Page 3 of Born for Silk
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.