Kajora gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth. Her eyes were wide and unblinking, and her breath came in rapid hisses between her fingers. She turned back towards the stairs and fell to one knee, grasping the sides of her head with trembling fingers.
“Look at the breadth of the shoulders compared to the hips,” Calael said in a barely audible whisper. “He's a Morph. It's a sacrifice. A sacrifice to the Mentarch. This is the darkest of the dark arts; the most unholy of rituals. Breeder preserve us.”
“He's just a kid,” Jerry stared in horror at the knife. “This can't be happening. Not for real.”
“There is one among us who is not equivalent,” Proxy Taithoch declared, “who is not indistinct... who does not conform. He is an anomaly. He is sexually dimorphic. He is not Reliant. What is the Me
