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ADRIANA

T he trees rise not as a wall but as endless protectors welcoming me home.

The well-trod path beckons me, the same path that thousands of brides have walked before, the path I dreamed of walking when I was a little girl.

Back then, I’d imagined a tall, caring man, someone who had devoted his life to work for the wardens, protecting our ancient forests.

I never could have imagined the three marble-skinned Aurelians who await me in the sacred grove.

I’m in a simple green dress, designed by my sister, on short notice.

My cheeks went rosy red when she pressed me for details on why her “masterpiece,” as she called it, had been ripped to shreds.

She’s enjoyed teasing me, and I enjoyed letting her since I touched down on my home planet three days ago.

It’s our honeymoon, and I will be wedded properly here, in the customs of my people.

All talk of impeachment and war crimes evaporated the instant I was made Queen. My involvement in the Black Death, as the massacre has been known as, harkening to an ancient plague on Old Earth that killed many, went from complicit to innocent bystander when the balance of power shifted.

Pentaris didn’t survive this long as an independent power by making enemies. The snap election elevated Helena from head of the legal council to Prime Minister, and she’s a good fit. Coldly competent, level-headed, and generally well liked by all five of the planets.

She was quick to laud the gifts of the Aurelian Empire, from the patents that have improved our crop yields to the high-tech med-bays that have cured so many fatal diseases.

She understood the optics. She made sure the credit was given not to the former Emperors but to Doman and his triad, as well as my own skill negotiating.

Thus, while there’s a general sense of unease at the existence of the Planet-Killers and the terror they can mete out, there’s a clear bifurcation between the actions of a crazed few and the new guard.

All that feels so far away, the flurry of activity, of meetings and decisions that filled my schedule in the month since becoming queen of the Aurelian Empire.

A human cannot be an empress, and my triad have the official seats of power, but I saw how Queen Jasmine was at the center of decision making—and my triad, too, listens intently to my suggestions.

I had thought the weight of rule would be heavy on my triad.

Instead, they took to the positions easily. Doman was born to rule.

I take a deep breath in. There is no air purer than the ancient Virelian old growth forests.

The sunlight glitters through the thick canopy, reflected on the obnoxious diamond of the ring that was placed on my finger in the first wedding, when the stress of the escape weighed anxiously upon me.

That’s all in the past now. Obsidian and his Mate are technically still imprisoned, but they have free rein of the palace grounds, and they are no longer separated.

The War-God, once such a fierce and brutal foe, now seems to be in a constant state of grateful bliss, never out of arm’s reach of Fay.

That man went through so much pain, and caused more. His scarred body is recuperating in the presence of the only medicine that can cure him from the inside out, his Mate.

Oakly and Owen, in their full warden garb, stand on each side of the path.

They are beaming with pride. Any initial resistance they had to the Aurelian triad disappeared after they watched my three warriors not only face down the War-God in mortal combat but then ascend to the seats of greatest power in the universe to usher in a new age, no longer controlled by the former Imperial triad and their Queen.

If anyone in the world is going to have the power of the Planet-Killers, they want it to be me, and the three men who were willing to risk their lives to end the war.

The bachelor party Oakly threw is already the stuff of legends.

“Ready?” asks Owen, gruff, trying to pretend his eyes aren’t wet.

“Don’t rush her,” says my brother, who is fresh faced—Mom made him the clear root tea again, even after promising it was the last time she’d spare him the price of a hangover a hundred times over. He’s been non-stop celebrating since my return.

“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 subtle vine 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.