The observatory beckoned—a sanctuary of relative solitude where he could gather his thoughts without arousing suspicion. Guests rarely ventured there during formal events, preferring the immediate visibility of the main ballroom where alliances were forged and status confirmed.

  He made his exit with characteristic lack of grace, loudly announcing his need for "air that hasn't been recycled through a hundred perfumed lungs." The guests parted before him, relief evident in their expressions as the embarrassing royal took his leave.

  The corridors leading to the observatory were mercifully empty, the sounds of celebration fading with each step. Vylaas maintained his unsteady gait until he rounded the final corner, then straightened slightly, allowing some of the performance to fall away in the momentary privacy.

  Your blood alcohol is at 0.07%, Medea informed him. Elevated but within functional parameters. Liver enzymes indicate increased strain from sustained levels over the past weeks.

  "Noted," Vylaas murmured aloud, the first direct acknowledgment of her presence since entering the ballroom. "Can you run preliminary evacuation scenarios for Meridian? Prioritize the eastern approach—the western passages will be the first place Kaelen deploys surveillance."

  Already calculating. Initial projections suggest we can move approximately two thousand per twelve-hour cycle without triggering automated detection systems. If we utilize the mining tunnels beneath sectors seven and nine, we might increase that to twenty-five hundred.

  Vylaas reached the observatory doors, ornate panels of aged wood inlaid with astronomical symbols in platinum and gold. He pushed them open, anticipating the momentary solace of the domed chamber beyond.

  Instead, he found Valerius.

  The High General stood before the massive central telescope, hands clasped behind his back as he gazed upward through the retracted ceiling panels. Stars glittered against the velvet darkness, cold and distant as the man who observed them.

  Vylaas faltered in the doorway, genuine surprise momentarily breaking through his mask before he reassembled it with practiced speed. "General," he slurred, swaying slightly for effect. "Seeking escape from the tedium below as well? Or plotting the conquest of those distant worlds?" He gestured vaguely toward the exposed night sky.

  Valerius turned unhurriedly, his expression revealing nothing. "Prince Vylaas. An unexpected pleasure."

  Stable heart rate, controlled respiration, Medea analyzed. He was waiting for you. This is not a coincidence.

  A chill slipped down Vylaas's spine that had nothing to do with the observatory's temperature. He covered it with an exaggerated shiver, stumbling further into the chamber. "Dreadfully cold in here. Aren't you supposed to be basking in my brother's reflected glory? The conquering heroes and all that nonsense?"

  "I find these moments of contemplation valuable," Valerius replied, his tone measured. "The stars remind us of our place in the universe—significant enough to matter, yet small enough to maintain perspective."

  "How philosophical," Vylaas drawled, making a show of examining the nearest star chart with bleary eyes. "I prefer them as navigation points. Always good to know which direction is 'away from here.'"

  Valerius stepped closer, his movements precise and controlled. Everything about the man spoke of discipline—from his immaculate uniform to his perfectly neutral expression. He was a blade personified, honed to lethal sharpness and wielded with perfect economy.

  "Your brother continues to exceed expectations," he observed, changing tack with practiced smoothness. "The Emperor himself has taken note of his recent accomplishments."

  "Kaelen has always been an overachiever," Vylaas replied with deliberate carelessness. "Family curse, I suppose. Though clearly one that I narrowly avoided." He punctuated the statement with a loose-limbed shrug.

  "Indeed." Valerius's gaze remained fixed on Vylaas, assessment clear in his ice-blue eyes. "His dedication to the Empire's future is inspiring. The way he's overcome his... setbacks... speaks to exceptional character."

  He's drawing parallels, Medea interpreted. Implying your own setbacks could be overcome with similar dedication.

  "Some of us prefer our setbacks," Vylaas countered, deliberately misinterpreting. "They come with significantly fewer expectations and far more entertaining evenings." He gestured with his empty glass. "Case in point."

  "I've often wondered," Valerius said, voice deceptively casual, "about the nature of your... decline. Such a promising young man, once. Command spoke highly of your tactical acumen on the field with the medicos, and your missions in the Colossus are textbook perfection, yet…"

  Vylaas's laugh held genuine bitterness, a calculated revelation of truth within the larger deception. "I was quite good once, sure. Now, though… It doesn't take any particular skill to pilot the brick you've put me in. Every button I press kills something. But then, that was rather the point, wasn't it?"

  Something sharpened in Valerius's gaze. "The point, Your Highness, was service to the Empire. A concept your brother has embraced wholeheartedly."

  "And look how well that's turned out for him," Vylaas retorted, gesturing vaguely toward the ballroom below. "The adoration, the accolades, shiny cybernetic replacements for the half his body he's sacrificed to Imperial glory. Simply delightful."

  Valerius clasped his hands behind his back, studying Vylaas with renewed intensity. "I worry about you, Prince Vylaas."

  "How terribly kind," Vylaas drawled, swaying slightly. "Though entirely unnecessary. I'm quite content in my dissolution."

  "Are you?" Valerius stepped closer, invading Vylaas's personal space with deliberate intent. "I sometimes wonder what exists beneath the performance."

  Medea sent a warning pulse through the collar, simultaneously triggering subtle physiological responses—dilated pupils, elevated heart rate, the chemical signatures of genuine intoxication radiating from Vylaas's pores.

  Maintain eye contact but with slight focus issues, she instructed. He's testing you directly now.

  Vylaas blinked slowly, allowing his gaze to drift slightly before reconnecting with Valerius's penetrating stare. "Performance?" he repeated, extending the syllables. "You flatter me, General. I lack the discipline for sustained performance. Ask any of my former commanding officers." He attempted to refill his glass from a decanter that wasn't there, then stared at his empty hand in exaggerated confusion.

  Valerius studied him for a long moment, searching for cracks in the fa?ade. Finally, he stepped back, apparently satisfied—or at least willing to postpone further investigation.

  "We're mobilizing for a significant operation," he mentioned, the casual delivery belied by the intensity of his observation. "Targeting insurgent elements at the Meridian refugee camp. Your brother will command the special operations unit personally."

  He's confirming Liana's intelligence, Medea noted. But why tell you directly?

  "Sounds terribly exciting," Vylaas replied, deliberately suppressing any reaction beyond mild disinterest. "Though I don't recall requesting an operational briefing."

  "Merely conversation, Your Highness." Valerius moved toward the exit, pausing at the threshold. "After all, family should remain informed of significant developments."

  The implication was clear: Valerius considered himself part of Kaelen's inner circle—family by choice if not blood. More than that, he was deliberately baiting Vylaas, watching for reactions that might confirm his suspicions.

  "How thoughtful," Vylaas murmured, allowing a trace of genuine sarcasm to color the words. "I'll be sure to raise a glass in celebration of another glorious victory for the Empire."

  Valerius inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Until next time, Prince Vylaas. Do try to avoid further... embarrassment... this evening. For your father's sake, if nothing else."

  The door closed behind him with a soft click that somehow carried more finality than a slam. Vylaas remained motionless for several long moments, maintaining his performance even in solitude—a precaution against hidden observation devices.

  Only when Medea confirmed they weren't being surveilled did he allow his shoulders to slump, releasing a long, shaky breath.

  "He suspects," Vylaas murmured, voice barely audible.

  Suspects, yes. Knows, no. Medea's tone was measured. If he had concrete evidence, this conversation would have ended very differently.

  Vylaas moved to the observatory's massive viewing port, gazing out at the star-studded expanse. Each point of light represented countless worlds, countless lives caught in the expanding grasp of Imperial domination. Somewhere out there, trapped at the Meridian camp, were six thousand souls whose futures hung in the balance of his next actions.

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  We should return to the celebration briefly, Medea advised. Establish visibility, then make a suitably dramatic exit. Maintaining patterns is essential, especially now that Valerius is actively watching.

  "Agreed." Vylaas straightened his rumpled jacket, deliberately leaving it imperfect. "How much longer do I need to maintain consciousness tonight?"

  Approximately forty-three minutes should be sufficient. Long enough to be seen, not so long that your absence from the celebration earlier appears suspicious.

  He nodded, reapplying the mask of the drunkard with practiced ease. The slight sway returned to his step, the unfocused quality to his gaze, the loose-limbed carelessness of his gestures. By the time he reached the observatory door, Prince Vylaas the Embarrassment had fully returned.

  The remainder of the evening passed in a blur of calculated performances. He flirted inappropriately with a senior diplomat's spouse. He spilled wine on an admiral's dress uniform. He loudly questioned the Emperor's fashion choices within earshot of the Imperial Chamberlain. Each incident reinforced the image he had cultivated over the past four years—the broken prince, drowning his trauma in excess, harmless in his self-destruction.

  All the while, Medea maintained her silent vigil, monitoring his vital signs and the reactions of those around him, alerting him to potential threats and opportunities. Her presence was a constant reassurance, an anchor in the turbulent sea of deception.

  When the appointed time arrived, Vylaas made his exit with characteristic lack of subtlety—loudly announcing his intention to "find more accommodating company" after being refused another drink by a prudent server. He staggered from the ballroom with exaggerated dignity, drawing predictable headshakes and whispers in his wake.

  The journey to his private quarters was a gauntlet of potential observation. Palace guards watched from their posts. Surveillance systems tracked his progress through the corridors. Servants moved about their duties, eyes downcast but ears attentive. Vylaas maintained his performance for each audience, never dropping character, never revealing the clarity of thought beneath the stumbling exterior.

  Only when the doors of his quarters sealed behind him, security protocols engaged and privacy screens activated, did he finally allow the fa?ade to drop.

  Vylaas's shoulders sagged as he staggered—this time from genuine exhaustion rather than feigned intoxication. He straightened his posture with effort, fingers already working at the formal attire that felt like a prison after hours of performance.

  "Scan the room," he ordered, voice crisp and clear, bearing no trace of the slurred speech he'd affected all evening. "Full spectrum."

  The collar at his throat pulsed with soft blue light. "Scanning," Medea's voice whispered in his mind, cool and efficient. "No active surveillance detected. Room secure."

  Despite confirmation, Vylaas moved to a panel near the entryway and activated the security sweep himself. Old habits. Trust, but verify. The panel displayed a rotating schematic of the quarters, highlighting potential surveillance weak points before confirming what Medea had already told him—they were alone.

  "Good," he muttered, continuing his path across the room.

  His quarters reflected the character he'd cultivated—deliberately disheveled, with empty bottles strategically placed, clothing strewn about, and datapads displaying frivolous entertainment channels. The perfect stage set for the broken prince, too lost in his vices to pose any threat.

  Vylaas made his way to a cabinet that held his collection of spirits—genuine bottles, unlike the watered-down versions he pretended to consume at public functions. His hand reached for an amber liquid in a crystal decanter, fingers wrapping around its neck.

  "You've had enough tonight," Medea's voice came gently through their bond.

  He paused, bottle halfway to a glass. "Have I?"

  The collar at his throat shimmered, light spilling outward in a cascade of luminescence that coalesced beside him. The light took form—elegant shoulders, the curve of a face, eyes that held both wisdom and warmth. Medea's illusory body materialized, visible only to him through their neural connection.

  She stood before him now, her form solid enough that Vylaas could forget she wasn't physically present. Her appearance was how she chose to present herself to him—tall and graceful, with features that conveyed strength rather than just beauty. Her hair fell in dark waves past her shoulders, and her eyes held a depth that no human's could match.

  "I know when to stop," he said, defiantly pouring two fingers of the amber liquid.

  Medea stepped forward, her movements fluid and natural. With a delicate gesture of her hand, the glass slid away from his grasp—her telekinetic abilities manipulating the physical world in small but meaningful ways.

  "Your liver enzymes are through the roof," she said, her voice both in his mind and seemingly in the air around him. "The stimulants, the alcohol... you're killing yourself, Vylaas."

  He offered a weary smile—the first genuine expression he'd allowed himself all day. "What does it matter? I'm living on borrowed time anyway."

  Medea moved closer, her illusory hands cupping his face. To anyone else, she would be invisible, but to Vylaas, her touch felt completely real—cool fingertips against his skin, the slight pressure as she turned his face toward hers. The neural link they shared allowed her to stimulate his sensory cortex directly, creating perfect tactile hallucinations.

  "It matters to me," she said, her eyes searching his. "And to everyone counting on you."

  The gentleness in her voice nearly broke him. Four years of playing the dissolute prince, of burying his true self beneath layers of deception—it wore on the soul. These moments with Medea were his only respite, the only times he could be himself.

  "They shouldn't count on me," he said, but he leaned into her touch nonetheless.

  "Come," she said, helping him to his feet. "We have work to do before you rest."

  Vylaas allowed himself to be guided across the room, toward a section of wall that appeared unremarkable. Medea's hand brushed against an ornamental panel, and a hidden compartment slid open, revealing a sophisticated data terminal concealed within.

  "The codes from tonight?" she prompted.

  Vylaas's fingers flew across the interface, uploading the intelligence he'd gathered throughout the evening—conversations overheard, documents glimpsed, patterns observed. The terminal processed the information, correlating it with existing data, building connections.

  While he worked, Medea's form occasionally dispersed into a mist that swept through the room, checking for any surveillance devices that might have evaded their initial scan, before reforming at his side.

  "You're becoming quite adept at pickpocketing military officials," she noted, amusement coloring her voice as he uploaded the contents of a data chip he'd lifted from an inebriated general.

  "A skill I never thought I'd need," he replied, continuing his work. "Funny how life surprises you."

  The data coalesced into disturbing clarity on the screen—troop movements, operational timelines, target coordinates. Vylaas's expression darkened as the pattern emerged.

  "Meridian's Point," he said, voice hollow. "The refugee camp. They're going to hit it next."

  Medea stood behind him, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders. Her touch provided comfort even as her processing capabilities helped him analyze the data faster. "Kaelen's special unit?"

  "Yes. Three days from now." Vylaas stared at the screen, the weight of those lives settling over him like a shroud. "We need to warn them. They won't stand a chance."

  Her fingers tightened slightly on his shoulders. "We'll find a way. We always do."

  The refugee camp housed thousands—civilians who had fled the Empire's expansion, families seeking shelter from the conflicts that raged across the border worlds. They had no defenses, no weapons that could stand against a military strike team.

  Vylaas's hand trembled slightly as he reached for a small case beside the terminal. Inside lay a row of stimulant injectors—military grade, designed to clear the mind and sharpen focus.

  "Just need to clear my head," he murmured, fingers closing around one of the devices. "Then we can plan how to get word to them."

  Medea's hand intercepted his, her fingers interlacing with his own. Though she existed primarily as code within his neural implants, the force manipulation abilities granted by her connection to the collar allowed her to exert genuine physical pressure when needed.

  "Not tonight," she said firmly, guiding his hand away from the stimulants. "There are better ways to ease your mind."

  "I can't afford to rest," he protested, even as he allowed her to lead him away from the terminal. "Not with so much at stake."

  "You can't afford not to," she countered. Her illusory form flickered with subtle patterns of bioluminescence—a visual manifestation of her concern. "Let me take care of you, just for tonight."

  She guided him toward the bedroom, her movements graceful and assured. Vylaas followed, body tense with exhaustion and anxiety despite the alcohol in his system.

  "I don't deserve comfort," he whispered, the words escaping before he could stop them.

  Medea turned to face him, her form growing more vivid as she drew closer. "This isn't about deserving. It's about surviving. About remembering why we fight."

  Her hands moved to his shoulders, finding the knots of tension that had built throughout the day. Through their neural connection, she could map every muscle, every nerve ending. Her touch was simultaneously illusory and completely real to his senses—the perfect pressure, the exact warmth.

  For the first time all day, Vylaas felt his guard lowering, the walls he maintained even in private beginning to crumble. Medea was the only one who saw him completely—not the broken prince, not the rebel conspirator, just Vylaas.

  "Stop punishing yourself," she whispered, her voice carrying both tenderness and determination. "At least for tonight."

  The room's lighting dimmed, responding either to her influence through the ship's systems or to Vylaas's unspoken command. In the gentler darkness, Medea's form seemed to glow with an inner light, illuminating his path toward brief respite.

  "Just tonight," he agreed, finally surrendering to a comfort only she could provide.

  As she guided him to the bed, her hands worked at the fastenings of his formal attire with practiced ease. Vylaas no longer marveled at the adroitness of her [Force Manipulation], simply grateful for her touch. Despite her nature, there was nothing artificial about the tenderness in her movements or the understanding in her eyes.

  "We'll save them," she promised as her form drew closer to his. "Tomorrow."

  Their silhouettes merged in the dim light, their thoughts and emotions blending together, the boundaries between them blurring almost to nothing as Vylaas finally allowed himself to be fully present, focusing solely on Medea rather than his mission or mortality.

  Medea! Vylaas! No! Think of the fan fiction!