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We all earned the right to be considered warriors. We’ve all survived a battle, and we all went through the Rift, which not even the bravest Aurelian would dive into without fear.

The Imperator flies over the towering walls of the royal palace, touching down in the landing bay the size of a small human city, big enough to fit three of the massive warships.

Doman takes my hand in his as we touch down, and his touch bolsters me.

The welcome party is at least thirty Aurelian Elites, the high-ranking warriors who hold the voting power that can cast down an Emperor, clad in the Orb-Armor of their station, who are formed up in two lines.

Doman’s brow furrows, ever so slightly. “What’s wrong?”

“I expected my parents to greet me.” There’s a slight tinge of unease in his voice.

A thread of unease runs through me.

They know, they know, they know!

“Security must be at an all-time high. The crown prince is getting married, after all,” I say, calming myself as I look up at him. I can’t be jumping at shadows, thinking everything is an omen that our planned heist is somehow under suspicion.

Doman grins. “My brother,” he announces, all the concern gone from his features as an Aurelian, tall even for the alien species, strides out of the palace and into the landing bay.

Bruton’s got a short, thick black beard and long dark hair. He could be cousins with Titus. He’s in combat robes, showing off his broad, barrel chest, and raises his hand in greeting.

As our ship settles, I turn back to my staff.

The dull hues of the Administration’s uniform contrasts against the decadence that surrounds us.

I like it. We’re here to work, and we’re here for our planets.

My staff, who started the journey segregated, keeping to my ship, are now mingled with Doman’s Aurelians on the bridge.

The shift was an equalizer, and after going through the Rift together, now my staff eats in the mess hall with the alien species.

“None of you had to be here. You could have stayed back in Pentaris. Each of you risked your lives.” I look at each of them in turn, locking eyes with them for an instant, long enough for each to feel I am speaking to them directly.

“We went through hell to get here. While I’m being wedded off to these three, I want you to enjoy the Aurelian hospitality. You earned it.”

With a nod to Doman, we proceed hand in hand through the ship until we get to the boarding bay.

The metal doors slide open, and I glance up at the blazing sun of the Aurelian Empire on the ceiling.

Here, soldiers waited, Orb-Blades at the ready, poised for battle, waiting for the doors to open to leap out into combat.

Now, Aurelians disembark with casual eyes, their steps lightened by the familiarity of their home soil as they spread out in the palace grounds.

Titus and Gallien stand behind me, and I wait with Doman until the guards have left first. The alien species, who pride themselves on their stoic demeanor, can’t suppress the buoyancy of their return.

I take a deep breath in, and my lips curl up in a smile.

The air recyclers are high tech, but nothing beats planetside O 2 , especially after spending weeks sucking in stale air.

We’re near the city, but the air is pure, courtesy of the verdant forests.

The palace landing grounds are dotted with mid-sized ships, none as formidable as the Imperator, and the palace itself rises above us, spires and marble pillars.

I try to imagine Doman as a child, running and playing in these walls, but it’s impossible. Above, flags flap proudly in the wind.

The Elites, standing solemnly, form an imposing corridor, their ranks aligned in two unwavering rows with Bruton at the head.

Each appears to be in their late thirties or forties, which means that some of them have lives that spanned half a millennium.

The majority are clean shaven, but some sport meticulously groomed mustaches or neatly trimmed beards.

The sight of facial hair against their stone-like skin is disconcerting.

It makes them look too human. They stand still as statues, and only the wind flowing through their hair makes them seem alive.

Their huge bulks are made all the bigger by the blue-black Orb-Armor encasing their bodies up to their necks, starkly outlining their warrior features.

And those eyes. Set after set of the same cold grey.

I wish my sister could be here, but I’d have to watch her carefully. Just a week on Colossus and I bet she’d have triads driven so wild they’d be fighting each other to the death in the Arena of the Gods for her.

At the end of the tunnel formed by the stern-faced warriors stands Doman’s brother Bruton, alone.

His reputation precedes him—tales of his ferocity and savageness in battle.

He’s known for fighting under a flag of the flayed flesh of his enemies, and he struck fear in Obsidian’s forces as the only commander in the Empire who would brave the Rift to launch near suicidal raids.

That caught up to him. He might be younger than Doman, but his face is lined with age, courtesy of being trapped in the Rift for a century during a failed shift.

I thank the Gods my own stay in that place between worlds was short.

I can’t imagine being trapped there for an hour, much less a century.

The thought of turning into an old woman, my skin wrinkling and my body failing while time stayed still outside the Rift is horror.

It was only luck that when my triad braved the darkness to pull me out, they didn’t find a withered corpse.

For all the whispered tales of Bruton’s ferocity, he’s the only one of the Aurelians awaiting us with a huge grin on his face.

A century in the Rift would have driven me mad, but he has a wide, genuine smile that I can’t consolidate with the image I had of a brutal warlord.

His combat robes only cover half his chest, showing off his broad, barrel physique, heftier even than Titus.

He’s got more fat on him, too, a thick, muscular belly pressing against his fine white robes.

He sports a dense, neatly trimmed black beard on his honest face, and as I walk with Doman hand in hand through the rows of Elites, the only thing I can think is that Bruton’s got unmistakable “dad” energy.

“You grew a beard!” Doman’s voice booms out in the silent courtyard. He can’t hide his emotions at seeing his brother again.

“And a few more inches since you last saw me,” chuckles Bruton, in a low, deep voice. Doman’s younger brother is the only Aurelian on the planet who can look down at him.

“Not just in height,” grins Doman, and Bruton laughs, slapping his belly.

“Evelyn makes sure I’m eating plenty,” he replies, and the two men embrace, which turns into an impromptu wrestling match as both try to lift the other up, squeezing each other tightly, their boots scuffing against the ground as they vie for position.

As soon as it begins, it’s over, the two of them breaking off the hug and turning to me.

“This is Adriana, Prime Minister of Pentaris. Adriana, my brother, Prince Bruton.”

Bruton extends his hand, and as I put mine in his, he shocks me by bringing it to his lips and planting a delicate kiss on the back of it. “Welcome to Colossus. Gallien, Titus, well met,” he says, addressing Doman’s battle-brothers.

“Pleased to meet you, Prince Doman. I’ve heard all about you.”

He snorts. “Not what you expected? I’ve been domesticated somewhat.” There’s a lightness to Bruton that is missing from Doman, a lightness that takes me by surprise.

In my research on the Royal Family, I had seen many holo-vids of Bruton, and I never once saw him smile. His Mate changed him.

Doman scans the courtyard. “And where are our parents? And your triad?”

Bruton shrugs. “New rules. Tight security. Leading up to your wedding, no more than two of the family can be together. As for Tarik and Griffon, they send their regards. The next generation of Mark-11 cyborgs are being modeled off their combat reactions. They’re at the main factory.”

“You going to make it to the wedding?”

“Wouldn’t miss it. Neither will our parents. The rest? Hell, I don’t even think Cal will come. Not that he was ever big on weddings. As for the rest of our brothers, well, they’re spread out all over the Empire. I don’t even know where half of them are. My own blood, like strangers to me.”

“Not for much longer.”

“Gods willing. This war has gone on too long already. Too long.” The smile is wiped from his face, and I see the hard determination I was expecting from Bruton, the steel underneath his joviality.

He clears his throat, obviously not wanting to dwell on the war.

“I’m headed back to my estate. Just wanted to be here to greet you. Come by for dinner.”

“We will.”

Bruton cocks his head towards the palace. “They’re waiting for you inside.”

“Throne room?”

“No. Meeting room C. It was a pleasure to meet you, Adriana. You’re a formidable leader for Pentaris.”

“Thank you. It’s good to meet the famed commander.”

He smiles easily. “It should be my wife who is famous, not me. She’s the reason we’re winning this fucking war. You mind if I address your staff? I want to give them a good welcome.”

“Go right ahead.”

Bruton claps his hands, turning to the forty-odd faces behind me, lined up in front of the Imperator. My men and women stand intermixed with Doman’s Aurelian soldiers, and despite the size difference, they have every bit as much pride, standing tall on alien soil.