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I follow, instinctively, the understanding slowly creeping through me. I feel like I’m in a trance, hoping I’m wrong, when the holo-vid feed grows in the middle of the room. Doman presses me to the side of the room, out of view, then stands directly in the center of the bridge, Titus and Gallien flanking him.

Obsidian appears. Life sized, nearly as tall as the ceiling. Half of his head is a red, burnt mess, mangled with blisters and scars. His thick black mane is sheared, nothing hiding the brutal mass of burnt flesh.

His eyes are untouched.

Two, black, endless pits.

“Doman. Your trickery nearly had me.” He smiles. No, it can’t be called that. A smile has warmth. His lips only curl up ever so slightly, showing off bright white teeth that are far too sharp.

“How did you survive?” Doman asks him nonchalantly, as if the two of them are discussing the weather, and not the explosives rigged to destroy the War-God when he personally shifted into one of the factories producing the cyborg soldiers.

“My wolves smelled the refined uranium. They bore the blast. You nearly killed my brothers, Doman.” He opens his palms, showing the base of his forearms, where his black blood pounds through his veins, obscene against his ivory skin. “They will recuperate in my veins. It will take years, but I will be whole once more.”

“Why are you telling me this? Why don’t you hide your weakness?”

Obsidian’s curled up lips extend into a snarling grin. “Because I know the only reason you would open a line of communications with me, authenticated with royal DNA. You want to end this, as it was always meant to end. You’re tired of hiding in your mother’s skirts. I would accept your challenge even if the blast had taken my sword arm. Because it is Fated, Doman. It is Fated that we stand across from each other in the killing fields. It is fated that I will rule on the throne of Colossus, ortheywill devour the universe.”

The words cost him. He coughs, and wipes his lips contemptuously, black, thick blood staining the back of his hand like he spewed out chunks of his lungs. The War-God is degrading, failing before my eyes, yet when I see those twin black orbs, all I can think of is the endless nothingness of being trapped in the Rift.

Even rotting, he is deadly.

“I have no interest in your prophecies. Come to the Arena of the Gods and face me. End the bloodshed with one death.”

The smile is gone from Obsidian’s twisted face.

“You are a child, Doman, born to a throne and luxury. I was born to wolves. You don’t even know what you’re up against. I’ve seen them spread their wings, open their maws that can devour an entire warship in a bite. That is where your Reavers go, princeling. Into their bellies.”

Doman and Gallien keep their faces blank, ignoring all provocation. Titus cannot. He grits his teeth, the vein in his neck bulging. “Enough talk. You will come to Colossus. You will face us.”

“No. You will come to Obsidious. You will fight me on the black sands. I trust your word of honor, Doman, that you would not lay a trap if I dueled you in your capitol. I do not trust the viper with the crown. You will come to Obsidious, and you will bleed out on the black sands. Or… there is another way.”

His rasping voice is as if each word is sandpaper against his vocal cords.

“There is no other way,” answers Doman. I watch, nothing more than a spectator, my mind racing for words that can stop this, but I feel like I’m in the gravity well of a black hole, spinning faster and faster around the vortex of nothingness.

“Join me. Join me, against the true enemy.”

“Madness,” spits out Titus.

“Do you know the average age for an Aurelian entering the cryo-bay, to release life and create anew? Two thousand years ago, when the galactic war raged, it was six hundred. Aurelians with thousands of years of life before them, relinquished for the next generation. Five centuries ago, the average age was eight hundred. Do you know it today? Fifteen hundred. Old men, with grey beards, sitting in their villas and reminiscing. The AurelianEmpire is soft, and weak, and it must be burnt down. Join my ranks. You are the crown prince. Enough will follow you to end this without your death.”

Obsidian’s voice has a strange, hypnotic pull to it. It reminds me of Aeris and her visions.

“No.” The single word, said by the crown prince, cuts like a knife.

Obsidian closes his eyes slowly, then opens them, and they seem to draw in all the light. “Then I will not fight you.”

“Coward.”

“You’re just a little boy, Doman. When I kill you, I’ve signedherdeath warrant. Your mother will avenge your death.”

Doman brings his smart-watch to his lips. “Now,” he says, so low I can barely make out the word.

Obsidian stumbles like Doman cut his legs out from under him. His eyes go wide as a beast, and he reaches out, grabbing for something outside of the holo-vid feed to get his balance.

“End,” orders Doman through his smart-watch, an instant later, and Obsidian snarls, his teeth extending into fangs, black fur sprouting through his skin before he gets control of himself. “Take the ring off her finger. Give her to me. You have no right!” He yells out the command, booming, and my legs grow weak.

“We will not harm her. She is out of reach of my parents. Face me, War-God. If you win, you get her back. If I win, this madness ends.”