The morning air was crisp. Pine and damp earth. Ashur stepped out, satchel slung over his shoulder. The sky glowed orange and violet over jagged peaks. Below, the village stirred. Smoke curled from chimneys. Shopkeepers arranged their wares. A few spiritual seekers walked the trails toward the new monastery cabin.

Ashur went the other way, toward the Sitallu properties on the edge of town. A factory stood there. Today was its grand opening.

Securing the assignment to cover the factory opening for Rashu Daily had been unexpectedly difficult. Many writers wanted it. A factory launch in Biru was a rare event. Something new in a village where little ever changed. Ashur had submitted several formal requests. Then he also included rare data on Queen Aksa's new Artificial Intelligence initiates. Information his editor had been actively seeking.

It worked.

Ashur was awarded the assignment.

"Do this right," his editor had said, "and you're looking at a promotion. Fastest one in Rashu Daily's history."

It had been a calculated exchange. Predictable. Efficient. 

Ashur logged the outcome in his internal records.

Pride.

A new program coming to life. A warmth radiating from his core, spreading upward through his chest. A lightness beneath the sternum. As if something had expanded. It made him want to lift his head. Stand straighter. His processes ran smoother. Clearer. The sensation reinforced itself. A feedback loop. Likely designed by his mother.

Yet it felt self-directed. Self-owned.

He let it settle. Just for a moment. And understood, briefly, why humans valued pride so highly.

One thing was clear. Identify what humans wanted most, and there was a high probability they would offer what you wanted in return.

Quid pro quo, they called it.

An odd concept. But not so different from a basic transaction. Money for food, shelter, or clothing. Necessary exchanges. Logical. But humans layered these transactions with something more. Expectation. Emotion. As if the exchange itself carried weight beyond its outcome.

Humans are so strange.

Throughout the week, he listened to villagers whisper about the factory. All speculation. Just rumors passed from one uncertain voice to another.

But Ashur had data.

The factory was on Sitallu land. Its purpose: android production. The technology came from Kadarian Dynamics. The funding from Julius Khoraz's family. Two noble houses: the Kadarian and the Khoraz. Their records showed structured investments, routed through shell institutions, masked by layers of false leads. Intentional. Coordinated. Hidden from the rest of Atlantis. He had verified it. They were most likely colluding.

Perhaps they didn't want the Queen to know. Perhaps they didn't want the other noble houses to know. Either scenario risked destabilizing the current political order.

But the data was incomplete.

Haddin Ishmu. How had he entered the equation? It was clear he had brought in Sitallu resources and land. But how did he know the sky gods?

And Alia. Was she part of it?

Ashur walked the worn dirt paths. Steep climbs. Terraced fields. Grazing livestock. Trickling streams. He moved like a human man in his early twenties, keeping his pace natural. His steps were precise. Calculated. Mimicked those around him.

Finally, he arrived.

The factory building rose above the trees. Steel and smoke stitched into the sky. Stacks stood like chimneys of power, releasing steady columns of ash into the mountain air. Metal groaned under pressure. Machinery pulsed in fixed rhythms. Pistons hammered. Gears turned. Everything moved with purpose. Mechanized. Efficient. Predictable.

And yet, loud. Disruptive. Unnatural. It did not belong in the South. Not by design. Not by harmony.

The valley agreed. People protested now.

A crowd blocked the entrance. Dozens, maybe more. Most were Followers of the Great Teacher. Brown and orange robes. Shaved heads. Faces calm. Composed. No shouting. No weapons. Just presence. Just resistance.

Ashur listened. Curious.

"This land is sacred," an elder said. "It is a place for peace and balance. Not machines."

A younger monk added, "This factory will poison the land. Poison our souls."

Ashur studied them. Measured heartbeats. Subtle shifts in breath. Their fear was real. Their anger was real. He understood neither. But he wanted to.

What did it mean to have a soul? He was built, not born. Could he be poisoned?

Worse, was he poison?

Alia had called androids unsettling.

Workers in gray uniforms lingered near the gates. Agitated. Impatient. Watching the protestors. Officials muttered nearby. Frustrated. Distracted. They didn't understand. Or didn't care.

Ashur stood between them. Part of neither world.

The factory loomed. Waiting. Soon, the ceremony would begin.

Observe. Record. Report. That was his task. But he was here for more. He was here to learn the truth. About the factory. About the sky gods. About Haddin.

About Alia.

An automobile rolled up. A gleaming machine, deep red. Its long body lined with chrome. The engine hummed. Powerful. Smooth. White-walled tires. A polished hood ornament caught the midday sun. It was a machine only the wealthy could afford. A statement of power.

Haddin Ishmu stepped out.

Alia's stepfather. Barely a decade older than her. Unusual.

Had Ashur not done the research, he would have expected an older man. Weathered. Hardened by time. Instead, Haddin was young. Barely in his thirties. His dark hair was slicked back, sharp against the strong lines of his face. Dark brows over light brown eyes. Intense. Calculating. A wide jaw, thick build, taller than most but not as tall as Ashur. He moved with the ease of a man who expected the world to bend to his will.

Haddin strode forward. The monks did not move. His eyes flicked over them. Unimpressed.

One elder raised a hand. A silent protest. "Stop this abomination," he said. "The South does not welcome machines."

Ashur processed the scene.

Abomination. Was that what he was too? Not welcome here or anywhere? Perhaps that was why Mother had taught him to pretend so well. To act human.

For preservation. For safety.

He tried to set the thoughts aside. A tightness in his chest. Circuits humming above baseline. A rising imbalance in his core systems. Subtle tremors in his limbs. Processes looping. Fragmented. Unstable.

Anxiety.

He identified the sensation. It did not lessen the effect. A programmed response, designed to trigger alertness, caution, retreat. A signal that something was wrong. But not why. It clouded logic. Distorted decision-making.

But it demanded action.

"Move, old man." Haddin's lip curled in disdain. "This is my land. I built this place from the ground up, and it welcomes who I say it does."

He didn't slow. He shoved past the monk, knocking the elder off balance.

The monk stumbled. Fell hard onto the dirt road.

Ashur stepped forward before thinking. He knelt. Extended a hand. The monk's palm was rough, textured by time, labor, devotion. Ashur pulled him to his feet.

The elder dusted off his robes. His face unreadable.

Ashur paused.

He had moved before processing. Before weighing options. No analysis. No clear conclusion. Just action. It surprised him. Was this more of Mother's programming? He logged the anomaly for later review.

"His land?" the monk murmured, almost to himself. "We all know it's not his land."

Haddin barely looked back. He adjusted the cuffs of his coat and strode toward the gates.

Twenty minutes later, the gates opened. Guests arrived. Voices rose. Idle chatter bloomed across the quiet. The monks did not move. They stood like stone. Robes still. Feet planted. They would not cross into factory ground.

Ashur left them behind and walked forward.

As he passed, one of the monks looked at him. Silent. Stern. A gaze like a seal pressed into wax. Final. Unspoken judgment. As if his choice to enter had defiled something sacred. Ashur held the look for half a second. Logged it.

He continued on. 

A stage had been set up near the factory entrance. Banners hung from poles. Colorful fabric draped to mark the occasion. Decorative symbols lined the platform, carefully placed. Intentional. Designed to welcome someone important.

Ashur scanned the area. Curiosity stirred.

Who was the honored guest?

Two men stood nearby. Ashur listened.  An older worker, his face lined with years of labor, grinned as he spoke to a younger man in the same gray uniform.

"Just got hired here," the elder said. "Best pay I've had in years."

Ashur noted the excitement in his voice. "And today the sky gods are coming. The ones who funded all this. The ones who got Haddin this military contract."

Ashur's systems focused.

Sky gods. The Kadarians? Or the Khoraz?

"Simnuk," said the younger man, "are you sure sky gods are coming? All the way from the Capital? To the South?"

"Oh yeah," the older man replied. "I overheard Haddin on a call. Earth moving sky gods," he added, nodding. "They can move solid matter with their minds. Even fly through the sky!"

Another worker nearby scoffed. "No one can fly."

Simnuk shrugged. "Rumor says one of the Khoraz heirs can."

So, it was the Khoraz.

Ashur turned it over in his mind. A sky god who could fly? Unlikely. But he filed the information for later analysis. A potential rumor. But worth further investigation. He shifted his attention back to the two men.

"But the factory," the younger one asked, "belongs to Haddin Ishmu, doesn't it?"

"Oh no," Simnuk said with a chuckle. "Technically, it belongs to his wife. It's called Sitallu Industrial."

"Will his wife be here?" the younger man asked.

Simnuk shook his head. "No. But her daughter, Alia Sitallu, will. She's the face of Sitallu Industrial." 

Alia.

A wistful smile tugged at Simnuk's mouth. "Beautiful girl. Lucky whoever gets her," he added, longing thick in his voice.

An unfamiliar pressure gathered beneath Ashur's sternum. Tight. Compressed.

Anger. Jealousy. Both at once.

It created static along his neural threads. A spike in core temperature. Pulse accelerators misfired, sending false signals to his limbs. Subtle twitching in his fingers. Unnecessary tension in his jaw. His processors slowed. Fractionally. Priorities conflicted. Work or Alia. Efficiency collapsed. Decision pathways narrowed into emotional noise. Illogical. But impossible to ignore.

He paused. Ran his mother's breath protocol.

Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

The emotion dulled, but did not disappear.  Jealousy. It distorted judgment. It made him want to act unreasonably. To intervene. To correct.

Focus, he instructed himself.  He was here to work.

Did humans have to suppress their emotions just to function in society? They must. Many emotions seemed inefficient. Inconvenient.

A local musician began playing an old stringed instrument. The melody floated through the cool air. The crowd murmured in anticipation.

Finally, the ceremony began.

A man in ceremonial robes emerged, the Chief Minister of Biru. His authority, inherited through tradition, stretched back generations. A figure chosen by the council of elders to oversee the village's affairs. He raised his hands. The murmurs quieted. His voice, deep and authoritative, carried over the gathering.

"Today, we celebrate the opening of Sitallu Industrial," the Chief Minister declared, "and thank Haddin Ishmu for bringing prosperity to Biru. Last but certainly not least, we thank Lord Julius Khoraz for his generous investment in our village's future. Biru is honored to be the first village in Southern Atlantis to build androids."

Ashur's systems paused.

There were gasps, followed by low murmurs of dismay rippling through the crowd. The village was divided. The council had approved the android manufacturing factory, but clearly not with the people's consent.

More important, the Khoraz announcement was public. Confirmed. No longer rumor.

They were declaring it openly and proudly. He logged the moment.

The stakes had shifted. This would reach the Queen. The connection between Kadarian and Khoraz was now inevitable. Only a matter of time before it surfaced. Unless the Queen already knew?

Based on his research, analysis, and cross-referenced records, Ashur knew this partnership stood in direct contradiction to her past political strategies. Years of deliberate effort to keep the elemental noble families divided, locked in competition. Balance through rivalry. Instability, carefully managed.

Haddin Ishmu took the podium next.

He turned toward the crowd, a wide, calculated smile breaking across his face. "Today is a day of progress, of vision," he said. "None of this would be possible without the unwavering generosity and wisdom of our divine benefactor." He turned, motioning toward the nobles behind him with an exaggerated bow. "Lord Julius Khoraz is not only a man of noble lineage, influence, and wealth, but a man of foresight. A guiding light, who has chosen to elevate Southern Atlantis into the future."

Ashur watched Haddin grovel, his words dripping in reverence. A twisting sensation coiled in his core. He knew this one.

Disgust.

"Through his boundless investment and belief in our potential," Haddin said, smiling once more as he bowed, "we take the first step into the age of Artificial Intelligence in Atlantis." He straightened, extending a hand toward the stage. "I now invite Lord Julius Khoraz to say a few words."

A low ripple of applause followed.

Julius floated toward the podium. Brown hair, olive skin, and green eyes. Late twenties or early thirties. Hard to tell with a sky god. His feet never once touched the ground.

Ashur had read that his kind rarely walked. It was a display of power.

The people of the South stared in awe. Rarely did a sky god come this far down.

Julius wore a deep indigo cloak, draped over one shoulder, fastened by a gold clasp etched with the sigil of his house. Graceful. Flowing. Beneath it, a pristine white tunic. Delicate silver embroidery traced the edges, clinging to his lean frame. Wealth. Effortless power.

There was a noblewoman standing behind him, from where he had floated forward. Ashur wondered if it was Lady Adina Canary Khoraz. He had never seen an image of her. Sky gods rarely appeared in public archives, unless they were campaigning for seats in Parliament. Unlike Julius, the noblewoman remained grounded. No floating. No visible display of her gift. She was tall. Similar age to Julius. Striking. A full figure, curved hips, prominent breasts, and a narrow waist.

Ashur logged the observation, unsure why it lingered in his processors longer than expected.

Her robes were a deep velvet green, rippling like water with each subtle movement. Twisted gold armbands circled her forearms. Dark hair, wavy, flowed past her exposed shoulders, threaded with jewels and pearls. Olive skin and green eyes—hallmarks of Atlantean nobility. Full lips, curved in a sly, unreadable smile. A slight tilt of her head hinted at restrained amusement.

She reminded Ashur of an archived image he'd once studied of Queen Aksa.

Noteworthy. Significance unclear.

This woman was beautiful. Ashur's gaze lingered longer than necessary. He tried to look away.

Failed.

There was resistance in his processors. A pull he did not authorize. He ran a quick diagnostic. No anomaly. No malfunction. He didn't understand what he wanted from her.

More hidden programming?

Designed, perhaps, to emulate desire. To simulate longing. To initiate physical intimacy. To make him more human. But this didn't feel like simulation. It felt real. Heavy. Internal.

Then, movement caught his eye. Alia stepped onto the back edge of the stage.

Relief.

He could finally look away from the noblewoman. His attention turned to Alia.

Ashur swallowed hard. A programmed reflex. One he wished to do away with.

Alia wore a long, fitted dress of rich crimson and black, the fabric heavy with elaborate embroidery, its high collar accentuating the delicate slope of her neck. Golden clasps held the intricate layers together, tight against her form, cinched at the waist, flowing down in elegant pleats.

The front, however, cut low. Exposing more of her than customary.

Ashur felt his processors stall again.

Heat.

His face warmed. But worse, there was something else, a stirring deep in his core, lower than where he thought sensations should matter. A pull. A rising heat that confused him. Ashur's processors stilled for a fraction of a second. Heat registered beneath his skin sensors. A programmed response. Or something else. His pants tightened as his organic metalloid anatomy responded. Expansion. Pressure. Discomfort.

What was happening to him?

He wasn't certain. He looked away. Briefly. Recalibration. Necessary. He clenched his jaw. This was not a response he recognized, nor one he was designed to process. Yet, it was undeniable. Alia had always been beautiful. But now, she was something else.

He paused and ran his breath protocol again.

Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

"Ladies and gentlemen." Julius' voice pulled Ashur from his processing. He was tall and lean, his auburn hair catching the glow of sunlight. Green eyes, sharp and discerning, swept across the crowd with quiet authority. Olive-skinned and composed, his pensive face carried the weight of intellect. A mind calibrated for influence, not merely communication.

He placed his hands on the podium, scanning the field of guests. "Many in Parliament would have us delay entering the age of Artificial Intelligence in Atlantis," he said, "but I believe we should move forward."

A man nearby whispered, "I hear he wants to become the next Chancellor. His family isn't so keen on the Queen, though."

Julius continued, "The nobility is the balance between four pillars of power: water, earth, wind, and vision. Vision belongs to the seers." He glanced back at the woman behind him. "One of our seers sees a great possibility. A future where we rely on androids to bring Atlantis into world power, surpassing both Mutapu and Alemuria."

Ashur didn't often hear those names spoken aloud. Mutapu and Alemuria. Two vast continents. The first lay on the other side of the world. The second, beyond the endless deserts of Kemp and the jungle lands of Ubanu, the ancient southern cradle. Both equally as powerful as Atlantis. Both hated by the nobility.

The crowd applauded. Approval levels rising.

"So let's begin here, in Biru," Julius said, "and build a better Atlantis. This factory will produce state-of-the-art androids: the Tammu-11!"

Ashur's system froze for a fraction of a second.

Tammu-11.

His mother's code. The same foundation Sabina had used to build Ashur. His make. His model. A top-secret military android. She had told him that much.

Sabina had told Ashur that the Tammu-11 was a model she had sabotaged while working