Friendly mind readers.

What an obscene lie.

Flen shot a glare towards the so-called Mirror Barracks as he trudged past Penitentiary Boulevard. The so-called heroes had rebranded the prison, transforming it into a safe haven for villainous scumbags with Yeresunsa powers. They wanted to encourage the Zai types to feel safe. They wanted them to mingle with upstanding Alashani.

What a joke.

Anyone with an ounce of good sense would seal the Torth Yeresunsa inside those underground barracks and let them die.

Flen went around to the back of the Martyr Street Emporium. Few people knew that Councilor Yarl owned this business through one of his mercantile brokers. Docks lined the back alley. The security team of albinos nodded in recognition. One of them picked up a gift-wrapped box and handed it to Flen. “Your gift, Premier.”

“Thanks.” Flen tucked the delivery under his arm and walked away. The box was heavy, but he infused his body with a bit of extra strength to make the carrying easier. Anyone who saw him would probably assume that he was bringing a gift home for his betrothed.

If only secrecy wasn’t a necessity. But Thomas had more people under his thrall than ever.

When news reports announced that both of Thomas’s parents were Torth—meaning that he was not a hybrid angel from paradise, but a full-blooded Torth—well, that should have been conclusive evidence of Thomas’s nature. He was a Torth. How could there be any room left for doubt? Flen had actually dared to hope that even Ariock would turn against the rekveh who pulled his strings.

But the rekveh was too smart.

According to the latest news reports, Thomas had singlehandedly destroyed the Torth Empire. The public actually praised him as a once-in-a-millennium hero.

Flen wasn’t sure if he could believe any of the propaganda spouting from every radio station and so many mouths. Were slaves really in charge of Torth cities throughout the galaxy? Had the Megacosm really collapsed?

Flen had not seen any of that firsthand.

Torth were joining Thomas. That much was true. That creepy reformed Servant of All, Zai, had only been the first of many. They were overrunning Freedomland. One could hardly walk down the street without encountering a silent, sauntering Torth.

Flen carried the heavy box to the garage beneath his building. He opened his storage locker, placed it inside, and tore off the gift wrap. He added the precious smuggled item to the rest of his collection.

Gas emitters.

Dozens of them.

There were also egg-shaped grenades; weapons that were very difficult to procure. They could only be purchased on the black market. Flen reached out to touch one of the dangerous weapons. Soon. Killing a super-genius mind reader would not be easy, and it would require perfect timing and a lot of luck. But Flen was a veteran at killing Torth. He had good friends who were equally skilled.

And that damnable rekveh was flush with victory and overconfidence.

It was possible.

It would work.

And when it was done? The city would finally wake from its spell, and the Alashani nation would be free to go its own way. They could find a beautiful dark cave and exist the way they used to.

Alashani were not meant to endure breezes. Or wind. They were not meant to see sunlight.

Flen sealed his secret storage locker. He climbed the ramps to his apartment and unlocked the door. When he entered, he nearly tripped over a petite hovercart floating a few inches above the floor.

Ugh.

How many times did Flen have to remind his silly human fiancée that Torth technology was evil? A Torth could seize control of such vehicles and operate them remotely. Thomas might be using this one right now to listen, to record, to spy. Torth used everything and everyone.

Two packed suitcases weighed the vehicle down.

Flen found Cherise in the bedroom, packing more suitcases with her clothing. A stab of betrayal ran through his core body.

“What are you doing?” he asked, stunned.

Although he knew.

Cherise glanced at him with her iridescent amber-orange eyes. Her very gaze was Torth technology. She used to have fascinating dark eyes, as fathomless as cave pools, but she had opted for lens implants. She had done that without even discussing it with him, as if his opinion was meaningless. That had led to a major argument.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

What was it with her and secrets? Why couldn’t she ever discuss things like a decent person?

“I’m not happy here,” Cherise said. “In this relationship.”

She continued to wad up clothing and push it into her luggage, as if that was more important than having an adult conversation.

“So you’re not even going to discuss it.” Flen felt like punching something. Not the stone wall. That would only break his fist. “You’re just going to run away? Like a coward?”

Cherise stared at him for a moment.

Then she relented, as he had guessed she might. “We have fundamental differences, Flen. You think my friends are evil. I can’t—”

He interrupted her lie. “I think your friends are innocent.” He emphasized that. “They can’t help being suckered in by a demon who knows every truth and desire inside their minds. No one can resist that. The only reason you and I are safe, and sane, is because we’re far from his control.”

Cherise held a robe on her lap, as if it was a comforter. “Thomas isn’t evil. He never was. I misjudged him. And I want to…” She hesitated.

Flen stared at her, silently daring her to complete what he feared would be an unholy sentence.

“…And I want to be his friend again,” Cherise said.

Flen stared at her.

He knew that he had been losing Cherise. He had seen and heard signs that she was being warped by the propaganda that pervaded this city. But he had struggled to ignore those signs, because he understood that Cherise had a kind heart, as well as a depth of hidden potential.

Nobody else seemed aware of how exceptional she was. Not only was she a ludicrously talented artist, not only was she gorgeous and graceful; she was also a full-blooded human, with all of the magical genetics that entailed.

She had the potential to carry an ultra-powerful Yeresunsa in her womb.

With her, Flen could father a messiah. The true messiah.

He needed her.

Not only because of her power as a future mother, but also because of who she was. Cherise had held Flen in the wounded days after his family was taken away, when his world was destroyed. She had comforted him every night. Her long hair had caressed his face, like cool water. Her angelic fingers had stroked his skin.

And now she wanted to forsake him?

The orb lights flickered. The hearth flared.

Flen tried to get a grip on his reeling emotions. Emotional anguish was never a good thing for a Yeresunsa. He summoned all of his training. He took a deep breath and forced himself to imagine water trickling over smooth stones. Calm.

Perhaps this wasn’t a fully intentional betrayal?

The end of the war brought a lot of changes. Perhaps Cherise merely felt stifled by the fact that Flen was suddenly around every day, and she didn’t know how to cope with that?

The growing population of penitent Torth made everyone uneasy. Flen was supposed to protect his wife-to-be. Maybe he was not doing a good enough job?

“If you feel you need a break from me,” Flen said, meting out his words, “I understand. I apologize for any offense I have caused.”

Cherise looked wary. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as she packed more clothes.

“If you are actually going to visit the rekveh…” Flen stopped. He could hardly believe that Cherise would be so stupid. Everyone knew what Thomas was capable of. If Cherise got within telepathy range of him? She could lose her opinions, her personality, everything that made her a good person.

She could be turned into a puppet, like Ariock. Or worse. She could be reduced into a zombie.

“Are you not worried about the absolute power he wields?” Flen begged to know. He just wanted to protect her.

Cherise softened. “I am, a bit,” she admitted. “But he hasn’t driven Vy away yet. Or Kessa. They’re not afraid of him.”

“They’re brainwashed.” That seemed obvious to Flen.

Cherise shook her head. “No. I…” She swallowed, and Flen saw her fearful reluctance to talk.

Then she straightened and faced him.

“I’ve been reading Varktezo’s mind,” Cherise said.

Flen gaped.

“That’s right.” Cherise latched one suitcase, then the other. “I’ve been going to telepathy raves. I read minds there.”

Flen’s mouth hung open. How could Cherise go around reading minds? Didn’t she realize how that made her look?

Like a Torth!

She kept speaking. “Varktezo isn’t brainwashed. He genuinely cares about Thomas, and he isn’t afraid to hang out with him. There’s no fakery there. Oh, and no mindlessness.”

She lifted both suitcases, one in each hand, and carried them towards the cargo cart.

Flen hurried to block Cherise from the door. He could not figure out how she’d gotten so thoroughly fooled by the rekveh, but she must be mistaken about the ummin laboratory assistant. Monsters like Thomas did not have genuine friends. It was impossible. There must be another explanation.

What if Cherise was already brainwashed?

Had she secretly met with the rekveh while Flen was on military duty, or otherwise busy? When had she gotten duped?

Flen balled his hands into fists and resisted an urge to punch the doorframe. Why did Cherise have to be so gullible? So vulnerable to propaganda?

“You have good reasons to hate Torth.” Cherise looked as if she wanted to caress Flen’s shoulder, but she saw how tense he was, and she drew her hand back. “But I feel like I’m losing my mind by listening to you. Because you’re wrong.”

She pushed the luggage cart out of the suite.

Her soft contempt twisted inside of Flen like knives.

She was beyond salvation, beyond reason. She was a stooge. And clearly, she wanted to run to her master.

To report something?

Just how many undergrounder secrets did she know?

Flen had not told her about his stockpile of weapons, but she might have asked innocent questions while he was oblivious. She could have weaseled information out of Flen when he was half-asleep. Or when he was lying in her arms after he’d expended his energy and man-seed on her. After she’d gotten everything she wanted.

Flen finally allowed his anger to have an outlet. He infused his arm with supernatural strength and slammed his fist into the doorframe so hard, it formed cracks. He punched the wall again. Rocks rained down.

Albino heads poked out of doors to see what the commotion was about.

“You were a slave long enough to know better than this!” Flen yelled. “You can’t trust him!”

Cherise left the luggage cart in the hallway and fled.

“Cherise! Come back!” Flen felt as if he was losing something enormous. Somehow, her betrayal hurt even worse than when he’d learned that his family was dead. This felt different. It almost felt preventable, even though it surely wasn’t.

“Cherise!” Flen fell to his knees, crying. He stared at the cart she’d left behind.

The rekveh would probably send a minion to gather her luggage. She wasn’t coming back.

It wasn’t fair. Flen was the victim of a victim. That insidious, smug little Torth named Thomas was to blame.

“Cherise.”