I toss and turn.

My body suffers, open and raw, like holding the truth inside is akin to capturing a wild animal within me. It shreds at its enclosure.

It burns and rips.

I don’t know when it happens, but first-light crawls along the floor and up the walls. It is barely time to rise, and my eyes have had no rest, but I stand, pull my pants on, throw a robe around my shoulders, and wander down the dim hallway.

Paranoia twists inside me.

At the end of the long passage, I see my sister’s door is open. The artificial light from inside shines, making shapes on the dark hallway wall opposite. Suddenly, a shadow blocks the light. Turin leaves the room with a glass vase in his hand, and I- I-

I stop in my tracks. My muscles refuse to move, not an inch, too tight like a coiled band.

Then they snap.

I take off down the hall.

Something is wrong.

I need to get to her.

Two Guards attempt to slow me, stepping in my path. “My prince, wai⁠—"

I throw them both into the walls, crack the age-old brick under the force, and knock them both out cold.

Dead, maybe.

I don’t care.

I round her bedroom door and enter her room. The light hits me in harsh brilliance.

I scan the space as though possessed; the bed is empty, sheets bunched; a woman in the corner stuffs bloody rags into a purple canvas bag; the washroom is illuminated by a glowing gap bordering the door.

What have they done?

Letting my rage burn through me, I stride toward the door against the tension of shuddering limbs. I reach for the handle and pull it open.

Then I see her.

My sweet sister is naked, being helped by two women into her claw-footed bathtub. Her slim legs tremble to hold her weight, her skin is pale and clammy, a blood-filled drain skewers her stomach, and crimson fluid seeps through a white adhesive bandage at her lower abdomen.

She gazes up at me, all sunshine gone from her eyes. “They took it all.” Her voice breaks. “All the parts I won’t need now that I am to be Queen of The Cradle.”

OceanofPDF.com

Part TwoWelcome to The Cradle

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter One

Aster

Nineteen Years Later

Buzzing fills the air, the electric notes twisting my spine tight.

This is a big day.

The biggest, actually.

Through the cracked window to the tower promenade, men and women brave the red gale to watch. Their grasping eyes move from girl to girl, keen to witness the ceremonial moment take place.

“I’m so proud of all my girls,” the Silk Wardeness says, circling us slowly. “You have studied hard and shown true dedication. This mark will seal your Trade. Meaningful Purpose”—she smiles— “is in your future.”

The girls squeal once.

I drop my gaze to my worn hide boots and the seam of my mauve dress, avoiding the sight of Iris’s arm laying perfectly still for the tattoo gun.

I don’t hear her respond to the needles’ penetration, but I know they are in her flesh as the buzzing tones deepen.

Behind me, the other girls shuffle in line, anticipation crawling inside their feet. They hide excited chatter in their breath. I, on the other hand, am wary of the pain.

The wind outside the parlour suddenly howls. A moment later, Iris lifts her slim arm to display the brand. She smiles with pride.

“It’s official,” she breathes in awe. Her green eyes land on me, cruel in an instant. “But not even a brand will make you any more than Fur Born,” she says with a snarl.

I clench my teeth and hold her sharp gaze as she saunters to join the line with the other marked girls.

“Next,” the tattoo man calls, and a girl behind me bumps me forward.

Time slows.

The gap between me and the buzzing is empty, ready to be filled. The gun is suddenly louder. The man’s patience wanes as he stares at me. The girls’ shuffling is riotous in my ears, though I am quite certain they are not moving at all.

I am the one moving.

Carelessly, my heels slide backward, recoiling from the tattoo gun when a monstrous form eclipses me, and two huge hands grip my shoulders.

Someone holds me in line.

Someone enormous.

A gasp, a pin drops. Now there is no noise at all, and I wonder where all the breathing has gone… It’s too still.

The man with the tattoo gun is staring above my head at the towering figure behind me. His startled expression snaps to submission, and he bows his chin.

It can’t be…

As a statue held captive in big hands, I twist my chin and peer up. Up. Up.

To his face.

His face.

Even with his cloak pulled up and shadows dancing the outline of his strong brow, I recognise him. I’d know his face through the dense Redwind.

He is stunning.

His face is a masterpiece. Chiselled yet smooth. Square jawline. Scars that only enhance his virile features. Blue eyes that glow as he stares intensely down on me, penetrating my soul. The colour blue should be peaceful, calm, but his eyes are anything but.

They whisper of cruelty.

They demand obedience.

My king.

I turn in his grip.

Everyone in the parlour drops to their knees, but I remain standing, unable to bow with his massive hands wrapped so powerfully around my upper arms.

“My king,” I offer, lowering my gaze.

“Why do you hesitate?” he asks, his voice a deep timbre that presses on my chest, making my lungs and heart strain to work.

“I—” I stammer and force my eyes to hold the ground respectfully. Hesitate? To get the tattoo? To bow? To speak? What?

I cannot answer.

“Don’t you want my mark?”

I blink my confusion, blood draining from my cheeks. Of course, I want his mark.

And finally, I look up at him.

This cannot be real.

I’ve seen him on the big screen in the Silk Aviary—the one for Trade Updates. At least once a month, they show moving pictures of him on campaigns in The Cradle, visiting Trade men at the windmill farms, or shaking hands with lords from Trade towers.

This is so much better.

Seeing him in the flesh. Smelling him.

Stunned, I nod my head. “Yes, of course.”

His gaze holds me arrested. “Then”—he stretches the word with no mirth— “why hesitate, little creature?”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “It’ll hurt.”

“Have you not been given any Opi?”

It is like the others in the room have faded away, leaving only him and me. Captured in a time apart from all others.

“The others have applied it topically, but— But I’m allergic,” I say softly.

His brows draw in as though he is recalling a painful moment or reliving a feeling, then— “I see,” he states, calm resurfacing. “Hereditary, I imagine. From your mother’s side?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Your name?”

I look at his hands, still warming my arms. Why are they still there? I like it. But why?

“Aster.” I breathe. “Like a flower.” I look up at him again. “We are all just flowers, not like you, my king. You’re a city from the old-world. Everyone important is named after a city from the old-world.”

I don’t know why I said that.

He doesn’t need a history lesson.

My head feels as if I inhaled a cloud and now my thoughts are surrounded by white and confusion.

“Just a little flower?” He frowns, the question so curt it stirs the energy around us.

I simply nod, enraptured. “Yes.”

His palms slide down the length of my arms, leaving one to circle the column of my wrist. He could squeeze it to dust, his grip so encompassing.