She was built to clean. To serve. To fade quietly into the background.
But the stars have other plans for her.
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In the Gaian Empire, there are twelve kinds of clones. Hirayas are the lowest - built to clean, to obey, to fade into the backgroun...
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The Sybilline Sisterhood. Even as a child, I heard whispers about them. Though I'd only ever met one in person.
She was Sister Olgatta, our botany professor. A mystery wrapped in that black bhurajab she never took off, not even for a second. Honestly, I didn't know much about her, except that her red-painted lips seemed permanently pressed into a thin line, never curving into a smile. She moved like a shadow too, always serious, her entire body and even her hair hidden beneath layers of fabric that seemed to swallow the light.
My classmates used to say that was just how the Sybilline were. That it was their spiritual obligation to stay veiled at all times. That their so-called sacred bodies were meant to be seen only by two beings: their chosen deity, Akasha, God of Space, and the man they were destined to marry.
Most high-ranking Gaian officials end up marrying Sybillines because everyone knows by now they're not just powerful, they're deeply influential too.
Throughout the millennia, the Sybillines have perfected the art of space travel using nothing but their minds. Astral navigation, to be precise. While their bodies remain seated in quiet meditation, their minds and spirits can journey anywhere they wish, even across lightyears. Just like what happened between Eva Zoran and me that night. That ability, they say, is a gift from their god Akasha, who favors them for their steadfast devotion.
No wonder Jon Gavelan chose to be engaged to a Sybilline. Eva Zoran won't just be his wife—she'll also serve as his counselor, his political strategist, and. . . his weapon.
A week has passed since that haunting dream, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I've been sleeping soundly. I can't remember any dreams, if I've even had any, but at least my sleep score has improved drastically. Turns out, for all her terrifying presence, Eva knows how to keep her word.
ChatGPT said:
To play my part, I had to be smart about it. Which meant strategizing — and yes, a little acting too. All week, I feigned a minor infection. Fake coughing, fake sneezing, making sure to always have an audience when I did.
We Hirayas are known for being remarkably healthy, so it wasn't surprising that at least one person wouldn't buy it. Unsurprisingly, that person is Dylan Astarel.
He watches me constantly, his denim eyes following even the smallest twitch, and sometimes he even smirks or shakes his head when I break into one of my fake coughing fits.
Somehow, that man has a way of seeing right through people, which probably explains why he's the ship marshal.
"You do know there are plenty of symptopacks in the storage room, right? Enough to knock out three elephants," Dylan drawls as I finish another fake sneeze, wiping down the glass doors of the cryo beds. His arms are folded when I glance back at him.
"I wasn't used to getting sick, so it didn't even cross my mind to take symptopacks, Officer," I reply calmly.
