Page 6

I grip the huge bars of the Arena of Blood. I’m nearly salivating in anticipation.

The Coliseum is a half-circle like our brands, and on the curved side are three portcullis gates. While the Arena of the Gods on Colossus is built of pure white stone, this one seems like a nightmare version of it, constructed with huge blocks of black granite pulled by the might of warriors and stacked on top of each other to the heavens. Seen from a bird’s-eye view, the Arena of Blood would look like the brands of our chests, with one of the semi-circles filled with sand, the other the empty palace of the War-God, built for his prophesized return.

Now the day is on us. He has come. The War-God himself will bless us with his presence and lead us into the heart of the Aurelian Empire.

The stands are packed full. Not one of the Aurelians has a woman with him, leaving them behind in their homes to save space. Aurelians in black robes are pressed in shoulder to shoulder. They all wear the same black togas, opened to show their brands.

Many of those brands are still red and irritated. The legions of Obsidian grow every day with new blood, throwing aside everything for the chance to earn their Mate.

The three portcullis gates of the curved half-circle are across from the huge main gates, which lead to a tunnel to Obsidian’s palace. In that tunnel is the thing I bled for, the thing I got all these scars on my chest for. The Orb-Gate. I’ve watched triads dive in. As of yet, none have returned, but each had a chance to find his Mate. For that, we’d risk the same horrible death of our battle-brother Raython.

Above the main gates is a huge tower. Halfway up it is an alcove, where High Priests stand, some with the assistance of bone-thin canes, others with triads of guardian Fanatics ready to catch them if their ancient bodies should fail. One triad sits on simple wooden chairs, wanting no ornamentation. All of their guards have the second brand on their foreheads marking them as true believers. If the Priests pointed, they would dive from the tower and shatter on the ground below.

At the top of the tower is a raised dais with a black throne. That throne has been empty since we joined the Old Ways. It waits for our War-God. Only a few triads of High Priests dare to even stand in front of that throne to address the crowds from the highest heights, and none would dream of sitting on the throne itself.

High Priest Tan is one of those who prefers to address the crowd from the zenith of the tower. It was his ship that returned this morning from his voyage to find the War-God. That man puts a foul taste in my mouth. Few Priests take women, most of them too busy studying ancient tomes and prophecies to think of matters of the flesh.

Tan has three women, chained to his wrist, wearing the iron collars of owned women. He earned them, and according to all the laws of the Old Ways, they belong to him—but I’ve seen the fear in their eyes that remind me of my own Mate. I have to bite my tongue when I listen to him, soaking up the knowledge as I learn the truths of the universe that will lead me to my Mate, but sometimes I imagine putting my sword through his chest.

I cannot. The Fanatics with branded foreheads would rip me to shreds before I could even draw.

There is a nervous, tense buzz in the stands, Aurelians whispering to each other. All eyes are on the empty black throne.

Even the Priests are having trouble keeping their composure. Some lick their desiccated lips, and the three ancient Priests sitting on the wooden chairs pull themselves slowly to their feet, aided by Fanatics.

“He is coming,” I growl, and I need the words to be true. “The Shadow-Wolf will rise.”

I need the last months of bloodshed to be worth something.

I need the memory of my battle-brother Raython dissolving in front of my eyes, screaming out in horror, I need that death to mean something.

The huge black doors at the highest stage are thrown open, and he walks out. My eyes widen. It’s hard to believe what I am seeing as the beast of a man ignores the throne, waking to the railings, and staring down at us.

Obsidian.

He is an Aurelian, like us, but different. He is like the ones of the old stories, before we degraded. He would tower over my seven-foot-tall frame.

His skin gleams as marble-white as mine, but every vein in his body is filled with blackness, as if his heart pumps oil. He wears a belt with the long hilt of a mace dangling, a mace I’ve seen before.

It was in the hands of General Asmod when he was cut down in the Arena of the Gods on Colossus by the triad of the human woman who would become queen.

Asmod’s seed.

Obsidian has a mass of tangled black hair to his shoulders. Even from here, I can see the darkness of his eyes, so unlike the slate-grey of our species. It’s like staring into black holes. They drink up the light of the sun. He wears the black toga of our species, open to bare the left side of the chest where we all have brands.

He has a birthmark, the twin half-circles we replicate.

“Obsidian,” I whisper, my heart pounding.

It was true. All of it.

The universe will bleed. It will be cast into fire, and what comes out will be forged strong enough to resist the waves of chaos.

Wewillhave our Mate.

Two huge creatures follow Obsidian. They look like Aurelians, if Aurelians were inverted demons. Gasps fill the crowd, but I clench my jaw tight, my eyes following their movements. The triad behind us pushes in to get a closer look, and I give them a warning growl, but it’s no use. They need to see that the prophecies are true, lost in a religious state as they view the War-God himself.

I was expecting one man. A titan of an Aurelian, but alone. He has two beasts at his right and left, beasts that look like Aurelians, but tall enough to tower over us. They do not have the pure, marble skin of our species. Instead, they are chiseled from black granite. When I stare at them, they look hard as rock, but when my eyes drift from them, the edges of their being seems to dissipate.