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I stride to the huge viewing panes in the front of my warship’s bridge, and I focus.

In the vast nothingness of space, three Reavers appear, blinking out of nothingness, and I focus once more, activating their Orb-Drives, and they blink out of existence, appearing a thousand miles away. There is no delay for coordinates, no wasted time. Every one of my ships is now an appendage, moving as easily as lifting my finger.

The Aurelian Empire may have numbers. They may have their unnatural cyborg beasts that are sacrificed in battle to weaken my forces.

But they do not have my ability.

I am the God of War, the conqueror, the destroyer of the universe, the one who will grind the Aurelian Empire down to rubble and rebuild it, stronger, to face the darkness that hungers to consume us, the darkness that wants to eat up all life and render this beautiful chaos into sterile nothingness.

Hate flows through me, and I stare out, the prophecies echoing in my mind.

10

PRINCE DOMAN

“Deploy drones, I need vision,” I state, as the soot coats the viewport of my warship. Through the thick smog, I can see the violence of the planet, always in flux, a violent land that forged a strong people.

“Deploying,” states one of my technicians, and I navigate the Imperator through the heavy smoke of Magnar. A volcano spurts, a pent-up geyser of fire, and I plot the course down to the huge landing field on the main tectonic plate of the surface. I can’t stop myself from taking the controls of the warship when landing on a new planet, and I’ve piloted us through hails of anti-air batteries and missiles. The raging planet of Magnar is nothing compared to the chaos of a battlefield.

On the landing pad, the greeting party waits, squat and clad in metallic suits that protect them against the elements. As we approach, all but one of them step back, putting distance between them and my ship, while the leader of the party stays shock still, trusting my abilities.

“Touching down,” I state, and we land gently, without even the slightest shudder, taking my behemoth warship down like she’s a nimble Reaver.

I get up from the bridge, the staff of my warship trying to keep focused on their displays, but some have the same rueful grins when I perform a perfect maneuver, unable to hide their pride. I may not throw myself in the Rift like my younger brother Bruton did, but I will not lead from the back. There’s not a man on the bridge who could have landed a full warship feather soft.

“Let’s get this done with. While we’re on vacation, Obsidian is plotting,”telepaths Titus grimly. He does not share Gallien’s worries of the betrothal rites, viewing them as nothing more than a frustrating but necessary distraction from the war.

“Nerotius, Quint, your triads, with me,” I say, ordering two triads of my most trusted technicians to follow me as my triad strides out of the bridge and towards the entrance of the warship. We are meeting Thrain of Magnar, and we ditched the formal robes, clad in our battle attire, the togas which leave the left side of our chests exposed, the Orb-Blades bouncing at our belts.

As I lead my triad into the entrance hall of the ship, I remember it packed with warriors, the hilts of our blades clutched tight in our hands as we landed on Tentac, a planet lost to Obsidian. The thrum of missiles, the searing bright fire of Orb-Beams that greeted us as the huge doors opened, and I charged out, my blade activating, joining the battle lines. A great victory, won in great part to my younger brother Bruton, who risked the void of the Rift to sabotage Obsidian’s fleet before he could mount a counterattack.

I long for the simplicity of war, the pure instinct of leading men.

Now, the huge doors open, and the airfield shimmers against the heat of the planet. The greeting party strides in, led by Thrain himself, the only one who walks in without fear, the others of his entourage nervous to be in an Aurelian warship,glancing up at the high ceilings of the entrance hall where the golden sun of my Empire stares down at us.

Thrain is a short, squat man, like a cannonball, perhaps five feet tall. He is clad in a thermal suit, metallic, and he pulls off his helmet, revealing his shaved head, but he keeps the thick goggles on always, obscuring his eyes. The black reflective surface, made for the fires and blinding sun of Magnar, lighten as he enters the brightness of my ship. He hands his helmet to one of his attendants and removes the metal glove from his right hand.

He strides to me, extending his hand, and as I take it, he stares up at me like he’s the one who is twice my size. His grip is firm and strong.

“Crown Prince Doman. You’ll forgive me if I don’t kneel and grovel like you’re used to.” His eyes have a challenge in them—telling me that while I am a guest, it ishishome.

I stare down at him. I know the effect of my gaze when it hardens. I’ve seen men—brave men—quake. I squeeze tight, matching his crushing grip.

Thrain. He was the head of a mining union before being elected, and though he has served near his full twenty-year term in governance and hasn’t wielded mining tools in decades, his forearm is still iron, his grip healthy.

“Leave me a few bones unbroken in my hand and all is forgiven,” I growl, then grin down at him, showing him my teeth.

He laughs, low and deep, and gives me one last crushing squeeze for good measure before letting go. “You and your people are welcome here.” He shakes hands with my triad, nodding in respect. “I’ve got a couple techs here who are tasked with accessing the mining technologies promised.”

“You work quick.”

“Nothing gets fucking done with red tape and bureaucracy. Oy! Get a move on!” he yells, and three squat men in suits rush forward, pulling their helmets off. My own technicians, thetriads of Neoritus and Quint, greet them. I knew Thrain wouldn’t waste a second, and I got my men ready to greet his team.

His party is a dozen men and women in the suits that let them traverse the surface of Magnar, but two in particular catch my attention. Women, but with their heads shaved for ease of using the helmets, yet still feminine, with red lipstick and fine eyebrows. My own long mane of blond hair is out of place on this planet.

“These two will prepare your bride to be,” says Thrain, catching me glancing over at them.

“Prepare her?”