“Well then.” Odette turns to Turin. “Sire, you must know the little black-haired one is allergic to Opi Latex. She is my baby sister.”

“That is a genetic burden.” Cairo looks the girl up and down as if she is to blame. “A weak woman produces a weak child.”

Lifting her chin, she says, “She is strong in all other ways. She fought through a fever without intervention. Strong things survive because they are strong. Fragile things survive despite it.”

Turin almost smiles at her. “Very well.”

“You will look after her.” Her eyes hit mine like a hammer to a skull, and I frown. 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.

The Cradle’s Monarch and Protector.

And the teenage boy in me is idiotically envisioning the rosy skin between her thighs. To see if she feels the same as a Xin De girl. Her eyes are so… telling. Watery. Red. Wide. Vulnerable. I want to see them pop open when I sink inside her.

“I will,” I say like a fool, and the silence that precedes could shatter glass.

Kong clears his throat behind me.

I feel Cairo’s eyes slicing parts of my flesh from bone, but I gaze straight at Odette—such a Common name.

She interests me.

What could this God have over her… This fairytale that some Common still cling to. Didn’t we prove there is no God when we altered his apparent creations? When we enhanced and fast-tracked evolution with genetic engineering? We changed the entire damn homosapien species as it was, improved it, and birthed the genus Xin De.

Ignorant Common.

She looks at her father again. “God is in her heart, Daddy.” Her violet eyes well up. It is weak, but endearing, nonetheless. “That will not change.”

Further discussions fill the air between our circle, but I am not listening anymore.

Less than an hour passes, and we are once again on the road, parting the chaotic wind, tank tracks grinding southwards down the Red Decline.

Sitting back in the tank, my skin prickles against the corruption in the air.

We offered the Common community Trade men and supplies for the coming months. The aid, exchange, supplies… It seems all too philanthropic to me. Not the image of Turin I’ve had all these years growing up.

Then again, he gains a far superior prize for his visit to the raided community—fresh-faced babies for The Trade.

We are travelling through last-light toward The Neck when the tank stops abruptly—again.

Frowning, I peer through the periscope, the infrared light activating against the dim, to find we have parked within the skeletons of a city from long ago—Ruins S, I would wager. The echoes of civilisation fade into the desert winds.

Across from us is a once-white truck adorned with scars, windows painted with messy black strokes, and a bonnet showcasing a grill not unlike the mouth of a rabid dog. A true manifestation of the life lived in the desert.

“The fuck are we doing here?” I ask as Turin readies himself to climb through the hatch. I don’t know why I ask. I don’t expect an answer, so I press my eyes to the scope and search the outside, right and then left.

We are alone.

Can’t see the other tank.

Then I see them.

Movement through the Redwind catches my eye. I feel the unsettling crawl of eyes before I make out the shady figures of hooded men as they appear from behind the truck. Their bodies part the thick sand-filled air, wind waving their cloaks.

Endigos.

If Xin De became part beast during the Gene Age, then Endigos are the vultures. They’ll feed on anything without remorse. Teeth thin and flexible for filleting, and nails long and sheer, but there isn’t a great deal to feast on out here—except Common.

Turin approaches the truck, and one of the Endigos flings back the canopy, exposing the tray, the wind aiding, blasting the fabric backward.

On the metal bed, bodies are stacked in careless piles. I squint at the bloody mounds. Slim torsos. Short legs. A small arm swings free, flapping in the wind by the tyre. A female arm. Branded on her wrist is a purple flower-womb sigil.

A Silk Girl…

Turin leans over the tray, inspecting the bodies. Uncertainty builds inside my gut, too many questions firing at once, churning my blood.

Why is the king meeting with Endigos?

To what end?

Turin finally notices the woman at the bottom of the heavy stack of flesh and reaches for her arm. He inspects the tattoo. Showing no sign of emotion, as is the way of a king, he drops the arm and returns to the tank.

I frown at the truck.

“Boy?” Kong’s tone is deep with warning.

I sit back and stare blankly at him. “We knew about the raid.” My mind swims with thoughts. “Maybe even organised it. For her? Who was she?” It is a statement, but still implores an answer.

He deadpans. “I don’t get involved.”

“Or was it for the babies?”

“I don’t get involved in politics, boy. You’ll know soon enough, I am sure. Your father wanted you to see or else you wouldn’t be here. Must admit, one hell of a lesson for your first campaign as the heir.”

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Chapter Two

Rome

Vows of a king:

To be a king is to suffer alone under the burden of decisions and the weight of necessary evils and truths.

To enter The Estate, we travel the length of The Neck, a windy, thin stretch of land flanked by cliffs and lapped by rough seas.

It is the only way in and out. For this reason, The Estate is the safest place in The Cradle.

The tank roars forward between soaring limestone walls. Hundreds of Common and Xin De are on the streets today to mark my arrival, but more likely to celebrate my sister. It is not just my reveal as the heir—my little sister is taking her place as the future Queen of The Cradle.

Trade residents crowd the entrance. Large Martials monitor the gathering; Common men and women from other Trades dress in their most elegant clothes, eager to shake Tuscany’s hand; small boys blush at her beauty; tiny girls raise flowers in offering to their queen; men enjoy a day off from their Purpose; women smile.

I grow bored of looking at them, too many to take in, so I slump back into the tank as we stop at the foot of the stairwell to the piazza.

I climb out, overdue for a moment of sanctuary and truth, alone with my sister. I smile when I see her.

Tuscany is standing on the stone steps in a white gown. Stunning. Skin like mine, tanned, but unlike mine, hers is flawless and smooth. And her hair, only a few shades darker than her skin, falls over her chest and to the dip at her back.

She looks like a goddess.

In this moment, I understand. Understand why the Common and Xin De alike will fall in love with her. The idea of her is a conditioned response. Someone to worship. She is their future mother. The mother of The Cradle. Pure. Elegant. Feminine. It’s a spectacle they willingly soak in.

I frown and turn to watch the Guards, the Xin De men, and the crowds of Common also staring. My muscles twitch. I don’t care for the kind of attention she has—she is only ten.

They look at her as though they— The Cradle and all its people—own her. All of her.

All the parts inside and out.

Trying to hide the darkness stirring in my stomach, I walk to my sister and see her face light up as it always does whenever she notices me.

Her smile helps…

“Rome!” She darts down the steps to greet me, her hair is a pretty golden-brown river trailing behind her. She is sheer sunlight in this hazy land.