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I rush around the corner, and he follows me down the tunnels until we get back into the ceremonial betrothal cavern, lit up by beautiful crystals, where the tiny magma flow looks like nothing compared to the huge torrents of fire he braved to get to me.

Gallien and Titus are standing on the other side. I face them, holding my head up high as Titus steps over the ceremonial flow. He strides to me with purpose, pressing the veil back, and he kisses me, urgent and hungry, his lips without technique, aching for me. His tongue swirls into mine, and I smell his scent, beastlier than Doman’s, masculinity that should make me crinkle my nose but which is right in a way I’m not ready for.

He breaks off the kiss, triumph in his hard gray eyes, and Gallien steps over the flow, carefully. While Doman and Titus have warrior’s features, with wide jaws like anvils, Gallien isstrangely beautiful in a masculine way, every line of his face chiseled, his Romanesque nose, his high cheekbones, even the thick gray stubble giving him an air of authority.

I expected him to kiss me softly, more hesitantly, but he runs his fingers under my chin, forcing my gaze upwards, and his hard, gray eyes stare at me with dominance.

They tell me that I am his, and that deep down, I know it, and that my fight against it is hopeless. A frisson runs down my spine, because I had expected him to be the most human of all three, but the way the alien looks at me is with pure possession as he leans in and kisses me, his tongue conquering my mouth, leaving me breathless and panting.

That shameful tendril of lust has wrapped its way up my body, inflaming me, and I cannot hide it from them. Their nostrils flare, and the triumph in my eyes tells me everything.

They believe me conquered. That primal, insistent lust is feverish in my veins, but I keep my face calm and composed, facing the triad.

“It is our great honor that the first of the betrothal rituals is complete!” booms out Thrain, and though I can’t see his features through his helmet, I know he’s smiling in triumph.

12

PRINCE DOMAN

Inever fully rest on my marble throne, the unyielding hardness crafted expertly with smooth lines and contours, but nothing can change what it is. A slab of marble. Uncushioned. A throne not for a prince but a warlord.

The memory of her lips against mine, the taste of her scent, that victory, is imprinted on me. When I breathed in and felt her sorrow, her loss, when she thought I was gone. And then, when our lips met, and I forced that tortured, tangled need to well up in her, the way her body reacted despite her hatred for me…

And yet, now I am here, with my triad, and she is back in her ship. The moment the cameras were off, she got as far away from us as she could, traveling back to the warship in her own transport vehicle. My triad did not speak as we journeyed back to our ship, or when the squires helped us out of our armor and into our robes. We are clad in our normal attire, the clothes I feel most comfortable in, the white robes which leave the left side of our chests bared.

“Out,” I command to my squires as they hold the pieces of my Orb-Armor with veneration, heads high, proud that they were chosen to attend to the crown prince of the Aurelian Empire. Thetriad with the highest scores in Academy is granted the honor to spend their final decade of training at my side.

But if Obsidian’s troops find their way onto my warship, they too will join the fray, young men who will fight with Orb-Blades just as we do.

My triad basks in the moment as the Imperator ascends, punching out through the atmosphere and towards the second innermost planet of Terosa.

“What trick will she play in the desert?” asks Titus, but his aura does not have an ounce of fear or trepidation. We can all feel that something changed with that kiss, that she knew, deep down, nothing would keep us from her.

“The ceremony is a simple one,” answers Gallien. “Our blood will mix and be drunk by the sands. Our bodies water, given to the desert. Then onto Etherion.” His aura has a thread of anticipation. That ocean gem of a planet is the key to Pentaris’ independence, and it is the one planet our Intelligence branch has failed to penetrate.

“Good. We need to get through these… distractions. It is wasted time until we take her to Colossus and wed her,” growls Titus.

“Not much wasted time. We are en route towards the outer edge. The alignment of the planets is favorable, and these rituals do not slow our voyage towards the test site,” I respond, waving my hand and pulling up the star map of Pentaris. Frosthold is at its zenith arc, rotating around the sun until it nearly touches the border, where there is a span of neutral space between the Independent human sector and the Toad Kingdom.

“Good. Each day of delay is a cost in blood,” says Titus, shifting in his seat. We were at war a month ago, commanding legions of troops to reconquer worlds lost to the War-God, and going back to Colossus for my younger brother’s wedding was assurreal as being tasked as the only person my parents trusted to guide the Planet-Killers and oversee their test.

Lukas, who took command of my fleets in my triad’s absence, is a strong general. He has a sharp mind, an unwavering courage.

But he is not me. I’m plagued by the treacherous thought. Logically, I’ve quelled it. I’ve told myself over and over that my course is the path for the Aurelian Empire’s victory.

And yet, some part of me needles myself, telling me that I am chasing my Fated Mate, that while I court the one woman who can bear my sons, men, good men, are dying in a battle I am sworn to fight.

“Do not brood, Doman. Our path is clear,” says Gallien, sensing my tension through the Bond.

All three of our smart-watches blink, crimson red.

Urgent news from the battlefields. It is never good when our watches become red as fresh arterial blood.

Immediately, I answer the incoming call, and, as if stepping through the fabric of reality itself, Lukas materializes before us. He emerges from my watch, the holographic video projecting him life-sized in the space before our thrones. Pain and loss shadow his eyes; his white robes tell tales of battle, marred by blood and ash. Without pausing to change, he has called me straight from the frontline, the smoldering remnants of a factory visible in the backdrop, the air heavy, reminiscent of the atmosphere on Magnar.

"Prince Doman," Lukas's voice breaks through, strained with urgency. He coughs, a smear of blood marking the back of his marble-palm as he wipes it. "Obsidian struck four planets, ones without the protection of Orb-Disruptors. He took out four of the Mark-10 factories.”

“Impossible,” says Titus. “He has to rest between guiding the shifts.”