MY CRUEL PROTECTOR
I felt the pulse of the world beneath my feet—not as a grid of data, but as a living, breathing collective of four billion stories.
"We are the Kings of a graveyard, Gianna," Nevan whispered, his grey eyes turning to the horizon.
"No," I said, looking at our son. "We are the Guardians of the Garden."
Leo was standing at the edge of the olive grove, his silhouette tall and lean against the fading light. He was ten years old, but his eyes held the depth of the billion souls he had helped to free. He was no longer the Heir to a throne of gold; he was the bridge to a new humanity. He spent his days not in white rooms, but in the dirt, helping the Syndicate refugees build a world that didn't need