Triad In The Stars: Sci-Fi MFM Menage Romance (Celestial Mates) Read online

  "This better be a good explanation," she told Reuben through gritted teeth, ignoring the offered arm. "Because it will most assuredly be used against you in a court of law."

  The man smiled, bowing again.

  "I will try my best. Welcome, Chloe, to Terra. A planet you called Earth, back in the day. The year is 9303 and perhaps it will please you to know there are no more Mondays."

  2

  Elias

  The first of the three suns rose above the rooftops, shining the rays of light into the warlord's eyes, waking him. They were as golden as the stars that were now bathing his flawless, naked body in an ethereal aura. His dark blond hair, reaching his ears, was messed up on the pillow, refusing to stay in order much like he himself.

  Elias did not look away from the searing brightness of the sun. His father, the previous Lord of House Greole, the ruling family of the powerful Haverins, had noticed that peculiar custom of his when he'd been only a boy.

  At first, Elias had expected his father to scorn him for damaging his eyes, something no warrior could do without. But Lord Greole had been proud, gifting his son with one of his rare smiles, telling him that such stubbornness was the sign that he'd make a great king one day.

  He would have known, Elias thought. Wearing the crown himself for so long.

  The trail of thought was heavy, however. The grief was still too fresh for him, but the young lord knew that he carried his father's blood in his veins.

  It had given him a good head start, but everything that was his in his life Elias had taken with his own strength. He believed it made him worthy to rule his people.

  After all, no Haverin would have wanted a ruler who could back down, even from the suns that looked over their domains themselves. The species was built on the iron muscles and fierce spirits of their warriors, a potential they all carried but few realized.

  In the past, they had been a superpower to respect, but now, their people were dwindling. The most powerful of them were able to morph their bodies, bend their own flesh to their will, but that was all but lost.

  Among those blessed few, Elias was considered gifted. He could make his skin tougher, his nails sharp as blades and his muscles never tired, but he never forgot the stories he'd read as a child. About warriors with bodies like steel, who could bite through stone and slow their heartbeat so much their enemies often took them for dead, only to be slaughtered for their mistake.

  On that particular morning, Elias refused to blink for several moments, before he finally stood from his bed and walked over to the balcony of his residence, looking over the still-sleeping city of Reahall below. There was only one thing on his mind, the same desire that had driven the young warlord all his life.

  This is the day.

  It was the day he'd be crowned the king of Haverins. And he would see the glorious past of their people returned. All those ancient stories would come to life anew under his command. He could guarantee it.

  Leah came to see him. Elias was dressing in his dark blue armor, adorned with gold to match the handle of his sword, both bearing symbols of ancient beasts his forefathers had killed when they claimed the throne of the Haverins.

  She walked in like she owned the place, sweeping past the guards like they weren't even there. Right away, the female walked over to him and tried to pull him in for a kiss.

  Elias shrugged her away, giving her a long, hard look.

  "We talked about this," the warlord said, his voice deep and firm, authority etched into every syllable. "As Lord Greole, I expected you to listen when I speak, but I see rules don't apply to you. I won't deny I used to find it enticing, but no more. Next time, my guards will not hesitate to stop you. I will make sure of it."

  Leah glared, a furious light burning in her light green eyes, studded with golden specks. Her long red hair fell in cascading waves over her bare shoulders, covering up the beautiful blood-colored dress she was wearing.

  She was a stunning creature. Pity he had no interest for her any longer.

  "I thought you were joking," she said, pacing around in the room while Elias continued to don his armor, hating all the pointless pomp but knowing it was expected at the ceremony.

  Is one morning of peace too much to ask? he wondered with a stifled sigh. The future king should be able to hope for at least that much, should he not?

  "I assure you, I was not," he told Leah, not looking at her way.

  After years of knowing the woman, intimately at times, the warlord could imagine her angry expression very well. She was gorgeous even when mad, like all powerful, capricious women. Especially widows.

  In Haverin society, females were a treasure. They were not born very often, but they were needed to carry on the legacy of their great people. To strengthen the bloodlines and make sure all of them carried children, Haverins mated for life.

  The females often paired with several men, believing it made their offspring stronger. The children carried the genetic strength and blood of both fathers, thus the daughters of warlords were guarded like the jewels they were, cherished even more than the sons.

  Leah was one such, as was Elias' mother, but fate had not brought either of them happiness.

  Leah's fathers had been powerful and her mother a famous beauty, but to the sadness of all Haverins, they had only been blessed with one daughter. And Leah's own mates had not been worthy, dying only a month apart in already forgotten battles.

  They'd left her with three sons and a daughter to grace her life, but also alone on a level Elias couldn't even imagine. Widows never mated again, only serving the purpose of raising their children and serving the Haverins in different ways.

  Females were rare, but widows were believed to be bad luck. If fate had deserted them, so did the men. They could find a partner and even have more children, but the ones born of such union were weak and scorned by others.

  Few Haverins could wish that upon their children.

  In a way, Elias' mother was left with a similarly sad destiny. The previous Lord Greole had been a mighty ruler and Elias could understand his mother retreating from the public to mourn, even if she still had another mate to comfort her. Yet the warlord knew his mother's second consort was only a poor shadow of the late king.

  Females took many mates, but there was only ever one king.

  Haverins needed females to produce strong, healthy children, but the domain was not a woman to be shared by two rulers. While the fated unions worked in harmony to care for and love the female, no such thing was possible with their world.

  The people needed a single direction, a lone head to lead them. In their history, such a thing had been tried. Strong queens pushed both of their mates to the throne, but the seat was not big enough for both of them. They warred and almost tore the realm in two.

  The furious enmity between the two noblest houses was a remnant of that age.

  It was clear that some things were the way they were for a reason, even if Leah didn't understand or appreciate that.

  Elias pitied her, but there was nothing he could do, even as king. She was a beauty, a fiery gem, but whatever it was that had caused fate to turn its back on her, he could not undo it.

  "You knew this day would come," he told her, finally turning to look Leah straight in the eyes. "I will be king today. My bed will belong to my queen."

  Leah's smile was so bitter it poisoned her undeniable beauty.

  "Is that so, my lord?" she asked, her voice dripping with venom. "Tell me, then. Where is she? You are twenty-nine years old. You've met thousands of females and none have been your fated."

  It was like a cloud of thunder erupted within Elias. He took a step towards her, making the female back away, fear plain in her eyes instead of the insolent arrogance that had shown there earlier.

  There was no anger in his heart, but Leah had hit the only nerve that had the potential to hurt him. She spoke the truth.

  He was to rule all Haverin and yet he couldn't present his queen to them. It also
meant no sons to carry his legacy or daughters to give life to future generations. What kind of a king would he make without those cornerstones of any great ruler - family? What kind of a man could he be?

  No mate, no partner warrior to complete the triad… He stood alone, and that was painfully evident to all of Haverin.

  "You don't have to fear me," he told Leah, taking a breath to still his irritation. "I would never harm a female. But you have gone too far. Leave my presence. Never show your face to me again."

  "Why?" she growled, that pain and anger back in full force. "Why can't you make me queen? There is no fated. Are you willing to be the first ruler of our people to reign alone? What kind of an example will that show?"

  "I will not lie to my people!" Elias bellowed at her, hating how easily she riled him up, far easier than she used to turn him on. "If this is how fate has decided to treat me, so be it. Go now, before I banish you."

  Leah went, but not before turning back at the door to give him a look that threatened to burn him to ashes.

  "You are a fool, my lord," she hissed. "If you leave the throne heirless, the House Merive will overthrow you and it will be the end of us. You'll see!"

  Elias watched her stomp out of his quarters with a frown. The door slamming shut behind her was a blessing.

  The woman was insufferable, but she had a point. House Merive was the eternal competitor and rival of his people and he would have rather died than ceded the throne to one of them.

  After Leah, he had no more appetite for visitors. He would receive them all once the crown rested on his head and he was free to do as he would.

  The day was his and nothing was going to spoil that.

  Or so he thought. Right up until the moment when a guard entered his rooms without permission.

  "My lord," the guard said, bowing deeply. "Lord Merive, he... he has come to claim the crown."

  His hands itched for his sword, ready to punish whoever was brazen enough to make trouble on the most glorious day of his life.

  Lord Merive… how fitting.

  The guard looked surprised when a wide grin spread on Elias' face as the warlord turned to him. As the future king, Elias had expected a day of celebration, but that was much better. The sword on his belt was no toy and the warlord who challenged him was a dead man walking.

  His coronation was going to be signed with the blood of his mortal enemy and Elias had no problem with that. Quite on the contrary. The young Lord Merive had had his death coming for a long time.

  It was just what he needed to put Leah’s words out of his mind.

  "Tell him I accept the challenge," Elias instructed the baffled guard. "On the steps of the temple, we will battle. To death."

  The stories begin to come to life so soon… The fates are kind to the new king.

  3

  Vanor

  The warlord awoke before the first sun rose above the city of Reahall, beating the dawn like he always did.

  His warship descended slowly through the first rays of the most important morning of his life. Vanor didn't permit himself any unearned pride, but he was looking forward to the day. There was only one way it could end and it gladdened him.

  When the ship landed on Corolon, the home world of the mighty Haverin, it signaled the first time in three months that the commander of their fleet saw his home. He watched the planet grow bigger in the view screen of his bridge after taking a modest breakfast.

  There were no other duties for him on the day that symbolized breaking the agitating rule of the Greole. He could simply enjoy the view and wait for the moment when he could plunge his sword into the heart of his enemy. What more could a young warlord wish for?

  Bliss.

  As the youngest ever Lord of the House Merive, the ruling family of the Haverins, Vanor considered his sacred duty to put a stop to the endless schemes and power struggles on his home world.

  The time had come. It was the day he would be king as he was born to be. He would make it so.

  Stepping out of the warship, his second-in-command Hurso rushed to Vanor's side, grinning.

  "My lord," the warrior said, "you look ready."

  Hurso was a captain of the warlord's most proficient unit of fighters, but sometimes he didn't look, or act, the part. While Hurso's prowess with a sword was undeniable, his young age showed in his rashness and single-mindedness, although at times Vanor was guilty of the latter himself.

  Standing half a head shorter than Vanor himself, the captain often reminded him of his shadow – similar, but never equal. There was too much color in his eyes.

  Vanor didn't think or say that out of spite, merely as a fact. He considered Hurso a close friend, but in many ways the warrior represented all the reasons why the Haverins needed a new start.

  Vanor didn't answer. The warlord's subordinates had long learned that he only replied to things that were worth taking the time to comment. He knew he was ready. Being Lord Merive was a duty to him, not a privilege.

  Nothing in the world could have stopped him from taking his rightful place as the ruler of his people and doing the best job he could.

  In silence, they walked to the temple, aware of the crowds gathering, expecting to see blood as soon as they saw his warship, the Lacoa, land. Considering Vanor's ship hadn't made port in a while, it couldn't be coincidence he arrived home on the same date that his rival came to claim the throne.

  A throne that is not his to claim, Vanor reminded himself grimly.

  For the occasion, Vanor wore his dark black armor with golden patterns to match his gleaming, sharp eyes. The commander had decided to come in the colors of House Merive to signify his claim. He had no doubt Elias would meet him in the colors of his own house, the tones dark and brooding as was the custom of the noble families.

  He flexed his muscles, feeling them bulge under his skin. His heart beat a low, calm rhythm like he wanted. He'd also shut off feeling from most of his body not to be hindered by pain, trusting himself to know his limits without the distracting distress signals of his nerves.

  The long, sharp sword was strapped to his belt, ready to draw the blood of his arch-enemy. Everything was perfect.

  He couldn’t keep the smirk off his lips. Truth be told, he didn’t try that hard.

  Too long have the Greole ruled over our people. Their last reign was disastrous. I will not let it happen again.

  He looked ahead, seeing images of himself painted on the walls as murals and signs of support. As ever, he was depicted as leading his warship to glorious battles, charging the enemy at the forefront of his warriors. His short black hair and entirely golden eyes made him easy to find in the midst of the war chaos.

  Almost no Haverin had eyes like his anymore. Their people were diminishing, growing weaker due to the lack of strong women and female children, the bloodlines diluting or disappearing entirely. It was imperative that he restored order before they were all gone. Only the right ruler could bring forth the change that his people needed.

  And he was the man for the job.

  But the issue reminded him painfully that he still had to find his mate. Yet Vanor had to trust fate to bring the one to him. What was a Haverin without his faith, after all?

  The crowds were rooting and cheering for him, chanting his name, as Vanor and Hurso made their way to the main temple in the middle of their city. It was good to be home, but slowly the smirk disappeared from his lips, until no emotion showed on Vanor's face.

  Spilling the good Haverin blood was a sin, even if it had to be done and he felt no remorse. There were few things in the universe he was willing to accept as undisputed truth, with Elias Greole being unfit for the rule definitely one of them.

  The brat has never set foot off our domains. What kind of a ruler would he be?

  Echoing his thoughts, Hurso added:

  "The people want you, my lord. They shout cheers to make your sword sharper and your blows faster. The Haverins need a strong king now more than ever. No Greole would lead u
s."

  While he agreed with that, Vanor replied, his deep voice carrying easily over the noise the gathered Haverins were making around them:

  "You make it sound like I need luck to match my blade against Elias."

  The sharpness of his words didn’t escape him.

  "No, my lord," Hurso hurried to say, but the commander shook his head.

  "It makes no difference to me. He will lie dead on the steps of the temple before the day is done."

  The temple was growing larger in front of them as they climbed the hill it was built on, to make it possible for everyone to see it. And also to remind them all that the gods were, always and forever, watching.

  As he approached, Vanor saw the new Lord Greole waiting for him, in full regalia, just as him. The priests were also present, looking utterly unsurprised by the turn of the events. It wasn't uncommon that the throne was disputed between the two powerful families, especially after a weak king.

  The last one had been a Greole and he'd been disastrous, as the Merives had long foretold. Even so, at the temple he could hear people shouting their support for Elias as well.

  Pity. This is the weakness we've come to.

  Vanor measured Elias with a long look, seeing the other warlord do the same. It was the first time in many years that they would see one another, though no introductions were needed. A Greole would recognize a Merive just as a Merive would recognize a Greole – immediately. There was too much spite and anger in their joint history not to.

  They were about the same height, which meant they towered over everyone present. Silently, Vanor was surprised to see Elias wasn't the pampered fool he'd been expecting. It seemed long years of staying away from the politics of Haverin had left him with little idea of who he was facing, but ultimately it made no difference.

  "I should have expected you to be so coarse as to interrupt my coronation," Elias said with languid bemusement.