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THE RECUSANT: NAON


This novel is the sequel to Daughters. Naon is a Khor'Zon Warlord, a prominent leader who made a terrible decision to clothe innocent civilians in Khor'Zon armor during a raid on the city she oversaw at the end of Book 1. Naon is a primary antagonist of the trilogy. This excerpt shows the repercussions she faces.



Naon’s wasp-yellow pupils and bloodshot black sclera returned her gaze in the dropship’s glass window. The pale skin under her eyes was raw with exhaustion, and tears responded to a constant itch. She could not remember what sleep felt like before Flonneburg. The gentle hum and rumble of the dropship could not rebuff the stabbing urgencies of her brain and Sanction’s boxy skyline. She had not been back for what felt like years. Towering pillars with golden windows, glossy spires like corrupting needles, constant drone swarms, and, rising above most of the buildings, the Lo’Zon’s palace. They had finally completed it—the Ovulith, they called it. An obsidian trapezoid, its angular planes reflecting the sun’s glare like water. Naon’s breath misted the glass and she sunk into her seat.

This horrid place, this cratered dirt-mound was her home now. “Earth.” What a stupid name. She would never again see the spiked plateaus and golden fields of Mengsha’ron, nor the majesty of Oro’nath. The Land of Rivers. The crystalline plains of Kiisk. Maybe there were still pieces salvageable, patches of land spared from gravitic chaos. She tipped her head against the glass in her slumped state, clenching and unclenching her fist on the armrest. It was the Warlord’s duty to show impenetrable resolve, to eschew reminiscence, to kill sentimentality.

But Khorsha was gone forever. Gone forever . . .

The dropship angled, causing her to shift in her eat. She opened her eyes, seeing one side of the Ovulith approaching quickly. A small hangar door revealed itself in the sheen, an invitation. The craft descended and was swallowed up by the maw, descending onto a runway lane. Once the whirring had died, the side door opened in a loud rush that made Naon wince.

“Welcome to Sanction, Warlord,” a young Preen’ch said, his boyish voice grating against her ears. “I’m to accompany you to the elevators. They’re just across the bridge here. Warlord?”

Naon took in a nosefull of air and sat up. “I heard you.”

She clung to the dour aura as she followed him to a wide bridge, flanked by towering hangar walls with exposed, polished rafters. She gave the surroundings a single, uninterested glance, licking dried blood on her lips back into a liquid state. Her right hip and knee twinged with each step. The retaking of Flonneburg had left her white Warlord armor dented and scratched—a pocked chestguard, a missing pauldron.

At the end of the bridge, a purebred Khor’Zon stood next to the elevator door holding a tablet. His thick, hairless brow shadowed seductive eyes. He wore ebony silk robes that fell to a train, sleeves held taut by middle finger loops. An ornamental chain circlet hung from his skull fin, its glittering emerald pendant resting in the center of his forehead. A simpler incarnation of Oro’nath garb. She could feel the material without feeling it, smell the odor without smelling it, bear the weight of it without bearing it. She remembered Seen’ai reaching for her hand, to take her onto the hardwood floor of her tenement to dance . . .

“We welcome you home, Warlord, with reverence,” the purebred Khor’Zon said, bowing. When he resumed his stance, he was not smiling. “And with retribution.”

“Is he here then?” she asked, all one word.

He took the tablet in both hands while crossing his arms in front. “Our Lord has been here for over an hour.”

Naon stuttered at first. “He was not to be here until three.”

“It is three, Warlord.”

“I know that. Why did he arrive early?”

“The Lo’Zon had a briefing with Sanction’s aerospace engineers—”

“Fine,” she snapped. “Just take me to him.”

He opened his arm, and the elevator doors parted. Once inside, the Preen’ch escort left her, and she was finally alone. The doors closed and she leaned against the wall. Taking weight off her legs relieved some pain. That filthy roach, that boy who tackled her in the city’s retaking, she wished he had endured a prolonged punishment. His headless body mocked her with such freedom. 

She closed her eyes. Even this monstrosity could not compete with Oro’nath. Highways as tall as buildings, weaving in and out, up and down. She traced familiar streets via mental taxi. Her mouth instinctually gaped when she recalled Ak’toh, the best ground meat delicatessen in the city. Seasoned beef wraps, fish fritters with a special cheese and pepper sauce, and the best part of the menu: the gloer bits. The small deer-like rodents were a staple of Khorsha cuisine, but Ak’toh deep fried their meat, tender enough to be gelatin. In her daydream, she turned, seeing a tall Khor’Zon with blue pupils standing next to her, smiling. Balien . . .

The elevator stopped, and the doors opened.

“A return I had prophesied since we traversed the stars,” said a high-pitched, raspy voice. “But not even your father could have predicted the state of such a return.

Naon’s eyes shot open, her veins hardening, her breaths shortening. Years of work burying the past erased by a voice.

Ghare, Mouth of the Lo’Zon, stood before her. His long fingers held the elevator door open, wrapped in black linen. The golden mask covering his face glittered, the mouth section designed in three vertical bars, the eye holes revealing festering skin and red pupils. He wore thin, charcoal plate armor, its creases lit by a black, ectoplasmic glow. His skirts were made of a greased woolen material that pilled and frayed. A tattered remnant of his Chalis garments hung from his armored upper back, a foot-long cape.

“Ghare,” Naon breathed, barely a sound. She blinked at echoes of his shrill laugh, remembered the weight of his body on hers, his hot breath against her ear.

“What did you last tell me?” he began, stepping inside. Naon slowly, begrudgingly looked up at him. “You said, ‘if I ever see you again, it will be because I have left every piece of myself behind. You will only see a skeleton, a corpse. A corpse with a dagger.’” He eyed her up and down. “Well, you certainly smell like a corpse. But where is your dagger?”

“I need to see the Lo’Zon.”

“This is how you greet me? After all this time? This is how you greet your old mentor?”

Naon’s eye twitched. “I do not have anything to say to you.”

“But I have much to say to you,” he rasped, stepping closer with an aura of violence, forehead tipped down. She backed up into the wall, averting her gaze. “Look at me.”

When she did, she saw dark green pus and dried blood at the edges of his eyes, graying black sclera, and bloodshot veins. Yet his neon red pupils were as vibrant as the first day she met him.

“I know what you want to do to me,” he whispered. “I can feel it against me like a caressing breath. Do it. Try it right now. Get it out of your system.”

“You are keeping me from the Lo’Zon.”

He pulled back, making a tsch sound. “You really are broken. I must admit I am a little jealous; no one is allowed to break you more than I did.”

“Does the Lo’Zon know who you really are? Does he know what kind of creature he has speaking for him?”

“There we go. That is better. Let us stoke those embers.”

“Maybe you should be the one meeting our Lord. You are the one who let that white-haired wretch escape the Chalis. She has probably told them everything they need to know about the Chalis. You let all of this happen.”

“I wondered what being a Warlord might do to you. This accent you have. For someone who hates humanity as much as you do, I am shocked to see you imitating them so strongly. You should have stayed in the Chalis where the pure blood belonged.”

“Yes, I am certain the Chalis was riveting. Still learning how to walk without your nanomachines?”

He gave a raspy chortle. “I am standing tall. Tell me, how is your standing?”

“This is what the war looks like, Ghare. This is my world, and out here, you are the pupil. The Chalis made you brittle. Seen’ai was right; you have become ‘stale.’”

Ghare crossed his hands behind him. “Seen’ai. I had almost forgotten about him. How sorrowful, Naon. I had truly hoped you would become something astonishing. Your mother would be so disappointed in you if she could see you now.”

“My mother? The child molester? The woman who hid me my entire childhood so that she could carry out her depravity? You would align her with eminence.” Naon stepped out of the elevator and closed their gap. “It has been twenty years, Ghare. You no longer know me. You only wish you had not been abandoned as a child. You wish you knew what it was like to have parents, to have anyone that cared about you. Where is the Lo’Zon?”

“Only,” Ghare started, “you cared for me once.”

“In your most degenerate dreams, yes,” Naon said.

He lifted his head, then scoffed. “Our Lord has been waiting for you. You must be terribly late by now.” He opened his long arm toward the end of the vaulted hallway he had been barring.

She left him, letting her face relax, exhaling like a dismantling air mattress. The immaculate walls and ceiling were as white as a clear sun, a stark contrast to the Khor’Zon’s obsidian obsession, an inner womb of porcelain. At the end, she stopped in front of double doors with no visible handles. She hesitated, her hand on the surface.

The decision that day to arm and garb Flonneburg’s inhabitants felt like a temporal schism, a moment with many branching outcomes. Had she never made the call, would Flonneburg have fallen without contest? How could the Lo’Zon not see her decision as anything but praiseworthy? Surely the devotion to his own race was immutable. Surely he saw how it might have affected the Calcitra to attack their own. They were humans! Their enemies. The conquered. Why was this even worth discussing? Her leaders, even the Lo’Zon . . . they were all wrong.

The thought stung her, made her heart race. She scrunched her brow and eyes, rubbed her temples with her free hand.

“May Orothaea bless you, Naon,” Ghare said, an light snicker at the end.

She pushed the door open and stepped into a pristine, pearlescent conference room. The only source of light came from a glass wall at the room’s end, a vista overlooking the city. Miles away, the Chalis was framed in the window’s center, its sheen matching a distant storm. A twenty-foot table stretched across the room, with a high-backed chair at the end. The seat was polished white, each side decorated with fanning geometric pikes.

The door closed behind her, encasing her in anechoic stillness. She stepped forward, idling near the table’s edge. For a moment, she wondered if the Lo’Zon was even here. The table seemed to stretch forward, tunneling. She remembered his mask looking down on her, offering her his hand. Embracing her. Her Lord. The one who had saved them. He had never shown her disdain, only praise. She was the only Purebred Warlord. Loyal. Pragmatic. Effective.

She cleared her throat. “Are you there, my Savior?”

Of course I am,” the Lo’Zon said abruptly, standing and pushing the chair aside. He moved down the aisle toward her, causing her to flinch and step back. “Who else would it be? Are you really going to start this with that kind of forced innocence?” His deep voice reverberated through his mask. “And has it been so long that you’ve forgotten how to bow?

Nanomachines constricted Naon’s body, forcing her to form a crude bow. The Lo’Zon had not moved his hands. He stopped his approach a few feet away.

Naon made a small gasp, straining her eyes at the floor. “Forgive me, Savior. I am over-exhausted. I am—”

“Lower,” he whispered.

Naon’s knees crumpled. The nanomachines held her face an inch from the floor.

“I . . . I am—”

“Making excuses,” the Lo’Zon interjected. “You’re weaving. Manipulating. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Oh, and you’re so good at it. Proud of it, even.”

He turned away. She collapsed onto the floor. Flooded with embarrassment, she pushed up and got into a kneel, wincing as she tried to adjust. Little scorpions continued to snip her spinal cord and lumbar region.

“S-Savior,” she mumbled. “Please release them.”

The Lo’Zon tilted his head. “You still feel them?” He looked away, muttering to himself. “Hmm. It’s new, this transfer of nanomachines. We’re still working on it.”

The pain fizzled out. She didn’t dare look up.

He soon stepped toward her. He wore his signature all-white chestpiece and armor, his faceless mask, form-fitting quilted pants, and slim footpads with molded traction. Glowing white triangles coming off the sides of his mask flowed and undulated as if without gravity. He crouched down and tilted his head, the center of the mask swirling like an iridescent oil spill.

“Did you know they finalized the body count?” he asked. “I want you to look at me, and tell me your best guess.”

“Please . . . just let me accept my punishment.”

“This is part of your punishment. Tell me.”

“A . . . a few hundred?”

The Lo’Zon scoffed. “Unbelievable. When I chose my Warlords, I didn’t pick brain-dead invalids who couldn’t calculate simple mathematics and probabilities. Don’t insult me. No, not a few hundred, Naon. Two thousand, six-hundred and twenty-three.” He gave a confused chuckle, then threw the nearest chair into the wall. The legs shattered upon impact. His prosthetic arm whirred softly as it powered down. “Most of them were civilians, Naon.”

“I did what I thought—”

“Exactly. You did what you thought. And what a failure of a thought that was. A Warlord who can’t follow simple protocols . . .”

“We had no time to react, Savior. I tried to do what was right—for us. It was foresight.”

He leaned in. “Don’t start.”

“Fine,” she said. “Intuition, then.”

“Do you know what you are, Naon?” he said. “You are a bull. Do you know this animal?”

“Yes.”

“But you probably don’t know about its hatred of movement?”

“I do not.”

His voice shifted to an open, explanatory tone, but Naon knew his point would not be.

“Years ago,” he began, “before the war, the humans would corral one of these bulls for sport. They would agitate the bull by waving a flag or a sheet in front of it. When the bull would charge, the person holding the flag would move at the last second. These bulls would become enraged at the wave of a sheet of cloth. A sheet of cloth, Naon.” He paced back to her. “Do you know what that makes the bull?”

“No, Savior.”

“A brainless idiot,” he said. His voice returned to its usual low grit. “You see, you’ve become enraged by cloth, Naon. These humans—they’re nothing. They hide in holes and shoot tin casings at us. A Warlord must maintain herself. A Warlord is not rash. My Warlords are impervious to spite, jealousy, and revenge. Are you my Warlord?”

She did not answer. The Calcitra used more than tin casings these days.

“How quickly you forget how your father died,” he continued. “Zexl the Sage. The ‘great Servitor of Quar’on.’ Leader of the outcasts . . . betrayer of the Lo’Zon. He would still be alive if he’d listened to me. It was his pride that sent him and his followers to the cells. His pride could not save him from getting shot in the head by some ground-sucking Khor’Zon who could barely hold a pistol.”

“He was not shot,” she mumbled.

“Excuse me?”

“I was there that day, Savior—”

The Lo’Zon swung, hitting Naon in the cheek with the back of his hand. She staggered against the decorative table, biting down and inhaling carefully. She knew if she looked up at him now, she would explode.

“Of course I know you were there that day,” he snapped. “You can believe whatever twisted outcome you want about him. My point is his demise was his own doing. He did not listen to my counsel.” His tone turned genuine, and he approached her. “Why did your personal desire conflict with our goal, Naon? You were my most prized tool. My purebred Warlord. I still remember the day I gave you your Warlord Mark. Imagine that. I hardly remember those ceremonies. You don’t have to like the humans, Naon. But we need them to make this work. I shouldn’t have to remind you of that. In fact, I’m insulted I have to.”

Naon sniffed and cleared her throat, her head still down. “I thought our brothers and sisters were more important than the lives of these disgusting Earthlings. I thought our people would understand that.” She was thankful she could make it through a full thought without being cut off.

“I don’t need to explain to you why losing that many workers and builders and farmers and engineers and electricians is so devastating. That’s why I entrusted you with the title of Warlord, why I gave you London, why I let you swap Outposts in a flash. I trusted you. I knew that wherever you went, whatever scheme you were working on, it was always for the building up of this cause.” He grabbed her chin and made her look up at him. “But now . . . when I look at you . . . all I see is incompetence. I see hatred masking your potential. You’re so caught up in this utter loathing for humanity that you forget poise, leadership, persuasion. You forget me. And to forget your Lord . . . to forget Orothaea? Naon, there is nothing without Orothaea. There is nothing without me.”

Naon swallowed and kept her jaw from chattering. “I am . . . sorry I disappointed you.”

He let go. “Don’t forget how much I hate apologies. I don’t care about your standing with me. I care about this entire invasion being worth it. I care about the long-term. The future. No matter how much you despise it, one day Khor’Zon and human will be equal and free. War is a stepping stone. A necessary, god-awful stone. A war I’m trying to win with as little casualties as possible. We cannot have mistakes like this again.” He made a sweeping glance of her body. “And for that reason, I have made the decision to revoke your Warlord Mark for the time being.”

What?

The Lo’Zon gripped Naon by the throat and lifted her off the ground. “No; when I declare a decision, it’s final. There’s no debate, no hesitation, no exclamation. And when you protest, it gives the impression that you think I have incorrectly decided.” He squeezed. Her hands pawed at his wrist. “I am done with half-measures and leniency. So, tell me, have I incorrectly decided?” He pushed her off the wall and released her.

She stopped herself against a chair, coughing until she could breathe normally. “I will do whatever you ask, my Savior.”

“Ghare will show you your new duties.”

Naon looked up at him, hoping he would say something more. But the mask stared back, unmoving. She bowed her head, calming her breathing. Twenty years of fulfilled duty. Of flawless service. She stood and walked toward the back of the room. The Lo’Zon’s voice repeated through her as she met Ghare outside.

“Ghare,” called the Lo’Zon.

“Yes, my Savior?”

“Send the engineers up again. The nanomachines need some work.”

“Of course,” Ghare said, bowing.

The doors closed and Ghare turned to face Naon.

“Look at me,” he said quietly. She did so without any kind of face, without any life. “For the first month, you will be working in the sewers. Depending how that goes, the next two months will be factory work—manufacturing drones. After that, if you’ve proven yourself, you will become Overseer of Nanomachine Production. So, you see, the Lo’Zon has shown great mercy, Naon.”

The words floated around her, but never entered. She stared off as Ghare walked toward the elevator and pressed the call button.

“Coming?” he asked, an outstretched hand gesturing to the open elevator.

Each step forward seemed holographic, like a Chalis simulation. She moved automatically, with a stilted gait, leaving behind fragments of herself. Ghare’s eyes were constantly bearing down upon her, likely hoping to retrieve a fiery reaction. But she remained silent all the way down.

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