Chapter Twenty-Two
Burning Man
The big day came, but not the one centered around my growing stomach.
Zephyron's palace—our palace—had been transformed for Tydalos' arrival.
Every polished stone wall reflected the afternoon sun like a jewel.
Banners bearing Zephyron's open hand crest hung proudly from the upper balconies, flanked by ceremonial guards in obsidian armor.
Simulacra I hadn't seen before—sleek, silver-bodied units with embedded protocol crystals—stood at key junctions like silent diplomats and sentinels.
A few bore symbols of Earth and Volardi unity, while others had emblems I didn't recognize.
Sandari representatives from nearby settlements mingled with them, their fur combed and robes fresh.
Everything gleamed, like a polished blade.
I stood to the left of Zephyron's stone throne in the Grand Hall, watching as the grey-haired Sandari elders entered first, a mix of short males and taller female warriors draped in flowing robes.
Their long snouts turned toward the arched entrance.
Tydalos swept into the sandstone hall with liquid grace, as if he swam-walked.
A cluster of Humans followed, all smiling, laughing, and clinging to his every word.
It reminded me of pilot fish that attach themselves to larger species.
A thin, bearded cameraman with slightly sunburned skin and a sweat-stained white t-shirt trailed several steps behind everyone else.
His blond-brown hair was slicked back like he used his hand instead of a comb.
A blocky Volardi drone followed his movements, but he also had a fancy Human-tech camera in his hand.
He flashed too-white teeth and snapped a dozen pictures with me in frame.
Tydalos spread his arms out and spoke with a warm voice, "Thomas of Earth! How radiant you are, even in this dying desert. Your strength is admirable, but the water of life always overpowers dead stone."
"I manage," I deadpanned.
The cameraman zoomed in on me. Crap. My response would be dissected and broadcast everywhere.
Tydalos placed his hand on his bare and muscled chest. "It pains me to see you endure so much sorrow. You belong home, bathed in the nourishing liquid of your planet. Not in this barren wasteland."
The grey-furred Sandari elders murmured, ears twitching.
"It's not a wasteland," I snapped. "It's my home." I turned to Zephyron and the Sandari. "Our home."
"And yet," Tydalos' gaze flickered to the only other Soturi in the throne room. "Where would you be if someone didn't attempt to kill your father? You stated you would have been at my side, if not kidnapped, then artificially inseminated."
Tydalos faced the blocky floating camera, his voice dropping into a softer, more intimate tone. "I do not come to sow discord, but to offer hope. I wish only for Thomas' happiness and those on Earth. I look forward to rescuing him."
I opened my mouth to let him have it, but Solis beat me. "Rescue? Darling, Thomas doesn't need rescuing. He needs respect, something you're incapable of giving."
Axios approached, his voice even and deliberate. "Your words lack logic, Tydalos. If you genuinely cared for our friend, you would not seek to undermine his chosen path."
Tydalos directed the camera at my mate. "Behold, the Soturi who must kidnap Humans and create Simulacra for his mate's companionship. This speaks volumes." He turned to Zephyron. "Do you agree to the trials?"
Zephyron's voice cut through the room like a blade. "Three trials: Intellect, Will, and Personal Combat. The victor of two, or all three, will have the honor of Thomas as their mate."
Tydalos smiled. "Then let us begin with the Trial of Intellect. I'm sure a Soturi of your immense intelligence will do well."
Zephyron didn't flinch, but I felt the tension ripple through him. He wasn't stupid, not by any stretch. Yet, Tydalos took a single chance meeting and turned it into a political wedge. He saw a way to rule Earth and tear me from the life I'd built. Like a chess master, he planned three moves ahead.
Zeph favored direct action. Simple solutions worked on Sudo, where battles were heated, fast, and over quick.
Tydalos wasn't from Sudo, and he played a longer game.
***
The chamber buzzed with nervousness as everyone settled in for the Trial of Intellect—the first step toward deciding my future.
A holographic display flickered overhead, showing both Soturi on opposite ends.
Every fiber screamed for me to stand by my man's side, but law and the warning of danger by Sandari and Volardi friends kept me rooted.
My hand went over my curve as I sent good thoughts through a few inches of tight, bulged-out flesh.
Parker adjusted his camera while Brody snapped pictures, especially of my belly.
Each click increased my neck tension but saying anything would only encourage him.
"Nice thing you got going on here, Parker," he yelled.
"I mean, you haven't actually made your documentary, but you got them providing room and board.
They give you a couch or blanket to sleep on?
" He shook his head in mock pity. "If you need a job, I can speak to my friends. "
"You don't have friends, and I don't want your kind of work. Jumping out of the bushes after someone dies, outing celebrities, or snapping nudes isn't my kind of career."
"What career? All these great ideas? Still in your head. Your claim to fame was an old show that lucked into a Volardi probe."
My friend turned ready to fight, and Brody snapped the photo. "Not your best side. You should smile more."
I placed a soft hand on Parker's trembling arm. "Not now," I muttered. He shot Brody a death glare before returning to his camera.
The announcer's voice belonged to my former Sandari doctor and boomed through the chamber. "The Trial of Intellect begins. Competitors, prepare."
Zephyron and Tydalos stepped forward. A holographic interface bloomed before each of them, showing miniature avatars—sleek, faceless forms like department store mannequins. Above, a larger projection magnified the football stadium-sized battlefield. Then the rules appeared.
Victory had two paths: reach the glowing artifact first or eliminate their opponent's forces. The terrain would shift into different biomes. Every unit lost triggered a punishment that the commanders would feel.
A desert environment took shape, and a blast of heat rolled through.
The troops shifted into squat, broad-shouldered humanoids with back shells and heavy, wrinkled limbs.
Each Soturi directed their forces with precision over holographic sands.
I thought they would fight each other, but the environment was its own enemy.
Some burrowed to hide from simulated sandstorms and tornadoes, with others leaping to avoid crumbling rockslides.
Zephyron kept his formation tight and efficient.
While Tydalos sent his troops scrambling up rocks to escape a Zerlite ambush, Zephyron's army plowed head-on, hurling stones and engaging with brutal coordination. The swarm went down clean with no losses for our side.
Go Zephyron!
Another massive sandstorm spun to life above both groups, turning the holographic sky into a churning spiral of gold light and grit.
Zephyron guided his soldiers into a narrow rock fissure, one soldier flattening itself over the entrance like a living shield.
Even with its armored shell, the storm shredded it with microscopic grains slicing through its body until it crumbled into dust.
Tydalos sent his units scrambling uphill, but one lagged.
The wind caught it mid-climb, flinging it over the cliff edge, and it shattered on impact.
Pieces whipped up into a tornado and disappeared.
He gritted his teeth as a blast of searing heat struck him square in the chest, blistering his skin red.
Zephyron got a similar demerit and stared ahead as if he weren't hit.
The environment then morphed into jagged, snow-covered mountains. Who would have the advantage? Was this more like water or loose sand?
The units changed into lanky simians with antennae, elongated limbs, and curved claws built for climbing. Their movements were jerky and fluid all at once, like something halfway between primate and insect. Zephyron quickly directed his monkey-bugs up into the overhead branches.
Back in Georgia, I chopped trees around our trailer with Dad, because gravity added extra destructive power. Our metal roof had a hole from a short limb I carried with one hand. Same principle here. Several sliced-off limbs crashed into Tydalos' group below, crushing three.
Tydalos' muscles clenched with each icy blast, yet didn't scream. Right, he's used to the cold. Even the sunny Pacific made me shiver when I dove deep enough.
Neither man dashed for the artifact, choosing to take out rival 'pieces' instead. So far, it was nine to six in our favor.
The jagged peaks vanished, replaced by a vast, endless ocean.
Waves rolled across the holographic display, shimmering with uncanny realism.
The monkey-bugs morphed into sleek, eel-like humanoids.
Long tails replaced legs, their skin glistening with bioluminescent veins as they slipped through the waves.
Zephyron froze with his soldiers floating on the surface. His hands hesitated over the interface as his breathing quickened. He never trained for aquatic battles on sunbaked Sudo.
Tydalos units dove gracefully beneath the surface, moving with a three-dimensional sense my man couldn't match. While Zephyron's focus remained horizontal, his enemy exploited the environment, using currents to propel his soldiers forward and flanking from below.
Zephyron's movements grew erratic. His attempts to adapt to the ocean never came together—his units floundered, and their attacks turned uncoordinated. Tydalos pressed the attack, repeatedly targeting scattered forces with pinpoint precision.