Page 117 of Crown Prince's Mate

The beauty and art of Colossus is nothing like the hungry faces of Fanatics I saw in the Rift. Masses of branded troops, religious intoxication in their features as they listened to words of war of their Priests. There is raw youth and drive for conquest, whereas here, in the late-stage Empire, the façade of control masks the melancholy of the dying race. Under the grandeur is a deep sadness.

The vast estates are mostly empty, the buildings of the city maintained like skeletons without meat. There are more humans than Aurelians on this planet, servants and harem women. This planet once pulsated with life, but each year, more Aurelians fall in battle, their bodies so ravaged that even the cryo-bays cannot recreate the next of their line.

The war against Obsidian has only hastened the decimation of the population.

Above, massive orbital batteries have none of the beauty of the city. They are spartan grey, orbiting above the atmosphere. Each has enough firepower to destroy a warship. The Orb-Disruptors of Colossus, once concentrated around the home planet, have been moved strategically in the territories, forming a ring where Obsidian cannot penetrate. That reassures me—there won’t be a fleet of jet-black warships appearing above in a blink, launching Orb-Beams and nuclear missiles to obliterate the planet.

On this planet, there are no Aurelian cleaners, no alien chefs or servants. On this planet, there are only warriors. I’ve studied this society long. Serve your century, or your bloodline ends with you. It’s not just honor or the thought of an estate that makesthe alien species fight. Those who do not serve are cast out of the society and forbidden the cryo-chamber rebirth.

Unless you fall in line, your genetic legacy ends with you.

I turn away from the viewport of the bridge and swell with pride as I look at the forty-odd members of my staff present on the bridge. They will accompany me to the surface. All have changed since leaving our territories. One woman holds a pole bearing the five-pointed flag of Pentaris. From each of the planets, they have all evolved differently, some with the tall, willowy figures of Virelia, others the squat, powerful physiques suited to Magnar, but we all share a common bond—a hardened resolve, etched with new lines of experience. We all look older. We all went through hell to get here, and we all keep our chins up, filled with the same pride, because we’re not just politicians and bureaucrats anymore.

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 athim. 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 O2, 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, buthis 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 forposition. As soon as it begins, it’s over, the two of them breaking off the hug and turning to me.

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