The morning broke with a deceptive stillness. The air, heavy with the scent of pine and alien flora, felt charged, not by the humidity, but by the emotional explosion of the night before.
Vael was the first to stir, feeling a strange, intoxicating blend of fear and utter peace. He was leaning against a supply cart, draped in his scratchy Legion blanket, and Anaya was sleeping soundly beside him, her head resting on a coil of rope. Her presence—unforced, real, and utterly un-poetic—was the most comforting thing he had ever known.
He looked at her, then up at the alien sun filtering through the canopy. The world still looked savage and dangerous, but now it had a singular, beautiful anchor. I got the girl. I got the girl without the magic, Vael thought, a wide, goofy, thirty-year-old bank clerk grin spreading across his face.
The reality of his surroundings quickly intervened. Astra, Lyra, and Seraphina were awake. They weren't cleaning weapons or checking formations; they were clustered in a tight huddle near the remnants of the campfire, engaged in a silent, furious, and clearly catastrophic meeting.
Vael quickly noted the change. Their usual fierce possessiveness was replaced by raw desperation. They looked haggard, like generals who had just lost the decisive battle. The target of their attention was Anaya—specifically, the spot on Anaya's lips where she had shared the true, unforced kiss with Vael.
The wives had realized that the key to Vael's heart wasn't the powerful magic of his poetry, but the simple, unscripted truth of human emotion. And since they were warriors, not lovers, their solution was tragically flawed: they had to replicate the magic of the kiss by using bad poetry.
Vael watched, fascinated and terrified, as the trio broke from their huddle, their eyes burning with a new, dangerous focus. They had a plan, and Vael was their target.
Anaya woke up, stretching with a groan. She caught Vael's eye and gave him a soft, genuine smile—the smile of a true love who was also a very amused accomplice.
"Morning, Poet," Anaya whispered, her voice husky. "Looks like your fan club had a rough night. I think they realized you can't force a kiss with a rhyming couplet."
"I think they're about to try," Vael whispered back, his eyes widening as Astra began her determined march toward them. "Prepare for the theatrical assault."
The Clumsy Compulsion
Astra marched over, her heavy armor clanking with rigid purpose. She looked intensely into Vael's eyes, trying to conjure the magic. "Consort," Astra began, her voice strained with effort. "I—I have composed a verse. A verse of great need."
Vael recoiled slightly, instinctively leaning away. "Astra? You wrote a poem? Please, don't strain yourself."
Astra ignored him, closing her eyes in a fierce military concentration. She delivered the poem as if it were a direct command:
"Steel is strong, and blood is true!
My need for your sweet kiss is new.
My heart, a fort, by you is held,
Come to my lips, by love compelled!"
She finished the rhyme and leaned in, her helmeted face stopping barely an inch from Vael's. The heavy scent of metal and determination filled the air. She waited for the immediate, magical compulsion to take effect.
Nothing happened. Vael only recoiled further, shielding his face with a defensive hand.
"That... that was very martial, Astra," Vael said weakly. "But I don't feel any sudden compulsion. Did you perhaps miss a syllable?"
Anaya, sitting cross-legged nearby, burst into a peel of laughter. "Oh, my God, Astra! You sound like a recruitment pamphlet! No emotional resonance! Try again!"
Astra's face, visible through the helmet slit, was a mask of utter confusion. Her greatest strength—her obedience and fierce conviction—had failed her. She retreated, utterly defeated, to consult with Lyra.
The Scientific Failure
Lyra stepped up next, seeing Astra's failure as a result of poor metric structure and excessive emotional leakage. She approached Vael with a leather scroll in hand, upon which she had meticulously charted several stanzas.
"Asset," Lyra stated formally. "My analysis of the alien's successful interaction suggests that rhythm and quantifiable emotional density are key. I have constructed a verse based on a 4-4-2-4 syllable structure to maximize impact."
She cleared her throat and read with the emotional cadence of a logistics report:
"Your lips are soft, and mine are rough,
The distance is measurable, but tough.
I calculate a perfect fusion,
A necessary, desired conclusion."
She finished and waited, pen poised to record the predicted outcome.
Vael simply stared at her, utterly horrified. "Lyra, that sounded like a textbook definition of 'kiss.' It lacked… any kind of human warmth. You can't calculate a kiss!"
"But the metrics were perfect!" Lyra protested, scanning her scroll. "The rhyme structure was impeccable! Why did the desired reaction not occur?"
"Because you treated him like a geometric proof, Lyra!" Anaya shouted from the side, now nearly hysterical with laughter. "You can't just describe the components of a kiss and expect magic!"
Lyra, humiliated by the failure of her perfect logic, stalked off, muttering about "unforeseen atmospheric poetic resistance."
The Theatrical Disaster
Finally, Seraphina made her entrance. She was a master of drama, and she approached Vael with flowing silks and a face contorted in an expression of deep, tragic longing. She knelt before him, clutching her heart.
"My King of Dreams!" Seraphina wailed dramatically. "They fail because they lack passion! The poetic assault must be one of ultimate, sacrificial love!"
She delivered her verse with the intensity of a soap opera finale:
"Take my spirit, take my soul!
Your kiss will make my life whole!
If you deny this sweet devotion,
I shall drown myself in the wide ocean!"
Seraphina waited, her eyes wide, dramatically presenting her face for the inevitable, compelled embrace.
Vael flinched, genuinely scared this time. "Seraphina! There is no ocean here! It's a forest! And I don't want you to drown yourself! That's too much pressure for a morning kiss!"
Anaya simply collapsed onto the dirt, tears streaming from her eyes. "Oh, the drama! The sheer, glorious drama! She just threatened suicide for a morning peck!"
Seraphina, seeing Vael pulling away rather than yielding, felt the deepest humiliation. Her passion, her greatest weapon, was useless. She rose in a huff and joined her sisters in a defeated huddle.
The Terrifying Declaration of Love
Vael was relieved. His magic was safe, and so was his face. He looked at Anaya, who was smiling at him with the pure, honest fondness of a friend and a co-conspirator.
Just as Vael began to relax, a new and terrible sight focused his attention. A massive, scarred Legion warrior named Grunt—the one who had initiated the "Warrior Dance"—marched into the clearing. He was a man of terrifying size, dressed in heavy, chipped armor, but in his massive gauntlet, he held a small, neatly rolled piece of parchment tied with a bright red ribbon.
Grunt marched directly up to Vael, his serious, battle-hardened face contorted into an expression of intense, poetic vulnerability. He ignored the enraged wives entirely.
"King Vael!" Grunt bellowed, his voice straining with forced gentleness. "I saw the Ritual of Joy! And I see the ladies failing at the Ritual of the Melodic Chant! I have brought a new offering! An offering of Love Poetry, in the style of the King himself!"
Grunt unrolled the parchment and read, his deep, gravelly voice attempting a romantic lilt:
"Your hair is like the finest silk,
Your hands are pale and white like milk.
You are our King, you are my grace,
I need a kiss, now, on your face!
Tell me where to place the kiss!
The mouth, the cheek, or where it is?
I need a kiss to show my true regard,
It is not difficult, it is not hard!"
Grunt finished the poem and immediately thrust his scarred, enormous face toward Vael.
"King Vael, the verse is completed! Now, tell me where the kiss goes! Tell me where to give the kiss!"
Grunt was utterly literal. He saw the kiss as a necessary transaction to complete the ritual. He did not understand the concept of a spontaneous, reciprocal kiss; he needed permission and precise location.
Vael froze. His eyes widened to impossible circles. He was no longer looking at a warrior; he was looking at a terrified, lovestruck giant demanding an intimate physical favor.
A man! A massive, battle-scarred man wants me to tell him where to kiss me! Vael shrieked internally. He thinks this is part of the Legion's new love ritual! I don't know where the kiss goes! I don't want to know! I don't want to kiss him anywhere!
Pure, unadulterated terror seized Vael. His body, completely overwhelmed by the absurdity and the unexpected demand, went into full flight mode. He saw the genuine, terrifying devotion in Grunt's eyes and knew the warrior would not stop until the "ritual" was complete.
"No, no, no, no, no!" Vael stammered, scrambling backward.
He scrambled backward, knocking over the broth bowl, his survival instincts screaming. He saw Grunt advancing slowly, patiently, waiting for Vael to point to the correct spot for the kiss.
Vael bolted.
"I don't know what you want! Stay away from me!" Vael screamed, running full tilt, tripping over logs and supplies. "I don't know where the kiss goes! I don't want to know! This is not the mission! This is not my genre!"
The entire camp—the wives, the warriors, and Anaya—watched Vael, the powerful 'King of Dreams,' fleeing in utter terror from a simple, confused, and lovestruck soldier.
Anaya sighed, a happy, fond shake of her head. "Oh, Vael. My sweet, beautifully heterosexual coward."
The wives, finally united in their horror, were shouting commands: "Grunt! Stop the Ritual! You are confusing the Consort!"
But Grunt only pursued Vael, parchment still in hand, bellowing his confusion: "But King Vael! Tell me! Where should I place the kiss to show my true regard?!"