1

Ostwall Cemetery, Amissah, 10416 P.C.

The cold winter wind whipped through the old country cemetery, teasing the coats and scarves of those gathered around the open grave on the far side of the fenced-in yard. Sparkling snow adorn­ed the many tomb­stones lined up in painfully perfect rows, the names passionately carved into them giving the living a small glimpse of those pass­ed on. Large, skeletal trees stretched their bare fingers over the graves as if trying to prevent the souls of the dead from rising to the heavens. Eerie and solemn, Ostwall Cemetery gave those who visited an uneasy feeling. Only a few ever ventured there alone.

Blood-red roses, freshly cut, lay on the polished wooden lid of the casket, giving colour to the other­wise bleak and dark setting. A young girl stood on the tips of her toes to place her rose with the others, and a tear dripped from her plump, rosy cheek onto the casket. She quickly wiped at her cheek with a gloved hand, turning away and hurrying back to the welcoming arms of her solemn mother.

Todd Vinson averted his gaze from the girl to the casket, the lump in his throat too large to swallow back. Deep within him, a raging sea of emotions threatened to tear him apart, and he fought to keep the emotionless facade plastered like a mask on his face. How embarrassing it would be to break down in front of all of these people! He pressed his lips together and clenched his fists in the pockets of his brother-in-law's old dress coat, ignoring the hole his right hand could have slid through. Cathy had made him wear it even though it was too big in the shoul­ders and could have wrapped around him twice if he had tried.

The casket blurred in his vision, and he blinked hard. He would not cry. Not in public. He was much too stubborn.

But then, so were his accusing thoughts:

It is all my fault.

The voice of the celebrant was lulling, drifting to the back of Todd's mind like static noise as his gaze drifted up and found one of his—well, now his only—best friend, Mikayla Bowie. Her long, dark hair danced in the wind, flying in her face as if trying to wipe away the tears that streamed down her cheeks. Even with her naturally tanned complexion, she was pale; he could see her hands shaking as she fought to tuck her uncooperative hair behind her ears. She sat in the row of chairs beside the casket, flanked on either side by her mother and father. She was a mess. A beautiful mess, he decided.

Their gazes locked for a moment; a painful jolt rocketed through his chest. He looked away so fast it felt cruel. He could not bear to see the grief and ag­ony in her eyes, for it would cause his collected fac­ade to crumble, cause the dam to break loose and the raging seas to crash forth. The twins had al­ways been able to see right through him, and he could not watch her do it this time. His flitting gaze found the tomb­stone, and he focused on it, trying for a dis­tract­ion.

Michael Doug Bowie

10398 – 10416

A loving son, brother, and friend. Forever in our hearts.

The distraction was a poor one, as it made things that much more un­bear­able. Todd let his gaze drop to the snow-covered ground as the lump in his throat burned. Michael's death was his fault. Entirely his fault. They should not have been there in the first place. It was his own stupid choices that had gotten his best friend killed. If he could have given anything at that moment, any­thing in all of Amissah, it would have been to reverse time and do it different­ly. It was impossible, though. He could never go back.

Michael was dead, and it was all Todd's fault.

Ducking his head, Todd silently cursed himself for the unbidden tears that burned his eyes. He blink­ed hard, trying to force them away; he could not cry here. He hated looking weak, though Henry prov­ed to him over and over that he was. If he cried now, he knew Henry would use it against him somehow. Everywhere he turned Todd found proof of his worthlessness, and crying would not increase it any.

Taking a deep breath, Todd focused his eyes on the corner of the casket and hoped the concentration would distract him from everything that was hap­pening. It did not. It only reminded him of a day very similar to this one. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the memories. Still, they came.

It had been over a year since the day his parents had been killed in a car accident. He remembered it all too vividly, and he could not help but blame himself for their deaths. It was him they had been going to watch, him in that stupid soccer game in the neighbouring town of Kilcrest. That day had flipped his world upside-down, shattering it like a snow globe fallen off a nightstand. He had just turned six­teen and, having no plans for the future in any way, shape, or form, he had found himself moving across town to live with his sister, Cathy, and her husband, Henry.

Henry. Todd sensed his brother-in-law's presence behind him, heard him whispering consoling words in Cathy's ear as she cried. Todd hated Henry, who was a monster in every sense of the word. Todd's mother had raised Todd to be gentle and caring, and he was, therefore, weak and pathetic and in need of 'shaping up' in Henry's eyes. Todd kept his eyes clos­ed, wishing . . .

He wished too much.

Time dragged on slowly like a man struggling to pull along a thousand-pound weight. The celebrant went on about Michael's life, bemoaning the life that had been cut much too short. Todd kept his eyes closed, letting the emo­tional battle within him con­sume his senses. He wanted to leave. To run away. To find someplace to be alone, to fall apart and let the storm of fury and grief explode out of him. It was suffocating. He was suffocating. Everything within him wanted to bolt and run, and yet he was frozen, the stone-cold facade nail­ing him to the ground where he stood. He shivered from the icy wind.

Before he knew it, a hand touched his arm, and he jumped in surprise. His eyes flew open, beholding Mikayla standing before him, looking up at him with brown eyes swollen from tears. He fought to collect himself, to gather his thoughts that had scattered like coins. Why did Mikayla have to look so much like her brother? Todd could have sworn that, for a split second, he had seen Michael instead of her. Looking into her face, he could still remember how happy she had been earlier the day of her brother's death when she had been teasing Todd about girls in the lunch­room at school. How different she looked now, so devastated, and so very far away was any thought of teasing or laugh­ter.

“Todd,” she murmured, studying his face with those beautiful, all-knowing eyes. “It is time to go inside.”

He took a breath, glancing around and realizing that the casket had been lowered and the mourners were hastily moving down the path toward the sad, old wooden building that sat beyond the burying ground fence. It was where the funeral-goers gath­ered after to give their condolences to the family and what­not. Todd hated it. Over a year ago, he had been made to sit there and talk to people wanting to talk about his parents when all he had wanted was to run away. He wanted to do that now. He did not think he could enter that place again. He would definitely suffocate then.

Mikayla spoke again when he did not respond. “Are you coming?”

He did not want to. Not at all. “Not inside,” he said, his voice cracking. He clear­ed his throat, shuf­fling his feet. “I do not think I would survive that.”

“I know. Me either.” Then her face crumpled, and the tears returned. He let her lean against his chest, gently putting his arms around her as she sobbed into the rough fabric of his suit jacket. Her pitiful cries were enough to tear at the stone mask he wore, and he forced himself to put her tears and the rea­sons behind them to the back of his mind as he work­ed on fixing his emotions.

Get over yourself, he told himself sharply. Be a man. Real men do not cry. It was a mantra Henry repeated often, one he had practically drilled into Todd's head. Real men do not cry.

Mikayla attempted to compose herself as she pull­ed away from him, snif­fling as she rubbed her nose. “Come,” she said, tugging on his arm. “Come with me, please.” She turned away from the hole in the ground, the one that several men were now filling with dirt. Every time the dirt hit the casket, it felt as if it was hitting Todd instead. Thunk. Thunk. Sucker punches to his gut.

“Todd.” He realized he had not moved or res­ponded yet again. Mik­ay­la was looking worried. “Are you all right? Do you . . . you want to talk about it?”

Her words reminded him of a meeting he had the following day. A meeting with the detective about the case of Michael's murder. Since Todd had been the only witness to Michael's last moments—the only one they knew of, that was—the detective wanted to speak to him. It was something Todd was not ready for. He was not ready to relive those moments. What if they thought he was the killer? What if they did not believe him when he told them what had hap­pened? It was all a blur to him; what if he slipped up and forgot some­thing and it came back to bite him somehow? Todd had not murdered Mich­ael, and that meant that someone else had. But who? Would they come after him, knowing he had been there? Did the murderer think he had seen them? He had not, but he nearly had, and if they had the slightest inkling that he might have seen them . . .

“Todd.” Mikayla's grip on his arms was tightening.

He gave a start, shaking away the fears that had gripped him. He could not think about all of that right now. Not with Mikayla watching him with fear in her eyes, not when he was inches from falling apart as it was. He let out a pent-up breath, strengthening his resolve.

“No. I am not ready.” I am not all right, either, his thoughts added.

But Mikayla could not read his thoughts. She ducked her head with a soft breath. “All right.” Slow­ly, she turned and started down the path after the other mourners. He forced his feet to move after her as he threw a glance over his shoulder at the grave one last time. Outwardly, he was numb. Inwardly, it felt like his heart was being hacked at by some kind of chisel. For several moments he felt as if the dirt being pushed into the grave was being dumped on him, trapping him, seeping into his lungs, killing him from the inside out. He won­dered if he would ever escape from the misery creeping its way into the depths of his very soul.

As he and Mikayla reached the gate, one of Mik­ayla's friends grabbed her into a hug. Todd lingered behind them, not wanting to continue on into the mourning house. Beyond them, he caught sight of Cathy and Henry standing near the mourning house door and conversing with another couple. Todd knew they were waiting for him. He did not want to be anywhere near Henry. He did not want to be any­where near anyone.

So he moved past Mikayla and her friend, putting his hand on Mikayla's arm for a moment as a farewell as he did. She gave him a small, grieving smile.

He could not return it. Instead, he turned away, moving around the build­ing and retreating to the parking lot. A few people were already heading for their cars, so he did not feel out of place as he climb­ed into the back of Hen­ry's old truck and lay down on the backseat, shivering. Letting out a shud­dering, frosty breath, Todd closed his eyes.

~

Miinhart Forest, Desmond, 10416 P.C.

The sun was just beginning to set, disappearing behind the treetops and bath­ing the forest in fading, golden light. Off in the distance, the snow-capped peak of Englecon Mountain was under the illusion of being on fire as the sun's rays struck it. Leaves from the dying trees fluttered down from above, tugged free from their perches to be scattered across the forest floor. It was the start of the season of death, and yet the forest was alive with vibrant colours.

It was fleeting, Annabella LaKline reminded her­self firmly as she hurried through the forest. Soon enough, the colours would fade and she would again have to face the ugly backside of winter. Winters in Desmond were always drab and frighteningly cold, giving off a desolate chill she always struggled to shrug off even when spring resurfaced.

Currently, however, winter was the least of her worries.

As she walked—it was more of a jog—her fingers brushed the pummel of the sword on her left hip. Her hand ached to draw it. Not yet, she told herself firmly, breathing in the cool breeze and never slow­ing her hurried pace. She flipped her long ginger braid back over her shoulder, resisting the urge to turn around. She knew someone was following her; the footsteps crunching the undergrowth belonged to no animal.

Had she been spotted? So soon? She had hoped to reach Sarum without any issues, but things didn't often go her way. She could have sworn that one of Motch's squadrons would have been much stealthier than her current pur­suer, especially one that dared to tail one of the crown's most sought after Illegals.

She had a distinct idea about who was behind her. It did not stop her from closing her hand around the hilt of her sword.

“Bell—”

She spun, sword drawn and swinging with deadly precision. The man behind her was visibly startled, hands out, frozen with wide blue eyes and her sword at his neck. Annabella held the sword firmly just inches from his skin, letting her eyes narrow coldly. “You could've lost your fingers, Luke Reiter.”

He took a breath, lowering his hands. “Bella,” he began.

“Don't call me that.” She shoved her sword back into its scabbard with a bit more force than neces­sary. “You know I hate it.” She would have rather faced down a squadron of Motch's soldiers, truthfully. It was more bearable than fac­ing down the boy before her. She knew why he had followed her.

“Fine.” Luke folded his arms across his chest. “An­nabella. Please, listen to reason. You're going to get yourself killed.”

“Then why are you following me? You're the one who seems to fancy hid­ing behind your mother's skirts. Less chance of losing your head.”

He merely huffed through his nose, but she knew she'd wounded his pride. “You know why.”

She studied the young man before her. He was just shy of nineteen, a couple years older than she, with a muscular build and dazzling sapphire blue eyes. His blond hair was cut short, and patchy stub­ble lined his jaw where he was desperately trying to grow a beard. He was an attractive boy; she could only see him as desperate. “Ah, yes,” she said bitterly. “Because you love me.”

She hadn't meant to say it so callously, but she let it be. She couldn't afford to let him follow her or pull her back to Brittgard. He had to let her go and move on.

“You doubt that,” he said quietly. “Why do you doubt that?”

“Nobody loves me, Luke. No one can or should risk it.” Any emotions she might have felt she smoth­ered with apathy. It was getting easier and easier to do that. “I'm sorry for letting you think you could.”

“That's Jaulik dung, Bella.”

“Don't call me—”

“That's wrong, Annabella.” He lifted his voice over hers. “You're just saying that because He told you you were destined for His son. Did anything between us mean anything to you? I thought I meant something to you.”

She heard the bitterness in his tone, sensed the fight approaching. She blocked out her heart. It had no place in this battle. “I can't afford to let you mean anything to me.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, a familiar gesture so like him. “Well, you mean a lot to me. Doesn't that count for something?”

“It can't.”

“Because your God wants you for His son. It's always about you, isn't it? You're in danger, you're wanted, you're destined.”

His words were like straw in the fire of her anger. “How dare you? You think I asked for this? You think I wanted this? You think I wanted to be on the run, constantly threatened with—?”

“No, no,” he interrupted, jabbing his finger at her, “enough about you and your bitter trials! We're all under Motch's claws, Annabella, we've all got our trials and our problems. It's not all about you like you con­stantly make it out to be!”

Her cheeks blazed. She tightened her fists. “Why did you follow me? To preach at me?”

“To get you to think about anybody else but your­self for once! You are running off again, leaving behind those of us who care about you to go off on some godly quest. I'll be blunt, Bella—it's stupidity, believing in the God who deserted us. What are you expecting from Him? To be rescued? If He was inter­ested in doing that, He wouldn't have let Desmond fall to Motch in the first place. He wouldn't have let Alexander die!”

Annabella swung without thought, backhanding Luke across the face and ignoring the pain it caused in her hand. He stumbled back, holding his cheek, giving her an incredulous look. It held shock and hurt. And betrayal.

“Leave, Luke,” she ordered, her voice trembling. She regretted losing her temper and hitting him, but she didn't voice it. “Let me go.”

He rubbed his cheek, working his jaw. She knew he would not retaliate; she was a much more com­pe­tent fighter than he was. But he didn't walk away. “What happened?” he asked solemnly, dropping his hand. “To you? To us?”

“We grew up,” she whispered.

“We had something that meant something.”

“We were children.”

“That doesn't make it any less real.”

Annabella closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. Her emotions were begin­ning to creep back in, aided by her memories. She knew what he was talking about. She remembered it all. However, between the heart and the mind, between emotion and logic, she knew which was the strongest and wisest. “Let me go,” she repeated.

“Why are you pushing us away? Pushing me away? Because of supposed destiny? It was a dream, Annabella. A dream.” He stepped closer, resting his hands on her shoulders. She let him, opening her eyes to look up into his. “I am right here in front of you; I chased you all the way out here to tell you that I love you and I want you to come back.” His grip grew firm as if to punctuate the truth of his words. “I'll keep you safe. You'll never have to be on the run again. We can make a life here, or we can go some­where else, we can hide; we'd never have to worry about Motch again.”

She slowly shook her head. “Now who's dream­ing?” Before he could res­pond, she pushed on. “You've never been out of Brittgard. You have no idea what it is like out there. I have seen the way our people live, Luke, I have seen the grief and the pain and the horror and you think that all I think about is myself? You think that I am on this quest for myself?” She knocked his hands away, stepping back. “I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I hid away and did nothing to stop Motch. I have to do this, Luke. And I have to do it alone.”

“Why?”

“Because loving you is a risk I will not take. Lov­ing you will only cause you pain.” She took another step back. “Let me go.”

He closed his eyes, standing still, a picture of grief among the beauty of the dying trees around them. She was sorry. She truly was. But it had to be this way.

“I'm sorry.” Her voice was just above a whisper, nearly lost the breeze.

He only opened his eyes and looked at her. She wished she could read him, but it was as if she were blocked off from the emotions of others, even from the boy she had once known more deeply than any other. He was in pain—she saw pain in everything and in everyone—but how would he respond to it? She had no idea. She didn't want to know.

“Goodbye, Luke.” She turned away from him.

“How do you do it?” he asked, stopping her. “How do you say these things so cruelly and then walk away as if it's nothing? Like you're not walking away from what you so desperately want?”

She didn't turn around. She had no desire to see the way her words would crush him. “I want freedom and peace. I won't find those with you.” With the heavy words off her chest, she walked away, contin­u­ing on her journey.

Luke didn't follow her.

~

Zusia, Desmond, 10416 P.C.

The room beneath Zusia Stadium was rectangular, lit with fluorescent lights and the length of the walls lin­ed with hard, wooden benches. There were four rows of benches, room for nearly two hundred persons to fill them; today, only about a quarter of them were occupied with stiff-backed fifteen-year-old Trainees.

The fluorescent lights flickered, and Stephanie closed her eyes against them. They always gave her a headache. She took a deep breath as her stomach fluttered with nerves. This was it. It had finally come. The day she had been working toward her whole life had finally arrived. The reality of it was like a weight in her chest making it hard to breathe properly. She clasped her cold, clammy hands together and glanced around the room at those with her. There weren't that many of them left, only forty-seven—already over half of their number had disappeared through the ominous door on the far side of the room. Steph­anie herself was one away from being called. Only Taise came be­tween her and the Test.

The loud-speaker in the corner of the roof crackl­ed. Stephanie felt Taise flinch as the voice coming through the speaker hissed, “Trainee Seven-Oh-Three-Four, enter for assessment.”

“Good luck,” Stephanie whispered as the girl rose stiffly to her feet with a face as white as the walls that surrounded them. Taise barely gave Stephanie a glan­ce as she walked to the door and pushed it open. The last thing Stephanie saw before the door shut were the bold numbers 'seven-zero-three-four' em­blazoned in white on the back of the girl's red uniform.

Uneasy silence returned to the room, and Steph­anie let out a trembling breath. She was next. She kept her hands together, tightening her grip until her knuckles turned white. The boy next to her, Kallum, was bouncing his leg, and the girl on his other side constantly shifted. She knew they were all just as nervous as she was. The Test was arguably the most important event in their lives, the event that deter­mined where they would be in society. Having been taken away from their parents at birth and trained in self-defence and martial arts since the age of five, they were all capable fighters—the Army, however, only recruited the very best. The rest of them would be scattered into the other classes of society. Steph­anie, who hadn't had an interest in the Army, didn't know why she was so nervous.

Maybe it was because kids had died in the Test before. Or maybe it was because one of them would be chosen to participate in the Arena Purge: a fight to the death with nine prisoners, rebels of the crown. It had become an annual event after the infamous Trainee Rebellion, which had taken place now seven years before. King Motch wanted a yearly reminder that he was in con­trol and that no Trainee—rebel­lious or not—was exempt from his judg­ment. The winner was granted another chance at life. Some end­ed up back in the arena the next year, and no one had ever won twice.

It could be me, Stephanie thought with a knot in her chest. I could be chos­en. The picking was totally random, they were told, and with the number of kids in her year—just over a hundred—things didn't look good. It could be any one of them.

“Steph!” a little voice hissed from her right. She leaned forward, looking down the row of Trainees to meet the gaze of her best friend, Marcie. The two were like sisters. They had been best friends for as long as Stephanie could remember. Marcie, who was several months younger than Stephanie, had long black hair which she had pulled up into a topknot earlier that day in prep­ar­ation. She had done Steph­anie's hair too, braiding her long dark hair into one long braid woven back from her forehead. It reached the middle of her back even still, just like Marcie's—they had agreed several years ago to grow out their hair to see how long they could get it. A warm feeling filled Stephanie's chest as she thought of it, distracting her from her worries for but a moment.

Locking gazes with Marcie, the feeling only grew, especially when Marcie flashed her two thumbs up. “You can do it!” she whisper-yelled, her lips twit­ching into an expression that could have been a crime.

Don't smile, Stephanie mouthed at her as the warm feeling trickled away to cold reality. How many times had she told Marcie not to smile? Over and over and over. It was forbidden, punishable by public flogging—or, depending on the situation, even death. It was a law written many years before, and those who broke it paid a price far more than it was worth. Stephanie, regardless of anything Marcie said, had never smiled, nor did she ever want to. The cost was too great for something so useless and fleeting.

Marcie's face grew sombre, and she gave Steph­anie a quick nod before sitting back, out of Steph­anie's sight. Stephanie sighed, sitting back as well. Didn't Marcie realize she was just trying to protect her? She of all people should know the risks of break­ing the rules. Marcie had been punished before, and it had terrified Stephanie to no end. The scars on Marcie's back reminded her time and time again why she remained obedient. They only seemed to make her friend more rebellious.

Which was a precarious position to place oneself in just before the Test. They could place Marcie in the Dregs. That was the last place Stephanie want­ed Marcie to end up in.

Other than in the Purge.

There was so much to worry about.

The loud-speaker hissing nearly made her jump. “Trainee Seven-Oh-Three-Five, enter for assessment.”

Everything suddenly felt very cold, as if a bucket of ice-cold water had been dumped all over Steph­anie. She shivered as she rose to her feet, turning to the door—that ominous door. The Trainees entered but never returned. Her sensible side told her that it was because after the Test, they were free to return to their rooms. Her irrational side decided that this was the end of the line, that her demise lay beyond that door.

Shaking off the irrational fears, she started toward the door with a step more sure than she felt. She placed her hand on the doorknob, curling her fingers around it yet not moving to push it open. Heat crept up her face as torturous thoughts assailed her mind. What lay beyond? There were stories and theories and tall-tales, but every Test was different. She just wished she knew what to expect.

She looked over her shoulder. There Marcie was, leaning forward and giv­ing her those two thumbs up, nodding her head firmly. The smile was clear in her eyes. Stephanie returned the nod, took a deep breath, and pushed the door open.

She was met by an empty, dark hallway. Letting the door close behind her, she began the march to­ward the end of the hall, accompanied only by her echoing footsteps and beating heart. There was a doorway there, and she opened it to reveal a small white room with several uniformed people waiting for her. They were medical nurses—it was a physical examination. She hated such exams with every fibre of her being, hated stripping down and letting these people with their plastic gloves poke and prod at her naked body. It was, however, to be expected. Motch wanted to make sure every single one of his soldiers was physically meeting his requirements. It was terri­fying, as a defect of any sort could mean being sorted into the Dregs.

The system was so unfair. One could become a Dreg just for looking or acting a certain way. The Army was full of the strict and deadly. The Nobility, well, they were always perfect—Motch's 'little love­lies'. The Commoners were just normal. But the Dregs? They were the dirt, the outcasts, the rebels. Steph­anie secretly decided that the Test was rigged, that it was a way for the king to do away with trouble­some Trainees and to indulge in those who revered him.

She was so worried for Marcie, she nearly forgot to worry about herself and where she'd be placed.

After the examination, Stephanie exited the room through another door, meeting another cold, dark hallway. She took deep breaths to calm her nerves, knowing that she was just seconds away from wit­nessing the Test firsthand. It was what they had been working toward for the past decade. It was the core of all the stories, all the rumours, all the night mares. It was chalked up to be this big deal, and yet as Stephanie walked down the hallway toward supposed doom, all she felt was numb. Everything seemed to be happening much too fast. Had it really been several hours since Marcie had braided her hair? It felt like minutes ago.

Stephanie opened the last door at the end of the hallway, and the dream-like sensation trickled away to reality as she surveyed the Great Hall harbour­ing the huge doors leading into the arena. It was big enough down here for even Motch to roam, and he was well over twenty-five feet tall. Stephanie felt puny; the stadium itself was the size of a small city, and the Great Hall be­neath the stands was ginor­mous, farther across than the hallways she had just come through. Every time Stephanie had been in the Great Hall, it had been bustling with activity. Today, it was eerily silent and utterly empty.

It was an unnerving sound, her footsteps on the stone floor as she crossed the hall. A figure stood near one of the giant doors leading into the arena. It was one of her trainers, she realized as she drew near. Yasmin Iliescu was a tall, muscular man with hair as dark as the night and a face like stone. His cold feat­ures did not fool Stephanie: Yasmin was the warm­est trainer they had ever had. Having worked alongside her and her age group for the past three years, he knew every one of them by name—name, not number—and took the time to truly talk with them. Unlike the other trainers, Yasmin treated them as humans, not like just another Trainee. She respected him more for it.

“Stephanie,” he said warmly, his stony features contrasting with his voice as always. “It's you at last.”

“At last,” she echoed with much less enthusiasm as she stepped up to his side. She eyed the huge doors before them with wariness.

“Taise is nearly done, then it's your turn.” He put a firm hand on her shoul­der. “You ready?”

“As ready as I'll ever be.” She gnawed on her bottom lip, studying him out of the corner of her eye. He had always had a special place in her heart. The truth that, regardless of what happened in the arena tonight, he would no longer be her trainer was a hard pill for her to swallow. Would she ever see him again?

That depended, she supposed, on what place in society she was put into.

Yasmin took a deep breath, giving her a lingering look before turning to the door. “Remember, you're an archer, but don't ignore the other weapons. I don't know what you'll face in there, so be ready for anything.”

Stephanie stared up at the door, wondering if he sensed her anxiety. “Yes, sir.”

The doors creaked, a sure sign that they were about to open. Yasmin turn­ed to her, falling into a militaristic stance and giving her a sharp salute. “It's been a pleasure to work with you, Stephanie.”

She returned the salute. “I see why you're the send-off party. Gillick would have drop-kicked me through the crack in the door already.”

Yasmin's lips gave a dangerous twitch. “You have five seconds.”

“I'm going, I'm going.” Her tone was lighthearted, but there was a weight in her chest as she turned away from him and walked toward the door, which had opened to welcome her like jaws into the throat of the arena.

“Stephanie.”

She stopped, looking back at Yasmin over her shoulder. The lights from the arena shone through the open door, illuminating the lines of his hardened face, revealed the flecks of grey in his close-shaven beard. In the lighting, his eyes were dramatic, a light grey that stood out against his normally shadowed features. He stared at her, and she felt wide open and exposed as if he could see directly into her soul.

“Aim true and always trust yourself,” he told her.

Stephanie gave him a nod. Turning to the entran­ce, she stared out into the arena. It was empty. She was numb. Bracing herself, she started forward into uncertainty.

2

Feldspar Mine, Desmond, 10416 P.C.

The echo of metal hitting rock bounced off the stone walls of the dimly lit tunnel, clashing with the sounds of voices and clattering chains. Off in the dis­tance, the crack of a whip preceded the yelp of its victim, both sounds raising the hairs on the back of Matthew Garza's neck. He could prac­tically feel the metal tip of the leather whip digging into his skin, adding an­other layer of fresh wounds to the crisscross pattern of scars already carved into his back. Shaking away the torturous fantasy—one that had too often been real—Mat­thew bit his bottom lip until he tasted blood, keeping his head down. Wisps of his greasy black hair dangled about his eyes, and he blew at them to get them out of his sweaty face. No matter how often he had braided back his long hair and tied it with a strip of cloth, it always seemed to slip out and get in his way.

With a grunt, he swung the heavy pickax at the pink-coloured mineral deposit in the wall, cracking at it until a small chunk dislodged and fell to the floor. He took a step back, the chain on his ankle clanking on the stone ground as he lowered his pickax to lean on it. He brushed the hair out of his eyes as his partner, Abigail Lenox, retrieved the chunk of feld­spar from the ground and dropped it into the crate beside them. Since her skinny arms were too weak to wield an axe, she had been assigned to mineral pick up—a task, she assured him often, that was just as tir­ing. Knowing women, Matthew kept his mouth shut.

“What's wrong?” she asked when he didn't move after she got out of his way. Her voice was pinched, and he bit back a sigh at her worry. She was con­stantly worried, and he struggled not to get annoyed.

“Just catching my breath, Abby.” Straightening up and hefting the pickax into his hands once more, he looked down the tunnel. “Don't worry, we're almost done, and we're full enough for quota.” He glanced at the crate Abby was leaning on. Yes, it was full enough for quota. He turned back to the wall with a dull gaze, knowing he was expected to keep working regardless.

Abby pushed herself up onto the crate, lifting her bare feet and causing her ankle chain to rattle. Both of their chains were connected to the crate, which they would have to push back down the tunnel to be stacked and shipped off. The crate itself was hefty even on four wheels, and being chained to it ensured that they couldn't leave it, therefore making escape impossible.

Matthew set back to attacking the wall, knowing Abby watched him close­ly. As soon as a chunk broke free, she was off the crate and picking it up; Mat­thew froze to let her, frowning at how close she had come to hitting her head on his axe. Even several months in she was a bit too careless—or too trusting. She struggled to pick up the pinkish mineral.

A yell to his left drew his attention. Just feet away, another crate like theirs sat against the wall with two other slaves to tend to it—and they were bicker­ing. A glance into their crate told him why: it was only three-quarters full.

Matthew knew full well what happened when quota wasn't reached. Ages ago, when he had been younger and doing Abby's job, he and his partner Danyel hadn't met quota several times. The reasons were lost to Matthew now, but the punishments were seared in his mind. The first time, Matthew, who couldn't have been much older than thirteen at the time, had gotten five lashes while Danyel, who was over twice Matthew's age, had gotten ten. The second time it was doubled, and the third was doubled from the second. The fourth time, Matthew hadn't been lashed at all. Instead, he had been paired with a new partner.

He hadn't ever seen Danyel again.

Watching the two bickering slaves now, his gut tightened. He took a deep breath. “Abby,” he said shortly as she straightened up, holding the chunk of feldspar in her hands.

She looked up at him questioningly, so full of in­nocence. She had never experienced missed quota—Matthew hadn't allowed that. She had only been brought in a few months ago, and they had been paired almost right off the bat—usually the inexperi­enced were paired with the experienced, and Mat­thew was well-experienced. Abby had been so fragile, so soft, so broken up over her parent's deaths. He found himself wanting to protect her despite know­ing he couldn't. Over the months she had grown stronger, tougher, but she was still so soft. He guess­ed that was why she immediately obeyed his nod toward the other two slaves and dumped the chunk of feldspar into their crate. The two didn't even notice.

Abby stood so close to Matthew, he could feel her shivering, see the sym­pathy in her eyes as she watch­ed their neighbours. “They won't reach quota if they keep fighting,” she whispered.

He was used to Abby stating the blatantly obvi­ous. He nudged her and she backed off, returning to their crate and perching on its edge as Matthew returned to work. As another piece of feldspar hit the ground, he heard voices at the end of the tunnel. He recognized the slave masters' voices anywhere. The workday was ending. Even as Abby hefted the feld­spar into their neigh­bour's crate, he knew that it was a lost cause.

Turning away from them, Mat­thew went back to his mining, letting bitter­ness make his strikes a bit stronger and dig a bit deeper.

Before he knew it, Umair, one of the slave masters, was walking down the hall toward them, ordering the slaves to load up and move out. Matthew had known Umair for years. The man was a bit aloof, but he was friendly enough to initiate conversation with. The whip rarely left his belt, which was also a great bonus. Some of the other slave masters were too whip-happy, lashing slaves on a mere whim.

“You know the drill,” Umair mono-toned as he passed Matthew and Abby, hardly giving their full crate a glance. His focus, Matthew knew, had been drawn to the not-quite-full crate of feldspar their neighbours had salvaged. Umair stopped for a mo­ment, giving it a pitying look before ordering the two to take it out of the tunnel. At the tunnel's end, Mat­thew knew, the two would meet their fate.

Tossing his pickax into the crate with their feld­spar, Matthew flexed his aching arms before helping Abby push it down the tunnel. Or, rather, Abby helped him. Ahead of them, two other slaves pushed their crate, and beyond them, others. It was a slow, steady train that weaved down the tunnel. It felt like hours before they reached the end, surrendering their crate to the two shippers while the key man, as he was called, unlocked their chains in two blinks of an eye. The crate went to the right, Matthew and Abby went to the left, joining the line of others for their supper meal. The line shuffled along into a smaller tunnel, where they were given wooden bowls full of what truly looked like mushy tomatoes. Matthew knew that it had something strong that kept the slaves alive on so little somehow, but he wasn't sure what that could be. Someone had once told him that their food was spiked with something in the morn­ings and afternoons that gave them energy, while at night it made them sleep. He didn't know what it was, and he wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't seen the effect of it on his fellow slaves; however, it never made a dif­ference on him, and he had nearly given up wondering why.

The small tunnel opened into a large room—the eating room, they called it—where many others were already sitting and devouring the food they had been given. Matthew headed for the nearest wall and sank down to the floor, careful not to spill any of the sludge in his bowl. Abby joined him, sighing deeply as she did. He ignored her, used to how she followed him everywhere. Instead, he fingered the sludge into his mouth, watching the rest of the room and noting that the two who had not met quota didn't come in to eat. He wasn't surprised.

“You okay?” Abby asked him, scratching at her bushy head of hair. Like all the others, her hair had been buzzed off when she had been brought into the mines. Already, it was an inch or two long and mat­ted. They were only per­mitted showers once a month—it was how Matthew kept track of time—and it had been many days since their last one.

“I'm fine.” His usual response to her usual question.

She fell silent as if contented with his lie and set to eating her supper. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her gag. The taste wasn't very pleasant, even a bit bitter, so he didn't blame her. He was convinced his taste buds had shrivel­led up and died ages ago. They could've fed him dirt and he probably wouldn't have cared.

After scraping his bowl clean, he sat in silence, watching their fellow slaves. Some murmured, talk­ing among themselves, and some even had the in­decency to converse at a normal volume. Others were silent, dumb expressions on their distant faces as they stared off into space. Sunken eyes, dirty faces, short and spiky hair—those were the normal sights around Feldspar Mine. Matthew often entertained himself with judging how long a slave had lasted in the mine due to the length of their hair. Some of the men had shoulder-length hair, and those men he recognized at a glance. Only a couple women had managed to last that long. Matthew knew them, too. The newest ones had bald heads, and those were the faces he didn't really know.

But they knew him. They all knew him.

He encountered too many stares and closed his eyes.

He wanted to sleep. Forever. To close his eyes and never have to open them to this place again. Once, he had dreamed of waking up somewhere else, until one day he forgot what somewhere else might've looked like and his memories of elsewhere merged with stone walls and chains and screams. He had long since stopped dreaming. When he slept it was dreamless, for any pos­sible nightmare was nothing compared to reality anyway.

It seemed like mere moments after he shut his eyes before he heard a bark­ing order from one of the slave masters and had Abby's elbow in his side. He resisted the urge to growl at her as he pushed himself to his feet; he stayed silent as he followed her and the others out of the eating room into another side tunnel. This one ended in a large door, which was open­ed to reveal a giant room—it was the sleeping room. The only light came from the torch one of the slave masters held where he stood in the middle of the room. They all filed inside silently.

Matthew retreated to the nearest right corner of the room, stepping over those who chose to sprawl in his path. He slid down the stone where the two walls connected. It was a familiar corner and one that no one else had ever taken, for they all knew it belonged to him. It had belonged to him ever since he had been dumped into this room for the first time, sob­bing and screaming, clawing and pounding at the wooden door until his fingers bled. Someone had tried talking to him and had ended up with a bloody nose. After that, he had crawled into this very corner and collapsed in a heap, crying until every tear was dried and his head was light and the world a haze around him. Ever since then, that corner had belong­ed to him.

However long ago that had been, he didn't know. He didn't know how long he had been in this place. It felt like forever; the outside world was lost to him, fragments of memories the only pieces he had left of life before this. He knew it had been many years because of how long his hair had become: down past the tips of his shoulder blades. He kept it in a braid, but that didn't make it any less obvious. It awed many, for very few survived more than two years in this place. There was a reason the slave masters—and many of his fellow slaves—had taken to calling him, in hushed whispers, the Boy Who Won't Die.

Matthew watched the slave master's flickering torch with a dull gaze, wish­ing the drug in the food would, for once, work on him. Abby, who had yet again followed him, was already nodding off beside him, her eyes fluttering as she fought sleep. She lost, slumping down the wall as her head lolled to the side. He gently repositioned her so she wouldn't get a kink in her neck, telling himself it was because he didn't feel like listening to her complain about it the next morning. Then he spread out, breathing deeply as his muscles ached. However, the pain was soon whisked away, like a wet cloth swiping the ache off his bones until nothing hurt at all.

That was faster than normal. The Warmth usually took its time.

Lying still, he watched the roof, the way the slave master's torchlight sent flickering shadows across it and how it died away when the man left and the door was shut behind him. The next few minutes were full of rustling and qui­et whispers as the slaves settled down for the night. The drug worked quickly; in just minutes, the room was deathly silent except for a few noisy snorers.

Matthew wished he could fall asleep as effort­lessly as they did. With the drug being useless on him, it could take hours for Matthew to find sleep, de­pending on how quickly he could manage to shut down his thoughts. He was tired, but never tired enough. His thoughts, seldom pleasant, were always a barrier between him and sleep. He tried to relax and even his breathing and think about nothing at all.

Like the stream to the river and the river to the sea, his mind wandered, always trying in vain to remember what life had been like before the misery, before the dull, painful routine of slavery. There had been a time before it. A time he had been happy. A time he had been free.

A wave of bitter feelings swept over him. Those times were dead. His fam­ily was dead. He had lost his freedom, and the only one he could blame was himself.

Rolling onto his stomach, Matthew squeezed his eyes shut, regretting let­ting his mind wander into the past. What was done was done. The past was gone, and those he had loved with it. There was no hope for any of them. He had accepted that—or, at least, he tried to. Some held onto the hope that King Motch would have mercy on them and set them free, even­tually. Eventually had passed ages ago, and Matthew knew the dragon didn't care about them in the least.

Others . . . well, others believed in the legend of the Immortal One, the Creator, in the hope that His son would come and save them. His parents and Lily had believed in that, but it was only after their deaths that Matthew decided for himself that it was a vain hope and made no sense. Why would they need the Creator's son? If He was powerful enough, why couldn't He put an end to the tyranny Himself?

It was all stupid fairy-tales. Matthew set himself among those who scoffed at the ones who clung to hope. Resistance was worthless. There was no hope for them.

Matthew's hope had died along with his freedom.

~

Ostwall Cemetery, Amissah, 10416 P.C.

To Todd, it felt as if an eternity had passed before he heard approaching foot­steps crunch­ing the gravelled parking lot. He braced himself as Cathy opened the door to the truck, climbing into the passenger side and closing the door hard before twisting in her seat to look at him. “Hey.”

Todd turned his head so he could see her. His sister was good-looking, possessing the long blonde hair of their mother and the deep brown eyes of their father. Every time she smiled—which was becoming rarer with each pass­ing day, he had noticed—he saw their mother, and his heart ached. At times, he won­dered if he had possessed their father's smile, but he never saw it in the mirror. In fact, the only thing he had inherited from his father was his height—he was gracing six feet at just seventeen—and his hair, which was a much darker blond from Cathy's sun-bleached locks, more of a dirty blond. But even that was stret­ching it, as Cooper Vinson had been a brunet.

When he did not respond, she sighed and ducked her head. Then there came that timid smile, just like their mother's. “A long day, huh?”

Todd closed his eyes. He did not want another reminder of someone he had loved and lost. “I sup­pose.” All he wanted to do was go home and crawl into his bed and hide from the world. Perhaps he would wake up to find that the last year and a half had been one big bad dream. The chances of that were getting smaller with each passing day.

The smile was gone from Cathy's voice as she said, “I know how close you and Michael were. It . . . it is not fair that he had to be taken so soon.”

“Life is not fair.” The bitter words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

“No. It is not.”

Todd was glad she stopped talking after that. He turned his face away from her, keeping his eyes closed as he listened to the sounds of voices out­side, people heading for their cars. A flame of hatred well­ed up inside of him, resentment for these people who would go home and continue on with life, forgetting about Michael in the same way they had forgotten about his par­ents. In a year, would anyone remember the amazing young man Mich­ael had been, so full of life and kindness, always giving everything he had? Probably not.

The flame of hatred grew into a roaring fire as soon as the driver's side door opened and Henry clambered into the vehicle, bringing in a gust of cold air and shouting something Todd did not care to decipher. He was jovial, like a good man, fooling everyone but Todd, it seemed. As soon as the door slam­med shut and they were gone from the parking lot, Todd knew the nice guy facade would drop. It always did when there was no one around to see it.

“Where is Todd?” Henry demanded of Cathy before glancing in the back. “Oh, there you are. Sit up and put on your seat belt; we are leaving.”

Todd obeyed without a word, refusing to make any sort of eye contact with his brother-in-law for fear that Henry would see the hatred in his eyes. Henry would probably punch it right out of him when they got home, and Todd did not want to make this day any worse. Staring out the win­dow, he caught sight of a couple waving to Henry. Todd had to wonder if the couple knew Henry was an abusive, alcoholic monster.

“Well, that was a nice service, was it not?” Henry asked as he turned on the truck. It sputtered a protest against the cold but soon roared to life.

“Yes,” Cathy said quietly, sniffling a bit. “It was.”

They were out of the parking lot and on the gravelled road that led back into town before Henry looked in the rear view mirror at Todd. “What did you think of it, Todd?”

Todd did not reply, biting down on his tongue to keep from lashing out at Henry. He knew it would only get him in trouble—but oh, did he ever hate the fake, 'good guy' side of Henry Farthing. It made him sick.

“Todd, I am talking to you.”

He could hear the annoyance in Henry's voice already. Shaking his head, Todd refused to speak as he stared out the window at the snow-covered fields flying past. If he opened his mouth, he knew Henry would not like what came out.

“Todd!”

“Henry, please,” Cathy said softly. “Let him be.”

“He is sitting there, ignoring me! Seriously!” Hen­ry turned in his seat to face Todd, nearly driving them right off the road. Cathy shrieked as she grabbed the wheel from her distracted husband's hand. Henry did not even seem to notice. “Hello, are you still with us, or did you go to be with your friend?”

“Stop the car,” Todd demanded, unbuckling his seat belt.

“What are you—?”

“I said stop the car!”

Henry slammed on the brakes, causing Cathy to scream again as the truck skidded to a jolting, gravel-spitting halt. “What is your problem?” Henry yelled.

Todd unlocked the door and yanked it open, launching himself out into the brisk, cold air before Henry could make a grab for him. He slammed the door as hard as he could, silently hoping to break something on Henry's prec­ious truck but knowing he would pay dearly if he had. He almost did not care.

“Todd!” Cathy's door opened as well, and she reached for him. He stepped out of her reach and started walking down the road back the way they had come. “Todd!” she exclaimed again. “What are you doing?”

He did not reply. Cathy kept pleading, but he ignored her, keeping his gaze down to avoid the stares of the people in the cars heading back into town. He knew that if he got back into the truck, he would do something Henry would make him regret.

Eventually, he heard the truck door slam and the wheels spin and spit grav­el as they drove off. He looked over his shoulder, watching them drive away. It was an hour-long walk back into town, something he knew would be miser­able in the bitter cold, but he had sentenced himself to it.

Letting out a frosty breath, he ran his fingers through his already messy hair before starting back toward the cemetery. Cars passed him on the road, some people blatantly ignoring him while others slowed as if debating wheth­er or not to pull over and talk to him. He kept his head down, refusing to look, hoping they understood that he just wanted to be alone.

By the time he got back to the parking lot, the last of the cars were just starting to pull out. He stepped into the ditch, trudging through the snow to the row of trees that bordered the lot, hoping it hid him from those leaving. He caught sight of Mikayla's car, and he silently watched them leave. The last thing he wanted right then was to encounter the Bowie family.

He watched until the last car disappeared down the road; at long last, he was alone. It had been what he wanted, but at the same time, his heart longed for someone to appear and care. There would be no love waiting for him when he returned to the Farthing household. He knew Henry would be livid with him for making the scene he had. Todd would pay for it. Absentmindedly rub­bing the long white scar on his forearm beneath his jacket, Todd clenched his teeth. Why was Henry so much bigger than him? Why could Todd not be braver and stronger?

The wind was icy and he pulled the too-big dress coat tighter around his skinny self as he walked up the drive to the mourning house. His thoughts, ever wandering, turned to Michael, and his heart ached. Whenever things had gotten extremely hard with Henry, Todd had camped out at the Bowie's house. He had never told the twins about Henry's abuse—he did not want anyone involved, not after Henry had threatened him the way he had. The Bowies had never questioned why Todd would show up on their doorstep at the strangest of times. They had always welcomed him with open arms. Ever since his par­ents had died, he had practically become a part of their family. They had included him in nearly every­thing, and he had cherished every moment with them. He was always reminded after the fact how much he craved a family again; his was destroyed by death and abuse. The Bowies had possessed every­thing he used to have, and he missed it so, so much.

But now, he realized as he stopped in front of the mourning house, their family had been broken as well. Because of him.

Todd's breath hitched as he thought back to the night of Michael's death. It seemed like decades ago now, but in reality, it had barely been a week. It haunted him, becoming something he knew he would regret for the rest of his life, something he would not be able to escape no matter how hard he tried. He could see it replaying before his eyes every time he closed them. The hate-filled fire within him raged. Hatred for the people around him. Hatred for Henry. Hatred for himself.

The mourning house was big and ominous, the entire structure creaking in the wind, moaning as if truly in mourning. The paint was peeling, and the wood was old and worn. A steeple rose from the top, bearing a large, ancient-looking bell that had to be rung by hand. It loomed over him, casting a huge shadow across the snowy ground like judgment.

With a shudder, he made his way around the back toward the cemetery. He let himself through the gate and silently walked past the graves, picking out his parent's adjoined tombstones among the others with his eyes:

Cooper Vinson & Tessa Vinson

10370 – 10414 10372 – 10414

Together in life, together in death.

He passed them.

The place was quiet; only the sound of the wind and his footsteps crunch­ing the snow broke accom­panied him. It made him nervous, thinking back on the creepy stories he had heard as a kid about the spirits of the dead haunting graveyards. Brushing those foolish thoughts from his mind, he went to the freshly-covered grave and stood over it. Already a small pot of flowers had been placed in the snow beside the headstone.

He crouched down, gazing at the inscription on the tombstone once more.

Michael Doug Bowie.

It was almost ironic, he thought. He and Mikayla had always said that Michael would have to plan their funerals because out of the three of them he had always been the cautious goody-two-shoes. They had always expected him to be the last to go. How wrong they had been.

Todd knew he had to say something. Could Mich­ael hear him? See him? “It should have been me,” he whispered faintly, the words dancing out into the frosty air. “I should be dead, not you. You . . . you did not deserve this.” His breath hitched. His eyes burn­ed, and he closed them, Still, a tear es­caped and made a trail down his cheek. Todd sucked in a choking breath. “I . . . I am so sorry!”

He caved. His knees hit the cold hard ground as he buried his face in his hands and sobbed.

~

Zusia, Desmond, 10416 P.C.

Stephanie had to close her eyes against the bright lights in the arena as she entered. Although the sky above her, exposed by the ceiling-less arena, was dark, the arena itself was as bright as day, the fluorescent lighting fighting yet again to give her a headache as she approached the centre of the arena. The place was circular, with stands rising up on every side. The walls were high, impossible to climb, and the floor was just simple sand. There were eight doors along the walls, all barred shut. Turning around, she saw that the door she had entered through had just clos­ed. She was trapped.

There was no one in sight; the stands were utterly empty, but she knew she was being watched. It was then that she noticed the array of weapons hung along the wall beside the door she had just entered. Her eyes locked on the bow. She had probably been expected to arm herself before heading for the centre.

“Welcome to your Test, Trainee Seven-Oh-Three-Five,” came the feminine, automated voice again, echoing now through the stadium and freezing Ste­ph­anie as she stepped back toward the weapons. “Eliminate the opposition and your Test will be com­pleted. Good luck. Your Test begins . . . now.”

Eliminate opposition, she mused to herself as she scampered across the sand to the wall of weapons. What opposition? I hope I don't lose points for completely missing the weapons. That'd be fantastic.

Jauliks!

The recurve bow, her preferred weapon, was on a hook high above her short reach.

Guess this is the time and place to show off.

Taking the last yards in two bounding leaps, Stephanie sprinted up the wall, carefully dodging other weapons and snatching the bow off of the hook before throwing herself back and flipping over to land in the sand on her feet. The quiver of arrows was on a stand, and she yanked it off and slung it over her shoulder.

“Don't ignore the other weapons,” Yasmin had told her.

Yeah, yeah. She grabbed a bastard sword and buckled the sheath on her left hip so she could easily draw it should she need it.

On the other side of the arena, one door creaked open. Several figures step­ped out, and she tensed as she realized they were people wearing helmets and carrying swords and shields. Her opposition.

Five men. Five criminals she was supposed to execute.

She'd put worse things on her conscience.

Striding forward, she loaded her bow, watching her opposition carefully. The first two men came at her quickly, wasting no time in a duel attack. She raised her bow and shot, the arrow whizzing between the two men. It found its unfortunate target: one of the men who had stayed behind and foolishly low­ered his shield. The arrow pierced him through the heart, and Stephanie had solace in knowing he was dead before his body hit the ground.

The two other men were approaching fast, shields out in front. Stephanie snapped the bow into the clasp on the quiver and drew her sword. Yasmin had been right—she'd need it.

Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes. A calm filled her; adrenaline coursed through her veins, but she felt fluid, serene, as if about to engage in a graceful dance. She sprinted forward, meeting the first man halfway. He swung at her with a clumsy one-handed strike, and she deflected it, knocking him off balance and causing him to throw out his arms. She buried her sword in his chest as the other man reached them. She dodged his first strike, parried the second, and knocked his sword from his hand in his third attempt. He threw the shield up to block her thrust, stumbling back to get away from her. She let him, turning her attention to a new attacker, a scarily large man with a club. He swung it at her. She dodged it, ducking under his arm and slashing it with her sword. He let out a scream, dropping the club and hitting his knees, and she skirted around him and slashed the back of his neck.

Three down. Two to go.

She turned to face her last two opponents. The man with the shield had retrieved his weapon and was approaching her slowly, hiding behind his shield. The last man remained near the door, content to stay back and watch, it seemed. Stephanie kept a careful eye on him while she engaged the shield man in battle. She just wanted this all to be over as fast as possible.

It was easy enough to disarm the man again, but his shield proved to be an issue—she was doing nothing but dulling her sword on it. Pushing him back with the force of her attacks, she finally man­aged to trip him, and while he did his best to block her attacks, she managed a fatal blow to his neck.

Crimson blood pooled across the white sand. Stephanie looked away.

Her last opponent was slowly approaching her, steps careful and measured. They had no shield, car­rying only a sword much like Stephanie's. The helmet hid the person's face. Admittedly, it was easier that way. Stephanie wouldn't have to worry about faces haunting her in her sleep.

As the person drew near, however, they spoke, startling her. “It's a pity, isn't it?” It was a feminine voice. A bit familiar, in fact. Stephanie wasn't sure where she had heard it before. “Lives wasted. All because they wouldn't listen.”

Stephanie traded her sword for her bow, loading it.

Her opponent was unfazed. “Tell me, child. Do you like being a murderer?”

Her hands tightened around her weapon as she lifted it. An icy feeling was slithering through her veins, and her fingers on the string trembled. “No, but I will do what I have to.”

“Good,” the woman replied, stopping just yards away. Her voice felt to be right in Stephanie's ear. “Then let your aim be true.”

A breath passed Stephanie's lips; no thought crossed her mind. She loosed the arrow. It found the heart of her opponent.

Her vision flickered. The man she had just shot stumbled forward and fell to the ground. Stephanie stared, startled, lowering her bow as her mind fought to make sense of what had just happened. She could have sworn that the man at her feet had been a wo­man wearing a helmet.

The man wore no helmet. She saw his face—young, bearded, with wide, hollow, dead eyes.

Ice still swirled in her veins. She shivered.

The speaker returned, blaring as recorded ap­plause roared throughout the arena: “Congratu­lat­ions, Trainee Seven-Oh-Three-Five. You have suc­cessfully completed your Test.”

3

Miinhart Forest, Desmond, 10416 P.C.

Darkness had fallen, heavy and thick, cloaking the forest like a blanket. Anna­bella marched through the trees, straining to see in the inky dark­ness, her ears alert for any sound out of the or­dinary. More than once, she thought she heard some­one following her, but the sound was nothing but a trick of her imagin­ation. Even so, her hand rested on the hilt of her sword, prepared to draw it at any time.

The trek between Brittgard and Sarum took her the entirety of the night. To her benefit, the terrain was easy to navigate, mostly flat and with few hills, so she was able to keep up her fast pace. She knew this part of the Miinhart Forest like an old friend; she had travelled this path several times over the last few years. She knew where the Crooked Tree was, having named it a dear fri­end when climbing it had saved her from being spotted by patrols a year back; and she knew where the Hovel was, an abandoned beaver lodge that was well-hidden and made a good spot to hide. She prided herself in knowing where every food source was, whether animal or fruit, between Brit­tgard and Engle­con Mountain.

Annabella was a survivor, and she wouldn't let anyone else say otherwise.

As she travelled, she couldn't help but think of Luke. He had been her friend almost seven years now, ever since she had stumbled into Brittgard in the dead of winter, cold and hungry and on the verge of collapse. Instead of turning her in, the people of the town hid her. That was how she had met Luke Reiter, for he also was an Illegal, hidden in a secret basement beneath his mother's house. She had stayed with them for several days until Motch's search for her had become too intense. She could still remem­ber that night, wrapped tightly in Mrs. Reiter's cloak as she made her dangerous escape to Sarum alone. She had only been nine years old. It had been the last time she had seen Luke for three years. Over the past four, their friendship had grown—and maybe too far. Cutting it off as she had may have been rash, but she didn't know what else to do. She convinced herself that she had done Luke a favour and that putting him and their relationship behind her was the best decis­ion. Loving her and being loved by her was a mistake.

Everyone she loved died in the end. Luke didn't deserve that cruel fate.

It was still dark when Annabella reached Sarum. It was a smaller town, a cluster of houses and shops in a large clearing in the trees. The place had once been Annabella's home for over three years before reality had crashed down around her yet again. She had learned at the tender age of thirteen that she had no home and that those she loved died. It was for this reason she cut off Luke—she never should have let him come close—and why she distanced her­self from everyone she knew.

Or, at least, she tried to. She lingered at the edge of the treeline, looking out into the small, quiet village, hesitant.

She could continue on—should continue on—find a place to sleep that didn't involve endangering those she cared about. But oh, her heart ached to see Tam­ara again. The woman had always treated her like a sister, and it was coming up on a year since she had last seen her. It seemed like such a shame to be so close and not stop in, and yet it was such a great risk. Then again, every­thing Annabella did was a great risk. She couldn't avoid that fact.

Cursing her bitter circumstances, Annabella final­ly made up her mind. Like a ghost, she slipped out of the cover of the trees and entered Sarum, staying to the shadows as she sought out Tamara's house. It was small, just one story tall and fit for one resident. Throwing caution to the wind, Annabella hurried up the front porch steps and tried the knob. The door was locked. Fishing the key out of the little notch in the siding near the door, she unlocked it, letting her­self into the house and quietly closing the door behind her. The lock clicking back into place sound­ed like a loud clap in her ears.

The house was quiet. Taking slow breaths, she looked around, drinking in the familiarity of the place. It hadn't changed much at all in a year. The kit­chen was tidy, as usual, and the living room had only a rocking chair and a night­stand; a knitting project lay unfinished on the small table. A fireplace built into the wall sat empty and lifeless, though a stack of wood beside it suggested that Tamara had felt the approach of winter in the air. Annabella, too, had felt it, and knew it would be wise to collect her bundle of winter clothing from the Hovel before the worst of winter hit.

She would do that after she finished her mission.

Rubbing her shoes on the mat, she looked around before slowly stepping forward, away from the door. As she did, she heard a noise. She froze, her heart leaping into her chest as boots thumped up the porch steps outside. She moved without thinking, throwing herself at Tamara's bedroom door as rude banging on the door broke through the silence.

“It's patrol! Open up!”

Annabella cursed, stumbling instead into the kit­chen and searching for the trapdoor she knew led down into Tamara's cellar. She had been spotted! She had just moved the mat away when she heard Tam­ara's bedroom door creak open. There Tamara was, dressed in a nightgown and robe, staring at Annabel­la in surprise and fear. Annabella inwardly cursed again, wishing she had turn­ed and walked away from this place instead of putting others in danger.

“Open up!”

Tamara's face washed from fear to determination; she pointed down below. “Get!” she whispered, rush­ing over and helping Annabella lift the trapdoor. A gaping hole in the floorboards greeted them, and Annabella wasted no time slipping down into it.

I'm sorry. She almost said the words, looking up at Tamara as she clamber­ed down into the darkness. Tamara shut the door before the apology could escape. Annabella heard a muffled shout overhead. She could barely breathe. Oh, why had she been so stupid as to come here?

She moved through the cellar as quietly as she could, feeling the shelves with her hands as she found her way to the back of the room. She knew the secret of this room: there was another, a hidden door concealed to hide the most precious things in life. Annabella made her blind way toward it. Her foot found the sack of potatoes, and she pushed it aside, feeling for the door. She couldn't tell where it was, so she tapped a quiet code on the wall, hoping it had been heard.

A wooden panel slid aside, and light met her eyes. She crawled forward into the room, tugging the potato sack back into place behind her before slid­ing the panel shut again. Then she turned to the child who had opened the door for her.

“Bethany,” she breathed, astonished by how much the child had grown. She was scrawny but looked nourished enough, her ebony hair long and eyes wide in her round, thin face. She looked so much like Tamara, but Annabella could see Reagan in those stone-grey eyes and in the way she watched Anna­bella with a calm gaze void of fear. He had given her a look just like that the day he had been killed. Trust­ing. Willing.

He had never gotten to know his little girl because of her.

Annabella would have understood if Bethany hadn't recognized her—it had been nearly a year since her last visit—but Bethany's face lit up at the sight of her. “Bella!”

She welcomed the child into her arms, holding her tightly as they heard a crashing sound overheard. She sat against the panel, holding her breath. Her heart pounded a staccato beat within her chest as she heard Tamara's pleading voice then a shout.

The trapdoor creaked open. Bethany stiffened, aware of the danger; her breathing became fast and fearful. Annabella hugged her tighter. Tamara was talking, but Annabella couldn't make out her words. Boots thudded the ladder as someone came down into the cellar.

Then everything went silent. All Annabella could hear was her heartbeat. She squeezed her eyes shut.

Creator, help us! Please!

~

Ostwall, Amissah, 10416 P.C.

“Todd Nathaniel Vinson!” Cathy crowed the moment Todd entered the house, bringing the cold February air with him. “Where in Amissah have you been?”

“Walking,” he responded, his voice as chilly as the air outside. He kicked off his shoes and shed his dress coat, which had failed miserably in keeping him warm. Clenching his teeth to keep them from chat­tering, he rubbed his red hands together, trying to coax warmth back into them. He had not worn gloves, and he was regretting that.

Looking up, he saw Cathy standing at the kitchen door, an apron on and a flipper in her hand. He could smell food cooking, and against his will, his stomach growled in longing. He grimaced, the expression pulling painfully at his nearly frozen cheeks.

“It was a stupid thing to do, getting out of the truck like that,” Cathy scold­ed. “Henry is not happy about it.”

“When is he ever happy with me?” Todd mum­bl­ed, trying to move by her and head down the hallway to his room. He would be safe there if he barri­caded the door shut with his desk.

Cathy held out the flipper, blocking his path. “Tone, Todd.”

He resisted the urge to smack the flipper away. “I want to be alone, Cathy. Just leave me alone.”

“Why are you always running off to be alone, Todd?” Henry asked, startl­ing Todd. He had not noticed his brother-in-law appear in the doorway to the living room. When Henry took a step toward them, Todd took a jump back, immed­iately tensing up. Henry's lips curled into an unsettling smirk. “Hiding some­thing, perhaps?”

“No,” Todd said between his teeth, which were clenched so hard his jaw was aching.

Cathy stepped between them. Todd could see the fright in her eyes; she did not want a fight. “Henry, please, do not get into that topic. He had to watch his best friend die. Please, leave him alone.”

“He did see Michael's death.” Todd was surprised that Henry had remem­bered Michael's name. “He was the only one who did see it, in fact. Something tells me he did it himself.”

Todd opened his mouth in shock, but Cathy beat him to the punch. “How could you think that? Todd would never!”

“It would not surprise me much,” Henry said, holding Todd in a cold gaze. “See, even now his eyes are murderous.”

Cathy turned to look, but Todd had had enough. “Sod off, Henry,” he snap­ped, backing away and escaping down the hallway to his bedroom. He slam­med the door hard, rattling the pictures on the walls. Gripping the doorknob in his hand, he held his breath, waiting for Henry to storm after him and give him one of his 'lessons'. Henry did not; instead, Todd could hear him yelling at Cathy. Todd's hold on the doorknob tightened. He wished he could lock it to keep people out; however, Henry had installed the knob backward so that it could be locked from the outside. Todd could count on both hands the num­ber of times Henry had locked him in his own room in the past six months. Once Todd had climbed out of the window to escape, ruining Cathy's peonies in the flowerbed below. He had paid dearly for that one.

Sighing deeply, Todd leaned his head against the door, closing his eyes and listening as Cathy and Henry yelled. It was a such usual sound it was almost too easy to drown out. His mind found other things to focus on.

Now that his greatest fear had been voiced aloud, Todd was worried. Would the detective and police have the same thought: that Todd had killed Mich­ael? Michael had been his best friend! The very thought of murdering Michael—or anyone for that matter—had never crossed his mind!

Well, perhaps Henry, but he knew he would not even if given the oppor­tun­ity. Todd had always been a quiet, shy kid, more complacent and a follower than anything else. He was no murderer.

His thoughts were shattered by Cathy's cry of pain. Henry had hit her. Rage welled up within Todd. Why was he so helpless? Cursing himself aloud, he slammed his open palm against the door before jerk­ing it open, starting down the hallway with nothing but the anger in his bones. He found the two in the kitchen. Henry had backed his wife against the coun­ter, his hand raised to hit her again. He lowered it and turned when Todd entered the kitchen.

Todd froze, his mind racing. “Do not touch my sister,” he said forcefully, al­though the tremor in his voice was painfully clear.

Henry tilted his head, giving Todd a dangerous look. “What, you defy me once and think you can do it again?”

Todd shrank back as Henry stepped toward him. Todd's hands were clen­ched into fists, but they trem­bled. “Do not touch my sister,” he repeated, his voice substantially less forceful than before. Staring at Henry now felt like staring at impending doom. He was beginning to regret coming back out. He would surely get it now. But oh, he was so mad. It was hard to tell what he shook with, anger or fear.

“I do not think I like your attitude, Todd.” Henry advanced.

Todd backed away, raising his fists, his heart rac­ing furiously.

“Todd, Henry, please!” Cathy cried.

Fear got the best of Todd; he dropped his fists with a shuddering breath and made a dash for his room. He got two steps before Henry caught his arm and threw him into the wall, slamming the air out of his lungs and pinning him there.

“What have I told you?” Henry demanded, his hand twisted tightly in Todd's shirt collar as his fist held Todd against the wall with bruising force. He pulled Todd away only to slam him back against the wall. “You are nothing! You are pathetic! Do not ever try crossing me again!”

He threw Todd down the hallway with a powerful arm. Todd stumbled and fell, hitting his head on the bathroom door frame. He heard Cathy shriek through his daze. He struggled to get to his feet, clambering into his room and falling hard when Henry kicked him in the back. He scrambled across the floor to the far wall, breathing hard as he watch­ed Henry stop in the doorway to glower at him.

“Your meeting with authorities tomorrow saves you from a proper punish­ment,” Henry growled, claim­ing the doorknob in his huge hand. “Missing supper will do for now.” With that, Henry slammed the door and locked it. His retreating steps echoed down the hallway, pounding right along with Todd's heart.

Todd gasped for breath, trembling all over. Forc­ing himself to get up off the floor, he staggered to and collapsed on his bed. He covered his face with his hands and squeezed his eyes shut, hating Henry, hating himself. Henry was right: he was pathetic. He had not even been able to defend himself, much less his sister.

Todd was weak and a coward, and he knew it all too well.

~

Zusia, Desmond, 10416 P.C.

Even during the late-night hour, the city was alive with sounds and lights. Stephanie left the monorail car, her feet pounding the landing as she made her way toward the stairs leading down into the street. The monorail hadn't been as crowded as it often was during the day, but she still had to brush past many people to get to ground level. The street she entered was busy; lights flashed and storefronts were decorat­ed with all the different sorts of products they were selling, boasting of discounts, twinkling with lights. Stephanie walked by with unseeing eyes, pulling her coat tighter about her slim form as she stepped around groups of chattering people. She was still un­naturally cold, and she was sure it had nothing to do with the chill of the night. She slipped away from the main market streets, following the back alleys until she found what she was looking for.

Noe's Diner, a glittering little eatery on one of the back streets, was her and Marcie's favourite place to eat out. The bell above the door jingled as she open­ed it and walked inside. The place was small, yet cozy, one of the warmest places in Zusia in Steph­anie's mind. Despite the hour, many people sat in the booths, enjoying a late supper or dessert or drink. The little eatery was run by Noe, a man about ten years Stephanie's senior. He was always overly nice to the girls, a bit on the pudgier side—he liked food too much, he claimed—with dark skin and light eyes. When he saw Stephanie enter, he catcalled from behind the counter, his eyes shining with a smile his face never showed.

“Lookie lookie, back from her Test already.”

Stephanie pushed herself up onto one of the bar stools at the counter. “Already? It's practically midnight, Noe.”

He snorted as he bustled about behind the coun­ter—preparing her usual for her. “I didn't get back from my Test until three in the morning, sweetheart. Count yourself lucky you weren't the youngest of your year.” He lifted an eye­brow, giving her a glance over. “It went well?”

“I guess.”

The dead man's face flashed in her mind. Do you like being a murderer?

She shuddered.

Noe was oblivious to her reaction. He scooped ice cream out of the freezer, humming. “I remember my Test,” he said wistfully. “Them was the hard years, I tell ya. My ma was so frightened for me, but pops said it done me good.” He paused, the scoop in his hand floating above the bowl as his eyes stared off into space the way they often did. Making a clucking noise with his tongue, he flung the ice cream into the bowl. “Couldn't tell ya why he thought that. His boy became a baker nonethelesser.”

“You've told me this story.” Like thirty times, she didn't add. Noe seemed blind to how lucky he was to have known his parents. She didn't know hers. Neith­er did Marcie. In fact, next to none of the Trainees did. There were a few exceptions, but those were incredibly rare.

Noe dropped a cherry on the top of her ice cream. It tumbled off the side. He tried again. “Well, here's to celebrate,” he said, finally just taking the cherry and pushing it into the ice cream so it would stay put. “You're finally out of the system and into society.” He placed the dish before her proudly.

Stephanie accepted the spoon he handed her and proceeded to knock the cherry to the side. She heard Noe sigh. “Tomorrow,” she corrected him. “The grad­uation ceremony is tomorrow.”

He nodded, his many chins bouncing. “Or, really, today.” He tapped his watch and plucked a cherry out of a container, plopping it in his mouth. “Where's Marcie? Still Testing?”

“I guess.” Stephanie had done her best to avoid thinking about Marcie and her impending Test. Knowing now what her Test had been like . . . she wasn't sure how Marcie would react to it. Marcie wasn't a coldblooded murderer.

Not like Stephanie was.

Noe must have picked up on her worry. “She'll be fine, love. Eat your ice cream and cheer up. Trainees don't ever die in the Tests—I mean, well, rarely. They step in and stop things before anyone dies. She'll be fine.”

Stephanie stared down at her ice cream, a bitter taste in her mouth. “You're wrong. I killed people tonight. People died.” The words were emotionless, spoken with blunt honesty. She wanted to feel some­thing, but couldn't. It was all just a part of the Test.

Besides, those men must have deserved to die. Why else would they have been in the arena? Only those deserving of death ended up there.

Except . . . she had been in there.

Noe cleared his throat. “It's okay, Stephanie. It's just how it is. Don't beat yourself up over it, okay sweetheart?” His voice found its regular bouncy tone. “Eat your ice cream.”

He left her alone after that, tending to his other customers as she slowly ate her dessert. The minutes ticked by dully; she and Marcie had agreed to meet in the diner after their Tests were done, but it was get­ting late. She waited. After finishing her ice cream, she put her head down on the counter and closed her eyes, fighting away visions of dying swordsmen and blood. The woman's voice haunted her ears, and more than once she thought she heard it beside her again. She was still so cold—not that the ice cream had helped any. Voices murmured around her, and every once in a while she felt Noe pat her head in a comforting sort of way as he passed by. She wanted to stay awake, but it was getting harder to ward sleep off.

The next thing she knew, Noe was gently shaking her awake. “Wake up, love. I've gotta close up shop.”

She opened her burning eyes. The murmur of voices had faded to silence. Lifting her head, she searched for the clock on the wall. It read two in the morning. She took a deep breath.

“Don't worry so much,” Noe said, seeing the look on her face. “She was one of the younger ones. She probably won't be around til morning.” He patted her hand. “Go on home, sweetheart. I'll send her that way if she comes 'round looking for ya.”

Stephanie gave a silent nod. Sliding off the bar stool, she walked across the empty diner and exited out into the chilly night air. It pricked at her bare skin. Folding her arms to keep warm, she walked down the streets, which were still so lit up with twinkling lights and yet deader now, like a half-sleeping beast. Making her way back to the monorail, she climbed the stairs and stood on the platform, waiting for its arrival. The wind was bitter, more prominent now that she stood above most of the buildings. When the monorail finally arrived, she stepped inside and found it completely empty. Night had finally claim­ed the inhabitants of Zusia.

Used to a strict curfew, Stephanie found it strange to be all alone. As the monorail rushed across the city, she stared out the window, watching the blur­ring lights passing below. She got off at the next stop and walked the rest of the way to the Trainee Camp­us—a sectioned-off, fenced-in part of the city where the children were housed and raised. The gate was closed, but the scan­ner captured the image of her face, namely her eyes and the dragonmark on the left side of her face, and she was let inside. Following the path up to the girl's dorm, she hurried inside and closed the door. The warmth enveloped her like a hug yet didn't pierce the insistent chill in her bones.

Her room was on the fifth floor, and she jogged up the stairs to get to it. Walking down the well-lit hallway, she found her room, the door with the numbers Seven-Zero-Three-Five displayed on the front.

“Stephanie?”

She gave a start, turning around to find Taise sit­ting against the door behind her. The girl's numbers were emblazoned on the door above her head, exact­ly like Stephanie's. In her tired daze, Stephanie hadn't even noticed that the other girl was there.

“How'd you do?” Taise croaked. She sounded like she had been crying.

“Fine.” The word was out of Stephanie's mouth before she'd even thought about it. She stood still, wary of the girl's tears. Most of the Trainees had given up crying years ago, especially in public. They'd been taught over and over that it was pathetic and a waste of one's time. “You?”

“I don't know.” Taise stared straight ahead, her red eyes swollen, her cheeks glistening.

“What's wrong?”

“I hated it, Stephanie. Oh, Jauliks, I hated it. I couldn't do it.” She lifted her terrified eyes to Steph­anie. “Will they put me in Dregs? I don't want to be a Dreg!” A sob escaped her mouth, and she shuddered. “What if they choose me for the Purge?”

Stephanie closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Go to bed, Taise. It's no use crying over it.” She pushed her door open and retreated inside. Shutting the door behind her, she leaned against it, hearing Taise let out another sob.

Desperate to get away from the sound, Stephanie walked across her small room and sat down on the window seat, looking out into the night. No one walked the pathways. Marcie wasn't anywhere to be seen. A stab of pain went through her as she thought of Marcie. What if something had happened to her best friend?

Stephanie crawled into her bed and pulled the covers over her head.

~

Feldspar Mine, Desmond, 10416 P.C.

It felt like mere moments between falling asleep and being dragged out of it by the shouting of the slave masters. Matthew was used to the rude awakening, but still, it was a struggle to get to his feet. He blink­ed against the slave mas­ter's torchlight, stretching his aching joints. The dull pain faded as familiar Warmth spread through him. He took a deep breath.

“Get up!” a slave master yelled, “Or nothing to eat for you!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Matthew muttered under his breath, offering Abby a hand. She was sitting up, rubbing her eyes, and she accepted his hand without a word. It took minimal effort pulling her up. She was wasting away, as frail as a leaf in autumn, and it pained him knowing she wouldn't last long. He'd seen her kind before, unused to hard labour and small food port­ions. They became malnourished and weak quickly, but the slave masters didn't care. Slaves were replace­able. It created a fiery ache in Matthew's chest, one that urged him to unleash his anger on something, someone.

He couldn't, though. It had happened once, just over a year ago, if his cal­culations were correct, and he had paid for it dearly. Everyone knew what the symbol on his collarbone meant. It was the Death Omen, a warning for others to stay away from him unless they fancied death. Having lost the 'privilege' of a shirt, Matthew's branding scar was exposed for all to see. He knew it was purposeful. Most of the other slaves stayed away from him because of it.

And yet, he still seemed to be outliving them all regardless.

Abby caught him rubbing the scar, and she gently touched his arm. “You okay?” He knew she had fig­ured out it was something he did when he was trying to suppress the urge to lose his temper.

“I'm fine.” He dropped his hand quickly.

It took a while for them to make their way through the crowd into the eat­ing room, where they accepted their small portions of breakfast and hud­dled together in a corner to eat it. Matthew watched the slave mast­ers eyeing the crowd of prisoners—a feeling in his gut told him that something was wrong. The air seemed much more tense than usual. A pit dug itself deep in his chest, and swallowing his food—which looked a lot like mashed potatoes and rotten beets—felt like trying to swallow a rock. He knew this feeling. He'd had it before. It always came before something hor­rible was about to happen, and never once had it failed him. As selfish as the thought was, he hoped whatever was about to happen didn't involve him.

Naturally, luck failed him. He knew he was in trouble when he spotted the head overseer, a tall, muscular man with dark hair and beady eyes, step into the room and scan it. The man's name was Terminus Aarden—though he was known among the slaves as the Overseer. One learned quickly that gaining the Overseer's attention was a mistake, for he was a cruel and heartless man, so much so that Matthew wondered if he suffered from some psycho­logical ail­ment that rendered him conscienceless. It was the Overseer who had branded Matthew with the Death Omen, and also he who had done away with Danyel all those years ago. Many slaves had met their end at the hand of the cruel man, and in the sickest ways imaginable.

So when the man's gaze locked with Matthew's, Matthew fought not to choke as he quickly looked down. His insides seemed to freeze as the Overseer started across the room toward him. Matthew man­aged to swallow down his food; it seemed to clog the pit in his chest as he heard the other slaves shuf­fling back, trying to stay as far away from the Overseer as possible as the man came near.

“Matthew,” Abby murmured fearfully.

Matthew didn't respond. He stared at the feet of the man as the Overseer came to a stop in front of where they sat. Matthew was beginning to regret eat­ing. It wanted to come back up. A frantic thought chorused through his mind: What did I do?

“Girl, go to Vernic,” the Overseer told Abby, al­most absentmindedly it seemed. “He will pair you with a new partner.”

Abby opened her mouth, nothing but a terrified, shocked squeak escaping her lips. Matthew elbowed her. She shot him a look of pure terror, but he jerked his head to the side, wordlessly telling her to obey the man. She did, scrambling to her feet and stepping around the Overseer to practically run to the entrance where the slave master Vernic stood. Mat­thew watched her go with a bitter taste in his mouth, his mind racing. What had he done? Why was he in trou­ble?

He knew the Overseer was studying him. “Follow me, Matthew,” the man said before turning and starting toward the entrance himself. Matthew, know­ing it was an order he dared not argue with, pushed himself to his feet and followed.

They passed Abby and Vernic on the way out of the eating room; Abby watched him with terror-filled eyes, Vernic with pity. Matthew quickly averted his gaze to the ground, watching the Overseer's boots ahead of him. Ice-cold fear snaked up his chest, send­ing shivers through him that the Warmth inside couldn't counter. Something terribly bad was about to happen to The Boy Who Would Not Die.

They walked through the shipping room where crates of feldspar were stacked to be hauled out of the mine. Matthew knew which tunnel led out, and he could barely imagine the daylight that lay beyond it. It had been years since he had seen it. Oh, how every­thing in him wanted to run for that tunnel, run for freedom.

He didn't. He knew he wouldn't make it.

They took several different turns, and he knew where they were going. Everything inside of him screamed for resistance, to run, but his feet were obedient, carrying him to a cruel fate.

They entered the punishing room, and Matthew once again regretted his breakfast. The two who hadn't met quota the day before were there, chained to two of the four sturdy posts in the room, both barely conscious. The sloped floor was pooled with blood; ribbons of it snaked toward the drain in the mid­dle of the room. The Overseer stopped to observe the unfortunate victims, and Matthew stopped as well, swallowing hard.

“What a pity they didn't meet quota,” the Over­seer said, without pity.

Matthew pressed his lips together, unable to look away from the two blo­odied victims. His back stung, the countless scars burning at the prospect of being ripped open again. The pit in his chest made it hard to breathe.

The Overseer lingered a moment longer before he strode across the room, stepping carelessly through the blood. Matthew followed, stepping carefully.

They left the room, heading down another tunnel before turning into a smaller room with a metal door. There was a table with two chairs facing each other, and besides that, the room was empty. The Overseer motioned to one of the chairs, and Matthew sat down without a word, staring at the only light source in the room: a candle in the middle of the table sending shadows scat­tering across the walls. The Overseer closed the door with a bang. The sha­dows shuddered.

“Amazing, isn't it?” The Overseer, too, was gazing at the candle as he sat down across from Matthew. “How something so fragile and small can light up nearly the entire room.”

Matthew wasn't sure if he was supposed to engage this man in conversat­ion or not. He lifted his eyes to silently glare at the Overseer instead.

“I know you're wondering why I've taken you aside.” The Overseer met Matthew's gaze, and Mat­thew quickly dropped his eyes to the candle. Main­taining eye contact with this man was a dumb fight to engage in. He would lose.

After a moment of silence, the man continued. “You've been here a long time, Matthew. You know how I run this place. You know that I have eyes and ears everywhere. Nothing happens in this mine that I don't know about. So let's make this easy on the both of us.”

The man stopped. Matthew blinked several times before realizing the man was waiting for him to say something. “I . . . I don't know what you're talking about. Sir,” he added quickly, although addressing the man that way made him want to bite his tongue off.

“I thought you'd say that.” The Overseer folded his hands on the table. “Don't underestimate me, boy. Tell me about the rebellion.”

Matthew lifted his eyes in surprise. “Rebellion?” He almost choked on the word. “What rebellion?”

“The rebellion!” Matthew jumped as the man slammed his fist down on the table. The candle shook in terror. “One of my men heard several slaves dis­cuss­ing it. You were mentioned by name.”

It all made sense at that moment. Matthew felt nauseated, the pit in his chest trying to swallow him whole. The Overseer had always kept a special eye on him, going out of his way to cause Matthew grief in one way or another. He had concocted this idea of a rebellion, no doubt. Whether it was because he felt challenged by Matthew somehow, or maybe because, despite all odds, Matthew had survived this long in the mines—he didn't know why the man had targeted him.

Perhaps, after all this time, Matthew's secret had finally come to light. He could only imagine what the man would do if he knew. Matthew squeezed his eyes shut, trying to erase the image of the blood trailing across the floor to the drain. It wouldn't leave. It was a stain on his mind forever, a prophecy of what was about to come.

“So, you tell me.” The Overseer rose to his feet. “What rebellion?”

Matthew opened his eyes, staring at the candle. It trembled, much like his heart. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Stars spotted his vision, his head snapping to the side from the man's backhanded strike. His cheek burned, and he kept his eyes shut, fighting the anger and helplessness roiling in his chest. Losing his calm in this situation would prove disastrous. The brand on his collarbone burned. His hand twitched with the impulse to rub it. He took a deep breath as the Warmth swept through his face, nursing his bruised cheek.

“Don't lie. I had hoped I had burned that out of you before.”

Matthew's heart raced, panicked thoughts con­suming his mind. There was no way out of this. Even if he had known what the Overseer was talking about, he'd be punished all the same. There was no way to escape the pain he was surely about to experi­ence.

“Apparently not.” The Overseer held out his gloved hand. “Give me your dominant hand.”

Fear froze Matthew in place, choking his breath. He struggled to inhale.

“Do it.” The man was firm, his eyes deadly.

Slowly, Matthew lifted his right hand and offered it to the man. The Over­seer grabbed his wrist, pulling his hand out over the table. Matthew clamped his teeth together tightly when the man forced his hand over the candle's flame. The heat pricked his palm.

“What rebellion? And don't lie to me this time.”

Matthew struggled to remain calm. The flickering candle made it hard. “I swear, I don't know what you're talking about.” The words sounded feeble to his own ears.

The man forcefully lowered Matthew's hand a little. Matthew grimaced as the heat from the flame began to burn his palm. “I said, don't lie to me!”

“I'm not—” Matthew's voice faltered as the man pushed his hand down even more; the flame licked at his skin, and he hissed. “—lying.”

The Overseer held Matthew's hand there for a long, painful moment. The burn seeped through Mat­thew's palm, spreading across his skin, and his hand jerked, trying to get away. The Overseer didn't budge. It was agony.

Then the man pushed Matthew's hand down onto the candle. The flame was snuffed out in an instant, the melted wax coating his seared palm and burning it even more. Matthew gasped as pain engulfed his entire hand. They were plunged into darkness, and Matthew finally managed to pull his hand away, burning his fingers as he frantically scrubbed the burning wax off of his palm. He struggled to breathe.

“Well.” The Overseer's ominous voice in the darkness made Matthew's blood run cold. “Since you insist on not telling me . . . I guess we'll just have to make sure that a rebellion is something you cannot do.”