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.

I wonder if she’ll pinken all the way down to her slim thighs if I approach her. Had my fair share of Xin De girls, but never fucked a Common girl with rosy cheeks.

“They left babies,” she continues, despite the heat from my gaze.

Kong mutters to my side, “You’re too damn handsome, Rome.”

“You’re not my type,” I offer in jest.

Turin looks down on her, and her blush sinks to a fearful white. “And you want me to take them?” he asks pointedly.

“Sire.” She bows, collecting her thoughts, before returning her gaze. “For a better life?” She breathes, uncertain, looking at Colt, pleading through a shaking voice.

“A meaningful one,” Cairo corrects.

“Yes. And comfort and food. Shelter. Protection. Not like this...” The young girl turns, gesturing to the faces of the Common who outwardly despise The Trade, who refuse our system. Who want to live in their own communities. “Please. I do not think we can care for orphans.”

Cairo smiles, but it is snake-like. Wider than needed, with no alliance from his eyes. “Each and every Trade citizen is protected.”

“My sweet Odette.” Colt, her father, touches a small bruise marring her jaw, and she closes her eyes on a deep sigh filled with meaning.

“You won’t take any of the older girls?” Colt finally asks turning back to us. The traumatic night of carnage creates an obvious desperation in him. One that goes against his own beliefs. “We have two boys and three girls under twelve⁠—”

“We cannot,” Cairo dismisses.

Ahead of me, there is suddenly movement and murmurs, the dishevelled Common parting to allow four young girls through. Small, slim, wiry girls. Vulnerable as they already are, they also carry babies, two each, one in each arm.

Seven Guards set their weapons down, ammunition rattling and clinking, metal on metal. The unnerving sound widens the girls’ eyes and slows their small feet.

“Give the babes to the Guards,” Cairo orders with an unaffected tone that pacifies others but bothers me.

Sobs dissect the air, the women protesting this exchange. Each babe begins to mewl as they are given to the huge Xin De Guards. Direct and businesslike, the men scan the babes for sickness, running a warm laser across each plump cheek.

The babes cry louder.

“Wha- What is that?” Colt stares, eyes widening. It is likely he has never seen this level of technology before.

“It doesn’t hurt,” a Guard confirms.

“Anything we should know?” Turin asks, and I hear indifferent due-diligence in his tone.

Defeated, Colt shakes his head. “Thank you for taking them, Sire. We cannot care for them.”

An assembly line of Guards passes the infants along and up the tank before handing them through the hatch. The sound of mewling disappears within the metal fortress, but the moment of quiet soon twists into wails and sobs from the watching Common girls.

“We are lucky,” Colt says to his people. “They will be safe. We cannot care for them here. Can you? No. Settle yourselves down now.”

“There is no God across The Strait,” Odette says. “She will need me. Can I go with them? Protect my sister.”

“They do not believe. And will not allow you to practise.” Her father holds her hands between them as the last infant is loaded into the tank.