not.”

  Ryder turned in his seat to face her. “Nat, do you have any idea the kind of trouble you’ve caused? The first hour, I was getting chewed out by the Ambassador and General Sherman. Tomorrow morning, I’ll spend hours explaining this again.”

  “Why? All I did was stop criminals. If this were Alagore, they’d be grateful! Only the corrupt would punish me.”

  “You put five men in the hospital.”

  “They were criminals. No, Cartels. You told me stories of how evil they are. They deserved it.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “For a free society, you have an awful lot of rules.”

  “Nat! Why must I respect your customs, yet five minutes into being in my world, you break every request I’ve made?”

  She finally stopped. That hit deeper than expected.

  Ryder had taken on a controversial role in Salva—trying to bridge two vastly different worlds. His reputation had already been questioned. He had risked everything for peace—his command, his honor. And she had nearly undone it with a single act. On Alagore, Templars moved freely, unbound by most laws. Even when they obeyed local custom, enforcement was impossible without conflict.

  But Altaerrie had no frame of reference for Earth’s kind of Templar.

  “Matt...” she said softly. “I am sorry. I did not mean to be a burden. I only wanted to see your world.”

  “And you will,” Ryder said, sighing. “But you saw those riots. This isn’t Alagore. People here aren’t used to different species like you are.”

  She leaned back but immediately winced. Her wings pushed her forward again, denying her even that small comfort.

  “How much trouble do you think I am in?” she asked quietly.

  “It’ll blow over,” Ryder said. “You stopped a robbery. Killed or wounded Cartels, so no one will cry over them. Maybe some Marxist university intellectuals, but the propagandists can spin that.”

  “That is good,” she said. “I will apologize at the first opportunity.”

  “It would be best not to. Let’s just get back to the hotel.”