Alpha’s Forbidden Mate
It looked like nothing she’d ever seen on the market or in the labyrinthine alleys of the undercity: a hybrid of technology and seedling, as if a newborn planet might burst from it if threatened or loved enough.
Lyra had taken up post at the roof hatch with a battered crossbow, eyes never leaving the horizon. The rest of the crew, those unlucky enough to be inside at dusk, orbited the windmill interior at a manageable velocity: running diagnostics, taking inventory, breaking and mending things in the old cycles of survival. Even Wyn, usually game for any oddity, hesitated before touching the seed. “You think it’s for the garden?” she asked.
“Or,” Xander countered, “for the grave.”
Bab Populer