Valmoran Republic, Planet Kronai, Temple of the Seven

  Matthai Valtrellin, Future High Priest

  Matthai Valtrellin slammed into the ground, the impact driving the air from his lungs. He stared at the bright afternoon sky, struggling to catch his breath.

  For a fleeting moment, he imagined lounging in the East Garden with his sister, watching the clouds and whispering secrets, the phantom scent of flowers permeating the air.

  If he just glanced over, he almost believed she’d be there, grinning at him, her blue hair dancing around the gentle points of her ears in the breeze.

  Reality shattered his reverie as another VIP shuttle roared overhead, casting an ominous shadow as it passed, destined for the gleaming spaceport atop Valtrellin Tower.

  Another cruel reminder that he would be taking sacred vows tomorrow … not Liyara.

  It had been almost five years, but her absence still haunted him like a phantom limb.

  The rustle of fabric alerted him to a figure leaning over, backlit by the blinding sun, hand outstretched. “You alright, Scion?” Priest Jarron asked, his usual stoicism replaced by a flicker of concern.

  Matthai nodded and clasped his trainer’s calloused hand, letting the man haul him to his feet.

  “It’s been a while since I landed a hit on you. Distracted?”

  Matthai coughed, sweeping the dust off his blue robes while glancing around at the other adepts, searching for an appropriate response. The air crackled with excitement, strikes meeting blocks and bodies colliding with the ground. Laughter, teasing, smiles ...

  Envy twisted in his gut, bitter and ugly. He forced it down. These were his people—he wouldn’t begrudge their happiness.

  But he wanted to run. To scream.

  Then it started—a tingle at the back of his skull. An electric zing, irritating and foreboding.

  His stomach dropped.

  “Yeah, distracted,” he said. “I’m gonna go grab a drink.” Turning away, he strode toward the ancient stone wall of the training yard, praying it looked more like an athletic jog than an escape.

  He was losing control of his powers.

  Stress triggered his chronojumping. If he couldn’t control his roiling emotions, he’d end up naked in the East Garden.

  Bracing his arms against the cool bricks, Matthai commanded himself to be as steadfast as the weathered stones.

  His heart raced like it was determined to flee without him, surroundings fading in and out. In and out.

  Shit.

  Chronojumping always took jumpers to a place and time associated with safety. For Matthai, that was the East Garden, where he and his sister used to whisper about their hopes and dreams.

  His view of the wall distorted, dimensions warping out of alignment. The sounds from the training yard grew muffled, slowing and deepening in pitch.

  No, no, no.

  Chronojumping was instinctual—his only hope was to prevent the jump by remaining calm.

  Which he was not doing.

  His ears began to ring. His body quivered, losing its hold on the here and now.

  Just breathe.

  He refused to lose control today, of all days.

  The High Priests had to present the pinnacle of poise. If he jumped now, he’d reappear naked in front of his entire training cohort. Even his parents couldn’t keep that sordid story from flooding the galactic web.

  “I am here. I am now. I will not jump away,” Matthai whispered, reciting the mantra from his chronotraining.

  He crouched down to grab his flask, then took a deep swig, the tang of metal hitting his lips.

  The sleeve of his robe rasped against his skin as he wiped stray droplets away.

  Chronojumping was such a useless power. A status symbol to be revered and never used.

  An endless font of humiliation.

  Gradually, the world refocused, the sounds of the training yard returning to normal.

  “Scion.”

  Matthai flinched. He hadn’t heard Jarron’s approach.

  His trainer’s tone held an edge, as if he had called out several times and was growing concerned.

  Matthai took a deep breath and turned to face Jarron. He leaned against the wall, hoping his unsteadiness wasn’t noticeable.

  Jarron’s brow furrowed, grizzled features etched with worry. “Training you too hard, Scion? With the ceremony tomorrow, perhaps we should stop for the day.”

  “I’m fine—just needed a moment.”

  He couldn’t give the priests any more reason to doubt him. Besides, maybe a decent spar would ease his tension.

  But Jarron slumped against the wall and sat, snatching his own water. “You may have the right idea—you’re wearing this old man out today.”

  Matthai huffed a laugh. “You’re taking pity on me, don’t think I can’t tell that.”

  His trainer responded with a nonchalant shrug, hints of a nostalgic twinkle in his eyes.

  “Big day tomorrow,” Jarron said.

  Matthai didn’t know how to respond. The other priests knew he wasn’t ready for this—he saw it on their faces every day.

  The concern.

  “Yes, it certainly is.” Tomorrow, he would be formally recognized as the Ordained Scion, future High Priest of the Temple of the Seven. He was just a man, no different from anyone else, but the people of the galaxy would revere him as an emissary of the Gods.

  The thought of being even more set apart from others filled him with dread.

  Jarron’s voice turned wistful. “You can almost feel the excitement in the air, you know? Everyone getting their career assignments, mating season about to begin ...”

  He tilted his head towards Matthai, one side of his mouth quirked up.

  “I mean, I know the next cycle doesn’t begin until the babies start coming, but we’re on the cusp. A new beginning is just around the corner.”

  Matthai flung a pebble into the dirt. “Sure. A new beginning,” he echoed, forcing a smile.

  For others, it was the start of their adult lives, the end of the Phase of Completion, the true mark of adulthood in the eyes of society. Their excitement was understandable.

  Oblivious to Matthai’s meandering thoughts, Jarron said, “I can still remember the end of my first cycle like it was yesterday ... checking out the other adepts, wondering who I’d be matched with, praying to the Gods I wouldn’t get some wretched administrative duty ...”

  Jarron grinned. “Can you imagine? Me, stuck in some fancy office in Valtrellin Tower?”

  “I can absolutely imagine you barking orders at the poor priests in the Order of Finance,” Matthai said, grinning despite himself. “I’m sure they thank the Gods you’re out here, not in there.”

  The older man laughed. “There’s a role for each of us, just a matter of matching the right priest to the right job.”

  There would be no matching for Matthai. No chance he would join the Order of Protection or the Order of Service. His path had been set in stone since Liyara’s death five years ago: to serve as High Priest in her stead.

  Finally, Jarron spoke. “Scion ... it isn’t my place to ask this, but—propriety be damned, I’m asking. Are you okay?”

  He had to be. As the future spiritual leader of the Valmorans, Matthai had to inspire and guide them, just as his parents and their parents before them.

  “As you said, it’s about matching the right person to the right duty,” Matthai said, tossing another pebble into the dirt. “I’m the only one left for this role, so we’re all going to have to live with it.”

  The bite in his tone sent a wave of shame running through him. Jarron didn’t deserve his ire—he was only trying to help.

  His trainer opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again, frowning.

  “I was never suited for this,” Matthai said, his sigh almost a sob. “Not like Liyara was.”

  Jarron’s expression turned to one Matthai had grown to loathe: that helpless look everyone wore when Liyara was mentioned, the one that said, ‘Your grief makes me uncomfortable, but I can’t say that, so I’ll just stand here awkwardly.’

  He couldn’t blame them, not really. It had been five years. Everyone else had moved on, and perhaps he should have, too. But letting go of his grief felt like letting go of Liyara herself, as if she’d never existed.

  Jarron’s face softened. “Matthai ...” He lifted a hand as if to clasp Matthai’s shoulder, then hesitated.

  No one touches the heir.

  The hand hovered between them, a tentative question. Matthai held his breath, afraid to shatter the fragile moment.

  With Liyara gone, ensuring he mated with a God-touched Kronai female to continue their bloodline was more critical than ever. Jarron and his guardians were exempt, permitted to touch him, but only for instruction and protection, never comfort. It would set a dangerous precedent.

  Finally, he clasped Matthai’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

  Emotion swelled, but Matthai swallowed, clearing his throat to mask it.

  Jarron withdrew his hand as if burned.

  “You’re a good man, Matthai—you’ll find your way,” Jarron said, his voice gruff as he nodded toward the other adepts. “Best get back to it. Wouldn’t do for the future High Priest to go soft, now would it?”

  A heavy weight settled in Matthai’s chest as his trainer spun on his heel and strode back to the yard, barking, “Kreslin! Elbows in, watch your stance!”

  He started after Jarron, only for an urgent notification to pop up on his Hix interface.

  Matthai squeezed his eyes shut. He should have been used to this by now—it wasn’t as if he had control over his time. And after tomorrow, it would only get worse. A flick of his eyes opened the message.

  Please report to the Office of the High Priestess and Priest at your earliest convenience.

  His stomach sank. ‘Earliest convenience’ meant now.

  His seven guardians were already approaching, making their way around the training yard’s perimeter.

  From birth, Valtrellins were assigned a dedicated guardian. For him and Liyara, it had been Talia and Janna, a mated Vraxai pair.

  All Vraxai had four arms, but Talia and Janna were God-touched, so they also possessed enhanced intuition. This gave them an uncanny ability to read situations and anticipate outcomes, making them formidable bodyguards. Talia had been his shadow since birth.

  After Liyara’s death, his parents also assigned Janna and five more God-touched guardians to him. They were wonderful people, but having seven people dedicated to keeping him safe and untouched felt excessive, oppressive even.

  “You’re early,” Matthai grumbled.

  “Apologies, Scion.” Talia handed him a heavy blue robe. “We thought you’d want to bathe before your meeting.”

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  Matthai slipped it on over his training robe.

  He wasn’t ready for his last day as a normal adept to be over. Wasn’t prepared for the fate that drew closer with every step, every moment.

  He paused, then strode back to the center of the training yard, where Jarron stood instructing his fellow adepts. Before he could second-guess himself, he cleared his throat.

  When Jarron faced him, Matthai’s chest felt tight. He hadn’t planned this out, but had to do something. Swallowing, he gave a slight bow. “Priest Jarron ... it’s been an honor.”

  Before the man could respond, Matthai turned and strode away. It wasn’t appropriate for the Scion to bow to a trainer, to defer to anyone. But the thought of leaving things on such a miserable note, after everything Jarron had taught him ... had felt wrong.

  Talia fell into step beside him, matching his stride. “Was that wise?”

  “It’s fine.”

  She snorted, one eyebrow arched. “If you say so.” Her tone added, ‘We both know that’s a load of dung.’

  “Scion, perhaps we should take the inner path today, given the crowds and security—”

  “No,” he cut in. “We take the long way, as always.”

  She pressed her lips together but said nothing. Matthai tried to ignore the other adepts, who averted their gazes as they left the yard. They knew why he went this way.

  Everyone knew.

  His guardians formed a protective circle around Matthai, obscuring him from view as they stepped onto the wide pedestrian road that encircled the Temple’s inner sanctum.

  His heart raced at the massive crowds filling the usually tranquil space. The courtyard path was 200 paces wide, paved with intricate mosaics depicting Valmoran Temple history, and peppered with small flower gardens.

  Today, the dense crowds almost completely obscured those details.

  Anxiety and unworthiness surged as he gazed at the ocean of pilgrims.

  “Do you understand now, Scion?” Talia leaned in, her voice brusque. “The crowds are unprecedented, almost twice as large as they were for your mother’s Ordination. We still have time to turn back—”

  “No,” Matthai interrupted, voice firm. “I need this. Besides, it’s good for me to see the full spectrum of my people. Nearly every subspecies is here today. Remarkable.”

  He stepped into the throng, his guardians ‘encouraging’ the eager crowd to part before them.

  Matthai couldn’t help but feel like an imposter, unfit for the role thrust upon him. His gaze drifted to the outer wall, its inviting arches offering glimpses of the lush gardens and winding paths beyond.

  He tore his gaze from the horizon toward the seven inner towers, each signifying a critical phase in the Valmoran life cycle. They loomed above, connected to the inner wall like silent sentinels, watching over the inner sanctum. Valtrellin Tower rose from the center of the citadel, modern and sleek, standing resolutely over everything.

  As he neared the Tower of Becoming, his pulse thrummed in his ears.

  His guardians closed ranks around him, facing outward in a standard defensive formation, projecting the appearance of simply doing their duty.

  Matthai knew better. This was the only privacy they could offer him in the bustling Temple courtyards.

  Beneath his robes, he clenched his trembling fists. The scents of food and incense, the chatter and excitement, were a stark contrast to his memories of that night.

  Crisp night air. Murmurs of disbelief, his gulping sobs as he collapsed onto the unyielding tiles.

  If only Liyara were still here.

  He could have handled this if she were still here.

  But if Liyara were here, he would be her advisor as she ascended. As it should be.

  “You would have been a perfect High Priestess, Li,” Matthai whispered, imagining her in the High Priestess’s formal robes and Zanchion, resplendent and joyful.

  She would have inspired the galaxy. But that future had shattered right along with these tiles.

  His eyes stung, tears threatening to break free. The urge to chronojump away, to escape, surged through him, his skin practically vibrating with it.

  “I am here. I am now. I will not jump away,” Matthai whispered, blinking rapidly.

  His gaze again strayed to the outer wall of the citadel.

  The Temple gates were wide open. He could put up his hood, walk through one of those open archways, and take a magcar into Kronai City.

  Republic citizens could claim basic living expenses and free education. He could train as a botanist, gardener, maybe even a poet—and live a blissfully ordinary life.

  But no—everyone knew his face. No matter how far he ran, he could never escape his birthright.

  Besides, he wasn’t a citizen of the Republic—he was a citizen of the Temple of the Seven. Unlike Liyara, he had never even left the grounds.

  Matthai forced himself to face the last place he’d ever seen his sister.

  He’d made the Order of Maintenance leave the cracked tiles un-mended, a visceral reminder. He needed the evidence, still couldn’t face what had happened here. Couldn’t accept it.

  He couldn’t let her go.

  “I’m so scared, Li,” he whispered. “I don’t think I can do this.”

  His pulse quickened, cold sweat beading on his brow. He swallowed reflexively as nausea churned in his gut.

  The world tilted around him, edges blurring, colors bleeding together. A too-familiar tingle began at the base of his skull, electric sparks skittering across his skin. The timbre of the sounds shifted, the pitch deepening as the world slowed.

  “I am here. I am now. I will not jump away.” Matthai whispered, praying that he could stave it off.

  But the East Garden beckoned him, trying to wrench him away.

  He would not jump. He refused—

  “Scion Valtrellin!” a voice called out, the sudden distraction jolting him back.

  His guardians flowed around him like water, effortlessly assuming a defensive formation. He peered through their ranks at the unfamiliar Kronai man approaching, his accent marking him as foreign.

  “Halt,” his first guardian commanded. “None may approach the Scion.”

  “Please, I must speak with him,” the man implored, stepping forward again.

  “Another step, and you will be restrained.”

  His Vultrai unfurled their ruddy wings and inclined their horns in the man’s direction, a not-so-subtle reminder of the pain the God-touched of their subspecies could inflict.

  The man continued forward, undeterred. Matthai’s guards moved as one. Talia and Janna were a whirlwind, eight arms restraining him with practiced ease.

  His Elodai guardian—gifted with empathy, said, “He means the Scion no harm, but he is agitated.”

  “I am not agitated!” the man said, struggling against his captors. “Scion, please! The Gods sent me a dream—I am your Amara!”

  Matthai froze, his heart sinking with compassion. Another desperate soul deluded by dreams of ascending to the High Priesthood through a mating bond.

  It was impossible, of course.

  The man continued to struggle against Talia and Janna, heedless of the scene he was causing, the watching crowd.

  His Anokai guardian approached the restrained man.

  “Please, you must understand! The Gods chose me for him!” The man struggled, likely imagining she had some other, more sinister power. Anokai, Elodai, and Adorai—over a hundred Valmoran subspecies—had no distinguishing physical traits.

  But his Anokai guardian only influenced emotions through touch.

  She reached out and laid a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder. “Calm,” she said. “Be at peace, my friend.”

  This was the playbook. The two Vultrai stood ready to unleash pain should the man turn violent. But they often resolved such incidents peacefully—restrain, assess, influence, and remove.

  Matthai felt a sudden urge to do ... something. “A moment,” he said, holding up a hand.

  His first guardian threw him a disapproving glare but didn’t challenge him. Not publicly, never where others could see.

  “Let him stand,” Matthai said, stepping closer.

  Talia’s jaw tightened, but she and Janna hauled the man upright, keeping him firmly in their grasp. Matthai approached, staying out of reach but near enough to talk privately.

  This close, he recognized the man’s clothing and violet eyes as marks of a Zeltai monk. They followed a false prophecy of the Jubilant One, who would mate into the Valtrellin High Priesthood and become the Herald of the 4th Epoch.

  Matthai’s heart ached for the man. Powerful faith and fierce devotion drove him to this delusion.

  “Your name?”

  “Kiran of Zeltix, Scion,” the man replied, reverence and wonder shining in his eyes.

  “Kiran, you know the Gods must choose a God-touched Kronai female for me during the Season of Debauchery. They have a different path for you. Trust in their wisdom.”

  The words almost stuck in his throat. Mates were forged by skin contact. Creating a list of ‘approved’ mates for Matthai—and ensuring he touched no one else—had always felt like trying to control the will of the Gods, almost an unspoken blasphemy.

  Kiran’s shoulders sagged, eyes downcast. “But the dream, Scion ... it was so vivid.”

  Matthai’s heart ached. Kiran’s people were probably back on Zeltix, celebrating the fulfillment of their ill-fated prophecy.

  He reached out, hovering his hand over the man’s head, ignoring his guardians’ sharp inhales at Matthai’s proximity to the pilgrim. “Kiran, child of the Gods, may your upcoming Season of Debauchery be fruitful and joyous. May the Gods gift you with companionship and love.”

  The words felt hollow, a script he had memorized, recited a thousand times. What right did he have to bestow blessings on anyone? He was no God, just a man.

  “Thank you, Scion,” Kiran whispered, tears brightening his eyes. “I will strive to trust in your wisdom.”

  At Matthai’s nod, his Adorai guardian led Kiran away. He watched them go, a weary shame settling over him. This would be his future.

  An impostor pretending to be a spokesperson for the Gods. A fraud.

  Liyara had been the one who shone, the one most beloved by their people. The Bright Scion, they’d called her, not knowing her inner sadness, since she hid it so well. She’d always been able to cope, as long as she had Matthai to confide in, and could sneak out into the city.

  The people had adored her.

  He forced himself to face the mosaic tiles and crouched to trace his fingers over the fractured pattern. Liyara was gone. Truly gone.

  When he stood, his features had smoothed into a mask of perfect composure. He betrayed no hint of the macabre memory that was forever seared into his mind’s eye.

  Liyara’s blood on the mosaic tiles, blooming around her head like a terrible flower.

  After a quick rinse in his private bathing pool, Matthai went to the High Priests’ wing of the administration tower. Since the inner priests’ sanctum was so well secured, it was just him and Talia.

  The floors beneath his feet were smooth and cold, their polished surface reflecting the bright overhead lights. The crisp, clean scent of modern architecture filled his nostrils, so different from the earthy aromas in the more ancient parts of the Temple complex.

  He missed the pungent scent of life—flowers, dust, even decay. He realized he was imagining the East Garden and caught himself. His body had been threatening to jump away all day, and he couldn’t allow himself to imagine the peacefulness of the garden.

  His footsteps echoed in the empty halls, bouncing off the sleek walls and high ceilings.

  The High Priests’ floor of Valtrellin Tower was mostly empty. His parents’ rooms were just down the hall, as were the rooms he would soon be forced to take. The thought made his stomach twist.

  He hesitated when they reached the sliding door to his parents’ private receiving rooms. What could they want with him now, so close to the ceremony?

  His hands shook, cold sweat beading on his temples. His nerves were flayed, exposed.

  “Matthai ...” Talia whispered. “Maybe you should just let it happen.”

  His heart sank. Even Talia doubted him.

  He shook his head, frustration mounting. “And have the entire galaxy whisper about it?”

  “People will understand,” she insisted, eyes darting along the corridor. “Your parents will ensure it never reaches the media.”

  He followed her gaze to a shadowed alcove. Perhaps he should allow it. It could be handled discreetly, with no witnesses here and only the gardeners and guards in the privacy of the East Garden.

  “No, It’s bad enough that everyone thinks I don’t have what it takes,” he said, his voice strained. “I won’t prove them right.”

  “Scion, a chronojump is hardly proof that you’re unfit to lead,” Talia said. “Let me inform them of a delay.”

  Perfect. Now Talia was offering to lie to his parents to cover for him. He was already shaping up to be an outstanding future High Priest.

  “No.” Jumping was proof he wasn’t in control. His parents’ concern over him was constant and had been since Liyara’s death. He was their only choice, but hadn’t been their first choice. “I’ll be fine.”

  She pursed her lips, but nodded. “I’ll wait for you here, then.”

  Matthai took a deep breath, then straightened his posture, squaring his shoulders as if he could physically prepare himself for what was on the other side of that door.

  With a sense of trepidation, he authenticated his identity via Hix. The doors slid open silently. Matthai steeled himself, then stepped inside, his footsteps echoing in the stillness of the room as he fought the urge to fidget.

  His parents rose to greet him, their expressions a mix of solemnity and concern. They ushered him towards the sitting room overlooking the Temple grounds. Silence stretched between them as they walked, unspoken words hanging heavy in the air.

  Their formal robes and the ceremonial tea felt like an ill omen.

  Matthai’s anxiety intensified with every step, stomach twisting into knots as he tried to guess the purpose of this unusual meeting.

  High Priest Soren Valtrellin was commanding, as always, his cobalt hair pulled into a low knot and angular brows lending an air of harshness. But his appearance belied the fact that he was the gentler parent.

  In contrast, High Priestess Phina Valtrellin was almost ethereal, her deep blue hair in looping braids that framed the delicate points of her ears. A deceptive softness. She wasn’t unkind, just unyielding in her role as High Priestess.

  They settled into their seats, the rustling of fabric and clink of teacups the only sounds in the room. Matthai’s heart pounded as he prayed for someone to break the oppressive silence.

  “Your schedule for tomorrow’s ceremonies,” his mother said. “You have reviewed it?”

  Matthai nodded. “I will accompany Father to meet Representative Torion in the late morning. Then, I will dress for the ceremony in my chambers. Following that, my procession to the cathedral, the vows before the Obelisk, then before the galaxy. Finally, the ceremonial feast.”

  Phina nodded, her expression unreadable. She exchanged a glance with Soren, a silent communication passing between them that set Matthai’s nerves on edge.

  After a pause that felt like an eternity, Soren cleared his throat, his expression grave. “Matthai, the High Priests of the First Temple have served as faithful guardians of the Obelisks for 217 generations, a sacred duty passed down through the Valtrellin line. We guide the High Priests of every Temple and serve as the aspirational ideal of poise and morality for all Valmorans.”

  His father, so empathetic, was often the bearer of bad news. That he was delivering this rigid and ominous preamble was far from comforting.

  Matthai braced himself, curling his fingers into the sides of his robe.

  Soren paused, setting aside his teacup with a deliberate clink. “We also protect them from knowledge that would do them harm.”

  A chill zipped down Matthai’s spine, the fine hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

  “What ...” Matthai began, his voice wavering. “What does that even mean?”

  Soren sighed with a depth of weariness he had never heard from his father.

  “Son, I won’t lie to you—our secrets are a tremendous burden, sometimes almost a prison, but ...”

  That telltale tingle at the back of his skull returned. No.

  “You are our sole heir. If circumstances were different, if you had a sibling ...” His father blinked his eyes rapidly and cleared his throat.

  “Now that you know that the Valtrellin High Priesthood carries secrets—some of which you will find shocking, unbelievable, and excruciating ...” he trailed off, then looked at his mate. “When your mother showed them to me, I might have run myself if not for our bond.”

  Phina Valtrellin reached out to squeeze Soren’s hand, guilt and sadness written across her face. “But as you will learn, our unspoken duties are essential to the survival of all Valmorans.”

  Matthai couldn’t help the perverse curiosity that rose. What could be so terrible, so essential?

  “Selfish as it may be, we refuse to lose our only remaining child.” His mother said, voice brimming with emotion. “You are more precious to us, Matthai, than you could ever comprehend.”

  To Matthai’s astonishment, a tear slipped down her cheek.

  “These loathsome secrets will not steal you from us. I won’t allow it. So, if you believe you cannot bear this,” Phina said. “We will find another way.”

  They were giving him an escape. They knew how much he struggled—

  —no. He was the sole remaining heir, the last in an unbroken line. His parents could hope for another child in the next fertile season, but it was unlikely.

  Breaking the line of succession would defy generations of sacred tradition. The scandal would rock the foundations of their faith, and the blame would fall squarely on his shoulders.

  He couldn’t fail them, couldn’t put them in such an impossible situation.

  The tingle at the back of his skull became incessant.

  Clawing, demanding.

  He didn’t want this—would never deserve or desire such a lofty role.

  But this wasn’t about what he wanted. It was about the Valmoran people.

  The weight of his future—the near-worship he would forever endure, the responsibility for leading trillions of Valmorans, these ominous secrets—threatened to crush him. To swallow him whole.

  The ringing in Matthai’s ears thrummed, the world tilting around him.

  I am here. I am now. I will not jump away.

  It was his duty to ascend as the next High Priest, 217th in an unbroken line.

  His fate.

  He had to do this, for the people, for his family, for the Gods.

  Matthai parted his lips, determined to pledge himself to that sacred duty—

  —and instead felt the world splinter around him as the chronojump finally claimed him.

  Cool air caressed his bare skin as he appeared in the East Garden.

  Just a man, feet planted firmly against the ground, rich soil sifting between his toes. A creature amid the beauty of flourishing plants and life.

  Here, he was safe.

  If not for his shame, he might have collapsed in relief.

  “Oh, my sweet boy! Did it happen again?” Miral, their venerable gardener, hurried over to him, carrying an all-too-familiar robe.

  “It’s a bit musty, but I still keep it here, just in case.” She wrapped it around him as she spoke. “Do you want to talk for a few minutes before you jump back?”

  Humiliation burned through Matthai, icy and searing. Minutes from now, he would snap back—naked, head pounding—to face his parents’ disappointment.

  He knew what they must be saying to one another. What if he lost control tomorrow, with the entire galaxy watching?