Page 1 of Alien Prince’s Fake Bride (The Tentacle Throne #1)

- Mareliux -

“Behind you, sir!”

The warning comes at the last moment. I spin around and slash blindly at whatever is coming at me. It’s a Vyrpy, big and sleek, running fast on the ceiling while swinging his big ax at me from above.

The ax edge hits my sword and seems to pass right through it.

But Bellatriz is a legendary sword, the only one of her kind, and she knows how to deal with this.

She shifts her phase to be simply not there for a tiny split second, before her crystal blade comes back into existence while inside the ax head.

The ax shatters with a sharp bang , pieces flying everywhere.

One of them grazes my brow before it continues on its way, spinning and making an ugly zhing -noise as it goes.

“ No need to worry,” the sword says in its flat, feminine AI voice. “ This is barely a battle worth my time.”

“Could have fooled me,” I say tightly as I slam the edge of my shield into the Vyrpy’s head.

At the same time, Caret’ax hacks his simple steel blade into the enemy’s back. The Vyrpy gives off a sigh and drops from the ceiling, landing limply on a console.

I wipe the blood off my forehead, suspecting it’s my own. “Thanks. I thought we got them all.”

Caret’ax turns his back to me, sword held ready to defend against any other last-minute ambush. “They always save someone for a final assault— look out!”

Another Vyrpy that I was sure was dead suddenly springs into life right at Caret’ax’s feet.

Three of my men throw themselves towards us to protect against the sneak attack, but they have no chance to get here in time.

Nor do I have time to swing my sword.

The slick and sinewy alien enemy thrusts his long metal spear at my bodyguard from floor level.

On instinct, I look inward and gather the impossibly thin thread of sheer will that lies ready.

The world slows down around me, but only a fraction.

Already the needed focus is making me wince.

But I steer the invisible thread of pure intention through the air, having practiced this many thousands of times through the years.

It curls around the deadly alien spear and yanks it out of the Vyrpy’s hands, turning it back on him.

A blue flash lights up the whole room when the tip touches his arm, followed by a sharp thunderclap as the extremely highly charged spear kills its owner with a bolt of high-voltage electricity.

The Vyrpy collapses to the floor, smoking and smelling of charred grease.

“ Vreeg!” Caret’ax curses in his own guttural language. “Murderous fiend! ”

“It was his job to be murderous.” I take a step to the side to steady myself after the exertion. The Syntrix is reliable, but the great concentration I need for it to work takes its toll right away. Especially when I have to do it suddenly and forcefully.

The other soldiers check that all the Vyrpy we think are dead or unconscious actually are harmless, then pull away.

“I think they were it,” I conclude after a few heartbeats with no attack. “But they almost got us.” Blood stings my eyes, and I wipe it off. “Correction — that first one did get me.”

Caret’ax gives me a quick glance. “That’s not bad, sir. I’ll get you a medic if you want.”

I smile tightly at the distaste in his voice. He never liked battlefield medicine. Or any other medicine. “Oh, I think I’ll survive this, Caret’ax. Any warrior knows that there’s only one thing that can make a victory sweeter, and that’s coming back to camp with a visible, but harmless wound.”

“Perhaps,” my bodyguard rumbles in his heavily accented Khavgrese. “I always preferred having no injury at all. Thank you for deflecting that attack, sir. I sometimes wonder which one of us is the bodyguard and which one is the prince.”

“You may be a prince, for all I know,” I point out. “You are the most secretive man in the Empire. But in battle, we’re comrades in arms and nothing else.”

I replace Bellatriz in her sheath and quickly inspect my shield.

There’s a bit of Vyrpy blood on the edge, which has been slightly bent.

The shield stays mercifully silent — unlike my sword, it has no ancient AI installed to control it properly.

I can’t imagine how Bellatriz would have whined if I’d bent any part of her blade.

“But your policy of not being injured is wise,” I continue, brushing down my armored pants. “I shall consider adopting it.”

Caret’ax gingerly picks up the electric spear and examines it. “I wish you would, sir. But I think you just proved that practicing using the Syntrix may have certain advantages.”

I look around with satisfaction, conscious that the men are always noticing what I’m doing. “Certain advantages indeed. Well, this mission is accomplished. At the cost of several of our legionnaires. We shall honor them properly.”

Still, this is not a great victory. We have simply taken back the Kerberux , a warship that the Vyrpy had stolen from us some weeks ago, and which will now require months of repairs.

Around me, the control room is a mess of smoking consoles, dead warriors, discarded weapons, and general filth.

The whole room smells of blood and aliens and burning electronics.

The Vyrpy only assaulted and captured this ship a month ago, but already they’ve turned it into something very different than the stately Imperial warship that it was before.

Its former crew were summarily jettisoned into space when the Vyrpy hijacked the ship, and now several of my soldiers lie dead both here in the control room and all through the ship.

The Vyrpy were not many, but they are always fierce.

One of my own Khavgren officers salutes at the doorway. “Your Imperial Highness, there is an Imperial messenger here for you.”

I tear myself away from the sorry sight of the control room. “An Imperial messenger, Centurion? Here? ” It’s a long way for a messenger to travel from Khav.

“Yes, sir. Shall I let her in?”

Behind the centurion, I spot the flash of purple that designates a messenger as coming straight from the Emperor himself. Keeping her back is a court-martial offense, but my soldiers are more loyal to me than to the rules of the Empire.

“Bring her forward,” I command.

The messenger comes into the room, closely followed by the centurion.

She straightens and salutes, discreetly pointing to the impossible-to-miss purple scarf around her neck.

“Your Imperial Highness! I bring a message to Crown Prince Mareliux from His Imperial Majesty, the Magnificent Ruler of the Khavgren Empire, the Pontifex Maximus and Imperator, Craxallo.”

“I am Crown Prince Mareliux,” I mechanically give the formal reply.

The ’Crown’ part of the title is cumbersome, and I rarely use it.

What could this possibly be? I’ve only had a formal message from my stepfather a handful of times in my whole life, and never has a messenger followed me into battle to deliver it. “What is the message?”

“The message is to be given to you in private, Your Highness.”

The centurion pulls away to be out of earshot, but Caret’ax stays.

“In private, ” the messenger insists, glancing at him.

“Caret’ax can’t hear,” I lie, “And anyway, he wouldn’t speak Khavgrese.”

“Very well,” the messenger says, her bureaucratic rear end now covered.

“It is a Vox message.” She draws herself up and fixes her eyes on a distant wall.

“ Prince Mareliux! My dear stepson and heir apparent,” s he drones, carefully keeping her voice flat and unemotional.

“ Did you think that becoming Emperor of the Khavgren Empire was as easy as simply waiting until I kicked the bucket? Did you think you could while away the years fighting our enemies and harvesting medals and honor, without spending time on your own homeworld, preparing for an effective administration when the time comes? Did you think you don’t need allies at court?

Did you think you can defuse any conspiracy against your life simply by being your charming self?

Oh, to be so young and innocent again! I thought these things, too.

And my reign has been all the harder for it.

But time is running out for me, thank the gods. ”

The messenger takes a break, following the precise Vox protocol and mimicking the way the message was given to her. My stepfather must have thought about the next part. Or maybe he had one of his coughing fits.

“ Adopted stepson,” the messenger goes on, “ the greatest challenge an emperor will face is neither the enemies of the Empire nor conspiracies nor rebelling legions. No, the worst threats come from closer to home. Much closer. You must learn to deal with that, Prince. You must learn to deal with the person closest to you: you must learn to deal with your wife. But since you have inexplicably neglected that part of your life, it means you have to get one first. In other words, I have decided that any successor of mine must be married. Before I die, Prince. I want to see her myself. Craxallo Imperator.” The messenger takes a breath.

“This message was given to me verbatim on the fifteenth day of Garith, this year, at seventeen hours and sixty-one hectimes.”

I raise my eyebrows. “You got here in only five days. Not bad. At ease, legionnaire.”

Still the messenger stands rigid, subtly letting me know that she’s not under my command, but under the Emperor’s. “Is the message received, Your Imperial Highness?”

I nod curtly. “The message is received. There is no reply.”

She salutes again, takes one step back, turns on her heel, and marches out of the control room, carefully stepping over dead legionnaires and Vyrpy insurgents.

“ Fuck,” I state with feeling the moment she’s out of the room. “That’s the last thing I needed.”

“Or the first thing,” Caret’ax says softly. “His Imperial Majesty may have a point, sir.”