Page 165 of Crown Prince's Mate

I know, because I felt Titus’ aura when he died. Obsidian is focused inward, reaching out to his Mate, ignoring everything as he desperately clings to his last moments experiencing her.

I am thankful the Reaver doors closed behind us, so I don’t have to hear Fay’s wails.

I should hate the War-God, for causing this war. For leading his Fanatical legions on their march of death. But now, with his head bowed, he seems so helpless, pulled from a savage world into a dance of worlds, into prophecies, priests and empires.

Just like me.

Doman’s grip tightens around his blade.

“Do it,” snarls the Queen, her voice pure hate, her eyes baleful as she stares down at Obsidian. Her lips curl back, and she stares at the War-God, salivating for his death.

It should be easy. Doman has cut down hundreds of branded Aurelians in the endless war.

He hesitates. Then his blade activates, the blue-black energy wrapping around the pure black blade. It will be an instant death, his head cut from his shoulders—but Doman is the one man in the universe who has experienced what it is to have your head cut from your shoulders, to feel your life drain out.

His aura reaches into mine, searching my thoughts—for permission.

He knows I am thinking of that pure little baby, who will grow up without a father. Of a mate who was held prisoners in a cell under the castle, who will live thousands of years alone, as I thought I would.

Of Obsidian, broken, a shell of a man who would slink into the shadows with his tail between his legs if given a choice.

But there is no choice. He is a symbol of defiance against the Empire. A symbol against Queen Jasmine and the royal family.

“Do you trust me?”Doman’s voice enters my mind.

“Yes,”I answer, instantly, and Doman raises his sword into the air. The blade does not come down. Instead, he holds it high, triumphant, and turns to the crowds.

“I died for you!” He yells out the words. Nothing amplifies his voice, but it echoes against the curved coliseum, and every soldier in the crowd stares at him in rapt attention. “Too many of us have died, brother killing brother, Aurelian against Aurelian. I sought to end the war with a single death. I went to the Arena of Blood, and I cut down the War-God, and I felt him cut the head from my shoulders. For all of you!”

“Silence!” Queen Jasmine’s voice is amplified a hundred times, so loud it hurts my ears. I wince against it, recoiling, and Titus and Gallien form up tight around me, a wall of strength that supports me. “Silence, or your exile will be without your Mate. She will be put in the chambers of quiet, and you will never touch her again!”

My blood runs cold.

For those who betray the Aurelian Empire so deeply that death is leniency, prisoners are placed in sensory deprivation chambers. I would spend thousands of years without sight or sound, floating in nothingness until I die, the Bond extending my life torturously.

Doman’s aura nearly breaks, but I bolster him, throwing my support. He will not back down, not now. He cannot. He’s already gone too far.

“Who will stand for me?” Doman roars out at the crowd, his blade high, as Obsidian looks to the white sands, and I hear himpraying, softly, the War-God whispering out his plea to anything above.

Elites, in their blue-black Orb-Armor, look down at Doman, then to the Imperial triad. They know that if they stand for Doman, and the votes fail, what their fate will be. Queen Jasmine would execute any who dare to break ranks.

Then the first stands. Old for an Aurelian, he would be in his sixties if he was a human, with a shock of white hair. His battle-brothers stand with him. They have seen countless centuries. They have watched the Aurelian Empire degrade. They did not go into the cryo-bays to create the next generation, but now they risk it all.

The next to stand is no Elite. It’s a young Aurelian, barely out of Academy, early in his hundred years stationed for the defense of Colossus. He has his entire life ahead of him. His battle-brothers stand proudly at his side. Their vote counts little compared to the honored Elites, and it’s a symbolic gesture. He knows he cannot sway the count, but he bid his triad to stand for the crown prince.

One by one, Elites stand, then more white-robed Aurelians until in the entire coliseum not a single soldier remains seated. The votes are cast.

In an instant, the imperial triad is stripped of their reign—but by Aurelian custom, they do not have to go quiet.

It is any man’s right to battle for his crown in the Arena of the Gods.

Raegan’s jaw sets. He beckons, and a pure white Reaver descends, its door opening. He and his battle-brothers jump in, and it takes them down in the sands, where he strides out, flanked by his battle-brothers.

Doman stands tall, facing down his fathers. Titus and Gallien leave my side, Orb-blades activating as they take up a battle stance. Queen Jasmine is frozen in place, for once unable to saya word, for once, all of her centuries-old plans stripped of her, the men she cares about most in the world striding towards her firstborn son who she damned trillions of innocent lives to save.

Raegan is older. He has centuries, but he is still the man who cut down General Asmod. No man has ever survived his blade. He strides forward with pure confidence, a violent aristocrat who has held onto power with cunning and strength.

Grief pours through the Bond from Doman, a grief he pushes down as he faces down his own father, ready to spill his ancestral blood.

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