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There are no tapestries, no art, no trace of life except the three huge thrones carved of a single block of marble each, where the royal triad sits like they were sculpted from the same stone.

I’ve been dreading this moment for over a year.

They are clad in their formal robes, with golden accents, up to their necks. Prince Doman’s long mane of golden hair goes to his shoulders, and he barely fits in his massive throne, an enormous beast of a man. His nostrils flare, tasting my scent, and I shiver, because this is the moment where he will taste his Fated Mate, the moment where his rage will build up into uncontrollable lust.

Instead, he simply watches me.

Titans. That is the only way to describe them. If the Aurelian triad had come to Old Earth before the age of oil, they would have been worshiped as Gods. They would havebeenGods. With the glowing Orb-Blades at their belts, Prince Doman’s triad could have conquered empires.

On Doman’s head is the golden crown, a simple circle. He sits straight-backed, rigid, still as a statue, and I do not even see a movement in his broad chest from his breath. His battle-brothers wear matching crowns. The warrior to his right, lounging back in his throne, is black-haired, a wavy, thick mane that frames his hard features. He would fit in with the barbarians of Frosthold, broad and thick, his body huge slabs of muscle that not even the flowing robes can hide. Around his neck is a massive platinum chain that dangles down with a flawless diamond, within which is a glowing gem carved in the emblem of the empire, red as a fresh dawn. Around his wrist, a bracelet of platinum worth more than a house in my village.

Titus. The name fits.

He is respected among our people, which grates on me, because the stories of him are legends—that he took three bullets rescuing a shipment of Pentaris slaves captured by Toads on our border, freeing our citizens as the slavers tried to flee into Wild Space. In Frosthold, the most independent-minded planet of our system, there is a statue of him marking that day. It was constructed eighty years ago.

It’s often desecrated by fierce nationalists who hate all mention of the alien species, and it’s the spot of riots, where the descendants of the freed slaves brawl against nationalist gangs.

To Doman’s left, the man I fear most. Gallien. None of the three are to be underestimated, but our spies found his leaked records from Academy. His grades were average in physical pursuits, but in his seventieth year of Academy, he not only got the record in mathematics and theoretical future studies, he also came up with a breakthrough in battery cell storage. We license his technology, which improves the storage capacities on Terosa, where the great solar panel fields drink up the sun. If he had been a human with a normal lifespan, that discovery would have been when he was merely seventeen.

Gallien’s head of hair is short cropped, not given to vanity like the barbarian clad in rich jewels. His short hair is prematurely platinum, contrasting with his youthful, chiseled face, high cheekbones and a cold handsomeness.

They look royal and imperial, haughty confidence as they sit, but I have seen them sweat-soaked and beastly, in that vision more real than life itself. I’ve seen them with their blood up, their nostrils flaring as they drank in my scent. Their eyes are cold, icy as they watch me impassively, but I have seen them full of the ravenous hunger of their being.

I have seen their true selves. They are not royal princes, ruling over those beneath them.

They are three savage, primal beasts, ruled by their own Mating Rage. The black gleam of the matching rings each wears soothes me ever so slightly. Our intelligence agency had informed us that after the Bondthrum, they had manufactured rings that blunted the Bond between an Aurelian triad and their Fated Mate, so that their forces would not go mad and desert to find her.

They only half-worked.

Some still deserted. Many of these so-called honorable protectors threw away everything to join the Fanatics, with the dark promise of owning women—Obsidian’s promise that if one of them saves a life, it is theirs to use, any way they wish. It’s clearly why the Priests of Obsidian’s order used their dark ritual to force the Bond tothrumin the first place, to weaken and split the Aurelian forces.

I was sick to my stomach when I asked my intelligence about the Bond thrum, terrified that they would see through me, that they’d know just how personal my questions were.

“Welcome, Prime Minister Adriana. Welcome, Aeris of Etherion.” Doman’s voice is cold and commanding, his hospitality and politeness that of a man who knows he doesn’t need to be.

“Thank you for granting me an audience, Crown Prince Doman, Prince Titus, Prince Gallien.”

“Shall we do away with the formalities? Doman is quite fine,” says Doman easily, but his body language is the opposite of his tone, still as a statue, carved from granite and watching me with his hard eyes. They are such a brilliant blue, and I’m reminded of the endless heavens of Virelia, looking up through the thick greenery to the little patches of blue visible through the trees. They are made all the more brilliant contrasted by the cold, slate-gray of his battle-brothers.

“As you wish, Doman,” I respond, playing his game.

“And to what do we owe this rare pleasure?”

I suppress my frustration at his casualness. Their thrones, which must weigh over a thousand pounds, huge blocks of marble, are on a raised dais. He would look down at me even if I was standing in front of him, but now I feel as though I am being judged by a panel of Gods.

“The peace between Pentaris and the Aurelian Empire has been a long and prosperous one. I give thanks to Titus, for the day of freeing, eighty years ago.”

The big brute grins. “What’s that?” His voice is deeper than Doman’s, with a heavy timber, and though his eyes are pale gray, they have a sparkle of mirth.

I stiffen. “You freed a shipment of slaves, snatched from our territories.”

“Did I? I freed a lot of human slaves in my hundred years of service. Lost count.” He ever so casually flicks an errant strand of his black mane out of his eyes.

“And Gallien, we thank you for your scientific contribution, which has helped Terosa for over a century.”

Gallien raises an eyebrow. It is gray, as his hair. His name had not been on the patent—all work done during Academy is property of the Aurelian Empire, and there should be no way for us to know he was the inventor of the cell storage technology. My thanks was to show him that our spy networks are deeper than he expected, to bolster my position and to show without a doubt that we know of the Planet-Killers en route.

“Your people still pay a royalty to our Empire for its usage. A fair deal.”