Page 1 of Broken Triad

1

KRAZAK

Iwait in formation with the legions of our troops, brands on our chests, blades at our belts. Hundreds of soldiers with black robes draped over bodies honed for war. We are ready for vengeance.

No matter how many troops are packed in the hall on the war-ship, my triad is alone. No other is like us.

I held the bones of my Fated Mate.

One day, I will hold the bones of the three Aurelians responsible for her death. Raegan. Baldur. Karan. They should have been cut down centuries ago by General Asmod, the great leader who sired our War-God. Asmod failed but once in his life, killed in the sands of the holy arena instead of destroying the pretenders to the throne. His failure ushered in over two centuries of weak rule that damned our Mate.

Queen Jasmine and the three Emperors of her royal triad let planets under Aurelian Empire rule declare Independence, no longer paying taxes for protection. Her triad was mesmerized by her poisonous words, the three alien warriors persuaded into obeying every demand of the woman who bore them a dozen sons. She’s like a spider, weaving the threads of the universe.

A Fated Mate has power like that over Aurelians. General Asmod never let himself be blinded by a Mate. He was Scorp-Blooded, his veins twisted by venom, and somehow he sired his cursed heir with a woman unbonded to him. He preached that Aurelians should never be subordinate to a human, not even to reproduce. That their weak species needed to be protected and ruled.

His rule would have saved the life of the one woman in the universe who could complete us.

In allowing the Independence decrees, Queen Jasmine’s triad ignored the nature of humans. Humans are cursed with short lifespans, and their thinking is in years, at best decades. It is the descendants of those who cast short-sighted votes for freedom who suffer.

And so now, planets that prospered in centuries of peace unburdened by protection taxes are being overrun by Scorp.

I’ll drive my Orb-Blade into the hearts of her entire triad while she watches. She is responsible, too, and her wails of torment as she loses her Mates will fill my ears. Then, she will feel what I felt.

How much did my Mate suffer? Her last moments plague my mind. She was in a field. She was running.

Did a Scorp claw cut her legs out from behind? Her neck was still attached to her body, but her spine was snapped. The Scorp must have hit an artery. She bled out quickly. That is what I tell myself, because if she was still breathing, the Scorp would have dragged her down into the burrows and brought her to its Queen, to incubate the hell-spawn species.

The Scorp. Huge, reptilian beasts with claws as long as an Orb-Blade, tails tipped with venomous barbs, overran the planet of Abascus. We cleared it, but we saved few lives. The human population was wiped out.

She died under the sun. That is my only solace. That she died in the sun, not the endless darkness of a Scorp nest.

My triad stands in strict formation next to the rows of soldiers who fought on Abascus, or the Tomb, the planet overrun by Scorp before we could save them. No longer do we wear the pure white robes of the Aurelian Empire. We’re clad in fine black robes, draped over one shoulder to leave the left side of our chests bare, where we proudly show the brand of Obsidian. No one who pledges loyalty to the War-God escapes the red-hot iron brand, administered by the Priests of his order. Twin half-circles, the mirror image of the War-God’s birthmark. The bottom half of our circle is filled in with black ink. We are an honored triad. That honor was earned by the blood of Aurelians, cut down by our swords.

It earned us the right to three women, to grow our harem, servants that would sate our every need. We did not even attend the auctions. The one woman who could have completed us is gone.

I used to be the one standing on the raised platform addressing troops. Back in the Aurelian Empire, my triad rose quickly in the ranks. Now I am anonymous in the crowd, nothing more than a weapon to be pressed into the hearts of the Emperors who took everything from me.

We’re on a war-ship, bristling with weapons, but the true power is the marble-skinned soldiers who fill it. Each of us is willing to die for Obsidian. Each of us is eager to kill.

The Matador is a huge, bulky behemoth of a ship, and the Aurelian Empire will never expect us to shift directly into their sectors, a surprise attack that will crush their defenses before they can react. Only the War-God himself can navigate us through the perils of the Rift.

There’s an eagerness to Bolden and Khra, my battle-brothers. We wait to hear where we are fighting next. The days spent on Obsidious, where Obsidian, the War-God himself, resides in his palace, stretched torturously. We spent the long days training. Wresting. Sparring. Praying in the black waters of the temples. Volunteering for every mission we could, but in the time between, our minds were restless.

Each day we spent bruised and bloody, in a façade of combat while our enemies lived and died in space-battles and flurries of skirmishes on the battle lines of the war, we grew weaker, and our enemies stronger. Nothing can replace battle.

War is the only reason we stay alive. The only reason we don’t take a Reaver and Orb-Shift, perils of the Rift be damned, deep into the Aurelian Empire to strike a final suicide mission at their ships, to die in a flash of fire and hate.

I was stripped of my command and whipped until I passed out, along with my battle-brothers, when we tried to steal a Reaver to save our Fated Mate.

When General Ra’al was promoted after his conduct on the Tomb, his first order was that our entire battalion would join the Order of Obsidian. We set course for Obsidious. The Priests who lead on Obsidious wanted me and my triad to becomes Generals in Obsidian’s army.

I eschewed the task of leading men into battle.

Let me be a blade, and nothing more.

I run my fingers over the second, smaller brand on my forehead. It is a replica of the brand on my chest, the twin half-circles near my heart, my marble fleshed raised where the red-hot metal seared my skin. The bottom half-circle of the brand was tattooed with black ink when we earned our first honor, bringing back the heads of an Aurelian triad to the Priests. The same is on our foreheads, like a half-moon, inked in by ancient men who waited in the shadows under Queen Jasmine’s rule until the moment was ripe.

One day we will have the full eclipse.

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