Page 52 of Broken Triad

“We bought it. It was owned by one who did not flee,” says Bolden.

I blink in surprise. “What? How can you afford it?”

Bolden’s brows furrow, as if he is confused by the question. “We are not like humans, Lola. We have centuries to accumulate wealth. The Priests had millennia. Those who serve Obsidian are well compensated.”

Blood money.

I bite back what I want to say. “I see,” I manage, getting nervous when he mentions the Priests. I’ve somehow gotten used to the small, second brand on the foreheads of the triad, maybe because I don’t think of its true meaning. These three follow the Priests and their dark prophecies.

Khra stands and grabs one of the huge umbrellas, bringing it to me and unfurling it, so that I am in the shade. “I won’t have you burn. Your body is not used to being naked in the sun.”

“You’re one to talk. You three are pale as marble.”

“Our skin is resilient,” shrugs Khra. “We don’t burn.”

Bolden plucks the last grape from the bunch, and plops it into my mouth. I let it explode under my teeth,, the burst of flavor making me smile.

“How is it, Lola, that you came to serve?” asks Bolden.

I sigh. It still hurts, after all these years. But they told me about the scars on their backs, their deepest pain, and I will tell them mine.

“My mom got sick. My dad loved her very dearly. He was a successful businessman. Owned four refineries himself—and he sold them all, to pay for the best treatments, experimental ones… I think the doctors lied to him, telling him there was hope, just to get more out of him. Nothing worked.”

I steel myself. “So, when we were penniless after the funeral, my father realized he’d doomed me to poverty. He thought he failed my mom, though there was nothing he could do to save her. He didn’t want to fail me. He got into a bad deal with Paulus. I don’t want to talk specifics, but I was the only collateral he had to put up.” I shrug. “So that’s how I was put into indentured servitude. Ten years. Ten years, Paulus would have taken. That doesn’t sound like a long time to you, but for a human…”

I get the urge to change the topic. “I’ve learned as much as I could about Aurelians, but I still feel like I don’t know anything. What were your childhoods like?”

Bolden and Khra look at each other, as if waiting for the other to speak. Bolden looks out at the horizon, his gaze far-off as he goes into his memories. “I woke up. I woke up, groggy, not knowing anything, in a huge metallic room with thousands of Aurelians growing in man-sized tubes. I knew nothing, but I was handed a hilt, and it felt good in my hand. By instinct, I knew how to activate the Orb-Blade. We come out of the cryo-bays around…ten years old, if it was by human standards. We spend the next hundred years—until we are perhaps twenty—in Academy.”

“A hundred years…” I shake my head in wonder. “I’ve heard about Academy. A century spent becoming skilled soldiers. Fighting with Orb-Blades and unarmed combat, learning tactics and of the lives of famous general. An education not just of the blade, but of the mind, becoming the guardians of the universe.”

Bolden snorts. “You sound like Aurelian Empire propaganda.”

I blush, embarrassed. “I…I’ve just been fascinated by your species for as long as I remember. Colossus seemed like the only beautiful, safe place left in the universe.”

And you three would reduce it to ash and rubble.

“It is beautiful. Did you know we lost some of the construction techniques? That is why the Arena of Blood, built on Obsidious, looks brutal and barren compared to the arena on Colossus. On Colossus, there’s no seams between the marble. It’s built as if it’s made of one enormous block. This is the truth of our species. Without the Bond, we weakened. Each triad born of a cryo-bay was weaker than their forefathers. And now, the troops who finish their hundred years prefer to grow old and fat by the pools, served wine and food by their harems instead of preparing for war.” Khra looks up to the skies, as if waiting for Reavers to drop down and attack.

“They are unprepared for the coming storm.” Bolden’s voice has grown deeper and darker.

“The storm? You mean the Fanatics?”

Bolden shakes his head. Khra casts him a warning glance. “Tell me,” I say.

“I would not worry you needlessly. Perhaps we speak of more cheerful topics,” says Bolden. The breeze chills me, the sun rays blocked by the umbrella, and Khra grabs his black robe, draping it over my body like a huge blanket.

“I can handle it.”

Bolden stands by the railing of the boat, leaning back against it as he looks me up and down. His skin almost glows, eerily like marble, and he’s stock-still, looking as if he was carved to adorn the front of the ship. “The Priests have a prophecy. That the War-God will only appear when the universe is in grave danger. We are needed—all of us—to renew the strength and vigor of the Aurelian race. Obsidian must be put on the throne…”

“Or what?”

“Or we lose everything. Everything.”

“And you believe it?”

“We do,” answers Khra. “The Priests spoke of the rise of the War-God. Now he has risen. They spoke of a time when every Aurelian would feel his Mate. We did.” His voice is distant, but less pained than before, as if he is slowly accepting his loss, able to speak of it more analytically. Bolden’s hands grip the railing, hard, as he leans back against it, his forearms flexing, but he stands tall.

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