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“I’m ready.”

Owen whistles, sharp and loud, and the gentle rush of windpipes fills the forests, as if the songs are coming from the trees themselves. Every warden worth his salt is up in the trees, jockeying for vantage points, and they start the traditional wedding chorus.

I walk through the trees just as I have done since my childhood. My first memories are under the boughs, racing through the undergrowth, jealous of the older kids who climbed and swung above. The dirt path weaves through the forest, the ground pressed by centuries of moccasins of brides and the boots of their male family members who accompany them.Many evenings, you can walk by the grove and hear the haunting pipes of a wedding party.

The grove opens ahead. In the center, the tallest tree of our forest, tens of thousands of years old, ascends to the heavens. The mother of our forest, who watches over all of us and blesses each union. The trunk is so wide it takes thirty full grown wardens, fingers interlaced to ring it— or twenty Aurelians.

Standing in front of that awesome tree are my men. No crown adorns their heads, and they are clad in togas my sister dreamed up. Instead of the pure white of the Aurelian Empire, the togas are patterned on warden garb, soft greens and browns that blend into the forest, their marble skin like white lilies against it. The togas are cut deeply to show off the left side of their chests, all the way down to the first ridges of their hewn abs.

They’re markedly more revealing than the traditional garb on Colossus, because as Junebug said, “Those stuffy things don’t do them justice.”

I, of course, had to quip that she should have made one for Cal, since the younger brother is the one she has eyes for. With a twinkle in her eye, she told me she switched around the seating arrangements to make sure she would be right next to him.

Poor guy. He’s not going to know what hit him.

The wooden chairs curve gently around the ceremony space in a crescent, filled with high-ranking Virelian wardens, childhood friends, family, and, in rather less beautiful yet functional large wooden chairs trotted out for our alien guests, many of Doman’s oldest companions from his days in Academy and the hundred years of war.

Next to June, who is in a simple, almost drab green dress, not wanting to upstage me, is the third in line to the Aurelian throne. It seems June took my advice, because instead of his customary hoody and sweatpants, he’s in a dashing black suit with subtlevine motifs in ivory white matching his skin tone. Just three days and she’s already playing dress up with the reclusive, intellectual Aurelian who hasn’t spared a thought to fashion.

He’s pretty, that one, but he’s nothing compared to my men.

Doman stands, tall and proud, towering over the protector of the forest, Calder Wynham, who is here to officiate the wedding. Doman is comfortable anywhere, and he looks as though he grew from the forest floor, the dappled light on his noble features, his mane like the sun, his diamond blue eyes flashing for me, and me alone. Titus is to his right, and this time, I allowed him the obnoxious chain, dangling against his powerful pectorals, nestled over his thick black chest hair that I ache to grab hold of. He’s just so broad, his jet-black shock of hair framing his anvil jaw, his hard, barbaric features that soften when he sees me. His nostrils flare, tasting my scent through the forest smells, and my heart quickens, pushing down any thought of him kissing me before he tastes a hint of my need. I would never hear the end of it if his robe tented up during my wedding, and I can just imagine June’s relentless teasing. His amethyst eyes seem to darken, stormy, as he looks me up and down.

And Gallien, perfect, powerful Gallien, his platinum hair cropped tight, lean and chiseled, with his haughty, arrogant features that I once wanted to slap. Now I could look at them for hours. His eyes are like the reflection of full moons in a still pond, and they are fixed on me. He's waited for this moment all of his life, he’s dreamt of me every night, and he knows, deep down, that on this night, I’m going to give myself to him and his triad, in a way deeper than I ever have before.

There’s one last shred of resistance left in me, one last shred that the four of us know is about to evaporate, here, so far from the tensions of rule on Colossus, far from the exhausting deluge of duties.

“Go on then,” says my dad, his voice stern, to keep it from breaking, and I don’t look at him, to spare him the embarrassment of teary eyes. My moccasins are soft on the forest floor as I walk between the rows of chairs up to the base of the tree. I’ve already got an obnoxious rock on my finger, but I’d trade it in a second for the thin, worked bands of wood that rest on a brown pillow held by Calder.

For the Aurelian Empire, our ceremony in the Arena of the Gods marked our union. For Doman, Titus and Gallien, it was when their eyes lit up with color and our auras intermingled in each other’s minds.

For me, it’s the four seedlings growing tall that we planted together, and the thin wooden bands.

The tree mother extends protectively above us. As I stand before my three men, looking at them one by one, I fight a losing battle not to smile like a fool.

Calder clears his throat to start the ceremony. “I’m on my second wedding, too,” he states, to a chorus of laughter from the crowd. “You’ve been wed by the Aurelian Empire, but here, you’ll be wed the way it matters. You might be queen of the aliens, but you’re a child of this forest, and this forest will bear witness. Adriana Hart. You come a family that’s spent their lives protecting this forest, from a long line of Wardens. Through war, you kept us whole. These trees...” He looks up the ancient trunk of the tree mother with reverence. “They’ve stood tens of thousands of years, and as long as we have Virelians like you, they’ll stand tens of thousands more. They’ve sheltered us. Protected us. Today, they bear witness to a union. If there are any in attendance with objections—I suggest you climb up a tall tree, in another forest.”

More laughs, easy, from the humans in attendance.

Not from the Aurelians. They sit, straight-backed and serious. Pentaris was sheltered from the war. My people have alightness to them, but the aliens are heavy, many scarred, some alone or with only one battle-brother left.

Calder proffers the pillow. The four simple bands are of wood harvested near our four seedlings. All of Doman’s haughty arrogance melts away as I slowly slide the ring on his finger, our skin grazing. His aura glows in my mind. He’s whole, in a way only I could make him.

Titus grins openly as I slide the ring onto his finger next. The silence of the grove is interrupted by a hoot from a warden—Titus made fast friends with the young men. Possessiveness floods through the Bond. It becomes hard to meet his stormy amethyst eyes when I’m overwhelmed by waves of ownership from the barbaric warrior.

Then Gallien, who peers down at the wooden band inquisitively, then up to me, a slight smile on his lips. He is the most neutral on the surface, but his aura pulses with love and adoration. Of the three of them, his aura is the most worshipful.

Doman, as leader, is the one who takes the final ring. He presses it onto my finger, up against the first ring he placed on my hand in the Arena of the Gods.

In the custom of Virelia, we speak the simple vows in unison, the same vows said for time immemorial.

“I vow to shade you in times of need, to water your roots, to grow towards the sun in unison.” The simple words we all grow up imagining when it’s our turn to say them.

The crowd erupts into cheers, and as one, the Aurelian soldiers stand, hands on their hearts, like silent statues honoring the three Emperors who died for them. Doman, Titus and Gallien are the only men who have truly felt what it is to die. They went onto the black sands and faced down the War-God. They traded their lives for his, to end the onslaught that was decimating the Aurelian species.

Doman leans in, kissing me deep, his tongue sliding against mine, our hands intertwined. I melt against his strength, surrendering to his dominance that flows through the Bond. I feel more than hear Titus’ growl, and my cheeks flush red as his aura burns up with the Mating Rage. Titus is ravenous, and his battle-brothers mirror his need.

Before they can cause a diplomatic incident, Doman’s scooped me up. I yelp as he throws me over his shoulder, kicking at my dress so it won’t ride up as he leaps with all his strength, clasping onto the tree trunk with his other hand. I bounce, looking down at the wedding party as Doman climbs easily, Titus and Gallien following underneath.