Page 93 of Crown Prince's Mate

“What is it?” There’s a reddish glimmer of a planet, all on its own.

“That is the planet we are going to take from existence,” growls Titus, his voice steel.

“Don’t worry,” says Doman. “No life on it. Not even a single-celled organism. Cal was adamant about it. There have been recent scans taken. It’s a dead rock, but it’s roughly the same size as the home planet of the Toads. Their King will think twiceafter we make it disappear.” His voice has a strange tinge to it, something I can’t place.

“And what happens, when mortals play as Gods?” I whisper, and the brilliant diamonds that seemed to glitter for me a moment ago are now cold and unfeeling, a tapestry that I have no right to alter.

“We already know.” Doman’s voice is deep, and he pulls me tighter against his body. “Men follow a God, until he is proven to be mortal, like the rest of us. This ends soon.”

“You don’t… you don’t have to do this, this test. Putting Aurelian forces in the neutral territory would be enough to stop them from even thinking about trying anything…”

“You know this must be done. Your system borders the Toad Kingdom. You’ve had citizens snatched before. During our own hundred years, we freed Pentarians from their slavers. Toads are cowards, but when they smell weakness, they strike. This must be done, for your people and for my Empire.”

I pull myself from Doman’s arms, turning to Titus. The moonlight bathes his form, the stars glittering against his marble skin. His biceps are flexed, his hands tight fists as he overcomes the cold, unwilling to let it win over him. He was made for a land of ice, and if this had been Old Earth, the people of this planet would have followed him into battle without question.

They would have seen him as a God of the hunt, a God of war and death, and he could have commanded an army with his being alone. He is clad in only his belt, the hilt of his blade at his waist.

“Titus…” Fog surges with every one of his breaths. “You told me every star is a victory. That planet… it’s only reflecting light, not creating its own… but it’s there, Titus, it exists. And you’re going to change it to a nothing less than darkness.”

He may be able to fight off the cold, but his slate-gray eyes betray how my words affect him.

“It must be done,” says Gallien. “There will be more terrible things done before this war is over.”

Titus turns, drawing his blade, and storms away, the blue-black blade igniting into life. He gets down on one knee, and drives it into the snow, melting it as it slides through the thick ice with a hiss of steam.

“What are you doing now? Come, let’s go back into the shelter,” I say, and I feel like my voice is being swallowed up by the silence of the snow.

Titus turns his head over his shoulder, his thick black mane framing that powerful jaw of his, the neck thicker than my thighs, the sheer brutality of his nature. “When we were but whelps, they trained us in baths of ice. It is a pure invigoration, to go from flows of icy water to the heat.”

“Didn’t you get enough of it catching that pike?” Changing the topic calms me a little.

Gallien smiles at me, seemingly completely unaffected by the cold, but goosebumps have formed over his flesh. “No one wanted to be the first out of the waters in Academy. We were but boys, but we had pride. I still haven’t taken a dunk tonight.”

“And what happened to the first to leave? Mocked mercilessly, no doubt? Were you among those who tormented him?”

Gallien shakes his head. “No. I was the second out. First was Agmon—too proud to leave the waters, even as his body failed him. He passed out, and I dragged him out. I got the second lowest marks of that test.”

“Where’s Agmon now?”

A cloud passes over Gallien’s stoic visage. “Gone. Two years ago, in a battle against Fanatics.”

Titus extends his Orb-blade, the beam of energy growing thinner and longer as he drags it in a circle. He stands and kicks his bare foot downward, his leg flexing as he pushes the ice down, disappearing into the flows of the lake, the underwater currents that move with a life of their own.

“I want to feel it too,” I say, the snow compressing the snow beneath me as I peer into the abyss. His blade liquefied the ice into a smooth, circular chasm. A gateway to oblivion, chilling waters that would consume me without thought, my warmth fading, my life-blood chilling until I am as the waters themselves.

Titus studies me, tilting his head. “Are you sure? Your constitution is not that of an Aurelian.”

“I’m sure,” I stammer, my teeth chattering.

He glances over at his battle-brothers, then nods. “You go last, with Doman.”

Titus retracts his blade until it is no more than a stub the length of my palm, dark metal pulsing with electric energy. He steps on the precipice of the void, then falls, and I gasp as he plummets into the nothingness, but before he hits water his blade catches into the ice, the energy of his weapon oscillating. The electricity flickers, but that black length remains steadfast, melting the ice strategically into handholds as he climbs down. He hisses as his feet touch the waters below, and then he vanishes, swallowed by the depths.

The only sign he was ever there is his hands breaking the water’s surface, the blade in his hand, driven into the ice. It brings back old memories, of legends I learned as a child, a sword rising from the abyss.

Titus emerges, gasping for air, eyes wide with the shock from the icy flows, and he scrambles upwards, biceps flexing as he pulls himself out from the darkness.

I want to feel that. Feel the icy hand of death close around me, then pull myself from it.

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