Page 23

PRINCE DOMAN

I never 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. The triad 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 as surreal 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.”

“Four? In one attack? That is beyond even his abilities,” says Gallien, his voice laced with tension.

“The War-God was on the battlelines himself. I’m sending over data from the surviving Mark-10s.”

I lean in. “What do you mean, on the battlelines? You mean he was at the head of one single assault?” My voice is cold, trying to pry out the keys to understanding this impossibility. Lukas is shaken to the core, and I have never seen him rattled.

“Each line, Prince Doman. He was at the head of the same army. The same fleet. The shifted in, he destroyed the factories, and before we could mount a defense, he was gone, in an instant, to the next.

I focus on Lukas, intense, seeing the whites of his too-wide eyes, the strain in his body. “Send over the data,” I command, and my smart-watch blinks as I receive the transmissions. I will see it from the eyes of the Cyborgs themselves.

Titus leans in, and his aura flares up with worry and pain. “Calien and Tiber. Your battle-brothers.”

Lukas’ slate-gray eyes flash with grief.

“Cut down by the War-God’s Shadows. His wolves…

they ripped them up so bad they couldn’t get to the cryo-bays.

Their bloodlines are…” He cannot speak any longer, and tears form in his eyes.

We look away. It is a great humiliation for an Aurelian to show such emotion, and we would not fill him with more shame.

Calien and Tiber. I remember them from Academy, when they were but children. I fought at their side, and they were under my command, strong soldiers who never balked.

Now they are gone, the permanent death. From the dawn of our species, they were able to pull themselves into the cryo-bays before they left this mortal coil, recreating themselves, their stories an unbroken line.

“You are relieved of command, Captain Lukas. Marcellin’s triad will be promoted.”

Lukas’ eyes flash, the grief replaced by rage. “No! Don’t you fucking take this from me. I deserve revenge,” he snarls.

“You will return to Colossus. You will bury your dead.” He would be blinded by vengeance, and he can no longer command with the impartiality necessary.

He stares at me, his eyes filled with hatred. I let it sink into me. I push down my grief. Calien and Tiber were friends to me, but my loss is nothing to Lukas’, who had them ripped from his mind. He will live the rest of his days alone and empty.

“Very well, Prince Doman.” He spits out the words like a curse and ends the call.

“This is impossible. A single shift of his armies drains him. Obsidian does not have the power to strike four locations in succession.” Titus snarls it out, not wanting to believe it, but Lukas has never been wrong before.

Gallien shakes his head. “We had incomplete information. Impossibilities are simply things we do not fully understand. The Mark-10 data will give us the clear picture.” His aura is taut and cold, fraught with tension.

I run my fingers over the cold marble of my armrest.

It doesn’t make sense. Obsidian has never risked himself on the battle-lines. He has ruled from his palace on Obsidious or in his flagship. He guided his warships through the perils of the Rift from an untouchable distance, striking us endlessly.

The data transmission finished, I wave my smart-watch, opening the feed from one of the Cyborgs on Cobolt-3, the first strike point.

Our factories, pumping out the Cyborgs that are turning back the war, were placed on the reaches of the Aurelian Empire, close to the battle-lines.

Unlike Obsidian’s force, Orb-Shifting holds great risk for us.

We placed the factories nearer to the battle-lines, so that we could have a steady flow of the soldiers pressing onward.

It would have been safer to build them in the innermost sanctum of the Aurelian Empire, but the delays getting them to the frontlines were too great.

There was talk of Orb-Shifting the Cyborgs from the factories to the lines. We can’t risk the ships. Every day, we lose Reavers, to Obsidian’s forces and to the chaos of the Rift.

Spreading out the factories was our strategy to limit losses. Obsidian can shift his forces through the Rift, but each time comes at a cost. He has never been able to move multiple warships before, and each time, he must rest. Striking four planets in swift succession is unheard of.

I have to hope Lukas’ mind was corrupted by grief, because his report should have been impossible.

There is no way the War-God could have been on all four planets.

The data feeds out from my smart-watch, and I look through the eyes of one of the Mark-10 Cyborgs on Cobolt-3.

I am viewing the scene as if I am standing in a watch-post ringing the factory.

The skies are blank except for our Reavers slowly patrolling, when out of nothingness, the black fleet appears.

Ships painted jet-black, gleaming with the twin half circles of my sworn enemy’s sigil.

Orb-Beams lance out, destroying our Reavers, and I sound the alarm.