Page 30 of Crown Prince's Mate

“Yeah. But I thought he was the kind that thought himself invincible. The kind that’ll throw his men away just for pride. He’s not.”

“They want to conquer everything they see.”

He shrugs, the heavy metal of his suit shifting. “Is that the nature of Aurelian, or the nature of man?”

“I did not take you for philosophy.”

“Well, I’m getting older. And this will be my legacy—new technologies, new wealth, new prosperity. Aurelian ships flying over Magnar for three years won’t change anything. We’ll be mining here, down in the core, for the next ten thousand years. We’ll build ships in our bays, missiles in our factories. Magnar will stand long after the Aurelian Empire draws its last breath.”

“I hope you’re right, Thrain.”

He licks his lips. “See, that’s the thing. I thought you’d be giving me an earful this whole ride. My term’s over in three months, and most in my position would have abstained from such an important vote.”

“What’s done is done,” I say, shrugging, but I can feel the suspicion through his black goggles.

I can’t afford to lapse for a moment. Everything is a game, everything has a double meaning. His complaints earlier about looking forward to rest was no idle comment—it was a test to see my reaction. And he’s right. If I didn’t have a way out, I wouldhave spent the ride cursing him out for daring to vote on my life when he’s about to be put to pasture.

Even the blunt Magnarian is testing me with every word, and I can’t afford to lose my focus.

We spend the rest of the voyage in silence, the quiet occasionally interrupted by the crunch of rocks under the transport’s treads as we descend into the depths of Magnar.

When we stop, Thrain pulls on his helmet, a metallic fortress around him, and he would be indistinguishable to every other Magnarian except for the red circle marking above his heart, the flaming core of Magnar which is the emblem of their leader. The side doors part, revealing our welcoming party, figures clad in metal, and though their identities are concealed, and I couldn’t tell if they are women or men, one of them has a nervousness to him, twisting his arm where his smart-watch records. Thrain steps out and extends his metal-clad hand to me, pulling me out into a huge cavern, where a bustle of heat and noise greets me.

Among the welcoming party, one squat Magnarian, wider than the others and obviously strong, bears a humming, backpack-like contraption—a coveted environmental shield, a rarity in Magnar but a potential future norm with Aurelian technology.

Stepping onto the rocky terrain of the grand cavern, my boots crunch against the rocky ground. The sound is swallowed up in the cacophony of ceaseless production, dozens of squat transports pulling into the entrance hall, miners and workers getting out. If they spare me a glance, I can’t tell with their black visors. The echo of movement is the chorus of their subterranean world, the vast cavern stretching out in all directions as men and women move like ants with purpose down the tunnels. The pathways lead to mine shafts, to the vast cities carved into the rocks, to the factories where they toil, sometimes not going up to the surface for their entire lives. The hum ofmachinery is a constant vibration I can feel through my boots, and conversations are sharp and harsh, men and women barking orders to each other.

The stone ground is etched with tracks from the treads of the vehicles, worn down and smoothed over thousands of years.

The people of this planet have left their mark on the stone itself, just as Magnar has changed them, evolving over the eons to be shorter, squatter, thick with muscles and with thick necks that can bear the weight of the heavy helmets easily.

Despite the grandiosity of the occasion, the inhabitants don’t pay me any mind, steadfast in their duties, the rhythm of work undisturbed. Or perhaps it is because of the occasion that they do not look over at us, knowing they are being broadcasted to the universe, proud in their determination.

It’s easy to think of the people of Pentaris as a hundred billion souls, numbers I am responsible for. Seeing them here, spending their lives toiling underground, I’m bolstered by the weight of what I am doing.

They will live on, and there will not be Aurelian triads striding through their homes. There will not be the towering aliens looming over them, setting up their own factories in the sacred home of these people who have a birthright to these lands.

“Let’s go,” grunts out Thrain.

I follow close behind the Magnarian with the shield as we walk deeper into Magnar. The air is hot and harsh, but it’s breathable in the dome that radiates from his backpack.

Work stops for a moment as men and women glance over at me as we go through a tunnel, bored smooth. I glance to the left and right as we walk, drawn in by the sounds of people working, and I catch a glimpse of one of their cities, thousands of homes carved directly into the walls. I look down another tunnel leading towards a huge conveyor belt, where metallic ores thesize of houses are transported deeper to the refineries. So many glimpses of lives, shown to a rare few.

Next we go down a tunnel away from the sounds of production, a tunnel with veins of minerals and gems untouched by mining, minerals glowing and lighting our way. Raw sapphires and diamonds the size of my fist, safeguarded for generations, never mined for short-term profit.

I think of the millions of Magnarian women who have walked down tunnels like these, to the flows of magma of the betrothal rites. For them, it is one of the happiest days of their lives, marking their acceptance of a suitor, smiling through their silver, or in the case of the poorer, their iron veils, awaiting their love’s gloved fingers to move aside the strands, for them to pull off their helmets and kiss.

The Magnarian recording walks backwards, keeping his arm steady as he points his smart-watch at me. It will be shaky, of course, but Thrain chose that—his people care little for ceremony and pomp, and having the recording like this is his way of showing the universe how little Magnarians care for grand ceremony.

The warm glow ahead beckons me as I walk out into a wide cavern, lit up by the glow of crystals. Only the betrothal caves are left untouched by the pickaxes of Magnar. Cutting the cave in half is a foot-long, boiling flow of magma, spitting and hissing, casting a warm, eerie glow, reflecting in the jagged crystals, some bigger than me.

Across the magma flow are the three men I hate.

Prince Doman would look like a giant next to a regular-sized human, but the Magnarians standing twenty feet behind him, one recording, makes him look like a Viking god among men. He and his battle-brothers are clad in blue-black Orb-Armor, the only material that can withstand a blow from the alien blades. They are clad from their feet to their necks in the material thatglimmers darkly, seeming both to suck up the light of the cavern yet emanate its own dark power, a contradiction that makes it hard to look at them, your brain not quite able to interpret the signals set by the eyes.

The Orb-Armor goes to his neck, framing his anvil jaw, and his brilliant blue eyes contrast against his marble skin. Damn him, but he’s handsome, his thick mane of blond hair regal, the crown resting like he was born wearing it, a titan of a man who is at home wherever he goes.

To his left is Gallien, his features hard and angular, and he would look like a giant himself if he was not standing next to the two men who dwarf him. Gallien has a patrician’s nobility, his features carved from marble, the thick, gray stubble on his head making him look older than his years, because these men are young yet. They are not yet three-hundred years, and if they were humans, we would be near the same age.

---