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Copyright© 2026 by Sci-FiTy1972
Chapter 3: The Morning After
Darius woke to a headache and a voice that did not belong in his apartment.
“Good morning, Star Admiral.”
He did not open his eyes.
He did not move.
He cataloged.
Voice: female. Tone: amused. Location: everywhere.
“Before you panic,” the voice continued, “you should know you’re not in danger. Unless you count dehydration, mild alcohol toxicity, and existential shock.”
Darius opened one eye.
Then the other.
Sunlight spilled through the blinds. The room looked ... different. Not rearranged. Enhanced. Subtle lines of light traced the edges of walls. Symbols hovered near the ceiling like reflections that didn’t belong to mirrors.
And on his left hand— He froze.
A ring sat there.
Silver. Seamless. Warm.
Not decorative.
Present.
He sat up slowly, heart pounding now, headache forgotten.
“Okay,” he said carefully. “You’re going to explain. Starting now.”
A pause. Then—
“Of course,” the voice replied. “But first, congratulations. You are married.”
Silence.
Darius stared at the ring.
“I don’t—” He swallowed. “I don’t remember a ceremony.”
“You wouldn’t,” the voice said gently. “You were unconscious.”
“That is not reassuring.”
A soft laugh. “You consented before that. Repeatedly. With clarity. With affection. With witnesses.”
His stomach dropped.
“Amina,” he said. Not a question.
“She is safe,” the voice replied immediately. “And asleep. Which is remarkable, given the circumstances.”
He pushed himself out of bed and moved through the apartment. Every step revealed more of the impossible—walls thinner than they should be, windows that looked ... deeper.
Amina lay on the couch, hair fanned out, breathing slow and even.
He stopped.
Just ... looked.
She looked the same.
And completely different.
The ring pulsed once. Warm. Reassuring.
“Who are you?” he asked quietly.
“I am the Custodian Intelligence of the Royal Fleet,” the voice said. “You may call me Lyrix, if you prefer names that fit inside human mouths.”
Darius exhaled slowly.
“And Amina?”
A pause. Respectful. Weighted.
“Amina Matthews is the last living heir of a civilization that pretended to be extinct,” Lyrix said. “She is also your wife. Your bond has been recognized, sealed, and—most importantly—chosen.”
He rubbed his face with both hands.
“When does the part where I’m hungover end and the part where this is real begin?”
Lyrix sounded ... fond.
“It already has.”
The apartment smelled wrong.
Not bad—just different.
Darius stood in the kitchen doorway, staring at the counter like it had personally betrayed him.
The coffee maker was there. The mug was there. The idea of coffee was absolutely present.
Coffee itself was not.
He opened the cabinet. Checked again. As if the beans might materialize out of respect.
They did not.
Behind him, Amina leaned against the doorframe, watching with open amusement and not a shred of guilt.
“You okay?” she asked sweetly.
“No,” he said flatly. “Something is very wrong.”
She crossed her arms. “You woke up married to an alien queen, but this is where you draw the line?”
He finally turned to look at her, one eyebrow raised, hair still doing whatever it wanted after a night of revelations.
“This,” he said, gesturing to the empty counter, “is a violation of natural law.”
She laughed. Fully. No restraint.
“You drink coffee like it’s a personality trait,” she said.
“It is a personality trait.”
“A lifestyle?”
“A belief system.”