Page 90 of New World

This place would be cleansed. The prophecy that started here would end here.

He let his fingers brush the gold insignia on his chest, a symbol of his divinity. The Gods had chosen him, not the Ancient Knights.

The Ancient Knights of the Gallant were a lie—a fabrication meant to keep order among the weak-minded. He had always known it, even as a boy, before Coleridge tried to steal everything from him.

Nia should have been his. She should have carried his son, not Coleridge’s. She should have given him a Roan, but a Roan who was not weak like his brother.

The thought of Roan sent a wave of fury through him. He would have given him everything! Now, he would need to find another to raise as his heir. To give his throne to. To build his destiny.

He had thought Ri Manta would be his chosen one, but the man was too old and Andri had felt a whisper of warning, a hidden deceit lurking in the man’s eyes. That was why Andri had escaped to the Charger. Let Ri and the others bring down Cryon II. Andri was destined to bring down those who thought to take his place—his nephew and those who believed they were the destined Gods returned to save the galaxy.

Rage thrummed beneath his skin, hot and intoxicating. He fed on it, let it sharpen him, shape him into the Supreme Leader he was always meant to be. He lifted his hand and motioned to a group of guards to push the people in front of them forward, lined up in front of him in rows so he could see each of their faces.

His eyes flicked over the prisoners—men, women, a few older boys. They stumbled forward on shaking legs beneath the searing sun. Some stood frozen, others trembled visibly.

Weak. Unworthy.

He had no use for the weak.

“Roan Landais. The Ancient Knights,” he commanded, his voice smooth, unwavering. “Where are they?”

A murmur of panic rippled through the crowd. He walked slowly in front of the group, his eyes searching their faces as they bowed their heads, afraid to return his gaze. He paused in front of a woman, reached out a finger, and tilted her head. Her lips quivered and her breath became tiny pants. He waited, knowing what would happen—defiance.

A desert farmer standing next to her, old, worn, but proud, dared to lift his chin. “We don’t know.”

Andri sighed. They always resisted at first. He nodded to the nearest officer.

“Kill him.”

A single shot rang out.

The man’s body crumpled, blood pooling dark and viscous against the scorched dirt.

Screams erupted like a chorus of broken instruments, chaos rippling through the settlement.

Andri smiled as fear took hold. He continued walking along the line of trembling prisoners. His polished boots stirring the red dust, marking his path with quiet inevitability. His gaze locked onto a lanky boy, no longer a child but not an adult.

“Hold him.”

His guards seized the boy, who jumped and swung his eyes around wildly at the people behind him. The boy did not understand what was happening—not yet.

Andri calmly pulled a long, slender blade from the sheath attached to his belt. He flicked the end, and the blade hummed with a brilliant, intense blue. He looked over the boy’s head, his gaze flicking along the rows of villagers. Some of the women wept silently. Men clenched their fists, torn between fear and desperation.

The breaking point was coming.

Andri lifted his hand toward the boy’s throat… and let the silence stretch?—

“Wait!”

There it is.

The first crack.

The moment they always fold.

Andri barely contained his satisfaction as he turned, letting the moment hang, savoring the desperation in the man’s desperate eyes. The eyes of a father who loved his son. A father who would betray anyone—everyone—to protect his child.

“They’re were in the landing bay,” the man choked out. “They didn’t leave. Their ships are still here. All except one. They-they went to-to the ghost village. The one-the one to the west, where Dorane LeGaugh came from.”

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