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I close my eyes, focusing inward, seeing through my fleets, through my drones which give me eyes through space. I have enough, yes, enough for one last strike before my body falls apart and I am returned to dust.

“Bring in my generals.”

“Yes, Obsidian,” says the doctor, not protesting.

I stand, naked, not hiding my raw, charred skin. My clothes were burnt, but my Orb-Blade remained eternal.

My leaders enter the med-bay, High-Priests, warlords, and captains, the dozen of my men I trust. Each has the dual brandon their chest, mirroring my birthmark which was unblemished in the explosion.

They have no pity in their eyes. They see me injured, but not one of them sees me as weak.

“We fly on Colossus. I will shift us in as close as I can. And then we fight our way through.”

“And the Planet-Killers? One blast and she could take our fleet,” says one of my captains. He says it without a hint of fear, simply stating a fact.

“The Planet-Killers are immobile and slow to aim. Useless for defense.” Each word has a cost, my mouth twisted and seared. “The bulk of them are already on their way to our planets. This, I know. Queen Jasmine tested them and will plan to use them to wipe out any world we have conquered. She does not care for the billions of human lives on them, not when she can strike a blow against us. We act now, or we lose our chance. They are hunting my drones, trying to blind me. But I can still see.”

I ache to use short sentences, but I will not allow myself to succumb to weakness.

I stare out at their faces. None of them flinch at the grotesque monstrosity of my being.

“Our victory is fated. There is no other reality that can be.”

39

ADRIANA

Igaze out to the capital city, pure white reflecting the fiery reds as the sunset paints the sky. Doman wraps his arms around me from behind, a reassuring wall that grounds me against the alien landscape before me.

“It was nice of your brother to let us stay here,” I say. I’d worried we’d be billeted in the Royal Palace. Instead, we’re in one of the guest bedrooms on the top floor of the manor. It’s good to be surrounded by friendly faces, and that’s what I see in Evelyn and her triad. Cal already left, hidden away in the compartment of a Reaver while Titus flew him back in.

From the city walls, a small beige ship is moving languidly towards us, flying like a bumblebee, and I track it. “Is that thing coming towards us?”

Doman is out of the window in a heartbeat, landing easily on the balcony a floor below as the Reaver in the landing strip hums to life, the autopilot activated and bringing the ship up to meet him. He twists, forcing his body through the widening gap as the side doors open. Titus and Gallien, who were lounging on the sofa, rush to me.

“Behind me,” growls Titus, pulling me back and putting his body between me and the window.

“What is it?”

“Just a transport ship. Bruton would have told us if one was coming.” Titus speaks in a clipped tone, not wasting a word as he scans outwards through the window, his hand resting easily near the hilt of his blade. Gallien is talking in a low voice into his smartwatch, alerting Bruton’s triad.

“I need to see,” I say, and Titus moves aside slightly, so I can survey the scene past his big bulk. Doman pilots the Reaver with grace, the attack ship moving out and blocking the small transport craft. The Reaver turns, the back of it opening and the little cargo ship enters the cargo bay.

Alarm spikes in me. “What’s he doing? What if it’s a trap?”

“He will have scanned it already. The contents are inert,” states Gallien, and the tension in the room dissipates. He walks to the window beside me and cocks his head slightly. “It’s a package from your sister.”

Doman touches the Reaver down inside the walls of the manor and comes out holding a long white package, tied with twine. The setting sun casts his silhouette in a soft, golden hue as he walks back to the manor, holding the package with reverence, as if it is the most precious thing in the world. He goes through the front doors and I hear his light steps up the stairways, and he returns to the bedroom with the package in his hands. “Were you expecting something?”

I shake my head. “Is there somewhere I can open it? I’ll want to give her a call.”

Doman cocks his head. “Yes. The library, at the end of the hall.” He hands me the package. It’s meticulously wrapped in smooth, matte paper, and it feels both substantial and delicate to the touch. It’s bound with slender twine, knotted with presence, an elegance in its straightforwardness. It doesn’t feellike something she would send me—there’s something about the simplicity that speaks to Aurelian hands.

I step into the quiet grandeur of the manor’s hallway. The marble walls are cold and impersonal, but there is a small table with blue flowers in a vase, clearly Evelyn’s touch. My slippers are soundless against the stone floor, my linen pants and flowing top gentle against my skin, loungewear from the vast wardrobe handpicked by Gallien. He truly imagined me in every situation possible.

The library has a heavy wooden door, but it opens without a creak. I step in, and air seems to embrace me, the rich, comforting scent of well-worn leather and old books. The light is warm and subdued, and there’s a weight of time here. I get the sense not of centuries, but millennia. Bookshelves rise to the high ceiling, filled with leather-bound tomes. The dormant fireplace is ringed by four leather chairs, three of them Aurelian sized, with creased leather, and a smaller one in the middle where Evelyn must sit.

Here is the legacy of the aliens who lived before. When the next triad takes over this home, the flowers in the hallways will be gone, every touch of Evelyn erased, but whatever her triad adds to this place will endure. Aurelians come out of the cryo-bays as blank slate. They enter the world without parents, belonging only to the Empire that their forefathers gave their lives for.