Page 63 of Broken Triad

We have no time to learn the intricate tattoos inscribed in faded sketches of texts, no time to compare the lilting, tall letters of high Aurelian text in different books, a language that was said never to have changed since the dawn of our species. And yet, in the oldest books Khra studied, there were symbols and letters we had never seen before, marring our understanding of what is truth and what is embellished fiction, an old scholar painting tails of Scorp-Blooded tribes for fame and profit.

He could have made everything up—but I’ve seen the truth with my own eyes. I saw General Asmod before he died. I saw the way his muscles strained against his skin, like his biceps wanted to rip out of his own flesh, the veins filled with pure poison and his eyes corrupted and green. He sired a son without the Bond. He sired the most powerful Aurelian in the universe, Obsidian himself.

We have chosen the ritual as close as possible to the rites of passage of the most brute tribes. We have no time to gain an immunity.

At any moment, Ra’al can call the next battle, and this would not be a strike into the outer planets, baiting a counterattack. This would be the true siege. The war will continue until Obsidian sits on the throne of Colossus. It could take decades.

And deep down, we know we would not return. We’ve lost our killer’s edge. We had no choice but to steal the Reaver away. No choice but to desert the last tribe we will ever have.

Now we either die, or we’re hunted down by the two most powerful forces in the universe, harried without respite for the rest of our lives. It’s worth it if we can spend it with Lola. This is our only chance.

“I’ve diluted the venom to one-eighth strength. It has been aged under heat lamps. In the ancient texts, it spoke of the venom being aged for one full moon under twin suns, so I calculated the heat level required to expediate the process. It has been mixed with our own blood,” finishes Khra with distaste, because mixing in blood feels more religious than scientific to him, and he isn’t sure if it’s witchcraft or necessary.

“I’ve replicated as best as I can the conditions of the manhood ritual. The survival rate is—”

“Fuck the percentages. Even boys survive this. We don’t need to know the science.”

“Not boys. Young men. Who may have been given resistance from a young age.” Khra sighs, but his aura steels as he fixates on the barb in front of him.

We reach out as one, wrapping our hands around the base of the barbs, as if we are holding the hilts of our Orb-Blades. We take them, and sit, straight backed, legs crossed, in our pure black robes that no longer mean anything.

“It has been an honor to be at your sides all this time.” Krazak states the words with reverence. We reach out to each other, not with our hands, but with our minds, feeling each other’s auras.

When I woke up in the cryo-bay on Colossus, a ten-year-old boy replicated from a warrior’s DNA, I was alone. In Academy, I learned of my lineage, traced back to the great war where records were lost. My DNA had lived heroic lives, becoming generals and commanders, a rich line of exploits and honors. I worried I would not live up to my past until I met Khra and Krazak in Academy, and our minds were linked.

With them at my side, I knew I could conquer anything.

I’m flooded by memories. Some are my own, some are visions from Krazak’s and Khra’s viewpoints that flow into my mind. Late nights on hard beds past lights out in the dormitories, whispering with each other of the glory we would earn in our hundred years of service. The wind whipping past my cheeks as we raced against other Aurelians boys in the thousand-meter sprint, me at the lead, running point and cutting through the air until the last moments of the race where I would drop back and position myself in the way of the second-fastest triad while Khra sprinted ahead, securing the win. That same night, when the second-fastest triad called us cheaters and we fought until our noses were bloodied and our fists raw, until the instructor threw us apart, yelling at us that we would be punished for disorderly conduct, yet with a note of pride in his voice. Of days in the sun lifting boulders, our biceps bulging and growing as we attained adulthood, feasting in the dining halls on Colossus as we grew into our bodies and became the weapons we thought we were always meant to be.

All those centuries, and my most vivid memories of my life are before our hundred years of service, when everything felt black and white, when I believed in good and evil.

As one, we press the needle point into the pots of venom, bring it to our veins, and without hesitation, pierce our bloodstreams.

Then I think of her. Not of any specific memory. Her scent. Her smile. The way she looks at me, as if she sees who I truly am. How she screamed my name in ecstasy, our bodies intertwining, how she erased my past and gave me hope of a future.

Sweat drips down my brow as fire envelops my being. Agony worse than when we were branded, worse than when we were tattooed with torturous ink fills me. My muscles cramp, the three of us looking at each other in horror as our auras pulse with pain.

None of us wants to break. None of us wants to be the weak link. We sit straight-backed as the venom courses through our veins. Khra and Krazak put the barbs back on the floor, in exactly the same place they took them, but as I try to replace mine into the circle my hand clenches into a white-knuckled fist, and I am unable to release. I groan as I use my other hand to unfurl my fingers one by one, until the barb drops. It’s like I am opening the hand of a corpse in rigor mortis, and I remember taking the Orb-Blade from a fallen Aurelian, his hand still clutching his weapon as if he would need it in death.

The roar bellows from me before I can stop it, a roar of pure, animal pain, and I’m standing before I know it, unable to sit still. I’m barely able to think, and I thank the Gods we left Lola behind though she begged to come, because this has gone horribly wrong. I ache for the comfort of her presence, but I know I have spared her the sight of my tortured death.

The cave walls are tinted green, somehow splashed by the venom. No—that doesn’t make sense. It’s my vision that is filtered, the venom working its way into my eyes. There’s no escape from it. It fills every aspect of my being, as if my blood has turned to magma, as if my nerve endings are filled with lightning.

I focus on her face. I bring the image to my consciousness. It’s the only thing that gives me any shred of comfort. I picture every millimeter of her being, drawing the image so vivid to my imagination that I swear I can see her, peeking over the lip of the cave, when she climbs up the ladder and stands at the edge of the cave.

“No!” I yell, and the other two of my triad turn, and through the pain of their auras, I can feel their shock, and I know that she is real and not imagined. The word comes out as a guttural grunt, my mouth not working properly, an animal growl instead of the syllable as my muscles pump tight, forcing me to stand stock-still upright like a statue as my quads become rock-hard. I can’t step forward or backwards, trapped, rigid, like I’m petrified.

Krazak and Khra stand facing her, sweat dripping down their bodies, their hair slick with it, when the breeze brings her scent to my nostrils. A wave of the most potent, terrifying powerful need engulfs my being, more powerful even than the agony.

Lust and pain intertwine, the aching need agonizing as my cock surges up harder than ever before. I am consumed by it. I need to claim her. Make her mine. Link her to me for eternity.

I need to breed Lola.

25

LOLA

I’m too late.

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