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He tries again. Nothing.
His mouth moves like he’s trying to speak, but his body won’t follow through.
The chamber is quiet as we all watch. No one moves. No one even breathes too loudly.
One more attempt at taking a breath. And then everything stops.
His body slumps in the chair. Finally quiet.
This is a lesson. Pledge allegiance to the Order.
And don’t ever fucking touch what’s mine.
The sun is already gone, but the sky still bleeds where it died along the horizon straight ahead of us. One hand stays on the steering wheel. The other rests on the console between us, fingers flexing now and then when I think of who we’re going to see.
Zaiya hasn’t spoken for the last half hour. She’s focused. Dangerous in the best way.
She twirls her butterfly knife to give her hand something to do, the blade flashing against her black-painted nails.
I glance sideways, careful not to stare too long. But that glimpse of her makes restraint hard to manage.
The green gown clings to her, deep forest silk poured over every curve with no apology. The neckline dips low enough to pull attention like gravity. Her hair is up with a few dark, wispy waves falling loose. And when she shifts, the Seraph brand peeks out over the back line of her dress as a warning.
Her plan is to make her mother choke with one look.
I would have suggested bloodshed, but Zaiya has developed a taste for psychological devastation, and who am I to interfere with her artistic growth?
In the last few weeks, she’s scrubbed the blood and ash off her skin and gotten used to life in the Order. Learning not to doubt herself. Learning to take up space.
Now she doesn’t question when men three times her age bow their heads and call her Seraph. Now when they move aside for her, she keeps her head high.
She always had this power in her. She only needed to be pushed far enough to realize she never needed permission.
Now they compare her to my mother, the last woman who wore that title like a curse. The difference is that Zaiya inherited nothing. She didn’t step into a role. She took it. Claimed it. With blood. With pain. With the steady rise of a woman no one wanted to cross. She makes grown men obey with nothing but her gaze and the knowledge of what happens when they underestimate her.
I inherited my father’s legacy. His history. I Every time I walk into the ritual chamber, his ghost follows me. Everyone keeps waiting for me to become him. They don’t understand I never wanted to fill his shoes.
Under my rule, there will be no room for disloyalty. We’re stronger united.
The rituals, though… the ceremonies that require sacrifice and exposure. Those can stay. I don’t intend to make the Order kinder. I intend to make it worthy of the loyalty it demands.
As Sovereign, I’m going be the thing people can’t predict. An enigma in a suit. A shadow next to the Seraph. Close enough to be feared.
Zaiya’s fingers brush her collarbone, adjusting the strap of her dress. The scars on her arms are healing slowly, but she wears them with pride. Reminders that she can survive anything.
The road is an endless straight line with cornfields stretching out on either side. Billboards break up the dark in cheap bursts of faith and sin.
Heaven or Hell. Where are you going?
Adult Store Next Exit.
I almost laugh. This state loves to pretend it’s clean while it sweats with desire under its Sunday clothes.
Zaiya tenses when the next sign appears.
Vote William Zapera for Governor. Ensure Iowa’s future.
He stares down at us, smiling smugly as the picture of innocence. A wholesome Midwestern statesman.
