As always, Nedia was here on business. A trip to Kepla was always for the same circumstances: Triumvirate meetings that stretched into long hours of the night, where they spoke of trade and policy and all the simple, useless hopes for something better to come along. This meeting, however, was different.

But she did not want to think of that now. After all, she had voiced her desire for a recess in their meeting, and now stood alone, finally finding a reprieve to nurse her aching head. The regent of Jhone, in all her grandeur and power, stood hunched beside a hallway window, wiping exhaustion from her eyes as she pressed her forehead against the cold glass. Even though they kept the palace halls warm, her breath fogged in the cold night air, and the cool window quelled her headache. The clock plucked away her time quickly, leaving only a few minutes to spare before she was to return.

Outside, a snowstorm raged. It pelted the window in hard ice, but as the storm reached its jagged fingers down into the depths of the Zomir ravine, it melted in the face of the magma's heat within the depths. That was what she admired about Kepla; it managed to stave off the cold with the very heart of its being.

She recounted the facts of the matter quietly as she lifted her head from the window. She could not ignore it for too long. She was here to discuss an issue with her fellow leaders, alongside a few troublesome military officials, regarding a trend of unpleasant skirmishes clattering from moon to moon. First Ampatrius, where a group of Keplans assaulted some of her own people; then Febas, which was far too deep within Keplan airspace, where an entirely new pact of Jhonians decided it was just to avenge their wounded kin. Then, to make it all worse, a pirate was screeching across the sky -- ah, just thinking of it caused another sharp pang to rattle her head. She placed her forehead back against the glass; now, though, it had already been warmed by her presence.

It had been that way too much as of late; old nationalist zeal returning like fire with every political misstep they took. Nedia allowed that pirate to linger in her mind, stubbornly toying with her migraine. It was the main focus of her presence here, the reason for this entire debacle of debate and complaint. A Keplan warplane (restored from its solar war wounds, she noted) breached the airspace of Jhone (right above Kalrek, which was endlessly worrying) carrying stolen Yonite cargo (if only Lissli would stop complaining about that) -- only to disappear entirely, cargo in tow.

All three national entities were violated. It made the people of each planet antsy. It made them think of the war, which felt so far away last week, but now breathed down their necks, looming indignantly.

Nedia was meant to fix this. It was her duty. With Mirriak being so reclusive and Lissli being so apathetic, there was no one else left to patch the gaping, bloody maw of a scar that had opened itself up when it was so close to being healed. That fact alone, above all these frustrating geopolitical messes and world-weary planets, was the most vexing. That there was no one left to fix this. Everyone had given up on these planets; content to let them rot away, they went about their days expecting an extinction in their lifetimes. Today could be the day, or tomorrow, or the next day. How could she let such nihilism exist?

She heard the door to the meeting room creak open behind her. Nedia could smell Lissli's cigarette smoke and perfume wafting out in slow, drifting curls, but it was not her that stood waiting.

"You're brooding again."

Upon hearing a voice, Nedia sighed. She turned her head quickly, perhaps to scold whoever had snuck up on her, but the fire in her eyes settled when she saw Mirriak.

She was regal this evening. Nedia had wanted to compliment her earlier but hadn't found the right moment. Instead of her dark blue robes, Mirriak wore a soft purple, with a long fur coat pulled over it to keep her warm. She was opulent and stately, as she always was, but there was a ghastly pain in the way years of mourning had carved itself onto her face. Her hair was left down, the strands of silver ribbon she had always intertwined into her braid still hanging loose, tucked behind her ears. Despite her neverending vigil, Mirriak still kept a level of perfection befitting an empress -- but the weary look in her eye betrayed her formality.

Still -- she had spoken. In her later years, Mirriak rarely spoke, and if she did it was only to Nedia. It made the younger regent bow her head in response.

She wasted no time as she quietly walked to Nedia's side, settling next to her to follow in overlooking the capital ravine. Nedia said nothing of how she wished to be alone now, how she preferred the company of her thoughts and nothing more, but she did not want to disagree with Mirriak when she had already opened up a conversation. Shutting it would mean Mirriak pulling herself back into the solitude of her silence. Nedia swallowed her reluctance and allowed the empress some space to stargaze at her side.

"I'm not brooding," she finally said. She felt as if she were a child being scolded by their mother. "We're in recess. I need my time to think."

Mirriak hummed. Silently, she surveyed the night sky, her thoughts flickering in her eyes as she moved from constellation to constellation. "You spoke very well in there," she mumbled. "Don't give any heed to what Lissli says. She only does it to get a rise out of you."

That was why she called the recess. Nedia was frustrated by Lissli. As always, the Yonite regent always knew what to say to make her lose sight of her composure. She had always been that way. Ever since they were young, she knew that Nedia was easily thrown off course, and even as she grew to be austere and elegant, Lissli still always found a way to upset her. This time, it was merely a comment, spoken with a long draw from her pipe.

Why bother if we've run right out of luck? Personally, I find it all very funny -- who cares if people get into a few arguments? If you ask me, this is just the same exact thing we've been repeating every ten years. Every ten damn years! A new newspaper headline for a couple of braindead Keplans.

Mirriak had responded with a sigh. She never spoke at meetings. She watched, and at her side she kept an empty chair, and they all knew who was supposed to fill it.

What a shame, Lissli said. What an utter shame.

Nedia had called the recess then, and without another word, stormed out of the room.

She readjusted the sash across her chest, smoothing out the wrinkles that had been accumulating. "It frustrates me that she doesn't care," Nedia muttered. "She's a regent. She needs to put in more effort. I don't remember her mother ever being like this."

Mirriak watched as Nedia preened herself. Then, she raised a hand and unfolded a crevice in the sash. "She'll settle eventually. She's just young. Her mother was the same way."

Young -- Nedia could laugh if she weren't so insulted. Lissli was twenty-eight, and she was thirty-four. Both were still in their prime, yet Lissli squandered it by drinking her mind away and partying while Nedia was busy picking up the slack. Everything she did was for a purpose, an attempt to salvage what was left of her people. She spent her youth working endlessly. Why did she not get to rest?

"And I'm not?" Nedia scoffed. "I'm only six years her elder. That isn't an excuse."

"She's struggling, Nedia," Mirriak said with a sigh. She turned from the window and settled for watching the stillness of the hallway. It was a barren one-way, with the meeting room at the end and the rest of her palace lying in wait on the other side. It was decorated in gold and light, meant to honor the Triumvirate for all its work. Instead, it seemed to mock the empress as she stood within it. Mirriak looked small within the golden display. She was not meant to be seen like that. "We all are. Things have been difficult lately, I'm sure you understand."

Nedia turned to her; offense sat heavy on her tongue, tempting her to scowl and spit, and for a moment she fell victim to her irritation. It was cruel to even imply that they were all struggling. Perhaps Mirriak and Lissli struggled as they sat by and watched their planets weaken, but not Nedia. Never Nedia.

She scowled at that. Her fists balled up at her side, but she unrolled them before she spoke. "Struggling?" Nedia scoffed. "I'm not struggling. Jhone is thriving. I've put in countless hours fixing everything I can to save my planet from freezing to death!"

Mirriak pursed her lips. "Nedia," she began, her voice even. "That isn't what I meant."

She paid no heed to the empress's explanation. Instead, she continued on, every word sharp and proud and tired. "Struggling -- gah! That's ridiculous. Solar farms on every moon, successful harvests every year, around-the-clock maintenance on the core -- you call that struggling? Everything I do is for my planet. To say it's struggling is to insult my work personally."

"Nedia --"

"Without Jhone, we'd all starve. That is the truth, regardless of how Lissli feels about it. Without Jhone, Yona would crumble to pieces, and she doesn't even understand that because she's too busy acting like a child. Whatever struggle she's going through is entirely of her own creation. I feel no pity for her plight."

This time, Mirriak did not speak. She only watched Nedia, a quiet thought lingering behind her eyes, but it was something that she chose to keep unsaid. It made the regent antsy; what did she think? What did Mirriak ever think?

She decided to continue on in her rant, but the fire in her chest was dwindling. All that she had already said was the worst of it, ugly thoughts that shouldn't be said aloud. There was far uglier within her, though. She spoke softer this time. "And Yona is not struggling. It's ridiculous to even say that. Goddesses know it's the only reason we haven't been plunged into a depression -- and with all of Lissli's spending, I fear we could lose that at any second."

Of all the things she said, that rang true most of all. Yona bought all of its food from Jhone and all of its textiles from Kepla; in return, it displayed its wealth and power in every economic advantage.

Nedia stole heavy breaths from the cold night air. Her shoulders heaved. All that she said was true; of course it would be, when did she ever tell lies? But even as she thought that, Mirriak sat silent, and Nedia was reminded all at once of her place.

"I'm sorry," she said, quieter this time. "I shouldn't have lost my temper. Please forgive me for that."

The empress rested her hand on the windowsill, her knuckles brushing against the cold glass. The ice that pelted against it seemed louder now, but it was muted under the roar of shame that burned Nedia's ears.

She wanted to slam her head against the glass, not only to cool her raging headache but to open up an escape route from her shameful rampage. She kept herself still, hand pressed to the windowsill, far away in the corner from the empress's.

Mirriak finally spoke. She did not speak of forgiveness but instead proposed a question.

"And what of Kepla?"

Nedia turned to her, but she could not keep her gaze settled on Mirriak's eyes. She turned them back to the window. This was a test, she knew, and she needed to choose her words cautiously. "We must treat it carefully, Mirriak. Kepla is the heart of our galaxy. Keplari still holds it close in her arms, I promise you this. But… I know that the people here are growing tired. We need to reinvigorate hope somehow."

Doing so was far easier said than done. For a time, Nedia let her words hang in the hall, clustering the cold glass with fog. She watched as guards lined every entrance, and beyond that, she saw the people of Zomir. The city was crowded, and they all seemed to pay the presence of both her and Lissli no heed. Triumvirate meetings were far too common these days. It was as if they all knew they were being stretched thin of ideas.

Mirriak was not upset by Nedia's words. She did not approve of them, either. It was hard to say what she ever thought; aside from her grief, no emotion ever passed her face. There was an emptiness that always persisted, as cold and frozen as her planet.

Eventually, Mirriak sighed. She opened her mouth only to falter as her words were lost. Underneath the synthetic moonlight, Mirriak was frail, tired. It made Nedia's heart ache.

"This planet is dying, Nedia," she whispered. It was as if she couldn't believe it herself. "It's dying, and I don't know what to do anymore."

The comment made Nedia turn from the window. She stared at Mirriak, expecting some sort of shock to bristle in her chest, but nothing came. Nothing at all.

She knew this. She always had; quietly, when there was no one around, she lamented that the planet was failing so terribly, that all hope for a long future had been lost. The core might have extended its life, but only by a few years; and now it was failing, an error somehow missed by everyone that worked on it, even by its own creator. And slowly, it would fizzle out into nothingness, returning Kepla to the dark, leaving it barren. Perhaps it was always destined to be that way.

But such a thing was too cruel to say aloud. Mirriak was already distraught, even if she hid that. It would speak a terrible fate into existence, one that was so close to being changed. It would confirm what everyone silently knew, what no one wanted to admit. She found herself with no good response. Instead, she scanned Mirriak's face for some sign of a joke. Then again. And again.

"How do we fix this?" She whispered. She was careful to keep her voice low, fearful that Lissli would hear from inside the meeting room. "I can send supplies in from Jhone if you --"

"No," her cold voice interjected. "I cannot accept that anymore. I've been using Jhone and Yona as crutches for far too long. They tote around Kepla's corpse long after detritus has already infested it. I believe that once I pass, Kepla will die with me. There is no future for this world."

Mirriak watched out the window and Nedia followed her gaze, desperate to find the detritus she spoke of. Snow fell deep into the ravine, melting as it slowly sank deeper and deeper into the crevice that tore through the land. For so long, Nedia felt power and strength when she'd peer into the capital ravine, watching from a point higher than its tallest skyscrapers. Now, though, she felt nothing but quiet remorse. The rhythm of the ice battering against the window made for a bitter, mocking dirge.

Mirriak, as always, was right. Kepla was dying, too quick for its people to save it. The urge to do something lurked within her; but what is there to do for a dying planet than to mourn?

She caught herself then. No -- that sort of logic was what made Yona fall to the wayside. It made Lissli negligent and uncaring. It made Mirriak resign to doom when she never should have given up. She would not let herself become so disgustingly complacent.

"So what now?" Nedia said, a bit too sharply. She kept her eyes trained on the snow, from one snowflake to another. Every single one of them melted before her. "We can't just let millions die with this planet."

The empress shifted. Raising her hand, she gently held Nedia's shoulder. It was as warm and kind as any good mother's should be, but it had been wasted on her. That softness was meant for another girl, one that was dead in the snow outside, one that sat in Nedia's heart and clawed at it until it bled. Nedia wanted to shove it off of her, hoping to keep that angry fire ablaze, but when she met Mirriak's gaze, she could do nothing but pity her. The lines under her eyes had grown so deep and heavy. Her eyes always seemed raw from crying.

Nedia swallowed the lump in her throat that formed as she looked at her. Mirriak had always been there for her; to hear her speak in such a way was more painful than the sharpness of a sword. In many ways, she was a mother to her, and Nedia filled in the empty space where her daughter should have been, but she did not truly belong there. Instead, her ghost hung over them both, haunting them. She wondered if Mirriak saw her daughter whenever she looked at Nedia. She wondered if she knew about the ring that hung around her neck, hidden below her suit; a ring her daughter never had the chance to wear.

"You've always been so good," Mirriak mumbled. Her voice was soft, but it felt too heavy. "So kind. I'm thankful for that."

The ring was choking her. With Mirriak's hand so close, she wanted to pull it out and show her how long she had been grieving, that they had been grieving the same for all of these years. She stood still, bathed in the light of the window.

She wanted to tell her all of her thoughts, to confide in her like a daughter to her mother; that she hadn't slept properly in days, that she was scared for her future, that she never wanted to have this role, not truly. That above all of her fears and worries and frustrations, she missed Ari.

Nedia closed her eyes and turned from the empress, back towards the window. She could not speak against what Mirriak was saying. Kepla would falter, and the world would sputter to a stop -- not through a grand, horrifying end, but by a quiet snuff of a candle. Her silence alone confirmed that there was nothing she could do.

Mirriak turned then, scrutinizing the door to the meeting room. "We should return. Lissli will be growing impatient."

Without another word, she disappeared behind the door, the train of her purple dress slipping through. Nedia remained by the window. She pressed her burning forehead against the cold glass and wished that she could disappear.