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A chance. A chance to be able to sire sons with Lola. To be able to give her the gift of an extended life. I found peace with our bodies intertwined. It was the only thing that washed away all my pain.

That and war. War is more certain. I let my thoughts center on the dance of death, waiting for Obsidian’s call to send us into the heart of the Aurelian Empire.

I look over at the door leading deeper into the ship, a modification on the Reavers added when Orb-Shifting became too risky. If Khra wants to end it all, he can go into there, into the three tubes made for journeys of over a decade, where you can be put into dreamless oblivion while the ship’s AI pilots. He could set the timer for a hundred years and tell the AI to plot a course into the nearest sun.

He’d never feel it.

That’s the sickness of Khra. He doesn’t feel he deserves that escape.

He wants to be punished for his failure. He believes he deserves the greatest agony known to us, the torture of Scorp venom where you die screaming.

Anger flares in me, because I have the sickness as well.

We failed to save our Fated Mate.

I run my hands over the smooth side of the barb, and squeeze it, letting venom drip out the needle-point end. One little prick, and it’s all over. One little prick, and I’ll be driven mad by pain, until my body fails and I’m released forever.

17

KRAZAK

Itouch our Reaver down in the hangar bay. It’s busier than normal, technicians milling about, welding torches flaring as repairs are done with the precise touch of an Aurelian. We’re on leave now, for two days, but we could be called in at any moment. It’s going to be a tight operation to get our Reaver out of here with all this commotion, but we have one last cave system to explore.

And what then? Lola will accept no answer except that her father has been found.

I pray that we find him alive—but if not, we need to find his corpse, because otherwise she will go herself into the caves and die there. Even Bolden, so swift in battle, was wounded.

We stalk out of the Reaver, and I resist the urge to look over at Bolden and ensure he’s not limping, when a tall Aurelian breaks off his conversation with mechanics and rushes towards us before we can dart out of the building.

“Your patrol ended twenty minutes ago. I’m used to Aurelians coming in early off patrols when they’re about to go on leave,” he says, showing me his watch.

He’s in a grey mechanic’s uniform, but I can practically see the honor on his chest hidden by the plain clothes. No one but an honored Aurelian would dare challenge us, and even then, he must have deep suspicions.

“We do not cut short patrols, even our last,” I say, my tone showing that the conversation is over.

His eyes narrow. He looks us up and down. “You three are covered in grime. Where were you? Your planned route shows arial reconnaissance only.”

I’ve got the lie planned out. That we saw signs of life, and went into a cave system searching for rebels, but instead, I march forward, until I’m an inch from his face. His battle-brothers sense danger, and two shapes move from the bowels of a Reaver where they are fixing it and stride to his sides in battle position. One is shirtless and sweaty, and it’s confirmed—the bottom half of their brands have the same black ink as ours.

“What are you, an Interrogator?”

“I’ve got General Kriz breathing down the back of my neck for every Reaver for the coming war.”

“Well now you’ve got me breathing down the front,” I snarl, wanting him to try something, aching for him to draw that blade so I can cut him down here and now and end his questions forever.

My battle-brothers shift, slightly, and I get a stab of pain from Bolden as he is forced to rest more weight on his injured leg. Even injured, we can take this triad.

The seconds tick by, until the other Aurelian lowers his head, ever so slightly. “Just let me know next time you’re going to be late,” he says, finally, and bites off something else.

“Good,” I say, and stalk away.

“Your Reaver will be needed during your leave. We need the med-bays. Every troop has to be in ready condition. We can spare you a standard transport if you want to explore the planet on your leave,” he says, his tone so polite it is mocking.

I know what he wants to say and bites it off—that in those two days, the flight logs of the Reaver will be checked. I have to hope that Khra programmed it properly. I’m glad I didn’t add my lie, because there’s no way Khra could have predicted it and made the flight logs show it.

“Understood,” I say, my aura flaring with rage, and leave back to our apartments. When we get inside, Bolden goes straight to the bed, collapsing and massaging his injured leg. He did well to hide it. An injury on a routine patrol like that really would have sent us to the Interrogators.

“How long until you’re recovered?” I ask him.