Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Kong
She took a brownie from him.
She shook his hand without flinching.
She is alone in there with him.
Jealousy is quickly becoming me. I’ve never had to watch her interact with other men without her brother present. She has never been alone in a room with a man other than Rome or me.
I want her to feel joy.
Want her to feel free.
As I leave her suite, possessiveness courses through my veins, and my every footstep is heavy, a declaration to keep a distance from me while I manage this discomfort.
Calm. Steady.
I ram it down. Don’t have time for it—irrationality. Lord Bled is a member of her Collective, a loyal friend to Rome, and I don’t mind him on a personal level either.
Prick.
Outside the Hall, at the foot of the steps, the tanks idle and the Guards wait with their rifles clutched to their centre.
The citizens who were here to witness her arrival have all been pushed back beyond the terrace, the area completely blocked off for this assembly.
Hints of Redwind prowl the men and machinery, lifting dust and rustling uniforms. I stop on the top step, looking down on them. They are waiting for me.
Effortlessly, I debrief the Guards, who are joined by Marshall Blues from the Lower-tower and military from the surrounding areas.
I demand additional safety measures, patrols at every corner and through the courtyards—my little queen enjoys strolling.
And I know how easily the little thing can slip through unnoticed.
“The queen has never visited,” I mention.
“Learn to see out of the back of your heads. Learn to watch with your ears. You do not look the queen in the eye. Do not allow her to catch you watching her. You do not approach her,” I finish with.
“Touch her. Address her unless invited to. You die for her; that is all you do.”
It’s a harsh truth.
But they all nod.
Over half disburse, filtering out, back to their Purpose without complaint or noise.
A few dozen line up in front of me to ask questions, request further direction, and gather details on how the Lower-tower needs to be reorganised for this week.
After many conversations, the last in line, a young man with a clumsy lilt, approaches me. “Excuse me, my lord.”
“I’m no lord,” I state.
“Sorry, my lor— Um… Kong.”
“What do you need?”
He stops in front of me, a step lower, shadowed by my massive frame. “I am really excited to be in your presence, Sir. I mean, Kong.” He fumbles with his rifle.
“Why are you holding your rifle like that?” I study his footing and hold. “Is it new?”
“Yeah.” He beams, boyish. “All the weapons are new for the queen’s visit. For the campaign. We all received new equipment. Isn’t it great?”
I study him, watching him clutch his rifle awkwardly and stand with his toes facing inward. “Are you Built For Armour?”
“Yeah.” He laughs to himself like he’s heard this a hundred times. “They all think I’m stupid. Dropped on my head or something.”
“Were you?” I lift my brow.
“No. I don’t think so.”
What is this about?
“Is that everything?”
“I was told that you’re a fair man,” he says. “The CR Guard told me to come to you for a… a-ah lesson.”
Ah, propaganda.
What is he up to?
“Did he?” I scan the steps and terrace, spotting the Common Relations Guard, Amo, with his helmet camera directed at me.
There you are.
I look back at the boy. “That depends on the audience. What is your name, boy?”
“Hack.” He stands taller. “He said that a lesson might be good for me and said I should take this rare opportunity to ask you. I mean, you’re a legend!”
A legend. The CR Guard has followed the king and I on every campaign, recorded every win. Cut and trimmed the gory reality and focused on the triumph. This is about The Cradle Updates, propaganda, news, something to entertain The Cradle.
I play along, knowing the camera is on me. “Are you afraid of your equipment?”
He looks down at it, uncertainty playing across his expression. “Should I be?”
“No.” I take pity on him, but I have to get back to my little queen. Can’t fuck around for too long with this kid and the fluffy Update the CR Guard is pressing for. “Alright, follow me,” I say, my voice steady and commanding.
Striding down the steps, expecting him to follow, I walk into the centre of the tanks, using their armoured walls for safety should the kid fuck up.
“Listen up.” I grab a rifle from the back of the tank. “This is how you load it.” My hands move with practiced ease as I pull the magazine from my belt, feeling the cool metal against my palm. “First, ensure it’s safe. Keep the muzzle pointed down.”
His eyes widen, absorbing every word as I slide the magazine into the rifle. The click is always a rewarding sound. “Now, pull the charging handle back. This chambers a round. Do it confidently. Your turn.”
After fumbling a few times, he mimics my movements. I study him closely, prepared to step in if he struggles.
Hesitantly, he pulls back the charging handle. Ready.
“Good. Now, let’s talk about aiming.” Positioning myself next to him, I point toward the impenetrable tank wall. “Align the front sight with the rear sight. Keep both eyes open if you can. It provides better depth perception.”
As he lines up the sights, I notice his breathing quickens.
“Take a deep breath, then exhale slowly. Squeeze the trigger—don’t jerk it.” I watch him, and for a moment, I see Rome.
Rome was a natural talent, but arrogant—that hasn’t changed with age or title.
We spent thousands of hours in the forest that cups The Estate, hunting Aquilla Cats when he was a young man.
Some nights, we camped in the caves. Odio flying above us, keeping watch.
Fond memories from before he was king, before his reign.
Shaking off the nostalgia in my mind, I order the boy, “Control is key.”
He nods. Focused.
I step backward, giving him space. “Whenever you’re ready.”
“Wait?” He freezes, the rifle resting against his shoulder. “You want me to shoot it now? Here?”
“What else would we be doing?” I can see the tension in his body as his attention slides back to the tank. “It’s a tank, boy. You can’t hurt it. Understand your weapon,” I remind him softly, and side-eye the CR Guard as he loops around us, a smug smile exposed below his mask.
The boy, Hack, exhales slowly, then pulls the trigger. He flinches as the shot rings out, the loud single pop now echoing around the tower terrace, the walls of tanks creating an amplified effect.
“Not a bad shot,” I call out. “Now, let’s do it one more time.”
Then I have to go.
He stares at the tank. “I actually hit it, first time!” He spins around to face me, a wide grin on his face, but in his enthusiasm, he forgets the most crucial rule—keeping the rifle pointed down.
I barely have time to react when—
The shot resounds through the air, a deafening crack that shatters the moment. I grunt as I feel the bullet strike my shin, agony exploding up my thigh. Disbelief courses through me, but I remain standing against the shock.
“Well, fuck,” I grunt, glancing down to see blood pooling around my boot.
“Oh!” The boy’s face crumbles. “I… I didn’t mean to! Oh, fuck.”
I lift my hand. “Stay still!” I command him, my voice steady despite the throbbing. Dropping to one knee, I stretch out the wounded leg on the ground. “Set the rifle down, boy. And focus. I’m going to be okay.”
The CR Guard moves around me, all too eager. “This is gold,” he mutters.
Prick.
“I’ll get the Medi Kit!” The boy bolts toward a tank, and I try to assess my injury. I sit on the ground and remove my boot. Rolling my pants up to my knee, I get a look at it. The bullet is half wedged in, parallel to my bone. Crimson vines twist down my leg, making it look worse than it is.
Weird looking bullet…
The boy stumbles toward me with the Medi Kit, his expression filled with terror and guilt. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean—"
“Calm down.” I cut him off.
A shaky hand passes me the kit just as a wave of nausea washes over me.
What the fuck?
Something doesn’t feel right.
“It’s not even a through-and-through,” I say, more to myself, but—
The world around me begins to blur, colours swirling as I struggle to stay focused. “What the fuck was that bullet?”
“Ah…” He falters. I hear his panic. “Ah…”
I grab the bullet from my shin, take hold, and unplug the gaping hole, blood flowing heavier now. The bullet gleams in my palm—wrong shape, strange markings etched into the metal.
Fuck.
“It’s fucking tainted,” I murmur, tongue thick. “These are to tranq. For Fucksake.”
I blink, trying to clear my vision, but it only makes things worse. The world tilts. Gravity pulls me down, a heaviness settling into my limbs.
Hack squirms. “Am I going to be punished?”
“No. No, I’ll be fine.” Planting my hand on the ground, I push to my feet, my body unsteady. It feels huge. Dangerous. Have I always been this heavy? The faces around me shift in and out of focus so I add, “In several hours.”
Fuck.
My little queen.
Brownies.
Handshakes.
Lord Bled—prick.