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“Follow them,” barks out Orr. Kriz must have telepathed to Orr, instead of yelling back through the hallway himself.

“He needs to speak more politely to them,” I complain.

“You can tell him that tomorrow. Though I advise against it,” says Kriz, with a small, wary smile, as if he isn’t sure what to do with me. He helps through the mess hall, steady as I lean on him.

“Don’t touch those damn things. Poison,” I say, waving dismissively towards the rations.

“Thank you for your warning,” says Kriz, too serious, his aura flashing with amusement. Amusement. Not an emotion I ever thought could come from these three warriors.

He helps me into the bedroom. “I’m going to the sheets covered in wine,” I say.

“There are many beds, don’t worry,” he responds.

“Oh. Yeah.” He helps me into bed. My head is still swimming. The bed is massive. Nash and Raneeda follow, and they jump in with me. I’m glad they don’t take their own beds. It’s good to have them close. The wine is hitting way harder than I expected, the room spinning.

I look up, and the three Aurelians are standing at the door, staring at me. I shiver under their gaze and pull the blankets tight.

19

Ra’al

Ican’t keep my eyes off her. I look into the room with longing. She’s curled up in bed, happily drunk with the two servant women.

I want to go to her. To kiss her. Touch her. Gently stroke her hair. To take her again, in private, slowly, our bodies molding together.

She is in my mind, and I let that be enough. It is as though my calloused warrior hands would defile her to touch her again.

What is this yearning? Strange emotions are pulsing up in me. I was nothing but a weapon. Now I ache for something more. To put down my sword and to curl up in bed with her, grabbing her tight against my chest and feeling our hearts beat.

I will have to go to war soon. This was only the first step. The only way this ends is with the black flag flying on Colossus itself.

Kriz closes the door. Softly. It’s like a spell being broken.

“Obsidian wishes to speak with us tonight.”

Our auras harden as one. These are not times of peace. We cannot be weak. I nod. “Good. We will give him our report and thank him for bringing us here safely.”

Orr growls. “After we deal with the rebels.” He hates the surviving rebels for putting Rachel in danger. He has yet to gaze upon them. They are not powerful and strong. It is not some rebellious triad, proud in their defiance. No, they are just humans, and pathetic ones at that.

We do not take the transport pod system. Until we have a full report on the scale of the rebellion, it is better to walk, in ways that cannot be predicted. I lead us through a longer, winding route in the palace, until we’re striding through the courtyard under the ruined bridge. The bodies of the Priests were taken, and they will be shipped backed to Obsidious for the burial. I found the golden collar in their robes, bent, the collar they wanted to give to Rachel when she was with our seed. I will reshape the soft golden metal, and one day, I will present it to my Mate. Even the Priests, thousands of years old, were so happy to see a Bonded Mate, the only thing that can save us, the only person who can make our species multiply instead of dwindle.

I am glad that they saw her, before they died. They did not make it to cryo-chambers in time. Their line ends with them.

We take the steps up to the ramparts. The four men are on their knees, guarded by two triads. The city square is empty. There will be no crowd for the executions. The populace is filled with fear, cowering. I can imagine the smell of it, yellow and sickly, and that fear is because of my own weakness. I chose to send troops to repair the hospitals and help the sick, when I should have sent them to defend the infrastructure we took.

The twin drones hover over the wall, watching us, projecting my actions outwards.

Already, we have shown that we do not have complete control. It’s a failure that fills me with hatred for my own weakness for not having the foresight to predict the attack.

Orr’s aura mutes when he sees the four men. The edge of hatred fizzles. The four humans are not trained operatives. Those fought to the death defending the anti-air batteries, knowing their fate.

These four are foolish peasant men, given grandiose dreams, manipulated by Queen Jasmine’s men to do her bidding to destabilize us.

And yet, as foolish as they are, I cannot spare them.

My blade sings. I take their heads one by one. It does not feel like justice. Only necessity.

The last one sobs. He is young. Perhaps still a teenager. He’s gaunt and thin, staring up at me with pleading eyes.