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“She’s scared. She has no sense of the future if we’re wedded. She thinks there’s no future at all.”

Gallien enters the call. “We’re stronger together. The Aurelian Empire and Pentaris, us and you. Whatever the future holds in store for us, our union will shape it. Trust me.”

“I do.”

“You know what has to be done,” states Titus, his voice hard. “Aeris is scared. And scared is dangerous.”

“I don’t like it...”

“We’ll send the Reaver over. It’s manned by men I trust with my life. We’re headed to the Arena of the Gods now. I will see you there, my love,” finishes Doman, changing the subject.

“Okay,” I reply, hanging up the call, the unease growing.

I patch through to Aeris before I can second guess myself. She picks up instantly, her eyes wide, the color gone from her face. “Aeris. I spoke with Doman.”

She says nothing, waiting, the fear infusing her.

“The Planet-Killers aren’t being used for the defense. They’re too fragile for combat. They’re in storage, well protected. He checked them himself. Doman was the one who made the call that they would not be used in the defense.”

Aeris slumps, the relief palpable. Then she stiffens once more. “He saw them? With his own eyes?”

“Yes. Even the two that went for testing are back in storage. Conventional defenses are all it will take to stop Obsidian. He thrives on guerilla warfare, on striking and disappearing before we can fight back. He has no chance in an open engagement.”

“Thank the Gods,” says Aeris. “And thank you, Adriana.” Her voice is shaky, and I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach as I end the call.

She’s erratic. She broke ancient conventions by putting out a public declaration of her visions. If she was willing to do it once, she’d be willing to do it again—and the last thing I need is her hysterically addressing the Pentaris alliance, claiming that my wedding to the royal triad will result in the death of the universe.

Nothing is determined.

Gallien’s voice resonates in my mind. Etherion was essential to the survival of Pentaris. We’ve long relied on their visions—but never overrelied, or trusted them beyond what we can seeand feel in the real world. She did not view a calamity happening if I wed these three. She simply had no visions at all, and her fears of annihilation are centered around the Planet-Killers, not a wedding.

The link between Pentaris and the Aurelian Empire is the path forward. She has seen an age of barbarity and chaos as the alternative. It’s only logical. The hyper-nationalistic path towards isolation ends in the Pentaris Alliance falling, planets splitting apart and working only for themselves.

This path is one that is not foreseen by the Krakens, one that is beyond fate and destiny.

I will forge it with my triad.

I stand as the Reaver, brilliant white, hums outside of the tower. I exit through the balcony, and the side door of the attack ship opens, a tall Aurelian clad in full Orb-Armor extending his hand to me. He is clean shaven, his bald scalp glistening, and the wrinkles in his marble skin are like rivers etched into a canyon. His armor seems to crackle and spark, yet none of the energy escapes that blue-black suit that can stop a blade made of the same substance. I don’t let my eyes linger on it too long, because it gives one the strangest sensation of not being able to look away.

“Your grace,” he says, and I can see the hint of pride in his flint-grey eyes, honored to be chosen to personally escort me to the ceremony. I let him take my hand and pull me gently into the ship, and my heels click against the floor as I walk with him to the cockpit.

He takes his place at the right gunnery, his triad not letting their eyes stray to me. They are intently focused as they take off.

Above us, the sky is darkened by thick swarms of Reavers, whizzing and dancing in tight defense patterns. It reminds me of watching flocks of birds, seemingly moving with the same mind, patterns perfected by instinct.

I couldn’t have imagined a wedding without my family here. Now I’m glad they’re back on Virelia, far away from all this. I reassure myself that Obsidian can’t appear out of nothingness.

And yet, I keep imagining the black shadows of Fanatic Reavers blinking out of nothingness above us, the perfect patterns interrupted by the lancing of Orb-Beams and the explosions of missiles.

Why would Obsidian charge into certain death, unless he had some ability we can’t forsee?

What if he mastered the Rift fully, and no device, made by man or Aurelian, can stop him?

I push the thought out. I wish my mind was full of wedding jitters, I wish I was being consoled by June, I wish I was panicking over flower arrangements or seating. Instead, I’m plagued by visions of the War-God appearing during my wedding, when the queen and her imperial triad are together in the Arena of the Gods…

The Reaver rises up, flying in a measured pace, more attack ships buzzing and darting beside us, ready to put themselves in the way of any surprise attack.

We land in a cleared street in the middle of the city. The walls of the coliseum rise above. I’ll make the walk into the arena alone.