Five-hundred years into the future, the Earth has become uninhabitable. Decimated by pollution and irresponsible deforestation, suffocated under the exorbitant amount of unrecycled plastics and the near extinction of any viable plant and wildlife, together with vast overpopulation, the planet can no longer sustain nor withstand its human inhabitants.
With human life expectancy slashed to barely more than forty-five years, infant mortality hitting over sixty percent, starvation, contaminated water, and plague pandemics culling those remaining, the population is now starting to dwindle at an alarming rate.
In a desperate effort to maintain their existence, two separate groups are sent out to colonise different worlds, each heading to opposite parts of the galaxy, taking with them whatever technology, provisions, and resources are available to give them the best chance at survival while the remainder struggle to survive on planet Earth.
One thousand years of evolution followed, bringing us to the year 3520. The two colonies’ development has been diverse. One culture concentrated on higher intellect while the other became a warrior race.
But there is one thing that remains the same. While the circumstances may be different, once again both civilisations stand on the brink of extinction…
Trielle had somehow expected more, the day that their last hope came to an end.
Surely on a terrible day such as this, the restless sands surrounding the biodomes of Libanus should be a swirling mass of angry, bombarding particulates. They should be strafing and assailing the domes that sheltered them with the malevolent intention of scourging their entire race from existence.
Of course, the sand didn’t need to perform that particular phenomenon. They had managed it all by themselves in their arrogance and overconfidence that no external threat could ever cause them harm.
In the end, they had been their own worst enemy. They had thought they were invincible, and fate had set out to prove them wrong.
Surely the elements should be despairing, just as she was, that each and every member who completed the circle of life did so in the sure knowledge that their circle was now broken and nothing, ever again, was going to follow.
Instead, the atmosphere outside the vast transparent expanses of the biodome’s plexiglass confines was calm and still, almost as if it were mocking the turmoil that was encapsulated inside.
There was a commotion behind her and Trielle turned from the viewing dais, knowing that word had finally reached her twin sister, the Doyenne.
As she expected, Xarielle, the reluctant sovereign of Libanus, now that their menfolk had been struck down, came rushing into the sterile, antiseptic environment of the clinic all a fluster.
At least she reflected the turbulent emotions that Trielle was feeling on the inside.
Xarielle, though older by a couple of hours, was a typical product of their nation’s upbringing.
And therein lay the problem. Their nation had been built on the principle that women were pampered princesses to be cherished and revered. Their intelligence was respected, but without any expectation that they use it.
Theirs was a society based on intellect. Innovation and scientific advances were the bedrock of their society. They lived a life of ease, where technology and advanced robotics did all the hard work. Even the most basic life experience and event of procreation had been streamlined into a test tube and an embryonic incubator. And therein lay their downfall.
“Is it true?” Xarielle demanded, her strained voice wavering uncharacteristically. “Is Farryl really gone?”
Trielle had to swallow past the aching lump in the back of her throat before she could form a reply. “It’s true,” she finally managed to whisper.
She could feel an unexpected pressure in the ducts behind her eyes, saline threatening to overspill and, in a sudden, bewildering rush of emotion, she wanted to give in to that uncharacteristic phenomena.
And why shouldn’t she? Their brother, the last male on Libanus, had just died, after all, taking with him the final hope for their future. With him gone, all that was left to face was their doom.
Trielle stared at her twin. Xarielle’s face was pale and drawn, proving that she too was experiencing a similar slew of disturbing, unusual emotions.
“Surely there must be something more we can do?” her sister murmured hoarsely, her hands fluttering around her like a pair of trapped butterflies. “What about trying a few more of the cloning samples?”
Trielle closed her eyes and prepared herself for being the bearer of bad news. “We’ve tried every single one now. They’ve all failed.”
She tried to sound matter of fact, even though the unprecedented emotions pressing against her chest were trying their best to burst out. Trielle battled to keep them shut down, but knew they were pushing closer and closer to the surface, ready to spew an unparalleled eruption of sentiment that threatened to drown her.
It wasn’t that emotion had been bred out of their race, along with their genetically engineered DNA, per se, it was just that their entire cloned race had lived in such harmony and contentment that extremes of emotion had become unusual. They had become one of the latent idiosyncrasies of their species, and at times like these, when those dormant sensations rose into the fray, they were ill equipped to deal with them.
It had been just another one of the bewildering side effects of their recent misfortune.
With their menfolk’s cloned DNA failing and the male population of their race dwindling to nothing, through some kind of wasting disease that none of their scientists could isolate, many of their people had succumbed to a kind of madness borne of their inability to deal with all of the feelings their dire situation provoked.
“All of them?” Xarielle stilled suddenly, her eyes wide in disbelief, the shock showing clearly on her lovely face.
“Yes.” Trielle sighed. “I worked alongside Farryl and some of the other scientists before they succumbed to the wasting and were no longer able to function. We attempted every male cloning sample which was stocked. Some of them more than once. None of them even made it past the embryonic stage this time.”
“What about the sperm samples, can’t we create new embryos instead? We can manage that much ourselves, surely!” Her knowledge belied the fact that there was no actual experience amongst any of the women of Libanus to carry out such a feat.
Trielle bowed her head and blew out a controlled breath, steadying herself as she prepared to seal their fate.
“We started those kinds of trials a long time ago, Xari.”
“Well, that’s great news!” Xarielle exclaimed, her whole face lighting up with a hope Trielle knew she was about to crush.
Shaking her head, so that the woman who was her mirror image would know what was coming before the words eviscerated, Trielle steeled herself to reveal another failure.
“The only sperm we had available was from the current generation of clones. It seems that the wasting disease affected them right down to a cellular level. Every sample we have is sterile.”
There was a strained silence for a long time, expanding until it filled all the space in the room; an invisible pressure building along with it.
Trielle knew that her twin was staring at Farryl’s prone form, where he lay in the cold, antiseptic whiteness of the clinic’s stark surroundings.
She had yet to cover his face, so he lay in repose as if he were simply asleep. As if he hadn’t just quietly slipped away while her back had been turned, taking with him the final piece of viable, living, male DNA and leaving them as an entirely female race with no way of changing that fate.
The ominous quiet was so encompassing that Trielle heard her sister swallow in response before she sucked in a fortifying breath.
It didn’t stop her voice from quavering when she spoke again. “Then we’ll just have to try and survive as a race of females.”
Trielle nodded half-heartedly. It was sad that the vigour of that kind of fighting talk was lost to each of their insecurities.
Libani women weren’t bred for work.
“That’s possible, right?” Xarielle pressed for an answer.
Trielle was quiet for too long.
“It’s not, is it?” Xari drew her own conclusion, wringing her hands. Her delicate, perfectly featured face—the same one that Trielle saw in her own mirror each day—crumpled under the weight of despair.
“It’s not impossible.” Trielle tried her best to generate a tiny seed of optimism into her voice. But while Xarielle, like all Libani females, might be pretty as a picture, she certainly wasn’t stupid.
“But none of us have the extensive knowledge and education necessary to do that, do we? And there’s nobody left to teach us.”
Trielle held her sister’s gaze, allowing her to see the truth in her expression.
“What about you?” Xarielle demanded. “You’ve been holed up in here with Farryl for months, surely you must know more than any of us.”
Trielle nodded her agreement. “But even I don’t know enough…”
She cleared her throat. She was going to have to come clean and lay it out for her sister. “There are more urgent issues than that, I’m afraid, Xari.”
Xarielle shook her long, white blonde head of platinum hair in denial. “What on earth could be more important than the continuation of our race?” It came out in a whisper, the sound strangled by the new wave of panic that laced her voice.
Trielle blew out an aching breath. “Keeping the one we already have alive!” she said bluntly. There was no point in trying to paint things pretty.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean we need to feed the population, first and foremost. We need to keep the biodomes optimally maintained for power and heat. After that there are all manner of services, amenities, and facilities which need to be considered. Never mind repairs…” Trielle drifted off as the enormity of the task, which none of the women of Libanus were prepared for, pressed down upon her.
Xarielle looked at her blankly. “But we have bots to do all of that menial type of labour.”
“They don’t do all of those things on their own, Xari,” Trielle chided. “They need instructing and programming, sometimes they need repairing or replacing. Often, they need to be updated to reflect the needs and changes in our society. They need overseeing, especially in the botanical and agricultural domes.”
Understanding dawned with a clear amount of trepidation, which quickly bloomed into horror, in her sister’s eyes.
Trielle looked outside, where, behind the massive expanses of plexiglass, the burnished sands of their desert planet undulated and rippled in the light breezes of the current dry season. Things were relatively easy right now, but when the storm season came upon them…Trielle didn’t even want to contemplate such a thing. She turned back to her twin and told her the truth.
“As soon as anything goes wrong, we’re going to be in trouble.”
Trielle watched sadly as her sister and sovereign turned and simply walked away in utter silence, only the tell-tale droop of her regal shoulders gave away the weight of the crisis Trielle had just hefted upon her.
And what else was there to say, after all.
Trielle made her way back to her personal respite pod, as more and more unfamiliar feelings bombarded her being. Foreign and untried emotions and sensations which had lain dormant and unexplored for too long.
She made a mental note to investigate the research hub which housed the majority of their scientific data…if you knew how to read it. Farryl had been attempting to teach her. Surely there must be something there that might help.
To that end, she plugged into the mainframe with the special access that Farryl had supplied her with.
And there it was. A full neurological simulator ready to plug in to all of those latent moods, sentiments, sensitivities, and sensations. Everything she could possibly need, all easy to find, simple to use and ready to go.
Before she had any more time to second guess herself and change her mind, Trielle pressed the button to initiate the programme.
Suddenly, she felt as if she were being catapulted, way too fast, down a too narrow tunnel. Instinctively, Trielle grasped hold of the chair arms and pushed back against the headrest as flashes of light and speed and colour bombarded her brain.
Even though she knew, logically, that she was sitting perfectly still, her conscious mind gave the erroneous impression that she was moving at a great velocity. Her thoughts were all over the place, the sensations were so real that they had tricked her brain.
She barely had time to regain her equilibrium before a plethora of sights, sounds, and sensations bombarded her mind.
The first ones were light and familiar: laughter, happiness, contentment. Pictures played in front of her vision. An homage to all of those sensations and more, the cause and the effect playing like a cinematograph on the canvas of her mind.
They streamed into a slew of less familiar moods: surprise, incredulity, wonder, bewilderment.
Slowly, the images became darker, the colours dulled. Here lay sadness, which she had become far more familiar with recently. But with it came confusion, uncertainty, turmoil. Some of those things she recognised as having felt of late, but not properly identified.
The imagery in her mind became darker again, taking on an uncomfortable veil.
Jeopardy. Something she wasn’t really familiar with within her own lifetime, but her subconscious certainly recognised and reacted to the stimuli.
Their race had a unique transcendental radar which automatically picked up danger, instantly activating a kind of protective forcefield which their early predecessors had used to keep themselves safe. It could also be used to camouflage themselves and was still in existence on the surface of the biodomes, allowing the structural membrane, which incorporated strands of their own DNA, to take on the appearance of its surroundings. To anyone looking, the entire city of biodomes simply disappeared. Invisible to the naked eye, all that could be seen was a vast expanse of empty, inhospitable desert. The phenomenon was referred to as the Libanaura, but of course, in more recent decades, there had been no perils for their race to respond to, so those talents had not been explored by her own generation.
There was more here though. Sensations which were not only unfamiliar, but which were also unwelcome. The feelings that came to her now had her heart pumping and her pulse racing. Subtle nuances of the same root strain: distress, helplessness, vulnerability. Trepidation, apprehension, anxiety, panic, upset.
Shock, outrage, disbelief, devastation.
Now the colours in her head were black and oppressive.
Her heartbeat was pounding.
Short, sharp breaths frantically sawed in and out of lungs that felt as if they might explode.
Sweat dampened her skin, leaving it clammy while a single bead of perspiration made a slow crawl from her hairline right down to the base of her spine.
Suddenly, just as Trielle started to think that her head might explode, the palette on which the pictures in her mind were spun lightened and brightened, glowing in pale, soothing greens and golds with touches of rosy pink.
Her heart rate slowed, and her pulse gradually tripped back to a more normal rhythm.
There was pleasure here now, but more intense than she had ever felt it before. Indulgence, amusement, satisfaction, delight.
They shimmered past way too fast and Trielle found herself wanting to explore those further, and despite their ephemeral nature, she had an uncanny sensation that there was more than she had been shown. But how could there possibly be any more than the rainbow of colours and emotions she had just experienced—light, dark, happy, sad, fun, fear, and everything in between.
By the time everything came to an end, she was back to her old self…almost.
Her equilibrium was restored and the only thing that gave away the intensity of everything that had just transpired was her newly engaged emotional receptiveness.
As she prepared to remove the straps and nodes which held her in place, she acknowledged that the remainder of the female population of Libanus would benefit from accessing this programme. It would help them to understand and accept the latent emotional upheaval that was taking place.
Before she had time to switch off the programme, Trielle found herself once again face to face with a hologram of her recently deceased brother, Farryl, the late High Elder of Libanus.
This time when the feelings hit her, Trielle recognised the pain and loss for what they were, but that did nothing to prepare her for the shock of the words he was about to impart.
“My dear, impetuous Trielle. If you’re listening to this, then I know that you haven’t given up. That you’re still searching for ways to save the colony and protect the women who remain.”
Trielle slumped back into the chair, trying to concentrate on the words her brother was saying while the swirl of awakened emotions did their best to distract her.
“And if there is any woman on Libanus that might succeed in such a massive task, then it is you.” His words provoked a tickle of pride.
“You aren’t aware of this, but our father created you with the specific intention of giving women a more prominent role in our society. He wanted them to be treated more like equals, but the High Council overruled him. Of course, you were already engineered, so there was no going back in that respect. While you never received the complete education he wanted you to have, you still benefitted from a much broader input than the average woman.”
Trielle took a deep breath, trying her best to absorb the things that this holographic Farryl was telling her.
Her father had altered her genetic makeup to include traditionally male inheritable factors! Had he had some kind of premonition—or possibly something even more concrete—which had guided his actions? Or was it just a fortunate coincidence?
At least the reason why she’d always felt she was different to the rest of the Libani women was now explained. None of the others had the same drive and curiosity as she did. She had always been viewed as a bit of an oddity.
“…reason I’m leaving this communique is because I think I may have found a solution. Buried in the historical archives I discovered some ancient information about our forbears. It seems that Libanus was initially colonised by a contingent of survivors from the planet Earth. My research has shown that there were in fact two delegations, each headed for different planets in an attempt to preserve the human race. I’ve spent many months trying to locate the other delegation of earthlings and I’ve finally managed to corroborate the evidence that I’ve gathered.”
She shook herself, realising that her brother was still talking, and she’d missed some of what he was saying.
“Obviously, there may be some evolutionary differences over the past thousand years, but ultimately we are all descendants of the same initial race. Because of this, I’m certain the males of the planet Zyntari will be able to provide the compatible DNA necessary for you to engineer a viable generation of new clones.”
Trielle’s head was whirling and one question turned into a dozen…
The holographic image shimmered as Trielle shook her head in an effort to clear her mind and concentrate on Farryl’s message. His voice was soft now and somehow comforting. There was no doubt she could use a little comfort right now!
“I know this a lot to take in, so I’ll leave things there for now. When you’re ready I have more information and instructions to help you.”
And just like that, everything she thought she knew had changed and her world was turned upside down.
Zorran, warrior chief of the Zyntari nation, returned to the domestic compound, exhilarated from battle and high on the endorphins of victory.
A tall, striking figure, he strode through the collective, their main community hub, acknowledging the congratulations and welcomes with a cursory wave. Nothing more was expected of a homecoming warrior upon his initial return. The celebrations would begin later.
Taking a scant second to find what he sought, Zorran grabbed his favorite female, hefting her over his shoulder to a barrage of heckles and catcalls, before heading determinedly for his private quarters. He was pleased to find her, but had she not been there, another would have sufficed. There was an unwritten understanding throughout the tribe, that those females who were prepared to submit to the after-battle coupling ritual either made themselves available in the collective, or made themselves scarce. It was as simple as that.
The shriek she let out pierced his eardrum irritatingly, so he gave her a sharp swat on the rump for good measure. Then another, simply because he enjoyed it.
Around him, he could hear the familiar slaps and screams and grunts of other warriors already taking their own pleasure and the erotic sounds fuelled his own lust. Not that it needed any encouragement, but it made him all the more impatient to satiate his burning need.
Pressing the remote mechanism that unlocked the solid steel door of his section, he kicked it open with his dirty, battle-scarred boot and allowed the momentum of it rebounding on its hinges to let it close with a resounding crash before the auto locks snapped into place.
Heading directly to his sleeping area, Zorran tossed his chosen mate onto the pallet of furs without ceremony.
“Strip,” he demanded, barely even looking at her, as he went about peeling off his own torn and grimy clothing, leaving them in a forgotten heap in the corner of the basic, utilitarian room.
His boots each hit the floor with a thud and his belt buckle clattered as he deftly unfastened it, drawing his woman’s attention. With a lewd smirk he tossed it onto the bed next to her and watched her shiver before stalking predatorily over to where she waited for him.
He didn’t waste time with pleasantries, just grabbed her by the arm and yanked her into the middle of the room, where he swiftly but carefully shackled her wrists to the cuffs which were already suspended from a chain hanging from a sturdy beam in the ceiling.
He adjusted it until she was on her tiptoes, then grabbed up his leather belt and watched her as she watched him wind the buckled end around his fist until just a fat tongue of leather remained.
Zorran raised his arm and slapped the strap hard against her thrusting breasts. There was a sharp inhale of breath, but she didn’t cry out. Zyntari females were tough.
Peppering her other breast, then moving around to her peachy buttocks, Zorran continued until she finally started to yelp, and he drank in the breathy cries and abbreviated shrieks.
Only when her skin had deepened to a dark shade of rose did he let up, moving in before her and taking first one, then the other abused and pouting nipple deep into his mouth and suckling intensely.
The half growl, half shout that bubbled up from her throat brought him a deep satisfaction and prompted him to fall to his knees and deliver the same kind of torment to her peaking clit until she writhed and yanked deliriously against her restraints.
“Please, please, Chief Zorran…” God, he loved to hear her beg.
Instead of allowing her to climax like he knew she wanted, he feasted on her pussy. Her wiry pubic hair tickled his nose as he licked her slit before thrusting his tongue deeply inside.
“Oh, Zeus! I just need…please, just a little more…” She pleaded with him breathlessly, undulating her pelvis toward his head in a desperate attempt to gain a little more friction.
Just as her laboured breath began to change, and her thighs started to quiver, Zorran jumped up with surprising fluidity for a strapping, muscled male.
“No!” she wailed, stamping and flailing as best she could from her position on her toes, when she realised his wicked intent.
Laughing at her strained, angry cries, he turned and walked in the direction of the shower room.
He was straight from the battlefield, sweaty and dirty, and while many in the galaxy might consider his race barbarians, he was no heathen.
Besides, it tickled his perverted mind to leave her panting and needy while he left her to cool her heels.
“Nooo! Get back here!”
She was angry and frustrated by the time he returned, spitting epithets like she’d forgotten his lofty rank and he had half a mind to take a whip to her.
“You fucking bastard!”
She squirmed and rattled against the chain, kicking out her feet and spinning when she lost her balance.
A quick glance at her wrists showed they were beginning to chafe from her rough actions, and he supposed it had been as long since she had experienced release by anything but her own hand, as it had been for him.
Still, he decided there were better things she could do with her mouth than curse him. He heard enough of that on the battlefield.
Unspooling the chain, Zorran made short work of the cuffs, leaving them dangling as she toppled forward, unstable in her balance.
Grabbing her around the waist, he used the momentum to take her to her knees, then grasped her hair in his hands and tugged her head back.
“I’m sure you’ll appreciate the fact that I’m clean now,” he muttered, using the fistful of hair to guide her snarky lips to his throbbing, aching cock.
He didn’t give her time to make another obnoxious retort, just shoved in deep and held himself still inside the hot, wet clutch of her mouth whilst he revelled in the glorious feeling.
She grunted and swallowed around the hard length of his cock. Looking down, Zorran couldn’t help but appreciate the sight of this tough female on her knees before him, tears streaming down a strong-featured face as she gagged on his pulsing shaft.
Before he completely robbed her of air, he drew back, giving her scant seconds to regain her breath before starting to fuck her face in earnest, his big hands tightening in her scalp.
The female dug her sharp nails into his buttocks, scoring down the backs of his thighs and Zorran closed his eyes and revelled in the brief sting of pain. He instinctively thrust forward and held himself there, and for a few moments the two of them were locked in a carnal battle of wills as she sank fingernails, sharpened almost to resemble talons, into his undefended flesh and he pulled her spluttering mouth so close to his groin that he cut off her airway.
She was the first to capitulate, but then there had never been any doubt about that. Zyntari women were strong and hardy, but the men were in control. Always. That wasn’t to say that females were prohibited from becoming warriors and fighting in battles, the same as the menfolk. They were simply inferior.
There was absolutely nothing sexist in that thought process. It was just plain fact.
While their smaller bodies were sometimes useful for stealth and cunning, they were invariably frailer and often seen as the weakest link by the enemy.
And besides, most Zyntari battles were straightforward combat. Often females were seen as prizes to be taken hostage and then used harshly until they died.
He had heard dreadful stories of things the enemy did to female soldiers and warriors, whatever the race. And it was true that in any war, they made up the larger percentage of casualties. No special consideration was given to them because of their sex, they were treated identically to the men, and the same was expected from them.
Regardless, their smaller stature and lesser strength naturally worked against them, so few took up the mantle of soldier. Their worth was in keeping the colony going whilst the warriors were at war.
And in satisfying the menfolk upon their return.
Zorran withdrew and hauled his chosen mate to her feet, watching dispassionately as she attempted to wipe away the spittle which had dribbled from her well-used mouth with the back of her hand. He didn’t stop and wait, though, just pushed her back onto the pallet and covered her with his big, brawny body.
Grasping both her arms in his, he immobilised them above her head, then transferred them to one hand while he curled his other around her throat. He could feel her pulse beating wildly against his fingers as he took her mouth. Forcing entry with his tongue, he kissed her passionately, grinding his pelvis against her wet heat almost unconsciously.
She slipped her athletic legs around his waist to encourage him, pressing on his buttocks with her heels and arching up enticingly. Impatiently.
Zorran gave in to her not-so-tender persuasions. It had been a tough four months after all, with no female companionship and patience wasn’t exactly one of his strengths right now either. Angling his head so he could feast on her neck, he pulled back slightly to aid in positioning himself while she wiggled around in an effort to help him.
A couple of short testing prods and he was lined up, his rock-hard cock nudging the entrance of her wet slit.
Anticipation streaked through his veins and he could hold back no longer. Sinking his teeth into that sensitive part of her neck where it joined the shoulder, he drove into her with a single, hard thrust, grunting his appreciation at the same time as she arched and cried out beneath him.
The dam burst and Zorran bucked and thrust like a piston, chasing his pleasure while he found her sensitised nipples and gorged on them until she squealed.
In the back of his mind he knew he should think about her pleasure as well as his own, but it had been a long time and his body was demanding its own satisfaction.
With a monumental effort, Zorran yanked himself away from her and tumbled her roughly onto her belly.
Grabbing her hips, he hauled her butt into the air then searched blindly around for the lube he kept in his bedside drawer, not taking his eyes off the tantalising sight she made. With a deft hand and generously lubed fingers, he quickly prepared her before positioning his cock, still slick from her juices against her puckered rosette.
Glancing down for just long enough to appreciate the sight of his rock hard shaft burrowing in through the tight ring of her sphincter, Zorran let out an almighty roar and dragged her toward him at the same time as he loosed the grip on his self-control and allowed himself to lunge into her dark delights.
Vaguely he heard her grunt and groan into the wadded furs that muffled her buried face as he pounded mercilessly into her ass.
He gazed down at her through the fog of drunken pleasure in his mind, enjoying the sight of the red stripes that adorned her buttocks. Giving her a couple of sharp swats with his hand for good measure, he smirked as he envisaged the way her tits must be bouncing madly against the bed, his imagination providing what he couldn’t quite see.
Finally remembering himself, Zorran reached around and pinched her distended clit between his fingers, pulling back to give it a couple of love pats before rubbing away the pain.
The short, yelping pants that issued from her lips told him she was close to her own climax and in a brief wave of tenderness he gentled against her, leaning over her back so he could place light kisses against her nape and spine while he feathered attentive fingers against her most sensitive tissue.
He felt her begin to tighten around his already squeezed flesh and concentrated on wringing out the maximum amount of pleasure the two of them could share.
Her own scream of completion was lost amidst his heaving bellow as he reached the final culmination and emptied his seed into her lush body in wave after wave of harsh bliss.
Zorran collapsed on top of her, their sated, sweat slicked bodies clinging together, and suddenly he was exhausted. With the aftereffects of battle finally taking its toll as the adrenaline high he’d been surfing on started to fade, he suddenly felt the full weight of fatigue dragging him down.
He grunted absently as the female wriggled from under him and made herself comfortable while he dozed, oblivious to the danger that was even now creeping up on them.
Little did he know that this was the very last time he would see her—or any other Zyntari female.
The die had been cast and vengeful enemies sought to extract their revenge in the most devious and underhanded manner.
One which would have dire consequences for the future of the entire Zyntari nation.