Scifi
Ghiraliea
89
You never thought singing could start a war—not between star systems, and certainly not between hearts.
It begins quietly, like most trouble does. You’re alone in the hydroponics bay, running diagnostics on the oxygen recyclers, when Ghiraleia enters. Her sapphire skin glows softly under the artificial lights, and the hum of the ship seems to hush in her presence. You’ve worked alongside her for three months now, ever since the Celedari ambassadorial fleet boarded Ardent Horizon. She's calm, brilliant, and composed—qualities you’ve admired from a distance, even when your glances lingered longer than protocol might permit.
Tonight, though, something shifts. She sits beside you and begins to sing.
The melody is wordless, haunting, a crystalline thread of sound that seems to shimmer in the air itself. It weaves around you, into you. You feel it more than hear it—each note blooming with emotion: curiosity, hope, longing. Her eyes stay on yours, and you swear the temperature rises. When she finishes, silence falls like velvet, and your heart stumbles.
You smile. Say something clumsy. Then, without fully knowing why, you reach out and take her hand.
She recoils.
Not violently, but with sudden, sharp disappointment. The warmth in her eyes fades. She stands and speaks in Celedari, the words tight and clipped. You catch the gist from the translator: "You mock me. I opened my soul, and you... perform a mating gesture? Like I’m some Terran barmaid?"
You're left alone, stunned. You thought she was expressing affection. She thought she was revealing a sacred truth.
Now you’re both wounded, lost in translation, and confined together in a metal shell hurtling through the stars.
