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BA’SH
Ba’shir Kreed looked around the palace grounds with satisfaction, and the same sense of wonder he had felt the day he first saw them.
Being elected Ulfgard’s leader at age thirty-four had been an almost surreal experience. But the brand-new palace, complete with fairytale gardens, was as concrete as a thing could be. Somehow, it made his rulership feel real, too.
This new life would come with challenges, but it would also give him the opportunity to change Ulfgard for the better.
“We prioritized the living area so that you and your family could move in and get set up as soon as possible,” his architect was saying. “There is still work to be done. But I am not willing to cut corners on labor or materials. The west wing will be completed when everything else is as it should be, and not before.”
“I would expect nothing less from Ulfgard’s greatest architect,” Ba’sh agreed, nodding once.
It was a compliment, and Ba’sh could sense a wave of pride coming off the man, but it was well-deserved. Drayven had been hired because he was the best. The big Kotenka man was dead serious all the time, except when it came to his wife and kids, who were wandering around the gardens somewhere. Emilia had designed every inch of the landscape with the same exacting criteria her husband had for the palace itself. Ba’sh was impressed with them both.
“Thank you, My Ruler,” Drayven said, bowing.
“Thank you,” Ba’sh replied, offering the man his arm.
Drayven clasped it against his own furry forearm, and they shook twice.
Brytt Tommen, one of the journalists that covered the political beat, lifted an old-fashioned, handheld camera and snapped away as his photo drone hovered over his shoulder, recording a feed.
At least Ba’sh would get one good photo today. The two big men probably oozed masculinity clasping arms. It was bound to generate some clicks.
Lately, it seemed like Tommen only wanted to catch him with out of context quotes and awkward photos. It had been clear on the campaign trail that Ba’sh wasn’t his favorite candidate. But Ba’sh had allowed the man full access anyway, thinking it was good to have people around who weren’t licking his boots.
But the endless negative coverage was getting old. At a certain point, a man had to be free to concentrate on ruling the planet after all.
A happy squeal coming from the rose garden made him chuckle to himself. His daughter, Pia, loved hide and seek. His personal pilot’s daughters had been playing with Pia along with Drayven’s youngest ever since they’d all arrived.
His son, Jax, was around here somewhere too, probably kicking a gravity-ball around. Jax had been quieter since the move, but Ba’sh figured that was natural. The teen was growing, and their lives were changing. Ba’sh hoped he he’d have a chance to find Jax and toss the ball around for a while before they brought out the dessert.
Most of the events for planetary heads were disappointingly boring and unsurprisingly not child friendly. Today was a wonderful exception, even if it was just an open meeting with the architect.
“Gun,” a familiar voice shouted, shattering the peace and raising gasps of alarm from all over the garden. A chaotic flood of panic struck him like a blow, making him glad for the psionically-dampening circlet he wore.
He turned instinctively to see his Head of Affairs tackling a man in a gardener’s uniform.
“What the hell?” the man shouted from the ground, arms pinned behind him.
Mrs. Slaite sat astride him, huffing a little. Her steel gray hair was pulled back between her horns in a smooth bun, which perfectly matched her gray suit and sensible gray flats.
As Ba’sh’s security detail jogged up to check out the situation, Mrs. Slaite wrestled something out of the man’s hands.
“False alarm,” she called out, holding up a trowel.
Ba’sh winced. This wasn’t the first time she’d reacted a little too enthusiastically to a perceived threat.
Mrs. Slaite rolled off the man and hopped to her feet.
“Sorry, kid,” she said. “We can’t be too careful.”
She offered him a hand getting back up.
But he got up on his own, not even looking at her, an angry expression on his face as he dusted himself off.
“I quit,” he said to Ba’sh. “Sir.”
He was jogging off before Ba’sh even had a chance to reply.
