The Peninsula

The Fiction and Poetry Archive of Liana Mir and scribblemyname




A pause, a silent gap stretching out into the distant horizon and over the edge—

“Your parents are dead.”


She closed her eyes, no longer listening to details that only confirmed what she’d already known. Pain, crashing, screaming of metal and flesh rending open to space—


“My princess—”

“Queen,” she corrected quietly. She opened her eyes, collected herself, and rose to go find her brothers, dismissing the servant with a gesture. She let her bodyguards flank her down the too empty corridors to her oldest brother’s study.

“King,” she greeted him.

“Queen,” he greeted back.



You will be my blade.

The words echo in his mind sometimes, a soft-voiced memory, the imprint of a small hand against his hull.

Mihzat doesn’t remember it, but Veset does. Veset, blade, and he looks through log files that predate his integration, digs through memories that are his for all they aren’t.

That quiet voice, You will be my blade.

Is that what you want to call it, my queen? More familiar. Kasuru, the designer of the spaceship, who’d been at Mihzat’s integration when he became Veset.

Queen. Yes.