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A loud voice echoes across the room.

“Here they are! Our three Aurelians – in their formal attire, with theirformalOrb-Weapons hanging from their waist. But I would not fear the Orb-Blades of my well-trained Aurelians. See, Lord Qavar? How they lift up their so-called slaves? One wonders which is the owner, and which is the owned!”

Obscene laughter fills the room. In Marcel’s arms, I look around nervously and take in the cavernous chamber. The air heavy and laden with moisture. Bullfrogs circle the room, standing against the walls like vultures. For every two of them, I also count at least one Sentinel – those huge, dead-eyed robots that have earned the reputation of being the most powerful AI bodyguards money can buy. The Sentinels’ faces are utterly blank except for two bright, red lights that hone-in on any potential threats.

Threats like the Aurelians.

Marcel gently sets me down. There’s no murky water swilling across the floor of this throne room. The water is as clear as that of a tropical island – without even the tadpoles lurking in it.

I scan the room for any sight of that terrifying Bullfrog with the scar. If he’s in here, I’m in even more danger.

Thank the Gods, I don’t see him, though.

That small mercy is about all I have to thank the Gods for.

I wrap my arms around myself and shiver despite the heat. Turning to the center of the room, I take in the grotesque sight of Lord Oblog sprawling across his throne. He’s not how I’d expected one of the most powerful Toad dignitaries to be. Oblog is probably even shorter than me – but it’s hard to tell when he’s sitting down, because his quivering bulk seems to collapse in on itself like undercooked dough. Next to him, in a levitating chair that hovers atexactlythe same height, is another Toad dignitary. This must be Lord Qavar

Two of the Toad King’s Fingers, gathered together on this mothership.

This can’t be good.

“One of your little slaves is looking at me – such impudence! You clearly haven’t had long to train her.” It’s Lord Qavar’s voice, gurgling with laughter as he derides the Aurelians. All around us, the room begins to echo his scornful mirth – with thirty sinister Bullfrogs soon joining Qavar in laughter.

I take the hint and turn my eyes downward.

Not soon enough, though. Marcel jerks my leash down, choking me hard and forcing my eyes toward the water swirling at my feet. I gasp desperately for air. I know he had to do it – to show an act of dominance in front of this room full of eager Bullfrogs – but anger still erupts inside of me. Marcel has just shown the room that he owns me- that I’m his property, and he’s in complete control. To me, it doesn’t feel like just an act.

In fact, that demonstration suddenly makes it hard to remember how gently Marcel must have smeared that healing salve on my forehead when I slept – his touch so delicate that I didn’t wake from my fitful slumber.

Similarly, it’s hard to remind myself how he’d stayed up all night to watch over Tessa and I protectively.

He’s done such kind things – but in this throne room, he knows kindness is viewed as weakness, and needs everybody to witness that heownsme. If he doesn’t convince them, they’ll know the Aurelian’s behavior at the slave auction was a sham.

But, was it?

These three Aurelians are teetering on the knife-edge between good and evil. I heard them talking about the Priesthood earlier, and of the human-ruled planets that have chosen to spurn Aurelian protection and become Independent. Marcel, Quint, and Lucius might not actively follow the Old Ways – but they’re at least sympathetic to them. At any moment, sympathy could extend toward certainty – and they might finally decide they want toown mefully.

Marcel is oblivious to my thoughts. He steps forward through the water, and calls up:

“Lord Oblog! Have you summoned us to notify us of the next shipment?”

Marcel had promised me that if the shipment wasn’t prepared and ready today, he’d leave. Does Oblog suspect this?

I can feel the tension beneath his thinly polite words. Marcel has chosen to ignore the Toad’s slight, and he maintains his dignity by bringing the conversation swiftly back to discussions of business.

My eyes are tuned downward – to the clear water swilling at our feet – but from the corner of my eyes, I can still see the eager smile of superiority stretching across the Toad Lord’s bulbous lips.

“My dutiful little errand boys.” The Toad turns to his fellow dignitary. “See, Lord Qavar? How these proud Aurelians are so eager to serve me?”

Lucius steps forward, a low growl in his throat. Then, he suddenly stops – as if he’s hit a wall.

I wonder if Marcel or Quint communicated wordlessly to him – reminding the most impulsive of the three that our first priority is to get through this daunting confrontation alive. The Aurelians promised Tessa and I that they’d get us off this deathtrap and into free space – and remaining among the living is an important first step in that ambitious plan.

Oblog raises his spindly, glistening hands.

“No, Aurelian. I did not summon you here to discuss the next shipment. I called you here because…” Then, a gurgling chuckle breaks his speech. Oblog turns to the Toad dignitary sitting next to him and laments: “Oh, it’s oh-so sad, Lord Qavar…” Then, he turns back to Marcel. “I summoned you here because you have not been honest with me.”

Marcel tenses. I sense he wants to snatch for the Orb-Blade hanging at his waist, but he knows that doing so will instantly sign his death warrant. If he activates that otherworldly, blue-black blade, the Sentinel robots will instantly cut him down – and if the magnificent warrior somehow survives the maelstrom of high-velocity slug rounds, the Bullfrogs will swiftly finish the job the Sentinels started.