I glance at Kong. He grins at me, before fisting my leather chest plates, reminding me I need them even with my engineered genes. People want me dead, and a bullet will still pierce my skin.
“Do I?” he asks. “Do I have the prince?”
I relent. “My mouth is sealed.”
“Will you keep it that way?”
“Ready,” a Guard calls, and the rest hustle through the hatches. They quickly create a protective ring around Turin as he climbs into view.
I listen. Even from in here, I swear I hear the entire community gasp. Kong is right—Turin is a single-man army. Designed for battle. A warlord.
Twenty bullets already float deep within his tissue, and he is twenty-five percent metal after several wars and surgical enhancements.
I begin climbing from the tank, watching the interaction outside as I go.
“Bless you.” A tiny Common man steps forward to shake Turin’s hand, finding his own disappear into the massive mitt. He tries to steel himself, but Turin of The Strait shadows him.
He visibly trembles, dried blood on his forehead cutting through caked dirt and sweat.
The pulse in my throat builds to a beat between my ears. Is it excitement?
No. As my feet hit the dirt and all eyes land on the prince for the first time, it becomes clear-as fucking crown-light that my charged heart has nothing to do with excitement.
I am nervous to disappoint him.
Him. My father—Turin.
The man is basically a stranger, and until a few days ago, I wasn’t even certain I was his heir… Though, I had my suspicions. I am bigger than the others born from his Collective. I am stronger, and the eagles like me more. I felt his blood inside me but had to wait. Anonymity is sacred until the heir turns eighteen. Old enough to defend himself—myself. Then, the great reveal. That is now—this day, this campaign.
I walk to stand beside him, and Kong halts at my left flank—my shadow and shield.
The wind is trapped outside the abbey fortress, but it creeps the perimeter walls, whistling and warning us. It is still there.
“We are indebted that you came,” the Common man says, stepping backward once, craning his neck to peer up at his towering Xin De King. “I am Colt.”
“We do what we can,” Turin states, apathetic, his voice a thundering note capable of trembling rocks below his feet.
I envy him.
He is without emotion.
Will I ever be like that?
As if to answer me, the vision of my sweet sister flashes in my mind, and I feel everything.
Cairo, The Trade Master, approaches from the rear vehicle—never sit the king and The Trade Master in the same tank. At least one must survive an attack. I know this from my studies.
He takes his position at my father’s right hand. “How many Endigos came through?” he asks, dropping his cloak to his shoulders, displaying flawless, unscathed features. A manicured beard and neat, short, dark hair—the man is pretty.
Too pretty.
I glare at him.
It’s almost an insult to a war-stricken land. He’s never seen a battlefield, but spurs hundreds of men onto them. He must be in his thirties but appears only slightly older than me—his Xin De Genus is strong.
But so is mine.
Colt takes a large breath. “Fifty. Maybe.”
“Armed?” Cairo asks.
Colt nods stiffly, a sad memory glossing his eyes. “Yes. They scaled the walls. Opened the gates from the inside. We lost men and women—” He swallows over a lump. “My wife. That is, the mother of my children.”
“We know what a wife is,” Cairo offers. “We are not ignorant of the old-world traditions.”
“Marriage is part of our religion,” Colt says, then presses on. “They took supplies. They stayed all night. They raped our women. Made us watch. They gutted our priest and cooked his intestines on that fire.” His voice breaks. “They feasted on him.”
Turning his gaze to the compound surroundings, Turin seems to analyse the raid.
I follow his line of sight.
To the right, a smoking fire hisses of the cannibalistic event. Across the square, rugs outside each door are stained with splashes of blood, a pattern that comes from energetic hacking and slicing.
The men and women look exhausted.
Dirty and bloody.
My mind reaches and imagines—women and men being dragged from their homes last night. Raped. Murdered. Their screams touched the walls, the haunting energy still clawing at the brickwork as we stand here.
A growl sits in my chest.
I’m not sure how I feel at this moment. Not remorse for Common I don’t know. The only truth that flows like molten steel through me is Tuscany, my sister, will never leave The Estate. I will lock her in my wing when I’m The Cradle’s Monarch and Protector if it means sheltering her from all this… This Common savagery.
“They destroyed the mill.” Colt’s voice cuts into my thoughts. Clearing his throat, he appears on the brink of tears.
He wipes his face.
Tries to stifle his emotions.
“That was the only one we had,” he manages to say. “It powered the entire community.”
“You operate outside The Trade,” Cairo points out. “You know this is a choice. Your lifestyle here is your choice. The isolation is your choice.”
“Freedom is our choice,” a man from the community calls from inside the sea of small, exhausted Common.
In The Estate, that is treason.
Darting my eyes between the crowd and Turin, I wait for his reaction. For retribution. I want to see how Turin manages The Greater Cradle.
But no consequence comes.
He is unmoved—almost robotic.
“Yes,” Cairo finally addresses the phantom voice. “And this is what you get for your freedom. Lucky for you, we are not so selfish.”
“He understands,” Turin states, back to business. “What else should we know? Can you describe the Endigos?”
Colt shuffles. “It was dark. They wore hoods. They kidnapped ten women. Two men.” Suddenly, his eyes veer around as he notices several of our Guards fielding out into the compound, some carrying equipment and others checking the Common over for wounds. “W- what are they doing?”
“Doctors. Nurses.” Cairo gestures toward a man with a crew following him, all heaving pieces of machinery. “This man works for the Windmill Trade. He is the best we have. He will build you a new mill, and these men will help repair your homes and treat your wounded. They are all healthy Trade men. You’ll feed them. You’ll do as they ask. You’ll respect them. They have Meaningful Purpose.”
Colt squeezes his eyes shut, regret weighing them down. “I understand.” With a sigh, he looks at Turin. “Thank you, my king. Thank you.”
“Sire,” Turin corrects.
“The invitation is open to your young.” Cairo clasps his fingers together in front of his long purple tunic. “Children under five are acceptable,” he says in a drone, almost bored voice. “Any older, and it’s problematic. The need for Meaningful Purpose should start in the womb, you see.” He nods in the direction of the rebellious voice from earlier. “Or radical perspectives fester. Weeds knit together.”
“The women that were taken…” A young girl steps forward, hesitant but brave. She is younger than me. Pale, but pretty, and when she sees me, she blushes, a scarlet hue touching each cheek.
I fight a grin.