The Bastard Prince

By Blair Bancroft

What to do with K'kadi Amund, the youngest of four royal children—the one who doesn't talk? The young man of almost twenty-one who can still lose himself in moments of beauty, or moments of disaster. "Unreliable" and "weird" are some of the kinder things said about him. So why does S'sorrokan, leader of the rebellion against the Regulon Empire, consider him one of his most vital assets? But even when K'kadi comes into his own and gets what was once his greatest desire, he discovers that growing up comes with a price.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blair Bancroft
• Release date: May 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781736799970

Blair Bancroft

Blair Bancroft recalls receiving odd looks from adults as she walked home from school at age seven, her lips moving as she told herself stories. And there was never a night she didn't entertain herself with her own bedtime stories. But it was only after a variety of other careers that she turned to serious writing. Blair has been a music teacher, professional singer, non-fiction editor, costume designer, and real estate agent. She has traveled from Bratsk, Siberia, to Machu Picchu, Peru, and made numerous visits to Europe, Britain, and Ireland. She is now attempting to incorporate all these varied experiences into her writing. Blair's first book, TARLETON'S WIFE, won RWA's Golden Heart and the Best Romance award from the Florida Writers' Association. Her romantic suspense novel, SHADOWED PARADISE, and her Young Adult Medieval, ROSES IN THE MIST, were finalists for an EPPIE, the "Oscar" of the e-book industry. Blair's Regency, THE INDIFFERENT EARL, was chosen as Best Regency by Romantic Times magazine and was a finalist for RWA's RITA award. Blair believes variety is the spice of life. Her recent books include Historical Romance, Romantic Suspense, Mystery, Thrillers, and Steampunk, all available at Smashwords. A long-time resident of Florida, Blair fondly recalls growing up in Connecticut, which still has a piece of her heart.

Book preview

Foreword

In the infancy of the rebellion against the Regulon Empire—when the huntership Orion was thought lost in a battle against the Nyx and the entire planet mourned Captain Tal Rigel and his crew—Ridó Command on Blue Moon, the third moon of an insignificant star system in the Nebulon Sector, made the most dramatic decision in its history. A decision which set a precedent for Regulon ships seeking asylum from the power of the Empire. When Ridó Command’s viewscreens showed an unidentified spacecraft of considerable size being fired upon by a Regulon battlecruiser, it opened the force field protecting Blue Moon just long enough to allow the unknown ship in, before closing it in the face of the pursuing Reg warship. The cruiser, bounced off into space, limped back to Regula Prime with a tale that brought derision at every level of command. You fired on a ship that identified itself as a merchant delivering farming supplies? Omnovah! What else would it be? Everyone knows what fydding cowards the Psyclids are. Strategically, it’s worthless. We only took over their weird planet because we couldn’t let them flout their independence so near our home space. Yet you try to shoot a ship out of the sky just because you thought she looked like a warship. Fyddit! Let me tell you, Captain, we have better things to do with our resources!

And so the rebel leader Talryn Rigel—the blond, blue-eyed epitome of a Reg warrior—came back to Veranelle, the summer home of the Psyclid royal family, a place he had visited when his father, Vander Rigel, was the Regulon ambassador to Psyclid. He took the king’s apartments in the palace as his own, and at the imposing desk in the king’s study, what had been little more than a determined gleam in Tal’s eyes became a rebellion against the Empire he had served so faithfully for nearly a decade.

In the coming years Ridó Command welcomed a steadily increasing number of ships to the rebel fleet. None, however, could compare to the spectacular arrival of the battlecruiser Tycho, captained by Tal’s life-long friend, Alek Rybolt. A ship that would double the rebellion’s firepower and begin the life-changing transformation of K’kadi Amund, son of a king, genetic experiment. The boy who could not talk.

Chapter 1

The night Tycho crashed on Blue Moon

He could feel them. Four hundred-twenty men and women, their terror tightly controlled by their military training, by their faith in their captain. Each doing his job, some stoically calm, some praying, some spouting inventive streams of profanity at the Reg ships chasing them. Ships manned by people they knew, people who had been their friends only ten days earlier. And beneath their calm façades, every last one of Tycho’s crew knew they were on a crash course for Blue Moon, with only the slimmest chance of maintaining enough control to keep the largest warship in the Regulon Fleet from plowing a hole all the way to the moon’s core.

K’kadi Amund, son of Ryal, King of Psyclid, stood in the middle of his room, head bent, fists clenched at his sides. Mute, as always. Suffering their pain.

A hiccup jolted the emotions streaming from Tycho as K’kadi recalled what his brother-in-law said to him the last time he’d popped up in his bedchamber at an awkward moment. But, fizzet, he had no option.

Wincing, K’kadi closed his eyes and sent a vision flying to his sister’s bedchamber. If she was alone, he’d be forgiven. If not . . . surely the importance of his news would keep Tal from flaying him with words.

Kass was not alone. K’kadi honed his images to vivid clarity while steeling himself for a blast of Tal’s temper before he could get his brother-in-law to stop what he was doing and fully take in what K’kadi was showing him: a Regulon battlecruiser closely followed by a huntership and two frigates, all three firing everything they had. But Tal Rigel had not become a rebel leader without a mind that could deal with crises at lightning speed. A mind that knew when to choose duty over personal inclination. Anger at K’kadi’s untimely interruption of a private moment with his wife had already transformed to action mode by the time Ridó Command called, confirming the news. Tycho was coming in hot, about to crash on Blue Moon.

Mission accomplished, K’kadi threw off his ornately embroidered green satin nightrobe, and scrambled into one of the blue jumpsuits that had become the rebel uniform. Glancing into his full-length mirror, he ran his fingers through his tousled white-blond hair, frowning at the change from elegant princeling to just another reb in a no-rank coverall. Fizzet! Even the lowliest Reg recruit walked tall in snappy gray trimmed in black.

K’kadi grimaced as he realized he had let his thoughts drift off topic. He did that—everyone knew he did that—which was why there were so many rebels who didn’t take him seriously. Kass knew he had powers beyond making pretty pictures. So did Tal. But not being able to stay focused was bad. Maybe worse than not being able to talk.

For what must have been the millionth time in his nearly twenty-one years, K’kadi raged at the fate that kept him silent. Mute as a stone. They told him he was the only baby in Psyclid history who never cried. Which meant there was no one who could understand his fury, his frustration, his despair. As he grew—stumbling with often disastrous results into powers he could not understand or control—his only solution was to cocoon himself behind a wall of illusions. Pretty pictures to distract not only others but himself from the turmoil inside. Truthfully . . . he’d come to enjoy his role as Blue Moon’s oddity, the boychild who never grew beyond an entertaining, if somewhat unreliable, clown. Until his sister L’ira returned to Blue Moon as Kass Kiolani, and he’d been swept, willy nilly, into the rebellion.

And if he didn’t get moving, he was going to be left behind. Teleport? Better not. Ever since Kass saved Astarte (once the Regulon huntership Orion) at Choya Gate, he’d been practicing, but all the way to the airfield? He could, however . . .

K’kadi, grinning with the delight, plopped down beside the helo’s gaping door just before Tal and Kass arrived. They had to take him. Tycho called to him, though he had no idea why. Assuming his most innocuous face, K’kadi Amund, the slight, fey, bastard son of King Ryal, regarded his brother-in-law from azure eyes that might well have belonged to a starving puppy begging for a scrap of food.

Tal’s response was a curt nod from a head whose mind was clearly many kilometers away, attempting to visualize Tycho’s crash course through Blue Moon’s terraformed atmosphere. As soon as they were on board the helo, K’kadi showed his appreciation by painting an all-too-vivid picture of the fiery hull of the pride of the Regulon battlefleet plunging to its possible death. Tal scowled, waved the image away. K’kadi shut down his vision and hung his head. He wanted so much to be helpful, but he never seemed to get things right.

Warmth filled him, however, as his sister took his hand. He’d learned to think of her as Kass, the name Tal called her, but in his heart she would always be L’ira Faelle Maedan Orlondami. Former Princess Royal—now new-made ruler of Blue Moon. Big sister. Though he now topped her by half a head.

When they arrived at the potential crash site, the helo hovered at the edge of a broad expanse of meadowland surrounded by forest. Tal said the location was good—it meant Tycho still had some control, enough to try to set down where there were no buildings and no people. K’kadi peered down at the ground. Every emergency vehicle within fifty marks must be on site. The lights on the ground were a symphony of blue, red, and white, the same colors as Psyclid’s moons. Flashing, strobing, almost as good as fireworks. For a moment K’kadi’s attention wandered, lost in a swirling sea of light. And then he felt the call. Not Tycho. Something—someone—on board Tycho. Someone who might be lost tonight. Might never be part of his life.

No-o-o. The someone was . . . special.

The someone was for him.

Slowly, K’kadi shook his head, shoving the thought into a deep crevice with all the other nonsense that insisted on stumbling through his brain, distracting him from what Tal and Kass expected . . .

Wordless, formless, the siren call bounced back. At greater intensity. The essence of someone important, who could be dead in the next few minutes. Someone calling him.

Never! Not die—he wouldn’t allow it. K’kadi clutched Kass’s arm, his pleading gaze stabbing through the dim light. Help!

Kass’s eyes widened. She stared, unable to accept what she had just heard. If only in her mind.

Help! Ple-ease. Ah, good, she understood. He could see it in her eyes.

"K’kadi, did you just speak to me?"

No speak.

Yes, you did.

Waste time. Help ship. Please!

Tears welled up in Kass’s eyes, her lips trembled. "I can’t, K’kadi, I can’t. Even if we had Jagan and all his people, this is too much. Tycho’s the largest ship in the fleet. It’s out of control, coming down hard no matter what we do."

Slow it. You, me.

"K’kadi, we can’t. Look at it—it’s nearly down. It fills the sky!"

Do now! He grabbed her hand. Do!

Later, K’kadi liked to think they’d helped. Actually, he was almost certain of it. Everyone said only five dead was a miracle. At the time, however, all he knew was that he was preserving his destiny. Whatever was calling to him was his.

Ares be praised, she was alive! In the dim glow of emergency lighting, Alala Kynthia Thanos struggled to sit up. Following Captain Rybolt’s command, as a good soldier should, she had stayed in her cabin as Tycho hurtled toward the rebel base on Blue Moon. Every moment was agony, as she longed to do something, anything to be useful. But in spite of being a Herculon warrior, she was confined to quarters, a rescued captive in a sea of Reg traitors. Which was, of course, the reason she was on board Tycho. Admiral Rigel had asked—more likely, ordered—Captain Rybolt to take her aboard the defecting battlecruiser on its run to Blue Moon.

The run that ended in a crash. Yet somehow they were down and she was alive. Alala pulled herself to her feet, settled her helmet which had been knocked awry, and strapped on her short sword. Ignoring the protests from her battered body—something she had been trained to do from an early age—she gathered up the arrows that were scattered over the cabin before slinging the full quiver and bow onto her back. Good. She was ready.

The door was a bit of a problem, but she soon found the emergency override for the lock. (Regulons, superb engineers, never failed to allow for emergencies.) Was it Captain Rybolt’s forethought that put her in a cabin near a docking port? Whatever the reason, she found herself among the first to arrive at the exit. Looking, as always, every inch the foreigner, in helmet, armored breast plate, and flowing purple kilt above an expanse of black leggings.

To her surprise, the Reg crewmen nearest the lock motioned her to the front. She knew Captain Rybolt had ordered them to respect the stranger in their midst, but first off the ship after a crash . . .? Perhaps they were simply acknowledging her senior rank. Or perhaps they were as doubtful about Blue Moon as she was. Did Admiral Rigel know Blue Moon was the rebel headquarters, or was he guessing? On top of that, Blue Moon was part of the Psyclid system, crawling with people who were little better than witches. Or so everyone said. She’d even heard that tales about Psyclids were used to frighten Regulon children into good behavior. Which suggested Tycho’s crew, members of the most mighty and feared space fleet in the Nebulon Sector, were playing it safe when they stepped back and let the Herc warrior go first.

Fine. She could do that.

Accustomed to command, Alala raised an eyebrow, nodded to a crewman hovering at her side. He snapped to attention, stepped forward, and hit the emergency Open button on the airlock. Three others leaped forward to haul on the reluctant door.

A whiff of fresh air. The outer door must have buckled. Would it open? Alala waved the crewmen toward the final barrier. The sound of grinding metal, whooshes of pent-up breath from those waiting behind her, and the door groaned open, the night outside stunningly bright. Spots danced before her eyes. Alala stood tall and proud in the doorway, as a warrior should, until the light finally sorted itself into spotlights, headlights, emergency lights, and wavering glow torches. The deep black silhouettes of a dozen or more figures raced toward them.

After that, she was plunged into controlled chaos—triage quickly shunting her aside to a dim space at the edge of the emergency vehicles. Alone. Glad for the chance to catch her breath and look around . . .

Alala swore a soldier’s oath. Tycho’s bridge was buried deep in a mass of trees. Captain Rybolt! Her only friend. Was he dead?

A pink haze popped into view not six feet in front of her face. Startled, Alala drew her sword. The amorphous mass of pink shifted, gradually coalescing into roses that seemed to shimmer in some ethereal light. The flowers dipped and swirled, forming a heart. A few petals drifted through the air, slowly falling toward the ground.

Witchcraft! Psyclid monsters! Sword in hand, Alala spun in a slow circle, seeking the source of this abomination.

A boy? A tallish, skinny, unarmed boy with white hair and a foolish smile? Impossible!

Shoving her sword back in its scabbard, she nocked an arrow, aiming it straight at his heart. Be gone, witch! Herculons want no part of sorcery.

Friend.

What? Brave as Alala was, hearing a word not spoken aloud nearly turned her legs to water. Forcing herself to stand tall, she jerked the bowstring all the way back to her nose.

And then she was flat on the ground, her bow and sword gone, the quiver torn from her back, the weight of three men pinning her down.

No-o-o! A cry of anguish echoed through her head. From the boy?

The weight lifted, the three men rolling off her as if tossed by an invisible giant. While she attempted to make sense of the impossible, an unseen force set her on her feet, and she found herself staring across ten feet of space at a boy turned to angry man. A man much worse than a witch. And totally terrifying.

You are Herculon, are you not? a female voice said with the smooth calm of one accustomed to dealing with dramatic situations. Please pardon my brother. He was only attempting to welcome you, but since he is unable to talk, communication can sometimes be difficult.

Unable to talk? Was she supposed to be moved to sympathy? Revulsion was more like it. The man-child far exceeded the weird she had been warned to expect of Psyclids. But the woman was still speaking and, consumed by horror, Alala had missed some of her words.

. . . Kass Rigel . . . ruler here. Please forgive our guards. They are very protective of their own. If you will come with me, I’ll find a place where you can be comfortable.

Ruler? This small scrap of a female in a blue jumpsuit ruled Blue Moon? The boy sorcerer was her brother? Alala suddenly longed for the secure cocoon of her cabin on board Tycho.

K’kadi, the woman continued, her welcoming smile turning to a frown, return to the helo at once. I will see to . . .? She turned a questioning look to her guest, which somehow left Alala no doubt about the authority behind the polite façade. She snapped to attention, saluting with a slap of her right hand flattened over her leather breastplate. Alala Kynthia Thanos, Colonel of the Herculon Seventh Penta.

She was accustomed to the look of disbelief. To shock so strong even a princess, queen, or whatever this ruler was called, could not hide it. With an imperious gesture, Alala snapped her right arm straight out at shoulder level. At a nod from Kass Rigel, one of the men responsible for taking her to the ground handed over her sword, hilt first. When it was safely back in its scabbard, a second guard stepped forward, offering the bow that had been torn from her hands. The witchboy watched, glowering, not moving an inch.

"K’kadi! Helo now." Staring his ruler straight in the eye, the young sorcerer made a grand gesture indicating the women should go first. Five seconds passed, in which Alala, amazingly, could feel the struggle between the two Psyclids. To her surprise, the woman called Kass gave in first, walking toward the helo, gesturing Blue Moon’s newest guest to a place at her side.

K’kadi, azure eyes gone dark and grim, followed.

Chapter 2

Three Blue Moon cycles later

Tal Rigel leaned back in his chair and inspected his old friend through eyes that had learned to search for every flaw, every possible weakness, ruthlessly putting aside all thoughts of family, friendship, or personal inclination. Alek Rybolt, Tycho’s captain, was thinner, paler—but then tanning wasn’t an option on a moon surrounded by a blue haze. His brown hair was taking on a shine again, and the intelligence, well laced with humor, that lurked in his gray eyes revealed that his body might have a ways to go in recovering from the crash, but his mind was ready for anything Tal might throw at him.

We’ve set a tentative date for the Psyclid take-over, Tal said. "What’s the report on Tycho?"

Eager as a cadet for his first battle, Alek shot back, When?

Shortly before the next Tri-Moon Festival.

And that is . . .?

Tal did a quick translation of Reg and Psyclid moon cycles. About four Reg months from now.

Alek slid down in his chair, cupping his boy-next-door face in the palm of his hand. Slowly, he shook his head. You’re out of your mind. Half of my ship is still lying in a field, the rest a puzzle of pieces in spacedock.

"Astarte, Tycho, and Scorpio have the best engineers in Fleet. And what about the wrench-monkeys on the merchant ships that’ve joined us? They’re used to keeping their buckets of bolts in the air with nothing more than rusty parts and a prayer. Add in a few of Psyclid’s gifted, and my money says we’ll have Tycho back in one piece well ahead of the deadline."

"Eternal optimism, my friend—I guess that’s what it takes to run a rebellion, but Tycho’s still in a thousand pieces, wires trailing everywhere, viewports shattered—"

Worst case, we’ll postpone. But we’re doing this, Alek. We’re taking back Psyclid. Our first step on the long road to destroying the Empire—with Psyclids as our most powerful weapon. Just wait ’til you see what they can do—

Tal shot to his feet as the office door burst open and a female fury stomped into the room, her long black hair swirling around her head. Alek, still seated, swiveled around to stare at her. Grim-faced, though visibly resigned to the inevitable, Tal lowered the Steg-9 that had suddenly appeared in his hand and waved away the two guards who had followed the intruder into the room. This was not, after all, the first time the Herculon warrior had invaded the privacy of his office.

Alala, seemingly delighted to find the rebellion’s two most senior officers in the same place, addressed them both, her liquid brown eyes spitting fire. Captains, you must make him stop! He follows me everywhere, tells me I am his. He is a purveyor of magic, a monster. On Hercula we would roast him alive. If he continues this madness, I shall kill him!

Tal lowered himself into his chair, took a deep breath. Alek, momentarily distracted from Tycho’s woes, studied his boots in an attempt to hide his amusement at the sight of S’sorrokan, leader of the rebellion, being forced to deal with his brother-in-law’s love life.

Sit! Tal barked, indicating the chair next to Alek’s. Alala, anger still vibrating from every pore, lips formed into what could only be called a pout, did as she was told. Colonel Thanos, I believe we have had this conversation befo—

Yes. And still he does not stop!

"Visions of rainbows, flowers, and fireworks, the sweet sounds of viol and lutá are far from lethal, Colonel. I cannot consider them stalking."

"It is unnatural!"

I cannot argue with you there, Colonel, but K’kadi is a law unto himself. You are entitled to ignore him, that is your right. But since he is one of the rebellion’s most powerful weapons, if you harm him, you may find you have exchanged your luxurious accommodations for space in the brig. Is that clear? Not that he’d actually do it, not when he needed the Herc’s help. But couldn’t the blasted girl be a bit more . . . flexible?

Alala’s pout became a gargoyle grimace, her answer more mutter than militarily correct. Sir, yes, sir.

"I fully understand that you are a great warrior, Colonel, in spite of your youth. And I look forward to the time when we will visit your planet and ask for Hercula’s aid in our rebellion against the Empire. Captain Rybolt and I were also taught there was no such thing as magic, that Psyclids are flat-out weird, fodder for tales to frighten small children but no use in a fight. Cowards to the core. But you must appreciate that K’kadi too is a warrior. It is possible he and my wife saved your life by helping to slow Tycho’s trajectory on reentry. So, believe me, no matter how good you are, there is no way you are capable of doing what he can do just with the power of his mind."

It’s true, Alek interjected. "I was brought up to believe that magic is anathema. And I freely admit I’m still skeptical. But when I watch Psyclids floating parts into place on Tycho or see K’kadi paint strange and wonderful pictures in the air, I have to acknowledge there’s something solid, possibly even useful, about skills of the mind. Something we can’t explain, it simply is. I am hoping it’s enough to do what the Psyclids say they can do."

Alala extended her lower lip, crossed her arms over her chest. No! It is wrong.

Colonel, Tal said, "you must accept that no one controls K’kadi Amund. His sister, my wife, comes the closest, but no one really understands what goes on inside his head. I promise I will speak to him. Again. But you must understand that when it comes down to the two of you, he is the more important weapon. I can go to Hercula without you. None of us have to admit we’ve ever seen you. Do you understand me? Tolerate K’kadi and all his idiosyncrasies, or you may never see Hercula again."

Even if he did not truly mean it, the message was clear.

Alala’s shoulders slumped. Quiet settled around them as she sat unmoving, her face reflecting a barely contained outrage.

How old are you? Alek asked. Surely very young to be a colonel.

Twenty-five, Captain, she murmured, not raising her head.

Tal did some rapid calculations. "The Hercs have a shorter year than ours, so I would guess that puts you close to K’kadi’s age. I second Captain Rybolt’s question. How did you get to be a colonel at such a young age?"

Alala, sensing where the conversation was going, snapped upright, brown eyes blazing. Yes, my father is First Advisor to our king, but I am a colonel because I think fast and fight fiercely. And if you were imagining something more terrible than favoritism, let me assure you I am a virgin. I did not sleep my way to my rank! Ah, good! She had managed to paint scarlet the faces of both captains. Served them right for questioning her rank.

You are dismissed, Colonel, Tal snapped. And don’t forget my warning.

After allowing just the slightest smirk to show, Alala bounded to her feet, saluted smartly, and marched out in full military mode, leaving both men to curse Vander Rigel who had saddled them with the termagant from Hercula when they needed to focus their full attention on the ending Regula Prime’s chokehold on twelve star systems, starting with freeing the openly eccentric citizens of Psyclid.

Tal, after a long talk with his wife, and convincing her what he needed to say to K’kadi was best said man to man with no female interference, sent for his brother-in-law. His volatile, insouciant, enamored brother-in-law—may his incomprehensible if wonderfully shining soul be devoured by Sorian slimeworms!

When the summons came, K’kadi considered transporting himself to the g’zebo in the forest. Or perhaps back to his bedroom in the house where he had grown up. His mother could always be counted on to understand his moods . . . But she’d likely heard about Alala—was there anyone on Blue Moon who had not?—which meant there would be questions. A torrent of questions because she would be so ecstatic he had discovered girls. At long last, goddess be praised!

Scowling, and well aware he looked like a reluctant schoolboy about to be chastised for a serious infraction of the rules, K’kadi followed the messenger back to Tal’s office. Sometimes it seemed this was the story of his life. K’kadi Amund, who never got things quite right. K’kadi, who was allowed to play with magic but never taken seriously. K’kadi, the artist, the clown. The unreliable. Nobody seemed to remember the times he’d helped. The times he’d held the shuttle invisible on Psyclid—without incident—the night of Jagan and M’lani’s secret wedding, again on the night they rescued the hostages. And the night he and Kass helped save Tycho.

Truth was, even his own family didn’t fully believe. And more and more, he himself had begun to wonder. He had been so certain, so absolutely certain the visions he saw would come to pass. But now . . . Perhaps, as some people said, he really was crazy. A damaged soul fit only to entertain. Certainly, unfit for a statuesque warrior like Alala Thanos.

No! He was K’kadi, only son of Rigel, king of Psyclid. He must remember that.

K’kadi stood tall, defiant, before the rebel leader, torn by doubts but too much the proud son of a king to show them. When Tal waved him to a chair in front of his desk, K’kadi managed to retain his stiff-backed pose, though without his brother-in-law uttering a word, he already felt as battered as the krall his sister had once repeatedly tossed against a wall. K’kadi’s lips suddenly twitched as he recalled the tale that said Kass had also smacked the deadly snake in the face of Tal’s mistress. Good, that was better. Acknowledging that the great Tal Rigel had faults made it easier to accept the lecture he knew was coming.

Except it wasn’t. At least not yet.

K’kadi, Tal said, we’re about to begin the long, hard road to freeing twelve star systems, starting with Psyclid. And you are one of our greatest weapons. Even Jagan admits that your gifts are extraordinary, and they seem to be growing exponentially. I count on you as one of the most vital members of my team. You will go with us when we check out possible back doors into the Regulon system. And you’ll be with us when go to Hercula, hoping for an alliance—

Hate me.

The Hercs fear magic, as Regs do. But some of us got over it. So will the Hercs.

No.

Tal frowned. Is that a vision, K’kadi? Or defeatism because Alala refuses to see the light?

K’kadi slumped in his seat, shaking his head. Not sure.

Which proves you’re human, like the rest of us. And a woman has you twisted into knots. Tal drew a deep breath. "K’kadi, you know the drill. We’ve had this conversation too many times over the last few months. We’re about to take