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Raegan stops, ten feet away. His blade never hums to life. He looks to his son, and in his eyes, I see something I wasn’t expecting.

Pride.

The emperor takes the crown from his head and tosses it down into the sands before his son. He seems to age centuries in an instant, his shoulders slumping.

Queen Jasmine sits, heavily, in her throne. Karan and Baldur reach up, taking their crowns from their heads, tossing the symbols of authority into the sands, and I see the relief in their eyes as they strip themselves of responsibility.

Obsidian pushes himself to his feet, slowly. He picks up the crown, and turns, kneeling in front of Doman, proffering the crown to the prince.

Doman deactivates his blade, sheathing the hilt in his belt. He takes the crown, with reverence, and puts it upon his golden mane. There he stands, in the center of the Arena of the Gods, surrounded by warriors, the greatest among them.

“Bring Obsidian to the prisons.” His first command, and instantly, Aurelian triads come through the portcullis gates, crossing the sands to take Obsidian. Doman holds his hand up, and they pause. “His Mate and child with him.” The side door of the Reaver opens, and a triad goes to get Fay. They’ll be placedin the prison cells together, so that they do not have to live more moments apart. Fay gives a grateful glance to Doman, before she rushes to be at Obsidian’s side.

Then, Doman looks to his fathers. They stand before him, in ceremonial robes. He looks at them not as family, but as subjects. “I will not end the lives of those of my blood, no matter their crimes. If any has issue with this, then ask others to stand for you, and take the crown. My parents will be banished. They will live out the rest of their days in obscurity, but they will live.”

Far above, Queen Jasmine reaches up, with shaking hands, and pulls the crown from her head. She places it down on the throne she vacated and proudly walks towards the triad of Aurelians that form up to escort her away. She looks down at her son a final time, head high.

There’s no defeat in her eyes. Instead, there’s a strange triumph, a completeness.

Though it’s a warm day, I get a chill. She doesn’t regret a single one of the trillions of lives she ended. She got everything she wanted. The crown, the throne, the power, none of it matters to her anymore.

She’d do it all again in a second to save her firstborn son. Doman has ascended to his rightful place, and her designs are complete.

Queen Jasmine didn’t just want to control the strings of power for herself. She wanted to secure the future for her blood. Doman surprised her. She didn’t expect him to call a vote, not with my fate on the line. She must have expected Doman and my triad to go quietly into obscurity, and she was already pining her hopes on her second-born to be strong enough to rise up and wrest power for himself.

Two triads of Elites escort the deposed Imperial triad into a Reaver, reverential, not laying a hand on their former leaders.Then, another Reaver pilots down, and we enter it, lifted up to the raised dais where the four thrones await.

The twin thrones at the forefront tower, with marble backs that rise high, overshadowing even an Aurelian. They are carved of the same marble as the entire coliseum. There are no ornate designs, no etched sun of the Aurelian sigil. Instead, they are huge, smooth seats that have stood for millennia.

The single blocks of marble that each were carved of, just like every block of this coliseum, could have been mined with Orb-Beams and transported by Reavers. That is not the way of the alien species. Each block is cut from the great deposits and dragged by Aurelian volunteers by rope in the same fashion as the ancient Egyptians of Old Earth who raised the pyramids that stand even today.

There is blood and sweat in these thrones, and in the coliseum, and in the city that is tightly ordered and planned around us. Men toiled to build it. Men died for it.

Doman stops me before the throne his mother sat in moments ago. We both look at the golden crown that rests perfectly in the center of the seat. It mocks me. I stood against monarchy. I was beholden to the people who voted for me, those same voices who now clamor for me to be put in jail for my part in the slaughter. Doman senses my hesitation, and mercifully he picks up the crown and places it on my temples, so I don’t have to. Then he helps me up into the throne, the cool marble against my legs, and sits next to me.

Titus and Gallien sit in the thrones slightly behind us, flanking, and triads of Elites form a guard.

As the four of us look out at our subjects, the crowd erupts into a spontaneous cheer that devolves into a guttural roar. It’s an eruption of emotion from the hard-faced, aloof species who pride themselves on detachment. Rage and grief, guilt and hope. I see it in their slate-grey eyes, and they hold their Orb-Bladeshigh, activating them in unison, the hum of energy forming a chorus under their screams.

The older among them voted for the Emperor Raegan and Queen Jasmine when her imperial triad cut down the great General Asmod in these very sands. They were meant to usher in a golden age, an age of Bonding and expansion, a new primacy for the waning race.

They all watched their species split into two. The younger may not have voted, but they fought for the Aurelian Empire, and they all believed they fought for good, even as they faced in the battlefields the same men they went to Academy with, Aurelians with brands marring their ivory flesh and fanaticism burning through their souls. They bled. They killed their own species. They fought in desperation, honor and chivalry stamped underfoot as war devolved.

A thousand years ago, battles between Aurelians were fought with the sword, to minimize collateral damage. Obsidian’s war turned into cities leveled by orbital bombardments, Reavers arcing down on battlefields, Orb-Beams lancing out and cutting down in an instant men who trained for centuries.

Honorable warriors were turned to dust before they could go to the cryo-bays. Nuclear warheads were used as traps, melting entire regiments. Reavers shifted into nothingness, ripped asunder by the winds of the Rift, and the decimated ranks were filled not with fresh-faced Aurelians out of Academy, but by metal replacements designed by a human hand.

The war was eating up their species. Now it is over, finished with such bloodshed of innocents that it will stain them for eternity—but it is over.

All of that rage, all the grief, erupting into a feral scream, a battle-cry to a war finished. It starts in the coliseum, and it spreads out, through the city where triads roar, out into the estates.

Doman waits, then as the roar wanes, he raises his hand. Instantly, there is quiet, a quiet that spreads quicker even than the roar.

“To all those with the brand. My first decree is mercy. Come to Colossus. Put down your swords. Find your redemption in work rebuilding what you have destroyed. You will never wield a weapon again. You will not own land. But you will be spared. Your lives will have meaning, and when you are finished, you will find the release of the cryo-bays, that a new generation can be born. Those who do not surrender will be hunted down. There will be no safe haven for you. For the Priests, I offer the same mercy, but you will be exiled, never to fraternize with another of your ranks.”

I know I look a sorry sight next to Doman. The drab robes of the Administration cling to my skin, covered in dust. Doman and his triad may have fought in mortal combat, but their robes are unstained, pure white, and the three of them have their heads high.

I feel like an imposter on the throne, while the three of them look born to them.