Marshall Blue: A Trade. A public law enforcer.
Guard: A Trade. Military-trained personnel who guard, defend, and fight for The Trade.
House Girclass="underline" A Trade. A woman/girl used for entertainment and/or acts of a sexual nature.
The Common Relations Guard (CR Guard): A Trade. A Guard who follows the king on campaigns to record and relay events for the citizens of The Cradle to watch once a week on the singular scheduled hour of Trade Updates.
Windmill Farms: Windmill farms cover over 30% of the inhabitable parts of The Cradle. They are the land’s primary source of energy.
Windmill Forest (colloquial term): The stretches of Windmill Farms that feel never-ending, stretching for hundreds of miles.
Black Matter Mines: A line of mines on the northern most part of The Cradle just before the Horizon where toxic minerals are excavated, and batteries are broken down and recycled.
La Mu: A genetically engineered plant that has varying medicinal purposes. The leaf: a sedative and muscle relaxant. The seeds: a powerful contraceptive. The root: in small doses, acts as an anti-inflammatory, but in larger doses is highly lethal.
Opi (colloquial term) Opi Lava: can be applied topically or taken orally. A genetically modified version of the old-world opioid—morphine—used for extreme pain and as a mild sedative.
The Trade Connect Building: A building in every tower that has a network of underground copper lines for communication across The Cradle. It’s use is centralised and controlled entirely by The Trade.
Modistes Girclass="underline" A Trade. A girl responsible for designing, creating, and fitting apparel.
Part OneTo be a King
Chapter One
Rome
Aged Eighteen
Vows of a king:
To be a king is to master one's passions and rule with the sole purpose of uniting The Cradle. Each new citizen needs the opportunity to have a Meaningful Purpose.
A Common Community.
That’s the first one I have ever seen.
Pressing my eye to the periscope in the king’s military tank, I watch as the fractured abbey emerges like a wraith through the red haze.
Nature throws her fierce body around the looming old-world compound, but it withstands the Redwind and sand.
It is indestructible.
Just like me.
We plough across the Red Decline toward the isolated community, tank tracks chewing the unsealed road, machinery humming, gunner braced and ready.
My pulse hammers.
Hundreds of tiny Common men and women flock to the tower edges, arms shielding their eyes from the wind that lashes like exploding glass.
The gate to their desert community opens, dragging along sand and debris.
The tank presses in through twin stone walls, and I wait for collision, but the driver is masterful at his Trade.
We pass through unscathed.
“Rome.” Turin’s voice booms in my ears with even his whispers.
I lift my head, painfully aware of my thunderous pulse, and align myself with the clarity inside this metal fortress. My eyes meet Turin; attention is my response.
“Not a word,” is all he says.
I clench my teeth, caging hundreds of objections. Words won’t make him treat me like his heir, like a man. Like a king.
As he moves toward the front of the vehicle, his bulk brushes the metal edges. Our container is cramped, but he is enormous. Thick across the shoulders, long arms, and hands the size of a Common human’s head.
He is a monster.
And I will be, too.
Soon.
I am not a child.
My Guardian, Kong, watches me with amusement as my mind reels, the words hanging on my tongue but flaring in my eyes.
I crack my neck from side to side. I want to make decisions. I am ready. Ready to be the successor in The Cradle.
What I was born for, built for.
“I know that look. You’re only eighteen. What would you have to say to the Common anyway?” Kong asks, reading me.
I look at him. “Eighteen is a man.”
“No.” He shakes his head against a single laugh. “Your father is ninety-three and still has the appearance of a fifty-year-old. That’s pure Xin De genetics. You are no man. That is a man.”
Disdain climbs into my voice. “I know his age.”
He nods toward Turin—my father. “Look at him, boy.”
Boy… My lips curl into a snarl. He is the only being I can stand calling me that.
“Why?” I argue. He is also the only one I argue with because our respect is mutual.
Despite my age, he listens to me.
“Because”—he moves closer, care for my wellbeing unhidden in his frustration— “it’s my damn job to keep you alive. And it’s not the fucking Common or Endigos that will get you killed. It’ll be at the hands of your own father if you let that slip through your mouth.”
I lift a brow. “Let what through?”
“What you’re thinking. I would die for you, boy. I would fight your father for you. Have him rip my head straight off my shoulders. Don’t put me in that position. Your father might be one of the last pure Xin De before The Trade introduced The Revive. Your mother was only half. You won’t be as massive as him.”
I frown at Kong. “I’ll be bigger than him.”
“Do you have the prince?” A Guard calls from the front where four others prepare—pulling on leather armour and loading their automatic rifles—to exit through the hatches as the vehicle chews along the dirt floor, slowing and easing into place.
“My mother is two-thirds Xin De,” I whisper as the Guards bustle ahead of us, heated conversations and readiness in the air. “Turin saw to it. He told me he wouldn’t allow The Trade to mix my blood too much.”
Kong folds his thick arms over his chest. “Still not pure, boy.”
Fucker.
Sneering, I look through the scope.
The Common duck from the giant tank tracks. Murmuring their awe, they circle the two colossal military vehicles, creating a crowd around them. They gape, their eyes the size of saucers set into semi-translucent flesh, blue veins snaking beneath pale skin.
Common men and women have always reminded me of fish. I wonder what their skin feels like. Soft? Hot or cold? Or both? So fragile the world dictates the temperature?
Nothing like mine; my skin is always warm, engineered for the world. A thick sheath with compact molecules to combat the wind, endure the heat, deter the cold, block the sand—survive. My skin is designed to survive.