Page 2 of Bonded Queen: to the Alien Warlord Triad

I did not believe in the War-God. Now I see him with my own eyes.

He stands in the ring, his huge mace glowing with black energy. Obsidian is over eight feet tall, his pale, marble skin marred by the twisting rivers of black blood that course through his dread heart, the twin shadows of his triad standing behind him. Their skin is blacker than night, and their forms seem to shift like smoke in front of your eyes.

His words are violence as he proclaims our destiny.

That we will take back the Aurelian Empire.

That we will rule with an iron fist. The screams of Aurelian Fanatics answer his words, intoxicated by religious fervor and blood-lust.

Obsidian proclaims the false Queen Jasmine will be overthrown and that humanity will be owned and protected once again.

My warrior brothers stand at my side. We do not have the religious fervor in our eyes that infects the crowds.

I did not come to this planet because he is the God of War. I never visited the dark temples to pray for his return. I fought loyally for the Aurelian Empire, until the silent screams of ten billion souls haunted my waking and dreaming moments. Every night I close my eyes and see their mouths open, their eyes wide, as Org-Ships descend on their planet. No one hears their screams.

No one but me.

My chest should burn with the fresh brand, the tattoos that wracked my body with agony as we accepted the twin honors of ink that lets you feel a shadow of Obsidian’s pain.

We were granted the greatest honors for pledging our loyalty, for bringing thousands of warriors and a fully operational warship to the Priests.

My chest should burn, but it does not.

I’m not there. I’m not there.

I blink, and I’m staring into my slate-grey eyes in the mirror. Four hundred years of age. My triad survived where so many died.

I never felt those years until Abascus. Now every year presses against my brow, every year I will live, every year that those ten billion will not.

Every day I wake, and they do not. Because they declared Independence.

Because the weak human Queen Jasmineallowedthem to declare Independence.

“Our troops are waiting.” Orr’s deep voice rumbles behind me. I turn my head, reality like a dream. He’s the same height as me, just over seven feet tall, but he’s got a build like a bull, a barrel chest and shoulders like bowling balls straining against his marble skin. His head is shaved, but black stubble grows from his scalp. He’s got a thick black beard, grown out since we cleared the burrows of the Scorp. He had hair down to his shoulders on Abascus. He sheared it so that no Aurelian could grab it while we fight.

Brother against brother. Aurelian against Aurelian.

The brand was red and burning on his skin two weeks ago. Now it’s raised flesh, the two half-circles filled with black ink that marks us as a triad with full honors. The Priests told us that it let us feel Obsidian’s pain, for hours that felt like years, the agony that made us scream like our veins were contorting with Scorp Venom.

Pain I can handle.

Pain means you’re here. That you exist. To the Aurelian Empire, I was a weapon.

To my Fated Mate, I will be a shield.

I smooth my jet-black robes against my body. We used to wear the pure white togas of the Aurelian Empire. No longer.

There’s no going back.

Kriz gets up from the desk in our chambers, where he was working on calculations and troop movements. On the desk is a holo-vid which projects the planet Trebulous, showing the distance between it and a mass of Scorp Org-Ships. Obsidian told us that our Fated Mate is on that planet. That we have a chance to protect the world from the coming massacre, andherfrom a fate worse than death.

Kriz’s cold grey gaze pierces me as he gives me a long look. He can sense in my aura that I was split, losing time again, clinging to sanity by a thread. He waves his hand, killing the holographic feed.

“We have no time to lose,” I growl. I can’t lose more. Not another billion. Those poor, innocent humans. Women. Children. So many died because of our weakness. So many died because I did not cut down my own General, seize the warship, and Orb-Shift to save those souls. The fault is none but mine. My own weakness damned those ten billion souls. I am the only one who hears their silent screams.

The mirror is cracked in front of me. Blood streams down my fist, deep red against the marble of my skin. I don’t remember hitting it. I relish the pain. It’s fresh and urgent, unlike the red welted flesh that turned pale against my skin from the brands.

I’m here.

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