There was nothing. An absence of all sensation, all breath. Complete darkness.

I'm dead.

With surging panic, her mind rebelled against the finality, that she was now nothing more than fractals of light spinning out to meet a chaotic void.

Bonn! 

Our child! 

ILLYM!

Had my cry been heard? She thought with a thudding return to her body. Breath seared through her lungs and with it, intense pain.

I'm falling!

She spun recklessly, not knowing which way was up nor down, no orientation of any kind, only sharp, biting pressure teasing the flesh from her bones.

This is what it means to die.

She tried moving her hands to her belly, to give comfort to the baby inside her, but the force of her fall was too strong. At last, she stopped fighting and surrendered to her fate and to Illym's will.

"Starlex!" Bonn's voice echoed through the blackness.

He's here with me!

She tried to shout his name, to let him know she was still alive, but the rushing, spinning gales, now fortified with shards of ice pellets slicing at her skin, sucked the sound from her lips. 

Blackness suddenly gave way to a thin layer of blue haze. The biting wind softened and warmed, as she penetrated, like a falling meteor, a deceptive cushion of pillowy white clouds opening up to bright blue skies and a burning sun.

I've traveled through the God Gate to the Blue Planet and now I'm going to die. 

Her sister, Queen Hyperia, had pushed her through the God Gate, the portal that opened once every nine-hundred years. She recalled the riderless horse and chariot entering from the void, but no one ever passed through the other way. It was forbidden, punishable by death on her home planet, Ardelym. The God Gate, guarded by the meek yet treacherous sisterhood known as the Wols, made sure no one came near it, and yet here she was, flying, not flying, falling, towards the Blue Planet.

Had her husband, Bonn Skaard, followed her? Or was it just her imagination? Wishful thinking. It was her lot in life, she assumed sadly as she plummeted toward certain death, that she would find love only to lose it.

Our poor baby. A child conceived in the frozen land of Kadaar, where two lonely hearts found warmth and love in each other's arms.

The world she was entering took on more recognizable features. White sand or sea? 

Oh, Illym, Starlex prayed. If you can hear my words, please save me only so I may save my child. If somehow I am destined to give life to Ardelym's next great ruler, then let me live long enough to fulfill your prophecy. 

There was a flash, a fractured beam of yellow light reflecting off the surface of the sun. It appeared to be a message. Or was she only holding onto hope? Illym is not god here. Why would he—

The harsh reality of gravity took over. Now she could move her arms and legs, but it was only to flail in the cruel, indifferent atmosphere as the ground rushed up to meet her and the scream in her throat released.

"Bonn, I love you!"

Her last thought, on impact, was of her husband and child, and gratitude that there was no pain.

* * *

La Gune and Jeune, the mother and daughter moons, had passed from silver crescents to full globes, glowing over the Crimson Sea, and still, the nightly revelry celebrating the marriage of the Queen of Oran and the Duke of Nazeer had not abated. Hyperia blamed it on those damned Nazeers who refused to leave Oran long after she and Nargos had exchanged their vows in a grand ceremony intended to unite all of Ardelym against the enemies locked tightly within Mynimium's desert citadel.

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Nargos had planned a strike against her daughter Tylla and nephew Rigel, but it was delayed because of the merriment that had stretched on for two moons. Even from the balcony of the queen's chamber, Hyperia could hear their drunken jollity. She gripped the marble railing and steadied her breath, reminding herself this was part of her stratagems.

When she married Nargos, she played the submissive role. With a man like Nargos it was required, and night after night, she submitted to this rough lovemaking, his stubby calloused fingers exploring her pale, smooth body until she had to bite down on her tongue, drawing blood, to keep from screaming. "Get off me, you swine!"

Patience, she told herself. She turned, parted the silk curtains, and padded across the pink marble floor of her chamber. Pausing before her glass, she picked up an ebony comb. The flickering lantern light caught the gleam of the clove-scented oil she applied to her jet-black hair. She moved her head gently from side to side, admiring her crowning beauty's shimmering lavender highlights. 

I'm still beautiful, she told her reflection.

She parted her hair with the comb and then arranged it to conceal her small, pointed ears—the mark of a true Illymium.  

Since arriving at Oran as Scipio's young bride many moons ago, Hyperia knew it was best to hide her feature that most Ardelymians viewed as a deformity, an indication of an inferior race from a more primitive time. Hyperia knew it wasn't true. Those uncouth Nazeers with their insatiable appetites for food, drink, and riches proved it every day. Oran had opened her gates with generosity, and the greedy Nazeers will still holding up their empty cups crying, "More! More!"

She heard Nargos' key turn in the bolt and her heart sank. Running a slim finger between her eyes to erase the crease of annoyance, she turned toward the door with a bright smile.

"My love," the squat Nazeer said, extending his chafed hands toward her. His ruddy complexion and lopsided prince's crown atop his flaming red hair told the queen he was already well into his cups.

Turning her nose away to avoid his fetid breath, she offered him her cheek.

"No thanks," he said, gruffly dropping her hands so they fell limply by her sides. "I'll hold out for something better."

She smiled insipidly, imagining the shock on Nargos' face when she jabbed her poisoned stiletto into his throat. 

Patience.

Nargos poured himself a generous cup of wine and threw himself across her neatly-made bed. His boots, mud-stained from riding, soiled her clean silk sheets her maid and sprinkled with scented powder to temper the night's heat.

"Where did you go today?" she asked, opening her closet to select a gown for the evening supper.

"Don't worry, my dear," grunted Nargos. "I haven't taken a new mistress. Not yet anyway." He took a swallow of wine. Some of it dripped down his chin. Hyperia turned her face to the open wardrobe to hide her disgust.

She laughed and said, "I wasn't thinking that at all. Only..."

"Only what?"

She turned, removed her dressing gown, and lay down next to him. She pressed her arms together to increase the swell of her white breasts. It was a trick she mastered while married to Scipio, practiced with much success during her brief affair with Dolceto Davadas, and now applied to her new husband, although he wasn't as easy to fool as most men.

"Darling, I hope you will ride out to Crytombe Crags and consult with our army before they march on Mynimium. You really should be leading them, you know." Her fingers played with the laces of his boots. Her delicate nose twitched as she smelled the manure on them.

"Why should I when I have a perfectly good general in charge?" 

"Because, my darling, you are the greatest warlord in all of Ardelym. The men look up to you. You inspire them."

"Hmmm," he grunted, his green eyes, usually sharp as cut glass, were blood-shot and filmy. "And do I inspire you, my dear?"

"Of course, my darling, my stars, my—"

"Cut the malarkey!" He said, tossing the empty wine goblet to the floor. He grabbed her arms roughly and pulled her on top of him.

She submitted to his rough kiss on her lips and said, "But we'll be late for supper, my prince."

"Your prince." Nargos' lips curled like two purple worms over yellowed, broken teeth. "Why not your king?"

"You know the dictates of Oran law, why—"

"And I could give two shits about Oran law."

Hyperia's cheeks flushed. Nargos' moods, especially after he had been drinking, had become increasingly hateful, and her feminine wiles struggled to mitigate them.

"You, the queen, could abdicate your power to me and make me king today."

"But you know the people will never allow that."

"The people!" he spat. "The people belong to us! They will do as I say." He pounded a fist against his chest for emphasis.

Hyperia's brain burned. She had played out this scene with her new husband many times since their strained courtship began. Shifting away from the submissive tack that had proved less than successful, still, she stiffened her spine and said with a queenly retort, "I'll make you a king when Mynimium is mine and not before."

"You're as cold-hearted as an old whore," he growled.

Her violet eyes locked on his, unrelenting. Something in him he was out-classed by this being from an ancient race. He laughed and rolled on top of her.

As he drunkenly fumbled with her jeweled belt, tossing the priceless Illymium treasure to the floor, Hyperia trailed her eyes over the ceiling and submitted to his rough caresses. The artwork was designed to provoke frolicking gaiety, but the flickering lantern light gave the pale-skinned nymphs and the rapacious satyrs pawing at their flesh a sinister countenance.

This is my battlefield, and I will fight to the death on it.

She timed her sighs to coordinate with his pumping hips and foul-smelling gusts of breath, and when he was finished, and snoring heavily on top of her, she closed her eyes and willed herself to remain strong.

This is only a battle. There's still a war, and I will use this miserable fool to win it.