Chapter 51
Chapter Fifty-One
Tuscany
I noticed very little when I arrived yesterday, but now all I can taste is my past. The Medical Hub air tastes of electricity, antiseptic, and lemon—flavours I’m psychologically connected to.
I follow the formidable figure ahead, my big brother, Rome, the king, down the corridor toward the Acting Trade Master’s chamber.
He can’t be as cruel, as evil, as Master Cairo, surely.
Ugh.
This place makes me shudder. Even as a child, long before my body was a matter of Cradle security, I didn’t ask about this tower. It is an unspoken rule, one every citizen should just know. Feel. Sense.
The Xin De gene was forged here—constructed and engineered and altered.
This tower is woven into my bones. And many say that the Gene Age never ended.
That man and beast and everything in-between are still being manipulated, built, and merged.
The knowledge merely went underground, hidden below my feet right now.
Rome’s words from earlier today roll in my mind like warm honey. ‘Kong is here.’
My Guardian is in quarantine, in a sterile cell for examination, probably being catalogued like fresh inventory.
I know that feeling.
Though I’ve never been here, I’ve studied every map, because I know power beats between these walls. The Estate is The Cradle’s heart, the Lower-tower its brain, but the Trade-tower is something far more mysterious and intangible—its consciousness.
It rises from Aquilla’s northeast desert like a black tooth piercing through the high ranges. I’ve heard Trade citizens lower their voices when they speak of it, as if the tower may overhear them. Only Trade-cleared surgeons, scientists, and doctors may cross its threshold.
And us.
The Royal Collective
Even we require escorts.
The structure itself is miraculous. Each window is a one-way mirror. Corridors circle most rooms, so no space is entirely private. Nothing here is true glass or steel, but an engineered composite that stays flawless beneath a thousand touches.
Here, Trade personnel, though Trade servants seems more fitting, simply fulfil their Meaningful Purpose like any other Trade-aligned citizen.
But somewhere within there is technology beyond my understanding.
The Medical Hub anchors it all. Clinics, laboratories, and surgical theatres stacked from the lowest sub-basement to the highest levels like the tower’s spinal cord.
We keep walking.
No blind corners.
No shadows.
No nooks for privacy.
My footsteps clip on polished floors. I lift my chin, not in pride, but necessity, while nervous energy coils through me. I flex my hands at my sides, not shrinking, but strong.
I feel emotionally drained. I wish I had his hand to hold or his presence to inhale or a glimpse of that solid body.
I gaze around the bright corridor. A shiver rushes through me; I want to leave this tower as soon as possible.
A man in white bows as Rome passes him. “Sire.” Then to me. “My queen.”
I nod, hiding my nerves behind my secret smile. This place creates secret smiles, cunning and merciless curves.
As we round a corner, I see a giant figure stepping from a room, and my breath catches.
Kong…
He looks good. A tall, broad warrior with long dark hair braided down his spine. I gaze, beating heart in my eyes, at him. Frozen in this moment, I take in the silent beast whose morality is in his self-control, who is crafted with virile beauty—hard lines, rough skin.
He turns, and his gaze meets mine with such intensity, I gasp.
And I can’t help myself. Don’t care who is watching or what my brother will think. I rush to him, golden locks floating behind me, and fling my arms around his waist.
He holds me close. His hands smooth my hair down my back…
His hands.
I suck a sharp breath in and push out from his torso, my eyes darting to his missing forearm except— I smile.
He has a prosthetic fitted to his elbow, the sleek surface peeking out at the wrist before a black-gloved hand. I squeeze his hand. The texture mimics skin, firm with a shallow layer of suppleness.
“They are going to make me a new one, little queen.” His voice is rough; his tone is the deepest note. “This is temporary.”
“A new forearm?”
“Apparently so.”
“A working one?”
“Yes.” He cups my cheeks and gazes down at me through long dark lower lashes. “Are you well? Are you hurt in any way?”
I shake my head in his grip, eyes welling up at the sight of him, at the feel of him. “No. No one hurt me. I’m tired, that’s all. Did you find the children? Are they safe?
“They are safe.”
I sigh with relief.
Behind me, my brother clears his throat, the sound like thunder clapping.
We linger, bodies and hands reluctantly parting, before separating, creating a dutiful distance between us.
We have the Lower-tower.
We can be free there.
“This way,” a Trade man instructs, holding open a door at the far end of the hallway. “The Acting Trade Master awaits.”
I lift my chin against the weight of exhaustion, walking after Rome, but this time, I’m acutely aware of my dark knight at my back—where he belongs.
Where he will always be.
As we move forward, a voice snaps out behind us, “Only the Royal Collective.”
I spin on my heels, annoyance flushing my cheeks and heating my heart. “The Royal Guardian will enter,” I declare. “I go nowhere without him.”
Failing to give the Trade man a chance to speak, I stride into the room, catching Kong’s proud smile in my peripheral.
Rome, Sire, is already inside, thick arms folded across his chest, his expression a mix of mild amusement and utter boredom.
That’s Rome.
The space is small and clinical—steel walls and a large viewing room. The portal into the next area displays a single incubator surrounded by machinery and two Trade nurses dressed in coral scrubs. They can’t seem to see us.
I slowly approach the one-way window. My heart races. Beneath the transparent dome, a curled fetus drifts in its amniotic sac, a pulse sending ripples through the surrounding thick water.
I feel a strange stirring inside me.
A boy no older than ten, in a purple robe, stands by the showing window.
“Welcome.” The boy lowers his robe, the bonnet collecting around his collar, his long blonde hair tumbling free. He clears his throat and bows awkwardly.
Oh, my, how old is he?
“Sire. My queen.” He straightens, trying to impress us, but I want to wrap him in a blanket and nurse him. He is young. “I am Master Seoul. Acting Trade Master.”
I blink at Rome. The smirk on his face could skin a cat—a sharp curve ready to open and eat this boy alive.
“Acting?” I ask.
The boy shrinks in Rome’s presence, stammering his answer. “Y-yes. As you know, Master Cairo was granted an heir recently. A very new development. Still, working out the kinks. Usually, we are elected. I will fill in until Master Cairo is found, or the heir comes of age, whichever happens first.”
The door swings open.
“Sorry I’m late.” Bled’s smooth voice sails in before he strides toward us, looking smart in black on black, his gleaming smile in place. “Wonderful to see you again, Seoul, young man.” He shakes his hand, leaving the boy completely startled.
The boy bows at Bled.
“No, Master,” Bled corrects. “You don’t bow to me. Only to Sire and the queen.”
I can’t tear my gaze away from the baby-faced Trade Master who bears such responsibility. “How old are you?” My tone is gentle, yet the question lands like a stone.
He squares his shoulders. “Nine. Ten soon. Very soon.”
The air itself halts.
My eyes hit Bled. “And you know…” I pause, my tongue struggling with the title. “Master Seoul?” I lift an eyebrow.
“Of course. The Trade Master’s heir isn’t of age, my queen.
So, we followed the process of selecting the Acting Trade Master as per the usual legislation.
Sire, Turin Two, Medan, and I selected Master Seoul.
” Bled looks at him, a wide, cunning smile greeting his lips. “Strapping young man that he is.”
‘We’ve won,’ a little voice whispers in my mind in case the tower hears.
‘At Cairo’s own game.’
My eyes return to the incubator, narrowing on Cairo’s heir, his flesh and blood and forming bones.
A babe is a terribly fragile thing. I will be in my forties when he comes of age, ready to take over as Trade Master. Even a man with fierce, dark genetics can be taught honour and compassion, can’t he?
I gaze up at Rome—a towering predator beside me—who is the perfect example of nature verse nurture. He is a good man, despite Turin of The Strait, despite his engineering.
My eyes return to the babe, and I muse. Why didn’t Cairo impregnant a Silk Girl? Like is customary?
I suppose this is safer. This babe before me is practically untouchable here in the Trade-tower.
Seoul moves to stand next to me by the viewing window. “You can take as much time as you need, my queen. Would you like some time alone? You must be thrilled.”
I stare at the babe.
Then frown.
What does that mean? It seemed like a normal statement until it wasn’t. I look across at young Seoul, meeting his clueless face. “Why would I be thrilled?”
Seoul shuffles. “Ah, this is a special baby, my queen.” He waves at the window in a way that suggests I should know something. Something I do not know. “The ovum took. This will be the first Trade Master from the lineage of the Royal Collective.”
I stare, unblinking.
“We have made history.”
What?
“Bound your Collectives.”
You what?
“We used Master Cairo’s seed and your ovum, and the sack comprises cells from your vessel for life.”
I swallow a lump in my throat, turning to watch the babe, feeling the blood drain from my cheeks when I realise what he said.
My… vessel for life.
My… ovum.
My baby.
There is a fetus in the incubator, in the world behind the window, Rome roars something around the room, Bled is trying to mediate, Kong touches my hip, but it’s all fading away, drowned out by the frantic beat between my ears.
I hear distant arguments.
“Better give us a moment, young Seoul,” Bled says, voice far away.
A door closes.
“Kill it!” Rome growls.
“Did you hear what he said?” Bled asks. “That is your blood.”
“They took her womb!” Rome’s energy ripples through the room—I feel it even in my shock. “Took her choice in this. Trapped us! I’ll kill it. I’ll kill them all.”
“Boy…”
I hear my Guardian’s voice directly in my soul. Kong’s deep, gravelly timbre slides into my hazy mind, clarity in a tunnel of echoes. “You’ll have to go through me if you want to touch a single hair on that boy’s head.”
After that, my reality thins—becomes skinny. I try to breathe, parting my lips, gasping. I hate this feeling. Control it, Tuscany. My heartbeat circles me, coming at me from every direction. My hands are wet, my scalp crawling, my vision crinkling inward with darkness…
Warm hands grip my shoulders. Kong turns me to face him, and I drop back to the present. No one else is in the room. We are alone. I don’t know when the others left or how much time has rolled by.
I blink, squeeze my eyes shut, and then open them again. Grappling with the present like a thread woven from Kong’s being—my gravity—I need to find my pulse. I lift my finger. Feel it thumping. “Where did everyone go?” I breathe, and my heartbeat grounds me.
“Are you back, little queen?”
Aligning myself with the here and now, I turn to look at the viewing window again. “How should I feel? I can’t form thoughts.”
“However you want.”
I step closer to Kong until we are almost touching, lowering my voice so the tower and the walls cannot hear. “It’s evil.”
“Is it?” I feel the rumble of his words, the heat from his skin.
Craning my neck, I stare up at him. “You don’t hate it?”
A small smile greets the corner of his mouth. It’s easy, understanding—the perfect curve with soft responsive eyes. “You don’t either, little queen,” he says. “It’s a baby. Nothing made of you could be bad.”
Gazing back at the fetus, a little voice in my head says, ‘Protect him.’
I wonder if he is dreaming about chocolate… or strawberry custard. I wonder if he can sense me. I am close, a mere window away. Thoughts and questions assault me.
Will he be a monster, the perfect Trade Master? Cairo’s genetics already slither through his consciousness, making their way into the babe’s soul and heart, spawning.
Will he despise me one day for executing his father? Or does rebellion live in his cells? Yet, he’ll still hate me for the part I played in the regime that treats everyone like a product and utility?
Can I love him?
This… creation. Can I teach him about love? Kindness. Humanity.
Do I have a say?
My breath plumes against the glass, and I watch it dissolve.
I can’t decide how to feel or whether the fear and panic in my chest are warranted.
“Rome was mad. Wasn’t he?” I ask, unable to tear my eyes away from my flesh and blood—and Cairo’s.
What a beautifully devastating thing this is.
The man I hate more than anything shares an heir with me.
He took my womb.
Then gifted me a baby.
He’s so messed up.
Kong’s words cut into my thoughts. “Rome will get over it, little queen. He always does. After a while, he will see reason.”
“Because of you.” Realisation hits me. I nod to myself. “You make him see. You’re the voice of reason. It has always been you.”
“Forget about him,” Kong says. “Forget about Cairo. What do you want from this?”
“I don’t know yet.” I pause.
‘Yes, you do,’ a little voice in my head whispers.
I do. I know. Deep down, I know I want to help this boy, to keep him safe. It won’t be me who makes positive change in The Cradle. Not this generation, not Rome nor me. But it might be him—he’ll be the change.
I lift my chin to look at Kong again, desperate for instruction, for guidance, for support. “How do you feel?” I ask.
Kong’s strength radiates through his gaze, eyes anchoring mine. “Like the boy is going to need a Guardian.”