Born for Silk (The Cradled Common)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Rome

Aged Eighteen

Vows of a king:

To be a king is to master one's passions and rule with the sole purpose of uniting The Cradle. Each new citizen needs the opportunity to have a Meaningful Purpose.

A Common Community.

That’s the first one I have ever seen.

Pressing my eye to the periscope in the king’s military tank, I watch as the fractured abbey emerges like a wraith through the red haze.

Nature throws her fierce body around the looming old-world compound, but it withstands the Redwind and sand.

It is indestructible.

Just like me.

We plough across the Red Decline toward the isolated community, tank tracks chewing the unsealed road, machinery humming, gunner braced and ready.

My pulse hammers.

Hundreds of tiny Common men and women flock to the tower edges, arms shielding their eyes from the wind that lashes like exploding glass.

The gate to their desert community opens, dragging along sand and debris.

The tank presses in through twin stone walls, and I wait for collision, but the driver is masterful at his Trade.

We pass through unscathed.

“Rome.” Turin’s voice booms in my ears with even his whispers.

I lift my head, painfully aware of my thunderous pulse, and align myself with the clarity inside this metal fortress. My eyes meet Turin; attention is my response.

“Not a word,” is all he says.

I clench my teeth, caging hundreds of objections. Words won’t make him treat me like his heir, like a man. Like a king.

As he moves toward the front of the vehicle, his bulk brushes the metal edges. Our container is cramped, but he is enormous. Thick across the shoulders, long arms, and hands the size of a Common human’s head.

He is a monster.

And I will be, too.

Soon.

I am not a child.

My Guardian, Kong, watches me with amusement as my mind reels, the words hanging on my tongue but flaring in my eyes.

I crack my neck from side to side. I want to make decisions. I am ready. Ready to be the successor in The Cradle.

What I was born for, built for.

“I know that look. You’re only eighteen. What would you have to say to the Common anyway?” Kong asks, reading me.

I look at him. “Eighteen is a man.”

“No.” He shakes his head against a single laugh. “Your father is ninety-three and still has the appearance of a fifty-year-old. That’s pure Xin De genetics. You are no man. That is a man.”

Disdain climbs into my voice. “I know his age.”

He nods toward Turin—my father. “Look at him, boy.”

Boy… My lips curl into a snarl. He is the only being I can stand calling me that.

“Why?” I argue. He is also the only one I argue with because our respect is mutual.

Despite my age, he listens to me.

“Because”—he moves closer, care for my wellbeing unhidden in his frustration— “it’s my damn job to keep you alive. And it’s not the fucking Common or Endigos that will get you killed. It’ll be at the hands of your own father if you let that slip through your mouth.”

I lift a brow. “Let what through?”

“What you’re thinking. I would die for you, boy. I would fight your father for you. Have him rip my head straight off my shoulders. Don’t put me in that position. Your father might be one of the last pure Xin De before The Trade introduced The Revive. Your mother was only half. You won’t be as massive as him.”

I frown at Kong. “I’ll be bigger than him.”

“Do you have the prince?” A Guard calls from the front where four others prepare—pulling on leather armour and loading their automatic rifles—to exit through the hatches as the vehicle chews along the dirt floor, slowing and easing into place.

“My mother is two-thirds Xin De,” I whisper as the Guards bustle ahead of us, heated conversations and readiness in the air. “Turin saw to it. He told me he wouldn’t allow The Trade to mix my blood too much.”

Kong folds his thick arms over his chest. “Still not pure, boy.”

Fucker.

Sneering, I look through the scope.

The Common duck from the giant tank tracks. Murmuring their awe, they circle the two colossal military vehicles, creating a crowd around them. They gape, their eyes the size of saucers set into semi-translucent flesh, blue veins snaking beneath pale skin.

Common men and women have always reminded me of fish. I wonder what their skin feels like. S oft? Hot or cold? Or both? So fragile the world dictates the temperature?

Nothing like mine; my skin is always warm, engineered for the world. A thick sheath with compact molecules to combat the wind, endure the heat, deter the cold, block the sand—survive. My skin is designed to survive.

I glance at Kong. He grins at me, before fisting my leather chest plates, reminding me I need them even with my engineered genes. People want me dead, and a bullet will still pierce my skin.

“Do I?” he asks. “Do I have the prince?”

I relent. “My mouth is sealed.”

“Will you keep it that way?”

“Ready,” a Guard calls, and the rest hustle through the hatches. They quickly create a protective ring around Turin as he climbs into view.

I listen. Even from in here, I swear I hear the entire community gasp. Kong is right—Turin is a single-man army. Designed for battle. A warlord.

Twenty bullets already float deep within his tissue, and he is twenty-five percent metal after several wars and surgical enhancements.

I begin climbing from the tank, watching the interaction outside as I go.

“Bless you.” A tiny Common man steps forward to shake Turin’s hand, finding his own disappear into the massive mitt. He tries to steel himself, but Turin of The Strait shadows him.

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.

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.

“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.”