I study him. “You speak of the queen out of turn, Kong. She isn’t yours to defend. She is mine.”

What little control he had leaves him in that moment. His face burns with anger. “Who are you punishing now, Rome? Always punishing someone so they hurt as much as you do. I am protecting your legacy! And your sister needs your sons to protect her when your rashness gets you killed. Without them, she will be taken from us. She is fragile. You know this.”

“Sire.” A member of my Guard pants, struggling up the hill, dropping to his knee in apology for the disrespectful approach. “Forgive my interruption, Sire, but Master Cairo has been informed that two Silk Girls are missing from the Aquilla Silk Aviary. We received a radio message from a Guard with reports of a crash. A Mill Trade worker found the van flipped over near Ruins N, outside an abandoned abattoir. He has sent Marshall Blues from the Trade-tower, but we are closer. Shall we go?”

“Rome,” Kong warns. “No.”

“Yes,” I say, thrilled at the premise of more blood on my hands and kills in my mental ledger.

“Send men from here,” Kong implores. “You don’t need to be rescuing Silk Girls. You have Trade men for such jobs.”

“I don’t take kindly to others playing with my property, Kong. You should know this about me.” I smirk. “I am somewhat of a possessive man.”

“Haven’t you killed enough men today, Rome?” he calls out as I stride down the hill. “You are possessive, but you’re not a man. You’re the damn King of The Strait, and you’re avoidin—” His words are swallowed by the wind as I descend, space stretching his voice to join the howling.

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Chapter Six

Rome

A copper-coloured haze sets the scene.

It’s fucking early.

“Remember there are Silk Girls in there,” a Guard says to the men who surround the entrance to the old abattoir.

They brace themselves at each entrance, before signalling with their fingers, one, two, three. They open the old bovine hatches and throw the gas in. It is a clear, heavy gas that will creep along the floors, nearly undetected before it knocks everyone inside out.

I pick my entrance. A double door, clearly the main passage in and out. I want to be seen first. It is something Kong hates about me. I arrive first and leave last. The Guard like to praise this—my motivations being driven by loyalty and leadership. When, in fact, my motivations are selfish and singular. I am the king. I want the first flare of fear to fall on me.

Rome of The Strait.

There is a beat of wings and then a thud from behind us; I know it is Odio landing on the top of the tank, so I don’t turn like the rest of the Guards do.

We wait for several minutes, until enough gas has leaked inside, like an eel through reeds.

Then I push open the doors. The Guards pull their masks down, but Kong and I walk straight in. One of the supreme Xin De evolutionary traits—thin films inside my nostrils that filter sand, debris, and heavy gases.

The red haze bleeds into a clammy and dark warehouse full of unconscious Endigos.

I stride forward, finding a young man on the floor. I step on his hand and roll my heel, grinding his bones to dust, mashing his flesh to red puddles. The boy groans but doesn’t come to.

How utterly boring…

The gas collects around their beds and sofas, but⁠—

I stop; a few meters away, on the floor a man crushes a small girl with black hair. Hair like onyx melted and swirled with blackberries—streaks of colour that are too dark to note, but add to the lush density, highlight and deepen.

I didn’t imagine caring about this campaign, but her little hand in mine is still a warm memory.

I forget about the Endigo, the ecstasy of their fear, the kill. While I stare at her, my men move in and begin to seize the unconscious. The Cradle Relations Guard records the moment with a camera hidden in his mask. He’ll use this footage for the weekly Trade Update. We will take the Endigos back to The Estate, showcase our success, promote the protection we offer to The Trade aligned Common and Xin De.

I wanted to kill a few first, but⁠—

I stride over to the two collapsed bodies. Seething, I reach down and grab the fucker’s skull, lift him from the tiny creature, and toss him to the side. The body hits a barrel, spilling the contents over the grey concrete floor.

It is her. I squat at her side.

Fuck me, she’s pretty.

Even when unresponsive, she’s striking. Her lips are flushed, eyes closed, long, dark lashes fan over pale cheeks. She is white, black, and red—a stunning contrast of bold hues.

I click my fingers at a Guard, impatient, and a mask is placed in my hand.

I’m scooping her into my arms before I can consider what has come over me. Call it interest. Call it boredom. A moment of psychosis, but it’s not compassion or sympathy as I have neither, nor do I wish to.

I slide the mask over her face. “Breathe deep, little creature.” She flops as though boneless. I nearly expect her to crumble to dust she is so slight. “Aster,” I say her name as though I’ve said it a million times before. “Little Aster.”

She inhales the reversing gas. It awakens her slowly. Her eyes move beneath their lids, then they open, her red lips parting on a small exhale as she gazes up at me.

“My king.” She smiles. She fucking smiles at me… “You can see me. You are here.”

I stare at her inebriated expression; the gas has hit her hard. Discomfort crawls along my fingertips, taking hold of my veins and coiling them in tight knots.

“I thought you said you would eat more.”

She swallows when her face comes within an inch of mine. “I-I think that I forgot to.”

Fuck. “You’re weak,” I say to her. I expect a wince or a tear, any kind of response, but I get an immediate acceptance of the truth in a sad nod.

“I tried to be strong. I tried to survive.”

So close to her violet-coloured eyes, staring at her, staring at me, it is in this moment that words carve through my cranium. Words I tried to forget from a time that fades each year with my humanity. ‘Strong things survive because they are strong. Fragile things survive despite it.’

It can’t be.

The baby we took from the Common community? It must be. An Opi allergy is rare. Her violet eyes, black hair, the age sits right… Fuck.

“You will look after her.” Her eyes hit mine like a hammer to a skull. She asked me—directly. I should say no; it doesn’t concern me, but I don’t. I want to be their saviour— her saviour.

“I will.”

It was an ignorant declaration from a time long before I painted my soul with the blood of hundreds and let it dry to a dark crust. Perhaps it was my last selfless moment.

My last slither of humanity.

Her hair falls like an ink-black river over my hand, my fingers, unbidden, moving through the thin, silky strands. “Do you still want to come with me?”

“Yes.” In a daze, her gaze losing constancy, she lifts a hand to touch my face as though to check I am real. “You are here.” I clench my jaw as her soft fingertips caress the rough surface. “You’re so hard.”

My heart squeezes.

I often forget the organ exists outside of firing my pulse for violence. It is too buried in layers of Xin De skin and muscles, lead and bullets, indiscriminate deaths and welcomed evil. My heart isn’t often reached, no, affected by anything.

Forcing my eyes from her, I survey the warehouse; one Guard is taking evidence for Cairo; three are hauling unconscious Endigos outside; Kong is staring at me.