Taira

  You will be the wife of a technogen.

  The thought pulsed in her temples, but Taira refused to break. She had been taught to be strong, desirable, irresistible. She knew her beauty, the power of her body, the way to make anyone focus only on her. She hoped that would be enough.

  If she could not love him, she would captivate him.

  If he was cold and distant, she would warm him with her fire.

  If he despised her, she would make him desire her.

  She wanted to believe that not everything was lost. The night was hot and heavy with moisture, filled with the scents of herbs, wood smoke, and something sharp, as if the very earth was preparing for the ritual alongside her. Taira stood in a half-circle of women, her attendants—the singers of the ceremony—softly chanting, weaving her name into the melody. Their voices rustled like leaves in the wind, stirred but never losing their flow. The fire crackled, casting warm flickers of light across their faces, and in that amber glow, her skin looked deeper, richer, alive. She was ready. But now, standing at the threshold between worlds, Taira felt a tension she couldn't shake, not even by playing at confidence. She could be seductive, she could be wild, she could be free—but now, she belonged to tradition.

  Her hands clenched into fists.

  Behind her, the fire flared higher, as if the ancient spirits of her people had blessed her final step.

  Taira drew in a breath, filling her lungs with the heat of her homeland.

  And crossed into neutral ground. She stepped forward.

  And her world vanished.

  The thick, familiar air, heavy with the scent of burning wood, tree resin, and crushed herbs—the air she had breathed since birth—dissolved like smoke, leaving nothing behind. The land of the Neutrals greeted her with silence—so absolute that even her own breath felt foreign. No hum of insects. No whisper of sand shifting beneath her feet. Even her steps, sure and fluid like a dancer's, faded into nothingness, leaving no trace behind. This place existed outside of life, outside of time. And for the first time, even her own body felt out of place, something unnatural in this suspended world.

  In the distance, the Palace began to take shape. It was unlike any structure she had ever seen. It cast no shadow, yet it did not reflect light. Its towering arches did not reach for the sky—because there was no sky. They simply vanished into emptiness. The black, polished columns, carved as if from the very essence of night, did not give the illusion of solidity. The Palace wavered, like a mirage on the edge of vision, and yet, that did not make it any less real.

  Every step she took echoed in the void, as if even sound had no right to exist in this place.

  Her gown, woven from the finest fabric, rippled behind her, catching the faintest glow. Tiny fireflies, trapped within silk threads, shimmered against her skin, cascading down her bare shoulders. Her hair, braided into intricate patterns, was adorned with delicate chains that usually chimed softly with her every step. But now, they had fallen silent. The space devoured everything that made her feel alive. She walked barefoot, yet she felt no surface beneath her feet. The world around her did not breathe, did not stir. No scents, no sounds, no rustling leaves or distant cries of unseen beasts. Only infinite emptiness stretched out on either side, yawning into nothingness. Even the air here felt wrong—thick, heavy, cold, as if rejecting her presence entirely. Along the passage, the Neutrals stood in silence—amorphous, shadowy figures, faceless and insubstantial, as if darkness itself had coalesced into human form. They did not move. They did not breathe. But she knew—they were watching her.

  Goosebumps rose along her bare shoulders, though she couldn't tell whether it was from the cold or the uneasy premonition of what lay ahead. A narrow bridge stretched before her, vanishing into the void. Taira knew that somewhere in the heights above, her kin were watching, and across from them—the technogens. But her eyes were not allowed to see them. The Palace itself decided what was meant to be perceived. The space around her wavered and shifted, as if she were walking not on solid ground but on a reality as fluid as a restless sea.

  She stepped onto the bridge. Her bare feet touched stone—smooth, strangely warm, as if it had absorbed the breath of the countless generations who had crossed it before her. Her heart pounded faster, but her face remained composed, her steps steady. She walked a path that led to nowhere, across a bridge suspended over an abyss, veiled in thick, slow-moving mist. Her people believed that such places connected worlds. If one were to fall, they might disappear forever. But she walked on.

  Beautifully. Proudly.

  As she was meant to.

  The first beauty of her tribe.

  The daughter of a chieftain.

  The altar was close now, and the figure before it sharpened into focus. Tall. Strong. A warrior. Silver-tinged hair caught the dim light, a straight-backed stance, arms folded behind them. Everything as she had imagined. Everything as it was meant to be. But as she drew nearer, her gaze caught on their face—on the sharp angles of their cheekbones, the cold, undisturbed stillness in their eyes.

  Taira froze. And in that moment, her world shattered. Her heart slammed against her ribs, not from fear, but from pure, ice-cold rage. Her eyes flicked left. To the seats where her father should be standing. He was there. He was not looking at her. Taira clenched her teeth so hard that pain lanced through her jaw.

  They knew.

  They all knew.

  Silence.

  The law forbade her to speak.

  The darkness of the Neutrals loomed around her, absorbing her fury, her despair.

  Eiris

  Eiris stood before the window of her quarters, high above the city, gazing down at the flawless symmetry of white spires, perfectly aligned streets, and rooftops gleaming silver in the light. Everything was structured, calculated, obedient to logic. As it should be. And yet something beneath her skin prickled with irritation. Subtle. Almost imperceptible. But it did not fade. She inhaled deeply, willing it away. It remained. Unease. Sticky, insidious, creeping beneath the surface. She was not supposed to feel it. And yet it was there. Like a system glitch. A microscopic flaw in the immaculate code of her mind. She did not move, but her fingers twitched just barely before tightening around the stiff fabric of her ceremonial jacket. Too much pressure. Too much tension in her muscles.

  Inhale—slow, controlled.

  Exhale—quieter still.

  Control. Maintain. Do not allow.

  They had offered her a dress.

  She hadn't even considered it. A dress? Celebration. Festivities. Dancing. Barbaric traditions—nothing but empty spectacle, a perf e devoid of meaning. This was an order. A necessary union. A directive of the Alliance Law. She would meet it as a warrior. In a formal uniform, fastened to the throat. With precision. With discipline. With cold, impenetrable resolve. Not as some girl at a masquerade. Her fingers closed the last clasp at her collar.

  No emotion.

  No weakness.

  A few minutes remained.

  She fastened the final strap, inhaled, steadied her breath.

  Her heartbeat was even, precise, counting down the seconds—

  And yet, somewhere deep inside, it drummed just a fraction too fast.

  Irritating.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  She marched with crisp precision toward the Hall of Passage.

  The palace was empty. Sterile.

  Its walls were perfectly smooth, its floors polished to a mirror sheen—reflecting her only as a blurred silhouette, stripped of detail.

  Eiris left the Halls.

  Her footsteps rang sharp, measured, flawless.

  But inside, every fiber of her being demanded control.

  She hated it.

  Hated the burn coiling beneath her ribs, hated the flicker of something she could not suppress.

  Stupid. Irrational.

  She crossed the corridors that seemed to bow before her steps, their seamless walls casting pale, hollow reflections of her form—integrating her into the structure, making her part of the system.

  As it should be.

  The passage to the Hall of Passage opened before her—a place where the world ceased to obey logic, where the laws of space and time became mere fading echoes of reality.

  Here, everything was still. Perfect.

  Like her.

  For the first time in her life, she did not know what would come next.

  She stepped forward—

  And felt the temperature drop.

  The air thickened, heavy and foreign, belonging to nothing living.

  This place existed outside of everything. Outside of laws. Outside of emotion.

  And yet, deep within her, something stirred.

  A sense of constraint.

  She walked with the same precision as always. Each step, measured and deliberate, carried the discipline that had shaped her entire life.

  Her uniform fit flawlessly, the smooth fabric moving seamlessly with her body, reinforcing the strength of her posture.

  No wrinkles. No wasted movement.

  Her face remained unreadable. Her gaze, locked ahead.

  She did not think about what came next.

  There was no need.

  The Doctrine had spoken—she would marry.

  The Doctrine had spoken—the union would be sealed.

  The Doctrine left no room for doubt.

  And so, she did not doubt.

  She approached the bridge leading to the altar.

  The Neutrals stretched along either side of the path—black, amorphous figures, faceless, weightless.

  They did not move, but she felt them.

  She did not allow herself to slow her steps.

  She was the first.

  Waiting? That irritated her. Where was this savage? She had always been the first. She had no right to be late, to hesitate, to waver. The Doctrine was clear: stand, wait, accept the inevitable. She was born to uphold order. Her breathing remained steady, but something unfamiliar stirred in her chest, something beyond control. Not anxiety. No. An expectation she could not define. She was not supposed to think about who would walk to the altar.

  It did not matter.

  Marriage was part of the structure.

  Marriage was a necessity.

  Marriage was a decision already made for her.

  And yet...

  When the first, barely perceptible sound echoed in the distance—a step, a faint whisper of life in this frozen, lifeless space— Eiris, motionless, caught herself listening. She did not turn. It was forbidden. But she felt it. The world, still and unchanging until now, suddenly pulsed with something different. Something alive. The air shifted.

  It was warm. For the first time, it moved.

  She could not see, but she knew—the one approaching was from a different world entirely. A world where everything shifted, breathed, lived. Where skin carried the scent of sun and wind. Where hair trapped the fragrance of resin and earth. Where fabric moved with the body instead of restraining it. A foreignness that Eiris had no defenses against. Yet she stood unmoving—an unyielding figure, the last line of the system's control.

  And then...

  A step.

  Another.

  Approaching. Too slow. Too fluid.

  She should not want to see. She should not want to know. But her heart missed a beat. And that was the one thing she could not control. She closed her eyes. Held her breath. Counted to ten. When she opened them again, her gaze shifted slowly, deliberately to the left. And stopped. For the smallest fraction of a second, her eyes widened. Her heart skipped a beat. Eiris suppressed a reflexive inhale. Rage and disbelief surged through her. Her expression did not change. Not a single flicker of emotion. But inside, something collapsed. She forced her gaze downward—to her boots.

  So. They knew. They all knew.

  Except her.

  White skin—Eiris.

  Sun-kissed skin—Taira.

  Ice and fire.

  Two worlds.

  Two enemies.

  The Ritual of Union

  Silence. Heavy. Pressing. All-consuming. Taira stood still, unable to take a deep breath, though her lungs were full of air. Her entire body trembled—not from fear, but from rage, from outrage, from betrayal. She wanted to scream, to tear herself away from this place, but she knew— She couldn't.

  The Law of the Neutrals.

  Silence.

  The priest began to speak. His voice spread through the hall in an even, detached flow, as if it were not him speaking, but the unshakable will of the Neutrals themselves.

  "The union is sealed. Blood has been given. Fate is bound. Place your hands upon the altar."

  The altar was smooth, black like solidified darkness, devoid of reflection, swallowing everything that touched it. She extended her hand. And in the same instant, another one lay beside hers pale, cold, as if carved from marble. Their fingers did not touch. But Taira knew just a single movement, and skin would meet skin. The stone beneath their palms suddenly grew warm. But it was not her warmth. It did not belong to this place. It seeped under her skin, sinking into her like something foreign, something wrong. Reality shuddered. As if the world itself had split, unfolding into another plane.

  The altar flared beneath them. Not with fire, but with light. Living, flowing, it spread across their hands, soaking into their skin, merging with them. Taira inhaled sharply, her fingers instinctively twitching. But the light was already inside. It filled her. Burned its mark into her. Thin lines emerged on her ring finger—at first as delicate as a spider's web, then deepening into gold, ancient symbols of blood that could never be erased.

  Taira did not feel pain. She felt something far worse. As if she was being bound not just to this ritual, but to the very fabric of reality itself. Her breath came out heavy, uneven. She watched, rigid with tension, as the glowing pattern sealed itself fully onto her skin, leaving behind the unmistakable imprint of something foreign. A brand.

  "The union is unbreakable. So it is done."

  The moment the words were spoken, the air around them groaned.

  The world... lurched.

  Like reality itself had fractured, distorted like heatwaves rising from scorched earth. Everything trembled. A vibration rolled through their bodies, through skin, through bone. As if something unseen had latched onto them, forcing an irreversible connection.

  Taira felt a jolt deep in her chest. Not physical. Something else. Something subtle, yet unbearably alien. She yanked her hand back, as if she could tear the mark away. But it remained. Still warm. Still glowing faintly.

  Beside her, Eiris withdrew her own hand as well. She did not glance at her finger. She did not react. Nothing in her stance betrayed even the smallest acknowledgment of change.Only the way her knuckles tensed. Only the sharp, controlled movement of her shoulders. Taira clenched her teeth, fists curling, nails digging into her palms. Her gaze flicked to the side. Her father still would not look at her.

  He knew. They all knew.

  Her chest rose sharply, but no words came. She couldn't speak. She wasn't allowed. This hall devoured resistance. And beside her—cold.

  Eiris.

  Taira didn't turn her head, but she felt her presence with a sharpness like a blade drawn tight between them. Still. Unmoving. A statue in human form. Eiris was silent. But it was a different kind of silence. She wasn't seething inside. She wasn't breaking apart, like Taira. She was pressing down. Like a mechanical weight, crushing anything that tried to rise within her. Taira hated her for it. She wanted her to snap, to react— to rage, to recoil, to feel. Anything. But Eiris simply stood there. As if the ritual had already passed through her. As if she had accepted everything before she even knew the truth. No resistance. Only cold.

  The priest's final words were spoken without grandeur, without reverence, without even the weight of importance—just a simple mechanism set into motion.

  Something in the air shifted. Both of them felt it. A vibration, subtle but absolute, as if the very fabric of reality had acknowledged their bond. Like two pieces of metal, fused together in a single, unyielding grip. Taira let out a sharp breath. Not from pain. From hatred. Eiris still did not move. But her fingers, hidden in the folds of her uniform, had curled into a fist—so tightly her knuckles had gone white.

  The priest lowered his head. Silence hung in the hall. As if it, too, refused to let them go.

  This was it.

  They were bound.

  And nothing could change that.

  ***

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