Page 7 of Aries

He doesn’t answer immediately. When he does, his voice is low. “I am not comfortable with any of this. But not because…” A frustrated sound escapes him. “Not for the reasons you probably think.”

Really? We’re starting this challenging endeavor with the expectation that I need to read his mind? Before I can ask what he means, a chime sounds. Time to begin.

The ceremony hall is smaller than expected, its ancient stone walls lined with floating orbs that cast everything in soft golden light. The three Redemption Committee members, crystalline beings of the Fractali species, stand in a semicircle around a raised platform, their faceted forms catching the golden light and scattering it into shimmering rainbow prisms.

Unlike the flowing, organic Sanctorii with their translucent blue skin and liquid mercury hair, these beings appear to be made of living diamond. Their bodies shift and reshape constantly, geometric patterns flowing like water made of light. Where faces should be, there is little that is humanoid except for multi-faceted orbs that must be eyes. When they speak, the sound emanates from multiple points within their crystalline matrix.

“Approach,” the central figure intones, their multilayered voice a hallmark of their hive-mind species.

Each step feels momentous, like we’re walking toward something far bigger than a simple ceremony. Aries moves beside me, his presence both familiar and strange. How many times have we strategized battles together? How many shared meals and holidays of a dozen species? Yet this feels more intimate than any of those moments.

“Kneel.”

The stone is cold through the ceremonial robes as we face each other on the platform. This close, I can see the subtle flecks of gold in his stunning amber eyes, the tiny scar above his left eyebrow I never noticed before. I wonder when he got it, what gladiatorial match, what dangerous undertaking that happened as I studiously avoided him.

“Before we proceed,” the central Committee member announces, their multilayered voice holding ancient authority, “you must understand why these Rites exist.”

The Fractali’s crystalline form shifts and refracts light as they speak.

“Our species has watched as countless civilizations rose and fell.”

Another Fractali begins talking where the other left off. “Those that practice true redemption—transformation through genuine connection—survive and thrive. Those that rely solely on punishment and vengeance destroy themselves within centuries. Your case will either validate this principle or demonstrate its limits, influencing justice systems across the galaxy.”

Their faceted eyes shift colors as they continue. “We do not seek to deny justice, but to prove that authentic love can heal even the most broken souls.”

It looks each of us in the eyes, then continues, “The Redemption Rites begin with sustenance freely given and received,” the Committee speaker continues. “Who offersfirst?”

“I do.” The words come out steady, though I’m trembling on the inside.

A server approaches with a tray of small, jewel-toned fruits, glistening with moisture as though freshly picked, alongside a decorative container of thick, amber honey that catches the light, and ceremonial bread that gives off a warm, yeasty aroma.

“Remember,” another Committee member adds, “you must maintain eye contact throughout. Brief physical contact is allowed. This represents the trust and openness required for true redemption.”

Picking up a piece of violet fruit, I raise my hand to Aries’ lips. The deep plum color contrasts with his bronze skin as my fingers hover before him. His gaze locks with mine as he takes the offering, the brush of his mouth against my fingers sending electricity arcing up my arm.

His lips are softer than I remember, warm and surprisingly gentle for someone so powerful. When they part, the tip of his tongue grazes my fingertips, leaving a trail of heat that makes my skin tingle long after the contact ends. The unexpected intimacy of it makes my breath catch.

The fruit’s sweet scent fills the air, but it’s nothing compared to the heat building in his eyes. Something molten and primal flickers there, breaking through his careful control. His eyes darken from amber to a deep gold, pupils expanding until only a thin ring of color remains. My pulse quickens in response, my heartbeat a thundering rhythm I’m certain he can hear in such close quarters.

His turn comes next. Large, careful hands select a piece of bread, his movements deliberate as his fingers tear off a perfect morsel. He dips it in honey, and I watch, transfixed, as golden droplets cling to the bread and threaten to fall before he catches them with a practiced twisting motion. He brings it to my lips.

The moment stretches, heavy with unspoken words and emotions. I can feel the warmth radiating from his skin,smell the faint spice-and-sun scent that is uniquely his. As the bread touches my mouth, my lips part instinctively. The honey hits my tongue first—sweet and floral—followed by the bread’s hearty texture. His thumb brushes my bottom lip, seemingly by accident, and a small sound escapes me before I can stop it. His pupils dilate at the noise, his nostrils flaring slightly as he inhales sharply.

Back and forth we go, each offering becoming more charged than the last. A piece of golden fruit leaves sticky sweetness on my fingers, juice running down to my wrist in a thin rivulet, which he chases with his tongue before I can pull away, his gaze never leaving mine as he takes his time, the heat of his mouth leaving my skin feeling branded.

In some perverse form of retaliation, I let my lips brush his knuckles as I accept the next morsel, deliberately allowing them to linger as I take the food, my teeth grazing his skin ever so slightly. I watch as a shudder subtly runs through him, a muscle in his jaw tightening as he fights for control.

By the time we reach the seventh exchange, the ritual has become something else entirely—a dance of desire conducted through fleeting touches and burning looks. When he feeds me a honey-dipped berry, I allow the sweetness to linger on my lips before slowly catching a drop with the tip of my tongue. His breathing grows audibly heavier, his massive chest rising and falling in a rhythm that matches the pulse I can see beating at the base of his throat.

By the final exchange, we’re both breathing harder, the air between us charged with electricity. The simple ritual transformed into something far more sensual than either of us expected. My hands tremble as I offer the last piece of fruit, a deep red berry that stains my fingertips like blood. His hands aren’t entirely steady either as he accepts it, his fingers briefly encircling my wrist before releasing it, maintaining that searing eye contact that makes me feel as though it’s not the food, butmethat’s being devoured.

“The physical bond is sealed,” the Committee speaker declares. “Now begins the spiritual joining.”

They circle us, chanting in a language that bypasses my translator chip. The floating orbs vibrate in rhythm with their words, casting strange shadows.

“For the duration of the Rites, physical intimacy is prohibited,” one member states. “Your connection must be built on deeper foundations before the physical may be explored.”

The tension in Aries’ shoulders eases slightly at these words. Something twists in my chest—relief? Disappointment? Both?

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