Page 61 of Sinadim

“The low-born would support you,” Balkazar said, careful of his prince’s churlish mood. “If they were offered a taste of what you’ve given me here,” he murmured, flinging one clawed fist toward the females clustered around their nest, “you’d have the support of the common folk. The peasants and gutter trash. Those like me, who never knew to want for more.”

Sinadim let go a heavy sigh. “The armies of the sultanate outnumber the pureblooded Anhur forty to one. To bring war to the Silver City is to doom countless Anhur to a senseless death.”

Nodding because he knew it was little more than the plain, hideous truth, Balkazar turned his attention back to the sounds of childbirth. Indulging a morbid curiosity as the first guttural cry of genuine female effort rose above the rest.

And then, speaking for generations of those like himself, he said, “Without hope for something more, they’re not living. Not really. They’re just waiting for death and begging the Nine for it to be swift.”

There was nothing after that. Nothing but the chatter of females preparing for battle of the sort males like Balkazar would never understand.

“It’s starting,” Sinadim said at length, pouring another generous round as he settled back to watch. Arms over his chest, tail tucked off to the side.

Kneeling in the nest, supported by half a dozen hands, their girl began to push.

“Steady,” said a wizened Matron whose pale hands were a striking contrast against flushed, sorrel skin. “Bear down, now. Easy, or you’ll tear.”

A tormented whine burbled over lips that had been wrapped around Balkazar’s cock only that morning. Sweat gleamed across a brow Balkazar had seen painted in dew countless times over the last three months.

“They’re coming fast, dear,” the Matron said, and her hands vanished between thighs that had grown supple and lush under Sinadim’s care. “You’ve done this before. Just take slow, steady breaths,” she murmured, “and be ready to push when I tell you.”

The girl didn’t respond with words. She hissed, ears pressed flat, head hanging low, her arms slung over the shoulders of two other Omegas. Hair hanging lank and sweaty across her delicate face. Crooked tail flicking and trembling in pace with her effort, until a set of gentle hands caught it and tugged it to the side. Affording the watching Anhur a better view.

“Ready?” the Matron asked and prepared a clean towel without waiting for the answer. “Push! Don’t stop. That’s right. Keep up the pressure. It’s almost out—ah! There. One down, dear,” the Matron cooed, vigorously scrubbing a tiny, squirming thing with the towel. “You’ve done brilliantly.”

Sickle took the babe, checking it over with a critical eye. “It’s male,” he said at length, a tiny, pained smile tracing his lips. “Congratulations, my prince. He’s perfect. He’ll grow into a fine warrior, I’m sure.”

Balkazar squinted at the tiny creature squirming in Sickle’s hands. It was no bigger than his palm. Dusky skin marked with pale stripes and a tiny, naked tail that curled around its chunky, stubby little legs, but otherwise utterly unrecognizable as a hybrid Anhur that would one day be taller than its sire. Heavier. Built for battle.

“That’s it?” Balkazar asked, helpless to stop himself from voicing the question. “It’s so… small.”

Sinadim snorted, claiming the babe from Sickle’s outstretched hands. “A Hathorian female isn’t built to carry Anhur babes,” he said, gentle with the tiny creature nestled in his palm. “So they’re born earlier than a pureblood. Premature. Small to accommodate their dam. To support her in carrying a liter of hybrids.” Something dour fell across Sinadim’s brow, then. “It’s taken thousands of generations and careful breeding to select for these traits in our Omegas and the hybrids they give us.”

A soft groan pulled Balkazar’s attention back to the nest. And he watched with wide, blue eyes as another tiny hybrid was born, scrubbed clean, and inspected for flaws. Another given to the prince with soft praise of future potential.

Unruffled, Sinadim took each babe as it was presented. Seemingly unconcerned about the gender, he simply took the child for a moment, then placed it in a waiting heap of bedding.

A tiny nest, for tiny newborn hybrids.

And so it came as something of a shock when Sickle placed the next bundle in Balkazar’s hands. A soft, “Congratulations, war chief. A healthy male.”

For a moment, Balkazar was left to marvel at the squirming bundle. Shocked silent and still by the weight of it. By the unbelievable density of a thing so small and fragile.

It cooed at him.

Blinking from inside the soft folds of towels, Balkazar found himself looking into the icy blue gaze of a creature born of his efforts.

A son.

Hybrid, sterile, and incapable of passing down his undesirable peasant genes, but it was a son nevertheless. His.

As he stared—awestruck—Sickle placed a second bundle in the war chief’s lap.

“A female,” the inked Omega male murmured, avoiding eye contact. “Just as perfect as her siblings.”

Balkazar looked and found himself staring into another set of icy blue eyes—the exact same shade as those looking back at him from the mirror.

“Shame,” he returned, voice quiet and low as he placed the female atop the nest of her siblings without another glance. His gaze returned to the tiny infant male, and he paused to marvel for a moment at the impossible fact that he’d set a child of his beside those born from royal seed.

And so he didn’t see it when the prince’s green eyes grew narrow and slitted. Missed the brief flare of warning from a blond mane before it was quashed.