MATED TO THE MATRIARCHS

First Selection

First Selection

 (Flashback, Xyrrha Veylith POV)

The world below was trembling. Dust rose from fractured cities like smoke from a funeral pyre, and the cries of humanity reached her ship in sharp, ragged bursts. She had studied them, these fragile creatures, for cycles, watching how desperation shaped them—how fear, hunger, and hope mingled to form the essence of a species teetering on the brink.

The Council had permitted her descent. Not all Matriarchs would agree to this... indulgence, some called it. Observation without immediate conquest, choosing carefully, rather than claiming blindly. Xyrrha relished such moments. Precision was power.

The first line of humans assembled before her, muscles tense, eyes wide with terror or defiance, each branded in potential by the sigil she had yet to imprint. She walked among them, her boots soundless against the fractured concrete. Midnight-blue skin, scars glowing faintly in the harsh sun, flowing armor shaped like coiled muscle—every step a statement of authority.

Her eyes scanned, calculating, reading the threads of their strength. Fear was natural. Obedience would come. But the spark—oh, the spark—was what she sought.

Ethan Cross knelt before her instinctively, not entirely aware that he had done so. His jaw set, hands clenched, shoulders squared. There was a quiet strength in him, the kind that survived not by dominance but by trust. The Flow whispered that he would yield willingly, but not weakly. He would be pliant yet capable.

Marcus Hale, on the other hand, drew her attention immediately. Pride radiated from him in waves, raw and unpolished. Defiance, not fear, shaped his stance. Hands on hips, eyes fixed on her, chest pushed forward in stubborn arrogance. He was dangerous, yes—but dangerous could be useful. Resistance tempered by endurance often produced the sharpest blades.

Her fingers brushed the air near him, sending a subtle pulse through the sigil that hovered faintly over her palm. He flinched—but only for a moment. Excellent. That brief moment of concession would become a fulcrum.

She traced the arc of the sigil across his chest with thought alone, a gentle claim that seared itself into the flow of his being. It was not pain—it was awareness, the recognition of ownership, the hint of connection. Marcus's eyes narrowed, defiance undimmed, but the Flow had found its mark.

Turning back to Ethan, she allowed her touch to press lightly to his shoulder. He exhaled softly, instinctively leaning into it. His strength was quiet, hidden beneath the veneer of normalcy—but potent. Trust was not weakness. It was power. He would serve, fully, without resistance, without hesitation, because he understood surrender not as loss but as alliance.

The Council observed silently from the periphery. Their judgment did not concern her. Politics were nothing against instinct and flow. She chose for the continuity of her clan, for the potency of her line, and, perhaps, for something that even she did not yet name: curiosity.

Two humans, so different in essence, yet complementary. One fiery, defiant, challenging. One steady, loyal, yielding. Together, they would strengthen each other, and in doing so, strengthen her.

When she stepped forward, the weight of her presence pressing into them, the first words she allowed herself were soft—but commanding.

"You are mine."

The sigils flared, burning bright across their flesh. Marcus hissed, his jaw tightening. Ethan exhaled, body relaxing as though a long tension had been lifted. She watched their reactions, filing them carefully into the ledger of the Flow. She would mold them, guide them, test them—but first, she would claim them.