Read Breeder

If woman is not given to man for help in bearing children, for what help could she be?

—St. Augustine, De genesi ad litteram, 9.5-9

PART 1: Skyfall

Chapter 1

My fingers danced across leather spines as if they had little minds of their own, little eyes that widened and crinkled when they recognized old friends and weathered faces.

“It’s after closing.”

The short man stuck his head around the corner, irritable and impatient. His droopy ears, nose, and eyelids formed a face of melting candle wax. A face that, upon our first encounter, had earned him the everlasting nickname Mr. Wick.

“Really?” I flashed him my best apologetic smile—the same one I used to feign contrition when I overslept on a school day. “I must’ve lost track of time.”

He was not amused.

His lips flattened with dissatisfaction, squinching up his features like a rotten Jack-o’-lantern caving in on itself.

“Just another minute?”

He refused to dignify my plea with a response. Instead, he just slowly retreated from view, his face still contorted in that awful, droopy grimace.

Trading escapism for investigative history, I traipsed down the nonfiction aisle, passing faded titles, soiled cloth, and broken spines in my pursuit of crisper bindings. I sailed past the engineering textbooks, the autobiographies, and the childbirth resources, then perused a column of Ellsian military feats and innovations.

Deciding it was high-time I revisited the Patrons’ Era, I snatched the fattest book off the shelf, and my arm dropped to my side like an anchor at sea.

Brain food, my mother had called these. They were brain fiber, really—practically indigestible. But my options were limited.

Most records were lost to the Crash or abandoned to the elements, confining our history selection to the High Court’s squeaky-clean manuscripts: epic chronicles that glamorized the rebirth of human civilization; parables that immortalized the Patrons who united us; collections stitched with secondhand knowledge and ancestral oral lore; and biographies sweet enough to rot the brain.

The Court maintained that we’d failed to preserve reliable accounts of life before the Crash. They claimed our textbooks documented everything we knew of the Ancients, that our libraries harbored nothing more than molding, anecdotal fiction. But the chronicles of the Holocene didn’t erase themselves. The scribes didn’t snap their quills and flush their ink.

The victors did.

And everyone else was, conveniently, moondust.

I joined Mr. Wick at his desk and set the book down between us. His eyes flicked over the cover and back at me, entirely unenthused. “All that deliberation over a book you’ve read a dozen times?”

I huffed at his criticism. “I’d spend less time deliberating if there were something new to read.”

“Every new arrival takes you a week to consume, at most. Then you’re right back where you started, venting about monotony.” In the logbook that lay open before him, he added my name beneath the other hastily scribbled Alex Kingsleys on the page.

“You know, I heard Havenbrooke has three whole floors’ worth of novels in their library,” I shared, chasing eye contact while he purposely avoided my gaze. “It’s a shame we can’t make some sort of exchange. I could probably spend a whole month or two absorbed in fresh literature. At home, in my own space . . . not bothering anyone.”

He handed me my due-date slip with an exasperated sigh. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“You’re a gem among gangue, sir.”

“Goodnight, Miss Kingsley,” he pressed, and he pushed the history book so forcefully in my direction that it nearly toppled over the edge of his desk.

Saluting the candlestick of a man, I slipped through the library’s creaky doors into the relentless autumn wind, wincing at the assault on my senses. I spat a few hairs out of my mouth and adjusted my wool cardigan around my shoulders, then glared at the missing sphere of gold in the sky.

The sun should have barely kissed the Range at this time of day. But, like every afternoon for the past ten years, I could only detect its faint radiance behind the ashy canvas above—the emanation of a wraith who’d killed the sky.

The upper atmosphere sure looked like a corpse, anyway. Gray, dreary, perhaps a bit rotten and foul. Some folks blamed the everlasting firestorm to our west. Others postulated that a volcano had erupted down south, plaguing humanity with airborne carcinogens. 

Still, the smoke never cleared, and the ash didn’t fall. The soot remained in the sky like a thunderstorm that never bled rain. Like a giant veil shielding us from colorful horizons, blocking the warmth of the sun and smothering the stars.

The stars . . .

I’d been so young when the lights vanished into the pit of nothingness that yawned above us now. It had felt like the end times back then, as if we’d said goodbye to the only constant across human history. The last witness of our timeline.

But part of me always wondered if the stars hadn’t disappeared at all. If instead, they’d examined life here on Earth and turned their backs on us in shame.

Lucky’s Liquors welcomed me with dim auburn lighting and pipe smoke strong enough to pinken the eyes. I weaved through the after-work crowd and approached Leith’s favorite corner booth, digging through my belt bag for change.

“Come on, Frankie. You know there’s something wrong about all this,”

Leith murmured, swishing the contents of his pint around as he spoke. “No one even retires from the military anymore. No grunt ever lives that long!”

“Just ‘cause the Court won’t admit we’re losin’ to a dictator like Godric Sterling does not mean we’re dealin’ with the supernatural, you welt.”

The subject didn’t surprise me in the slightest. Only three topics seemed to waltz upon civilian tongues these days—gossip of marriage, anticipation for the annual Tournament, and whispers of war.

Over the past decade, we’d watched soldiers perish at an unprecedented rate, and the rising death toll had hatched rumors of a new enemy encroaching on our border. Civs suspected an ally of Rhea, our malicious neighboring kingdom. But according to authorities, no other societies still existed in the Northern Hemisphere.

So, what kind of threat, exactly, were we losing whole battalions to?

“Not dealin’ with the supernatural? Then explain the sun! Where’s the sun gone, Frankie?”

“It’s still up in the sky, ya numbskull!”

A harsh laugh. “Tell that to the farmers who can’t grow our barley.”

I cleared my throat, and both men swiveled to address me.

“Leith,” I greeted.

He sighed and held out his hand. At forty, the man spent his workdays tending to his music shop, stone-faced and miserable. The only time his soul awoke was here at Lucky’s, where he could shed his formalwear and discuss conspiracy theories with his drunken peers.

I dropped the skits into his palm. “To keep quiet should the old man come asking.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know the routine,” he muttered, slipping the change into his trouser pockets. He leaned back in his chair. “Say, Kingsley. You’re always thinking more than a girl ought to. How do you feel about the military keeping its activities on the Rim so hush-hush? You suppose they’re hiding something?”

I jiggled the history book at my side—a transcript of inconsistencies. “They’re always hiding something, Leith. It’s how they keep us on our knees.” I paid a furtive glance in either direction before bending closer to their ruddy faces. “The real question is what they plan to do with those secrets, and how far they’ll go to ensure we never find out.”

He pointed at me, then his skeptical companion. “What did I say?”

“Not that!” Frankie exclaimed.

With a quiet laugh, I left them to their speculation, trading the dark, hazy bar for the suffocating crowds of Belgate.

Around me, midday masses hovered in thick clusters, loitering about the stalls and gritz, walking so slowly. Women shopped with male escorts at their side, never to be trusted among a brood of hens. Small boys weaved around them, picking pockets or stuffing them with Tournament flyers.

The little girls were nowhere to be found.

Swerving through bodies, I felt as though the buildings were closing in on me from all sides, cracking the cobblestone beneath my boots, pushing the residents even closer to one another—as if this town weren’t incommodious enough.

Established on the western outskirts of Ells, Belgate had become a hybrid city of entrepreneurs and hardy country folk. Like most conurbations, it penned its citizens within giant stone walls to secure its water treatment technology and fertile farmland. To our east, forested, rippled terrain isolated us from the Interior. And to our west, the Rim served as the mountainous borderline between Ells and Rhea.

It was a city of rules and snitches, smiles and curtsies. No one really said what they meant, and no one really meant what they said. Granted, those who did were sentenced to a multitude of behavioral write-ups and remedial counseling courses—a punishment I’d grown quite familiar with upon entering academia.

I’d almost escaped the marketplace when a woman shouted my name, halting me in place, much to a nearby vendor’s delight. I was tempted to dismiss her beckoning entirely, not particularly eager to receive another lecture before nightfall, but something about her timbre gave me pause.

“Alex, love!” she called again, and this time, I recognized the cottony rasp of her voice.

Nova.

I pivoted, grinning at the shrunken, wrinkled woman sporting ugly jewelry and a few million shawls. Gray hair tickled her shoulders, and she’d pinned her face-framing layers back with the decorative beads and wires she’d collected on her voyages. 

“Don’t you eat?” the merchant grumbled as I made my way over to her wooden traveling stall. Her maternal gaze swept over my knotted, windblown hair, my skinny legs, and my scuffed and battered boots. “You look thinner than yesterday!”

“I do eat.”

“Mm.” She handed me a heavy sack, distributing the weight evenly between the history book and her favorite gift.

“More beans?”

“They warm your heart.” She poked my arm. “And fill your bones.”

I smiled at her mischievous brown eye, partner to an empty left socket. It’s good for business, she’d said when I asked her why she didn’t cover the orbit. She also claimed to have sold the organ in exchange for the Eye of Sight, and I was inclined to believe her.

I perched myself on the edge of her counter, setting my items aside and admiring the array of trinkets lining her shelves. “Any new fortunes for today?”

Nova could predict anything from weather patterns to the juiciest scandal in town, but most city dwellers treated her like a stray dog—or worse. To the elites, she was either a loon who believed in magical abilities or a quack who preyed upon those who did. To the rest of us, she was simply the widowed, childless merchant on the corner of Market Square.

She grinned, removing the old drawstring pouch from her belt and emptying the contents into her dark, age-speckled hand. Closing her eye, she mumbled a few incantations before dropping the collection of bones, nuts, shells, and pebbles onto the circle of painted wood.

I examined their orientation, wondering what the wishbone landing next to the crow’s foot could mean, or if the die landing blank-side up had any significance. Then I watched the woman’s interpretation unfold.

It was my favorite part, seeing her piece it all together.

Her eye latched onto the contents, and her breath hitched, bony fingers twitching away from the circle. For a heartbeat, her features flared with something akin to terror, then pain. But the moment passed as quickly as it came, and then she shook her head, dismissing whatever she’d seen.

“What was that?” I demanded. Considering her spotless track record, her reaction was nothing short of disconcerting. “What did you see?”

She swept the bones back into her pouch, seemingly unalarmed. “A day full of troublemaking and dire consequences, love.”

I sensed there was more to it than that, but I wouldn’t push her to tell. When Nova chose not to disclose information, there was typically a good reason for it. “So nothing out of the ordinary, then?”

She chuckled, shaking her head again, and I slid off the counter, deciding I’d rather not know the details of my inevitable grounding anyway.

“Ah—Alex? Won’t you do me a favor before you go?”

I pursed my lips, eyeing her suspiciously. “What kind of favor?”

She seized a ceramic vase from her shelf and placed it between us, looking up at me with that face.

My bones frosted over. “Nova, you—”

“I want to know how much it’s worth so I can price it appropriately, that’s all. Just think of it as practice!”

I rolled my eyes. Practice was the last thing anyone needed, but I slipped off my glove anyway; it was only fair after she’d gifted me a pantry’s worth of beans this year. Checking my surroundings to make sure no one was paying us any special attention, I pressed my hand against the smooth, convex surface of the vase.

Instantly, white fire assaulted my vision, burning the center of my palm, searing my flesh. It felt like I’d grasped the rungs of a grill, and I fought the impulse to jerk away.

“An exotic antique,” said a hollow voice, a faint whisper bouncing off the dark corners of my mind. A pale, manicured hand slid a pile of coins over a wooden table, and I lived a thousand static memories along a crumbling road. Then I was falling, crashing, drowning in a whirl of blues and blacks and greens . . . 

I gasped, wrenching my hand back and balling my fist. The memories vanished, leaving only a spell of dizziness in their wake, and by the time I unclenched my fingers, the crescent-shaped mark on my palm had faded to a begonia pink.

Nova stared at me expectantly, completely unperturbed.

“About six skits . . . give or take. That’s how much it sold for.” I wiped the beads of sweat from my temple, and the delighted woman clasped her hands together like I’d made her day. “Where did you even get that? The bottom of the river?”

“Many valuable things find the riverbanks, Alex,” she said, addressing the disapproval in my tone. “Lost items want to be found. Almost as much as keepsakes yearn to be lost.”

I snorted. “Right.”

I’d always envied Nova for her career path. Although her income barely sustained her lifestyle, she was free to roam the country, permitted to visit the other gated cities in Ells. Of course, she acted as if there was nothing to see between mountain peaks, but I knew she harbored extensive knowledge about the world—and a thousand precious secrets.

I slid my glove back on, sighing at the comfort of concealment. They were typical fighting gloves, fingerless and black. Not unusual to see on a sentry or a postman. But covering my hands all day every day never ceased to weird everyone out.

“Chin up, Raven,” she whispered, and I grinned at the old nickname. “Someday you’ll realize that different is better, and better is progress.” She shooed me along. “Now go on, before you miss your lesson!”

As I hustled away, I could feel her gaze lingering on my hands—and the two organic weapons at my sides.

Chapter 2

At the top of the hill sat a large, circular stadium capable of seating the entire population of Belgate. Most days of the year, it served as a training ground for soldiers, but today, the Council would be working hard to prepare the grounds for tomorrow’s festivities.

I hurried toward the flat-roofed building adjacent to the stadium and slipped through creaky double doors. Inside, swords and shields and other training equipment bejeweled the mortared stone walls. The room had that old gymnasium smell—almost like the blood, sweat, and overtly male musk had seeped into the floor and festered in the building’s deepest crevices.

Using the mounted shields and helmets as grips, I climbed up the wall to my left and pushed myself through the hatch in the wooden ceiling. Closing the access door behind me, I wriggled through the narrow attic space on my hands and knees, avoiding boxes and miscellaneous training gear. The air reeked familiarly of rat droppings and mildew, and I wondered if any new vermin had claimed my territory since last winter.

In the dark, I located the loose ceiling plank and moved it aside, peering through the lath-shaped hole as trainees pooled into the room below.

“My father bought it in Holly. The ‘smith said it was one of a kind, first-class! Paid two whole decks for it,” Mason revealed, thriving off the startled gasps of his companions. The boy’s pale eyes were permanently fixed in the shape of disdain, and his golden hair ran in tangled rivulets toward the back of his head. He sort of looked like a deranged eagle that way. “Worth it, though. I can already tell the difference.”

He swung his new rapier around like a doofus, the others admiring the object in awe or sinking with envy.

I tutted quietly. Typical Mason, parading around with his new toy, flashing his family’s wallet in our faces. Like all weeds, he descended from the families who’d monopolized essential resources while the world was burning. They thought their inheritance bought them the right to become a public nuisance.

Easy to pick out. Even easier to offend.

He leered at the boy in the corner—the only trainee who’d yet to acknowledge his existence. “Jealous, Tooms?”

Will blinked back at him, entirely listless. He wore his usual black pants and a gray, threadbare shirt, and his boots were even more decrepit than mine. Which, of course, made his lack of interest in Mason’s affluence all the more enjoyable.

Naturally, his silence failed to deter the blond. “See, my father recognized my skills. Thought I deserved the best equipment in Ells—top of the line for a proper soldier.” He arched a golden eyebrow. “I guess your fire iron speaks for itself.”

“I guess it does.”

Mason bristled at Will’s docility. He didn’t want the outcast to indulge him; he wanted to pick a fight, as usual. “Is that all you have to say, welt?”

Will dragged his tired gaze to Mason once more, lips parting to deliver a witty insult, but then his eyes flicked to the boy’s wrist, and he frowned. “You’re holding it wrong.”

“What?”                                                             

“Your sword. Hook your finger around the ring. It’ll keep you from overextending. Won’t mess up your hand if you ever manage to kill a Rhean.”

Titters spilled throughout the room, and Mason flushed, dropping his provocation.

Will drew his eyes away in a lazy, unimpressed motion.

William Tooms, much like his speech pattern, was built of sharp edges and jagged corners. Messy black hair fell over his forehead, and he wore the rest of it back in a short, scraggly ponytail. His eyes were dark as well—darker than brown, but not quite black—and in the four years I’d known him, he’d only worn two distinct facial expressions: exhausted disinterest and what I could only describe as “back off, I bite.”

The others included those I’d nicknamed over the years. Potato and Potahto, the twins. Chinger. Rex, Breath, and Boy, among others.

Despite our single-sex educational system, I’d grown up with these idiots. Across hundreds of training sessions and sporting events, I’d watched them develop their skills, break bones, make and lose friends. I’d seen Mason pick a thousand fights and lose twice as many. And in many ways, it felt as if I were part of their cohort, part of their team.

Even if I couldn’t identify as such.

The room quieted as Frost strode through the door, his hands folded at the base of his rigid spine. His pointed face contained several distinct wrinkles, so it was difficult to decipher his actual age. He could have been sixty or forty, though he acted about eighty-five.

“Attention,” he commanded, and the boys formed a long, crooked line across the room.

Every night, the retired army officer provided close-combat training to help prepare our youth for the Tournament—a series of contests that determined enlistment qualifiers. With humanity skirting the edge of extinction, the Court thought it unwise to send just anyone to war, so they’d designed a national tournament to rule out the individuals who didn’t stand a chance on the battlefield. A game to pinpoint the strongest, the fiercest, and the most strategic of an entire generation. Like a military colander.

I’d always questioned their decision to send the most skilled and able-bodied men to their deaths, especially if they cared so much about preserving humanity. But above all ludicrous customs was the exclusion of women from the system.

As detailed in our shiny history books, there came a time when humans had consumed and depleted their limited resources, and a warming climate had brewed a starving, desperate people. A rebellion formed in the aftermath—and with it, an international war over water. In the rampage that followed, entire cities were leveled, poisoned, and abandoned. Epidemics swept through towns to kill off survivors. Forests burned to ashes, and hurricanes swept away the remains.

We called this chain reaction the Crash, and it had left our species on the threshold of oblivion.

Due to the population bottleneck, fertile women became as scarce as drinking water, and like any limited resource, we’d appreciated in value. In response, the infant nation of Ells passed the Propagation Decree, which mandated that every woman bear at least one boy and one girl within a lifetime, or three children of any sex, in order to “repopulate” our species. Primarily, to build an army.

If a woman refused, she was hunted down and persuaded, and if she wasn’t capable of childbirth, she was ostracized. Like Nova.

I hated the decree as much as its brother: a law that prohibited women from joining the very army we so desperately needed.

We were banned from the war. Stuck as an inferior class falsely portrayed as something fragile, a demographic too valuable to have value. Princesses locked in their towers for their own protection, then forced to breed.

And because women weren’t allowed to fight or train or even breathe violence, I received my lessons here. Covertly.

Illegally, if we’re being technical about it.

Frost cleared his throat the way old people do—like you weren’t quite sure if they were choking or not. “Class, the Tournament is upon us. Tomorrow is the day you’ve been waiting for since your class of disruptive, ungainly schoolchildren stepped through my door.” He looked them over critically, as if nothing had truly changed on that front. “Tomorrow, you’ll be competing against every boy in your cohort—each of whom believes he has what it takes to defend this nation. Each of whom has dedicated years of his life to building muscle, honing skills, and nurturing battle instincts. Should you place within the top rankings, you’ll join your comrades in boot camp early next year.”

“And we’ll send those Rhean rats back to the gutters,” Mason concluded, a few trainees murmuring their agreement. 

“Did I ask for your charming insight, Price?” Frost hissed, and Mason’s expression soured. “You’ll learn to hold your tongue if you hope to serve your country one day.”

Mason appeared to do just that, his face twitching with restraint and self-discipline, and Fudge, the smallest student in class, offered him a sympathetic pat on the back.

Of all the boys in his cohort, Fudge was the sweetest—and by far, the least aggressive—which made his name a perfect fit. Granted, Fudge was technically his surname, but his classmates had decided early on they liked it better than Nicholas, and somewhere along the way, he’d given up correcting them.

Frost walked the stretch of their line formation with his head held high—an admirable feat considering the massive ego it contained. “For your last session, I wish to review the values you will uphold as Ellsian federates. The principles you must embody, should you prevail tomorrow.”

As one, the group deflated.

Frost always stressed the severity of war, the struggle, the sacrifice, finding any and every opportunity to remind us of the leg he’d lost in battle, as if the 90-skit prosthetic didn’t get the point across. And at least once a week, he discussed Ellsian core principles, transforming the army’s mission statement into saccharine poetry. 

Basically, he liked to hear himself talk.

“Tell me, why are we fighting Rhea?”

Mason opened his mouth to respond, but he caught himself and lazily flicked his wrist in lieu of raising his hand. He didn’t wait for Frost to call on him. “Godric Sterling plans to conquer the continent’s arable land and water resources. We resisted, and now the king has pledged to annihilate and enslave any Ellsians who get in his way.”

He seemed rather proud of his textbook answer, but the officer wasn’t impressed. “You’re merely scratching the surface, Price.”

Fudge raised his hand, and the officer gestured for him to take the floor. “It’s not just the threat of invasion that has us taking up arms. Or the loss of natural resources. It’s the threat of Rhean ideology,” he said, pausing to polish his explanation. “After the Crash, Rheans rejected democracy for autocracy. Now the king is a tyrant, and his people have no voice, no personal freedom. So not only are we defending our borders from violent dictators . . . but we’re also attempting to contain an authoritarian regime.”

“Indeed,” Frost replied, granting Fudge a satisfactory nod. “As federates, we become the stewards of our nation. We become enforcers of the Three Pillars.”

He turned to his students expectantly, and they exchanged harassed looks as they mumbled, “Liberty, Unity, and Personal Responsibility.”

“Correct. Liberty, unity, and personal responsibility. Ideals born from the Crash. Ideals that planted deep, durable roots in our soil and provided us with the nutrients to prosper.” He halted in front of Will and studied his pupils. “These are the values I want you to remember when you’re sent to the Rim and deposits of fear and uncertainty begin to weigh on your brittle bones.”

He drew curious gazes now. Open, impressionable gazes.

“The day you cross the Gorge, remember that you’re not fighting for your own survival,” he warned, “but humanity’s.”

While the boys donned their armor, I blindly searched for my pencil and notebook in the dusty space beside me. But when my hand found my abandoned school supplies, it also found something soft and hairy, and I released a startled squeak into my elbow as the creature shuffled away.

Gross. I’d forgotten how much I loathed this spot.

Weather permitting, Frost usually held his sessions in the outdoor stadium, where I could observe his class from the bleachers. But with the Tournament tomorrow, I’d had no choice but to impose upon my disease-ridden hosts.

The sound of steel and footsteps reverberated beneath me, and I peered down at the class of sparring boys, grinning at the most predictable pairing of all.

“Is that the best you can do, Tooms?” Mason taunted.

The blond hastily swiped at Will, who sidestepped casually and lifted his hand in earnest. “You’re being too loud with your movements, Mason.”

“Don’t lecture me.”

I rolled my eyes. Mason was always competing with Will, mocking him for his poor upbringing, his father’s vocation, and their life in the slums. He’d realized early on the legitimate threat Will posed to his triumph in the Tournament, and he’d hated him ever since. 

Will usually ignored him, which only fueled the weed’s wrath. But I had to give Mason credit for pestering the least approachable boy in Belgate.

My eyes roamed the classroom, critiquing Breath’s rigidity, assessing Chinger’s feint, and admiring Fudge’s personal mission to dent, puncture, and scratch every inch of armor he’d ever worn, much to his instructor’s chagrin.

Blades had emerged as the military’s primary choice of weaponry after the Crash eradicated aboveground armories and arsenals, oil reserves, gunmetal mining operations, and any manufacturing facilities capable of sustaining the warfront. Unfortunately, shooting drills offered faster skill acquisition than swordplay, so most soldiers started training around nine years old to ingrain the body movements in their prefrontal cortex—or in my case, began observing said training from a reasonable distance, absorbing anything remotely useful. And, as annoying as Frost could be, he did have a firm grasp on technique; I’d made a habit of jotting down any helpful advice he spouted.

Propping myself on my elbow, I tried to move crosswise to the next loose ceiling board, but the Fates decided my day was going too well, and the foundation splintered below me like ice on a riverbed.

My hand fell through the rotting wood faster than I could react, and I sank into the ceiling laths up to my shoulder. I cursed myself, and Mason echoed my sentiments loudly from below.

The room fell silent as everyone stared at my arm dangling overhead, and I quickly removed my appendage, sitting still in the dark for a few seconds, wondering if maybe I could pretend nothing had happened. 

“Kingsley!”

Gritz.

I crawled back to the attic hatch and pulled it aside, sighing at my cursed existence. With my back to the group, I descended the wall and hopped to the floor, landing on my feet with my beans and book in tow. 

Head up, Al. Breaking asinine rules doesn’t warrant shame or embarrassment.

Schooling my features, I spun to greet my perturbed audience.

“Alex?” Fudge marveled, his blue eyes bugging out of his head. The other boys gaped at me as I brushed the cobwebs from my hair, the dust from my clothes. “You were hiding up there this whole time?”

I didn’t respond. I just stood there at the edge of the room, glaring back at the limelight.

“Aren’t there rats up there?” someone muttered.

For a split second, I thought Frost was having a stroke, but then I realized it was just fury that caused his face to spasm like that. “For Patron’s sake, Kingsley,” he growled, marching forward. “Must you pester a veteran to no end? How many times have I caught you in here now?”

“This would be eight, sir.”

His wide, livid eyes told me it had been a rhetorical question. “Do laws mean nothing to you?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. With a disgusted sound, he seized my elbow and dragged me toward the exit. “This is unacceptable behavior.”

“I was just watching.”

“Just watching is not permitted.” He halted, facing the others. “The rest of you run through the drill set one more time. You can leave once you best Tooms.”

There were groans all around, and Will looked like he’d rather sacrifice himself to the attic rats. In other words, no one was going anywhere. Not until Will was too tired to put up a good fight or stopped trying altogether.

My feet slipped at Frost’s urgent tugging. “Captain—”

“Not a word out of you. I’m taking you home.”

I wrenched my arm away. “I don’t need an escort!” I rolled back on my heels, biting my cheek as I met his frigid gaze. “Please just . . . let me stay.”

“Stay?” Mason sneered, astounded by my gall. He propped his rapier on his shoulder and jutted his chin forward—a raptor establishing his place in the food chain. “This is military training, breeder. You don’t belong here.”

My glower faltered. The words cut deeper than they should have.

I glanced around the room at the passive faces, the smirks, the glares. No one willing to argue on my behalf. No one even willing to try.

“You’re right,” I decided, pivoting for the door. “I don’t.”

Chapter 3

We reached the old two-story house at the end of Bellevue Road, all wooden planks and peeling white paint. Warm light illuminated the front porch and the rusted swing my mother used to frequent. Two pairs of work boots sat in the corner, crusted with mud.

Frost banged on the door with my grandpa’s favorite lionhead knocker, and one agonizing minute later, my father appeared at the threshold. The collared shirt and black dress pants indicated that he was hosting a gathering of some kind, and I could barely contain my surprise. We rarely had company, and if we did, we never dressed to impress. Honestly, the man wore his ranch clothes so often I sometimes forgot he owned professional attire. 

His distracted gaze flitted between Frost and me, and his smile dwindled. “Captain?” 

Frost bowed his head in greeting. “Evening, Max. I caught this one at the training grounds again. She was hiding up in the attic this time, disrupting my class.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but I thought better of it. The last thing I needed was another demerit—I already had two this year, and a third strike required a city internship and additional volunteer hours.

The Council always pushed community service on our youth, eager to wring out any societal contributions before shipping us off to war or drafting us for motherhood. 

Conveniently, it also prevented teens like me from securing apprenticeships and building occupational skills.

My father’s eyes fell on me, narrowing. “Is this true, Alex?”

“Of course it’s true!” Frost cut in. “She’s absurd. Thinking she can fight alongside men. It’s not a place for a young lady. Not an honorable—”

“Forgive me, sir, but I was speaking to my daughter.”

My lips twitched at my father’s assertive tone, but the feeling died when I remembered I, too, was the recipient of his anger. I studied the porch paneling beneath me, fiddling with the straps of Nova’s bean sack. “. . . Pretty much.”

“I see. Thank you for escorting Alexandria home, Captain. I’ll see to it she does not interfere with your teachings again.”

I sauntered inside. Proper name—not good.

He closed the door with the grace of a man who could masterfully repress his fury. I hardly recognized him with his clean-shaven chin and groomed hairline, but the disappointment on his face was an expression I knew all too well. “I thought you were at your music lesson,” he said calmly. “Did you cancel?”

I stared up at him, wincing at the depth of the grave I’d dug. A beat of silence passed, and then he sighed, the realization pulling his features into an unsurprised grimace.

“You’ve never once gone to your lessons, have you?”

I didn’t dig myself any deeper; he already knew the answer. What he didn’t know was that I’d bribed Leith into going along with my ruse for several weeks now. But that was a detail I was happy to keep to myself.

He placed his hand on my back and physically redirected me. “We’ll discuss this later. We have company, and you’re in dire need of a bath.”

I faced the guests sitting at our dining room table. Plastic smiles. Plastic eyes. They sat as stiff as hay bales, their chins too high, their clothes too ironed, and they carried an air of superiority much like their son.

“The Prices?” I murmured. What in the world were Mason’s parents doing here? Were they lost?

My father didn’t meet my eyes. “We were just discussing finances.”

I frowned at the two weeds across the table. Finances? What could the city treasurer want with our ranch? As far as I knew, we had no investments at this time, no reason to apply for a loan. But a dinner as formal as this one hinted at a serious business matter.

Or . . . perhaps a personal one, I realized, and it finally clicked.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I whirled on him. “Not again, Dad.”

“Alex,” he warned, but it was too late. Any remorse had dissipated in a matter of seconds, replaced by hot-blooded betrayal.

“A marriage interview? Really?” I demanded. “And to Mason of all people. Does he know about this?”

He looked at me like I’d burned the world down. 

No, in other words. He doesn’t know.

“I didn’t think so. He’d have a heart attack at the ripe old age of seventeen.”

Not that I’d mourn the evil piss-brain.

“Ah, well, I think we should be going now. It’s getting late,” the treasurer said, setting his half-empty drink back on the table and shooting us a strained, apologetic smile. He and his wife collected their belongings and swiftly made their way to the door. “Thanks for dinner, Max. We’ll be in touch.”

My father glared at me before waving them off. “Always a pleasure. Tell your son I wish him the best of luck tomorrow.”

The door shut with the force of a hasty getaway, and I threw my hands in the air. “I can’t believe you! I told you I’m not ready for marriage. I’m not even a legal adult.” It was a fact he liked to remind me of often, particularly when I protested his arbitrary rules and conditions. And yet here he was, trying to pair me off with a lifelong partner. Apparently, I was mature enough for that. 

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, his elite façade replaced with the presentation of an honest working man. “Please don’t raise your voice. If anyone has a right to yell, it’s me.”

I gaped at him. It was like he wasn’t even listening, like he didn’t want to listen and had built some kind of impenetrable wall in his ear canals. “I am not getting married right now. Not to Mason. I hate Mason.”

“First of all, you were very disrespectful to the Prices. They were here for your benefit, and you made a terrible impression. Secondly, these interviews are preliminary. They revolve around financial planning—aligned interests, co-investment opportunities. No one’s getting married today.” He shook his head. “Honestly, Al, this topic doesn’t really concern you right now.”

Indignation sparked to life in my chest. “It concerns me a lot.”

He dropped his hand back to his side. “Just . . . go to your room and we’ll talk tomorrow, when you’re ready to be reasonable.”

“You’re the one—”

“Alex!” he challenged irritably, a fire burning through hazel irises. “You promised me you’d try. You said you’d try to be a polite young woman, sociable. You said you’d attend your classes, attend your music lessons. Remember?” He pushed on before I could get a word in. “We both know that on her own, a woman has limited prospects here in Belgate. Without a husband who can support you, support your family, this ranch—”

“It’s my life! I don’t care about prospects.” Prospects was just another word for chains. “I want to fight. Like Tom.”

The name hit him like a poisoned dart—sapping his strength, just as I’d known it would. Mentioning my brother was a way of wounding him, so I only reserved it for serious arguments. It wasn’t like I wanted to hurt him. I just wanted him to understand. 

“We’ve talked about this, Al. Your obsession with the military needs to stop. It’s federal law. It’s life. Life’s not fair.” He grabbed a dirty plate off the table, and I worried it might shatter in his grip. He had strong hands, worn hands, yet they trembled. “So start thinking before you act on your impulses. Please. And really think about what you’re saying. War is a terrible, vicious thing. If what happened to Tom doesn’t prove that, I don’t know what could.”

I walked away, itching to slam a door and scream like a child. But I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. 

I gracefully shut the garden door behind me and marched for the barn, hushing my stubborn, howling soul.

Chapter 4

I threw all my weight into the blow.

Again and again, I struck the barn’s wooden pillar, my knife leaving small yellow nicks on the surface. Down and diagonal, across the breast, around the belly—tip never leaving my imaginary aggressor. 

My life felt like, in many ways, an Ancient’s ball game. I was a possession constantly passed between players, blocked from my goals. And if I happened to fly out of bounds, someone launched me back into the game, refusing to heed my protests.

All I wanted was to stretch my legs and run far, far away from here and this suffocating fog, but I was stuck in a game with rules I couldn’t change. Ensnared by weeds and obstacles.

Adults always said life wasn’t fair.

But if life isn’t fair, shouldn’t we change it? Why wasn’t it that easy?

Exhausted and sweaty, I sank to the floor. Richard ambled up to me and dropped his chin on my thigh, his graying ears folded back against his head. He dug his wet nose into my leg, and with a quiet snicker, I shoved the tickling device away.

My entire friend group was composed of an elderly psychic and an ill-behaved mutt, which I supposed summed up my social skills pretty well. But they were good friends—true friends—and if Nova and Richard were all I had in this world, then that was perfectly fine with me.

Besides. The more people I welcomed into my life, the more I’d lose. And I couldn’t afford to lose anyone else.

My gaze dropped to the weathered knife in my hand, perhaps my oldest friend of all. It bore a steel, stout blade; a bronze guard and pommel; and a wooden belly eaten away by years of practice and exposure to the elements.

Chipped by carelessness and stained with the blood of inexperience.

I slipped off my glove to stroke the spine, and a young Tom appeared behind my eyelids, haloed in sepia light. He was focused, working intently to craft and forge the blade, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth, his dark curls dangling over his forehead. In the next memory, he passed the weapon over to me, and my young, hazel eyes widened as I observed his workmanship. We sparred playfully at first, and then as competitively as a seven-year age gap would allow.

His voice reached out of the soundless frames to pat me on the shoulder.

“Don’t give your lunge away. Surprise me. Be quick.”

“That’s it. Good job.”

“Easy! I’d like to walk away in one piece here.”

I lingered on the last time we sat on the barn roof together, watching the smoky sky. “Tomorrow’s the big day.”

He was only seventeen then, and the resemblance between us now was uncanny. He too had inherited our mother’s dark hair, tanned olive skin, and high cheekbones. Even her deep-set honey eyes, always lit with mirth. But he’d also acquired our father’s jawline, nose, and crooked smile, and the combined traits gave him a kind of natural charisma that was easy to envy—a genetic gravity that granted him a fruitful social circle.

“What am I supposed to do when you’re gone?” My voice was brittle. I was holding the knife in my hands, so the perspective was a worm’s viewpoint, warped and awkward.

“You’re gonna work hard at school and question everything they tell you. You’ll help Dad with the ranch, even when he pisses you off. And most importantly, you’re gonna keep practicing with that knife of yours, playing pranks on the Council, and beating up all the boys in town.” I giggled, and he knocked his head against mine. “You be good for me, Al. I’ll write when I can.”

“Promise,” I said. “Promise you’ll write me. On the stars.”

His eyes softened.

Before bed every night, Tom always spoke of life before the darkness, back when the sun shone brightly on our faces and brilliant orbs of fire floated in the night sky. He spoke of travelers who used the stars as guiding lights. He told me fables of men breaching the smoke to the world above, men who kissed the surface of the moon. I drank every word, captivated by a world I couldn’t remember.

Swearing on the existence of such things was sacred to a child.

Still, he gazed at me and promised.

The scene eroded into the many nights I’d cried with crumpled letters in my fist, longing for a miracle. Dreaming of a world where men in uniform never found our porch. But there was no denying our reality: my brother had left when I was ten, and while his badge of honor had made it home, Tom hadn’t.

I’d lost him. Just like I’d lost Mom.

I dropped the knife, shaking out my hand and the sting of recollection.

Apart from my mother, Tom was the only person who truly understood me, and like everything I allowed myself to approach, to love, they’d both disappeared into the unknown and unreachable. They’d withered to nothing more than dying memories and fading imprints.

Even my father had died back then, in a sense. 

The door to the barn creaked open, and the rancher cautiously slid inside—the way someone might approach a rabid dog.

“Hey, kiddo.”

I turned away from him, anger overwhelming my capacity to resist a juvenile response. He’d yet to grasp that a teenage girl needed space, and it made it difficult to like him sometimes. I loved him, ineffably, but liking someone was hard enough for me as it was, even without the other person ordering me around.

He sat on the hay bale beside me, waiting for my iciness to thaw. When it didn’t, he released a long, heavy sigh. “Listen, Al. I only want what’s best for you. I want you to be well-off—comfortable and happy—so you don’t have to worry about supporting your family for the rest of your life.”

Like I do, was left unsaid.

“Ever since your mother died . . . it’s been hard. We used to talk about your future in the event that you lost one of us, and I promised her I’d provide you with everything you needed to succeed in this world.” He swallowed his pain. “To live a better life than we did.”

I stared at the wall, refusing him eye contact.

My mother never would have backed him on this. As the only child of a widowed law professor, she’d sharpened her mind and trained her tongue before she’d ever stepped foot in a classroom. Her intelligence had intimidated her elders, and her sociability had attracted every young man in Belgate, resulting in the rejection of a dozen marriage contracts before my father finally won her over. Top of the nation’s Institute, she could have done anything, been anyone, but she married a rancher instead, determined to escape the claws of the city. She’d even fought the procreation laws, insistent on raising an only child, choosing to never raise a girl in a world as cruel as this one.

But seven years after my brother’s birth, the Council came knocking, and they threatened to take away the ranch if she didn’t comply with the statute. 

She’d had no choice but to give them what they wanted. 

My father cleared his throat, treading water. “The way women are treated . . . you know I disagree with it, Al. You know I want more for you. Patrons, if it were up to me, you’d be the chairman of the High Court! But this is the way it is—the way it’s always been. Sometimes we have to accept things we don’t like for our own good.”

Lose the blossoms, strengthen the stem, he used to say when my ideals led to discourse. Until I asked him why he wanted me to look like all the other ugly stems.

“But I can’t accept it,” I groaned, closing my eyes. “That’s not who I am. Washing dishes and folding some weed’s laundry isn’t me. It never will be.”

“You know very well that’s not what I expect of you. You are your mother’s daughter, after all.” He shifted in place, trying to get me to turn around. “You can take over the ranch when I’m gone. Or graduate from the Institute and become a midwife. You can start a family.”

He just didn’t get it. I didn’t want to be a housewife. A caretaker. A mother. That future—it was like a script the world had given me, telling me when to speak and how to behave. I could look at any married woman in this world and know exactly how my story ended.

“I realize it’s not what you want right now. Settling down, starting a career. But you don’t have a lot of options, sweetheart. Not with your illness.” I felt his gaze on my bare hand. “It’s dangerous to seize the world’s attention.”

“I do have options. You just don’t like them.”

He let my comment simmer for a beat, deciding to forfeit a battle he’d never win. “Do you still want to go to the Tournament tomorrow? I was thinking we could get there early, snag a good seat. Then we could go to the festival after. It’ll be a day off.”

I spun to face him. His eyes were pleading and hopeful, and it hurt to see him like that. To know I would never make him happy. Never make him proud.

“Dad,” I began, gentler than before. “I don’t want to watch the contestants. I want to be one. And that’s never going to change.”

The edge of his mouth lifted in a sad, defeated sort of way. Then he squeezed my knee and walked out of the barn, leaving me there with Richard and the echo of my own confession.

“I didn’t ask to feel this way, you know,” I told my hairy companion, and those curious round eyes blinked up at me. “To want what I want.”

I’d always dreamed of following in Tom’s footsteps and finishing the work he’d died for. Growing closer to him by experiencing his journey firsthand—and ending the war that tore so many families apart.

I also knew the military would grant me freedom from Belgate and my societal obligations as a woman. It would open the doors to this dungeon and the mysteries beyond, launching me into a world so chaotic, gender would mean nothing.

But there was more to this path than familial love and forbidden fruit.

Inside me was an inexplicable passion to fight, to prompt change. To do something more in spite of the written laws of our Patrons. And soon after my mother had died, those feelings burned through me like root fires.

Now, ten years later, I was clawing at the back of a lock, choking on smoke, and despite the absurdity and futility of my efforts, I just couldn’t help myself. I had one shot to live this sliver of a life, and I wasn’t about to waste it in shackles.

Chapter 5

I glared at the old watch hanging on my bedpost, three hours off. Someone had welded the edges shut, so it was perpetually out of sync—destined to operate abnormally, determined to stray from all possible utility.

My father’s bedside note informed me that he’d left early to reserve good seats. He must have felt guilty for yesterday; he rarely let me sleep in past daybreak. Not with mouths to feed and weeds to pull.

I flung the covers off and scavenged my drawers for any unstained clothes. After a comfort debate, I decided on my only pair of holeless pants, a long-sleeved shirt, and Tom’s hand-me-down army boots.

Much to my professors’ horror, I refused to wear “female apparel,” though my preference stemmed from a practical mindset most of the time. Ranching, fighting, climbing fences—a dress hindered all of that. But even on formal occasions, I still chose pants and boots over anything with ruffles. Not because delicate colors and fabrics repulsed me, but because these staples of femininity promised rapacious interest, unwanted compliments, and conditional chivalry.

I’d learned early on that men were threatened by women who dressed like them. They found our defiance unsettling, our nonconformity treasonous. And because I wasn’t keen on the idea of involuntary commitment, I had to rebel in the small ways I knew how.

Kicking against the current was the only way to keep from sliding under.

My dad complained. He said skirts were cheaper than pants, and I wore out my pants faster than socks. I told him I’d be happy to roam around naked if our budget demanded so, and he let it go.

I ran downstairs, snatched the monkey’s fist knot from the back porch, and chucked the rope into the open field. Richard shot after it at the speed of lightning, launching himself off the deck and sending the chickens scrambling in all directions.

I leaned against the door frame, my gaze sweeping over our ranch at the onset of harvest season. Beets. Cabbage. Carrots. Greens. Only a few thriving fruit trees left. Guinevere and Ophelia, our dairy cows. It wasn’t much, but we helped provide food to the poorer districts of Belgate, and with the growing population, we were never short of consumers.

Just sunlight.

Even after switching to shade-tolerant plants and equipping the gardens with grow lights, we still struggled to produce enough to support ourselves. Which was why my father was so adamant about marrying me off. With an agricultural crisis on our hands, we’d both need a new source of income and a proper safety net.

I grabbed the pail of feed from the porch and moved for the coop.

Now that it was just the two of us running things, my duties had tripled, and when I wasn’t pulling weeds or filling the trough, I was at school, wishing I was pulling weeds or filling the trough. It was easy to envy the boys’ after-school sporting events and part-time apprenticeships.

But I had to admit, tending to this ranch was far from a bad life. I enjoyed living a few miles east of the city, our property surrounded by aspens, our crops fringed by a snaking river. When I closed my eyes at the far end of the field, sometimes it even felt like I’d escaped this place.

Colorful streamers, ribbons, and garlands festooned our dull town—a splattering of bright hues on a bleary, repetitive backdrop. Vendors and craftsmen prepared their stalls along the main streets, and in the distance, children laughed and screamed in startled delight.

It all felt like a slap in the face.

How was I supposed to feel remotely festive today? My father had almost sentenced me to a fate worse than prison, and now every boy my age had a fair shot at the career path their fathers denied me. I wasn’t about to pretend everything was okay just so they’d feel better.

Nothing about growing up in this twisted place was okay, but it had become increasingly intolerable this past year. For most of my life, people didn’t care that I preferred boys’ clothes and boyish hobbies. They’d steered clear of me and my peculiar gloves, lest I contaminate their worldview. But the second I’d set foot in the strange realm of Womanhood, everything changed.

Suddenly every adult in my vicinity was whispering about marriage—or more precisely, security contracts—which matched individuals from specific trades or family trees in order to maintain a healthy, thriving society. The Council didn’t force people to tie the knot, exactly, but if you envisioned a partner in your future, you had to make reservations early. Otherwise, your most attractive prospects—across financial, social, and aesthetic categories—would be snatched away by other women. Or war.

And frankly, competition made people behave like wild animals.

Each time I crossed paths with desperate parents or eligible bachelors, I was skewered by hungry, critical gazes, then questioned relentlessly about my engagement status. My classmates’ conversations now revolved around prospects, courting, and marriage interviews—every tale exaggerated or underplayed to gauge the reactions of their rivals. And when it came to weddings, it was hard to tell if I was attending as a guest or an auction prize.

Their efforts were as tireless as they were degrading. But they’d soon realize they’d have to chop my hands off before I signed a contract with Mason Cretin Price.

As I made my way up the hill, the autumn wind delivered the scent of honey apple crisps, potato skins, and pretzel cups straight to my cerebral cortex. It was nostalgic—the smells, the sounds, the enthusiasm. My father used to apportion pocket money for such treats, warning Tom and me not to spend everything on licorice, only to speak it into existence every time.

I could almost taste the sugar on my tongue.

Outside the arena, crowds swarmed the food stands, trading coins in exchange for treats and Tournament paraphernalia before entering the stadium with their families. Meanwhile, the contestants lined up at the training gym for check-in, chatting with their peers or wrestling their anxiety independently.

They each wore the same leather armor around their torsos, forearms, shoulders, and thighs—all recycled military materials donated to the city—and upon registration, they received metal helmets, each painted a different color and assigned a unique number. The headgear covered their faces, preventing biased judging. It only worked to a certain degree; body type and skill usually gave people away, but it leveled out the playing field, if but a little.

More importantly, the matching wardrobe engaged the public in a city-wide contest, encouraging participation from gamblers like Leith or fussy firstborns with no siblings to root for. The ambiguity served as a guessing game for the audience, and their curiosity—and aching wallets—were eventually satiated at the Revelation, when the victors removed their helmets and revealed their identities to the crowd.

It was a dumb tradition, but a tradition nonetheless.

The cohort measured 150 or so, and I recognized the male students I’d evaluated over the years—plus a few standouts who’d attended other training groups. And while I’d found Frost’s public sessions the most easily accessible, and particularly convenient after my father signed me up for piano lessons, I’d eavesdropped on various districts and age groups throughout my adolescence, determined to build a holistic foundation.

My eyes roamed over the boys now, their excited whispers and laughter, their words of encouragement, and it sent a sharp twinge across my breastbone. This could have been my year to join the ranks.

Had I been a boy, I could have walked through those doors with ambition in my gait and freedom at my fingertips. As a boy, I could’ve counted the years, the months, the days until I had the chance to demonstrate everything I’d been working toward.

But I couldn’t so much as whisper that intention.

Because I had been born into this world as an opposite. A weak link.

A breeder.

An ugly sensation festered at the base of my stomach, an itch begging to be scratched. It was the feeling that preceded a stupid decision—something capricious and dangerous and outright ridiculous. A feeling I’d experienced many, many times before.

And one I failed to suppress.

Cutting through the line of competitors, I marched straight for the opposite side of the gym and my backup entry point: the maintenance room. A combination lock barred the public from accessing the storage space, but the device had lost to my cursed, naked palm during a downpour two years ago. I’d cracked the code in less than fifteen seconds, and I’d put that memory to use any time I was running late to an indoor session. 

Scanning for potential spectators, I pocketed the lock and slipped into the room, leaving the door ajar so I could navigate in the dark. I skirted the cluttered shelves and landscaping equipment and quietly opened the interior door, peeking out into the hallway.

At the end of the poorly lit corridor, a group of boys mingled about in the gym, waiting for the other competitors to complete their check-in. Helmets on, weapons polished.

My gaze landed on the boy at the rear of the room, standing apart from the rest of the group. He fumbled with the straps of his armor, wiping his sweaty hands on his trousers, glancing up and down again repeatedly, as if he were afraid someone might barge in at any moment and announce a historical cancellation.

Even with his helmet shielding his face, he looked unwell.

More contestants entered the waiting room, and he backed away to let them pass, stumbling his way down the hallway, just feet away from the maintenance room. He started pacing back and forth, shaking his head. Berating himself and his indecision.

You can’t, my conscience insisted. You can’t rob him of this.

If someone were to take this opportunity from me—steal it right from my fleeting grasp—I could never forgive him.

But I’d also never have an opportunity like this to lose. Because I was a girl, and girls weren’t physically capable of fighting men. Our gender would be a distraction in combat, an endless source of concern and disruption. We couldn’t survive the psychology of war. 

Our forefathers told us so. And surely, we had no reason to doubt such sound logic. It wasn’t like they’d steered us straight into a territorial war and agricultural doom or anything.

I smothered my reservations, and just as the boy mustered the courage to return to his peers, I raced forward and slapped my hand over his startled mouth—dragging him into the shadows and away from his fate.

Chapter 6

“Ladies and gentlemen! We come together for a day of celebration and remembrance. A day to honor the good men who defend our nation. Soldiers who embody our most sacred of virtues.” The man beamed at the crowd with his dazzling smile, a hypnotist working his magic. “Soon after today, our champions will join these brave souls beyond the Rim and devote their lives to preserving this beautiful nation.”

Jacob Gilmore was the head of the local Council and the most influential politician in Belgate. He always hosted these events, year after year, and his enthusiasm for the Tournament never waned. With his prominent chin, striking features, and booming voice, he was the closest thing Belgate had to a celebrity, and he seemed to embrace the attention.

“Now,” he said, channeling that spokesperson charm and exuberance, “on with the Tournament!”

The crowd cheered and whistled and stomped their feet as the band burst into our national song. In the stands, sundresses transformed the audience into a colorful, rippling mosaic, while men had traded their work clothes for something that would complement their partners’ palette. Children waved homemade signs and little district flags, offering support to their siblings, cousins, and role models. And at the bottom of the steps, vibrant banners embellished the court walls, forming a quilted necklace of red and gold.

I grinned.

Here I was, clad in the armor of some random kid I’d locked in a closet, standing where Tom had once stood. Staring out at the crowd, at the world.

Like an absolute idiot.

But I wouldn’t waste this impulsive decision. I’d try my best, give my all, and when I was eliminated, I’d conveniently disappear before the Revelation.

I could finally compare my strength to an entire cohort of boys. I could prove to myself I was capable of fighting, that all women were. And maybe one day, I could reveal my accomplishment to my father—the one person whose support mattered most.

I was the turquoise helmet, I’d say. Profoundly, of course.

Thankfully, and perhaps regrettably, I passed for a boy without much of a makeover. My long, tangled hair fit inside the helmet with extra room to spare, and my flat chest and narrow hips finally made up for years of inappropriate comments about a healthy, childbearing body. Add that to a pair of fighting gloves and a layer of recycled armor, and I blended in perfectly.

If I played my part, no real trouble would come of this.

Specs—noxious weeds who gambled on contestants—placed their bets from the sidelines, toying with more money than some of us would make in a month. They watched me bounce on my toes, chuckling amongst themselves as they sized me up, down, and sideways. I realized I possessed less muscle density than most, but in their eyes, I was nothing but a weakling. A runt. A shrimp.

Sensing my scowl, they grinned wolfishly and slammed a few more skits onto the teller’s stand. Betting against me.

Welts.

Standing upon a raised platform at the edge of the court, Gilmore motioned for the contestants to move into place, a composer conducting his choir. We lined up shoulder to shoulder along the concrete floor, filling the space from one corner to the other, as instructed. From above, we must have looked like a linear rainbow, or maybe just a long row of push pins. 

Gilmore raised the silver mic to his lips. “Contestants, your first trial is a testament of speed and stamina, a tradition we’ve adopted since the Tournament’s inception.”

Excitement buzzed in my fingertips. I wasn’t great at a lot of things, but being fast, nimble—that was something I’d mastered. It was a learned trait, running from repercussions.

“When the bell sounds, each of you will run to the first red marker, collect it, and return to the starting line. Then you will race to the second marker, retrieve that, and so on. This test proves a soldier’s endurance, drive, and agility. And we Ell love a good race, don’t we?”

My male competitors groaned as laughter filled the ring and echoed off the venue walls.

My eyes ran the length of the stadium. 100 yards and five different markers, each progressively distant. This is gonna burn.

“I’m pleased to announce that over a hundred-and-twenty contestants have registered today,” Gilmore continued, his voice ringing through the bell-shaped loudspeakers along the court’s perimeter. “But alas, not every man is destined for war.” He gestured to the panel of male judges behind us, composed of war vets and Council members tasked with tracking contestant performance and arbitrating disputes. “As you know, the true purpose of this event is to evaluate this cohort’s skill and athleticism in hopes of supplementing our forces with the most successful candidates. Because of this, the Tournament follows a single-elimination format. Individuals who fall within the lowest rankings of each trial will be eliminated. Those who prevail will proceed to the next round.”

My stomach took flight, and I ground my jittery heels into the pavement. There’s no going back, Al. This is happening.

“Let us begin.”

The contestant in the white helmet, 99, cackled from the adjacent lane, stretching his arms above his head and rolling his neck. “Watch and learn, rats.”

Mason.

I could’ve detected his presence a mile away—no helmet could hide that pungent attitude and superiority complex. Granted, he’d also picked the newest and cleanest armor in the bin, and the attire beneath it just oozed privilege.

Will, I presumed, stood to my right in his red helmet, all shadows and taped knuckles. He appeared perfectly poised, and I wondered if he was immune to anxiousness or just completely unintimidated by his competition. 

“On your marks,” Gilmore declared, and I bent to the ground, my fingertips kissing cool pavement. The world blurred around me as my focus narrowed on the stretch of red tape 20 yards away.

This is it.

Gilmore raised his arm—a beacon that drew the attention of every man, woman, and child in the arena. A stopper in the lungs of the enraptured.

I breathed out, balancing on the pads of my fingers, cocking the hammer.

The second the bell chimed, I flew like a bullet.

I moved like a flash flood, a deluge, as if I’d conserved energy for millennia and finally had a chance to discharge it all in one race. One outburst.

I slid to a stop at the first red marker and nearly ate concrete, stripping the red tape off the ground in one fluid motion. I darted back to the starting line and slapped the tape down, pushing off again before I could bask in the glory of being the first to do so.

A smile tore at my cheeks as I pulled ahead of the others, sensing their disbelief and irritation at being left in the dust by the scrawny guy in the blue helmet. My confidence burned like fuel, and I transitioned to a forefoot strike, becoming faster, smoother, lighter.

I heard Mason curse as I retrieved the third marker. He vanished from sight by the time I reached the fourth, and my racing heartbeat drowned out his trailing footsteps. My own feet pattered over concrete, barely audible, hands pumping, lungs flexing.

Someone was keeping pace with me, but I didn’t dare take my eyes off the goal. I reached for it, I drove for it, and after several grueling minutes of stinging hands and burning hamstrings, I got there.

With my lungs on fire and the taste of iron in my throat, I skidded across the painted line, taking in the roar of the crowd and my own thundering pulse. Will finished a moment later, but the others didn’t arrive for another seven seconds, wheezing and weak-kneed. Several of them lagged even further behind, jogging back to us with red tape crinkled in their fists.

I’d beaten them all. I’d outrun their biologically superior bodies and boyish adrenaline.

I’d won.

“The winner of the first round—the speedy number six! Followed by twelve . . .” Gilmore’s voice fell away as I drank it all in: the cheers, the band, the bursts of confetti. The push pins here on the floor of the stadium, draftees of entertainment. The Specs who’d prejudged me staring at the giant manual scoreboard in bitter silence.

I angled my head at them, raising my palms to the sky and smiling behind the wire mesh visor of my Corinthian helmet.

That’s right.

Watch and learn, rats.

Chapter 7

“In battle, a soldier’s strength is critical,” Gilmore said, speaking slowly to draw the crowd’s attention. “At any time, he may be expected to carry heavy loads, artillery, or wounded comrades. His capacity to do so reveals the character of a man who’s mindful of the stakes he’ll face on the battlefield—and diligent enough to prepare for any given scenario. And that, gentlemen, is why our second trial will help shine a light on the strongest and most dedicated contestants in your cohort.”

My posture deflated as I recalled the ridiculous, humiliating strongman trials from past Tournaments. Beam tilting, rope climbing, weighted monkey bars, deadlifting, and other resistance exercises had resulted in countless muscle strains, shoulder impingements, and hernias over the years.

Honestly, I’d been hoping this trial would pop up later in the competition, after we’d been given the chance to illustrate our combat skills. Because yes, fitness was imperative for active-duty personnel. But was it really wise to judge a soldier’s merit by the diameter of his bicep—and prior to boot camp, no less?

These days, only the wealthy could afford protein-rich diets and personal trainers. Yet the weeds rarely, if ever, volunteered for war; they’d already inherited respect, fortune, and property. They had nothing to prove and no one to save.

By giving prominence to brawn and stamina, the nation was damning the poor, then sending the strongest of us to our graves. All for the honor of serving our country—or the desperation to feed and house a court-ordered family.

The Court spun it as a means of elevating survival rates, but it sure seemed like the perfect way to prevent an insurrection to me.

“For this event, each contestant will move four shots,” Gilmore gestured to the furrow of metal spheres along the rear wall, “to the opposite end of the stadium. The individuals who transfer all four weights in time will proceed to the next round.”

I scowled behind the visor of my helmet. Seriously? Cannon balls?

We didn’t even use cannons anymore.

“You have five minutes,” Gilmore added with a borderline-evil smile. “Begin!”

The band began playing at an anxiety-inducing tempo, and I stood there for a moment, staring a little dejectedly at the oversized marbles.

Demoralized, I watched Mason crouch and heft the first weight onto his shoulder, fumbling with his grip. He could barely walk, but he made it a few steps at a time. Will fared a little better. 

Approaching the row of cannon balls, I used my knees to lift one of the shots about a foot off the ground. My muscles screamed at me, and my arms trembled, but I made some progress, moving forward like an ungainly chimpanzee. Unfortunately, gravity clouted me over the head a few moments later, and I was forced to drop the weight at the halfway point, fingertips aching from the strain.

Okay. Speed was one thing—I was light on my feet, thin, underweight, agile. But there was no way I could compare to these guys and their upper body strength. Even if I had spent my whole life on a ranch.

The others had almost finished their first transfer. One larger boy carried his second shot, and I heard him snicker as he passed me.

I couldn’t take the embarrassment, so I tried again. This time, I brought the shot all the way up to my shoulder like Mason, balancing the weight between neck and clavicle. But then I began teetering too far to my left and ended up dropping it on the ground in lieu of crushing my head.

The ball cracked the concrete and rolled away.

It rolled away!

The crowd bellowed with laughter, and I stared after the projectile in dismay, burning crimson as my dignity abandoned me. It had to be at least 70 pounds of solid, dense metal. Carrying the thing the rest of the way was impossible—forget the other three. I’d never make it in time. Not like this.

My competitors hobbled past me, red-faced and panting. One of the smallest boys had given up entirely. He toed the row of shots but made no effort to pick anything up.

I glanced at Gilmore and silently cursed him for designing such a ridiculous series of tests. He stood there like a god on his stage, overlooking the contestants, towering over his pawns and listing off the minute marks.

My eyes narrowed as the announcer’s instructions resurfaced.

Transfer, he’d said. Move the shots.

Those were the exact words he’d used. Not carry, lift, or tote. Move.

Cautious optimism straightened my spine, and with a deep breath, I banished my loudest, most anxious thoughts from my head so I could flesh out my idea.

Gilmore had compared the weight to a human body, so I couldn’t just roll the ball to the other end of the court—you wouldn’t roll a wounded soldier across a battlefield. But perhaps . . .

I scanned my surroundings, searching for resources, scrounging for clever ways to exploit the technicality. My gaze eventually settled on the colorful banners hanging from the walls of the inner ring, and I grinned. Perfect.

I could hear the crowd’s puzzled shouting as I bolted for the stands and yanked a golden strip of fabric off the wall. Outraged protests and enthralled cheers followed me back to the court, where I swaddled the wayward cannon like the world’s heaviest newborn. Then, with the corners bunched in my fist, I took off, dragging the weight behind me. 

The sack glided along the slick surface without much resistance, allowing me to sail past my sweaty peers in glee. A few boys paused to stare at me, including my gloomy neighbor with the red helmet, and I couldn’t resist a prideful strut. They would most likely disqualify me for this, but I soaked up the feeling while it lasted, snorting at Gilmore’s incredulous laughter and the judges’ baffled reactions. 

Might as well sparkle if I was destined to crash and burn. I had to lose at some point, anyway; at least I’d had my fun.

But as I sprinted back to the gutter of cannon balls, a banner tossed over my shoulder and looped around my waist like a philosopher’s toga, it became clear that my speed made up for what I lacked in quantity. I repeated my projectile-in-a-blanket process for the second shot, and the gap between Mr. Snickers and me narrowed.

Excitement filled the dispirited cavities in my chest. Maybe it wasn’t over yet. Maybe I could still go out with a bang—a bang loud enough to damage some eardrums.

My ambition revived, I capitalized on Gilmore’s blunder and rushed to transport the remaining shots in my vicinity. By the time I’d hauled the fourth cannon ball across the court, I’d finished around 50th. They cut the contestants off at 80, the others having failed to meet the quota in the minutes allotted.

Predictably, the boys were not pleased with my trickery, and neither were the Specs in the stands, if their incoherent shouting and finger-pointing were anything to go by. I folded the banner up and set it aside, shooting the judges an apologetic smile, but it didn’t seem to mollify them any.

After a few minutes of intense discourse and betting mayhem, Gilmore returned to his stage and acknowledged that I hadn’t broken the rules, strictly speaking. The contestants’ parents didn’t appreciate the verdict, though, and I could hear their angry reproofs and accusations a whole court length away.

“However,” Gilmore stressed, “going forward, I will articulate instructions more clearly, and any attempts to cut corners again will not be tolerated.”

I made a point of nodding along to show I understood the warning. He’d given me a second chance today, a chance to showcase skills beyond speed and muscle tissue. And I wouldn’t take that for granted.

As he shifted gears and launched into the explanation of the third trial, I could have sworn he winked in my direction.

Chapter 8

It seemed I’d made an impression.

As I advanced, I felt the crowd’s eyes on me—a sea of bated breaths and wrinkled noses. But I was pretty sure their rapt attention had less to do with skill level and everything to do with my bizarre, semi-illegal performance.

I was the small one who’d surpassed expectations. The speedy underdog in the turquoise helmet. The twig with thorns. 

And so, the Tournament proceeded, weeding out the boys who didn’t meet certain physical and mental qualifications through a series of creative and wildly entertaining trials.

For one event, we were told to traverse the playing field while snickering sentinels shot training arrows at us—their soft, bulbous arrow tips soaked in red disqualifying paint. Darting around in unpredictable patterns had served me well, though, and I’d crossed the court unsoiled.

In another trial, we completed a wooden obstacle course that involved a small climbing wall, a balancing bridge, and a cargo net. I’d beaten Mason by a handprint in that race, but he insisted I’d had a head start—the milksop.

Eventually, we reached the most anticipated and beloved trial in the Tournament: the Deadlock.

A trial of close combat, it served as a testament to a candidate’s swordsmanship and dexterity. Each contestant fought a commissioned officer—one of three practiced soldiers selected by the judges panel—and if the trainee managed to stay on his feet for two minutes, he passed. If he was knocked to the floor or pushed out of the fighting ring, he was eliminated. And every year, without fail, the Deadlock trials had the crowd foaming at the mouth.

Lifting the bottom half of my visor, I chugged an entire canteen of water while the top-ranking contestants kicked things off in the ring.

A merit-based lineup helped even out the fight some. That way, when the consummate soldiers grew weary, they only had the worst of us left to school. But that was fine with me—I’d take any handicap I could get.

In the far-right circle of the stadium, a broad-shouldered boy fought an indestructible force of a man, their swords clanging loudly with each forceful collision.

As a greenie, matching with an experienced soldier was daunting enough on its own; I couldn’t imagine facing someone so burly and fearsome in my first and only Deadlock trial.

Still, the boy held his own.

In the middle ring, Mason sparred with an older, smaller, and nimbler opponent than the first. As the veteran lunged for him, Mason reeled back—his foot landing a mere inch away from the border of the circle. But he didn’t appear unnerved by the man’s skill set. If anything, the challenge seemed to excite him. Dipping his chin, he planted his feet and took the offensive.

Both fights offered entertainment, but the audience hardly paid them any attention. Instead, all gazes were pinned to the third circle and the boy with the red helmet.

This Deadlock opponent was the youngest of the three—exactly what the mind conjures at the thought of a chiseled, active-duty soldier. Every thrust was smooth and vicious, each parry effortless and instinctual. He was so confident in his abilities, he even rejected a helmet. 

Despite all that, Will pushed him further and further to the edge of the ring, relentless. He spun and sliced and dipped and whirled, and before any of us could process his phenomenal streak, he’d knocked the soldier to his tailbone.

A bit of water dribbled out of my mouth. In all my life, I’d never seen a contestant beat a trained and war-scarred soldier. Not until now.

Gilmore shook his handbell, signaling the end of the sequence, and the other contestants sheathed their swords, completely unaware of Will’s incredible feat. For once, Gilmore was rendered speechless, and he left the crowd to their screaming as he revised his Deadlock narration.

Well, that confirms it, I decided, allowing myself a small, proud smile. William Tooms was the red helmet, and anyone who’d ever attended training with him surely knew that. Any good Spec would be doubling his wager right about now.

He offered a hand to the soldier he’d bested, and the man laughed, clasping his forearm. When Will pulled him to his feet, his opponent clapped him on the back and congratulated him, and the sportsmanship prompted another round of applause. 

Will deserved the praise, even if he humbly skirted the spotlight, and I’d like to think he wore a radiant, toothy smile beneath that visor—a content, prideful expression none of us had ever witnessed.

As he joined the other competitors, my gaze trailed back to the middle ring. Mason stood in the center of his own circle, still as death, and though I couldn’t see his face, I knew his triumphant grin had long since faded.

I stood across from Mason’s opponent, completely regretting my life choices.

Sure, I’d taken meticulous notes on fighting techniques. I’d practiced daily since childhood, attacking wooden beams, sacks of grain, and fictional enemies. But I hadn’t sparred with another living soul since Tom had left.

Seven years ago.

I knew I had potential. Nothing in me doubted my capacity to learn, improve, and excel with a sword, and the chance to engage with a trained professional was something I’d always dreamed of. It just never occurred to me that I’d need to unveil my total lack of experience in order to obtain it.

Luckily, I didn’t have much time to panic. Before my brain could finish compiling all the ways I was guaranteed to fail, the handbell rang, and a steel blade came flying for my head.

I bounced away, keeping my sword low to protect my knees and shins. I’d seen enough Deadlocks to know soldiers never sought to maim or injure the contestants—they only aimed to knock the boys off balance or drive them out of the ring. Success hinged on defense.

My opponent stalked the rim of the circle, much like a vulture closing in on carrion, and while his sallet-style helmet exposed his aging face, I didn’t recognize his wrinkled features, angry eyes, or hairy lip. But I wasn’t a big fan.

“Come on then,” he taunted after I made no attempt to initiate our bout. “Quit acting like a skirt. Make a move already.”

It was sometimes frightening how easily I could be provoked.

Growling, I flew forward, swinging wildly for the soldier’s sternum. The clash of our weapons sent vibrations up my arms, and I pushed off our grazing blades only to spring at him again, anger refueling my exhausted body.

The old war vet wouldn’t get away with that comment, and I downright refused to lose to Mason’s opponent. So I fought the hardest I’d ever fought, channeling everything I’d ever learned from Frost and Will and Tom. Chopping the air. Slicing at armor. 

A windmill in a tempest.

I really had no idea what I was doing. Jabbing, dodging, parrying—it was like I’d unlocked something inside, some inherent, feral fighting style. But the thrashing, as ungraceful as it was, seemed to keep me afloat, and that was all that mattered.

Do you see me, Dad? I thought between strikes. Don’t you see what I’m capable of?

I dodged the vet’s next advance, and I even managed to scratch his metal tasset—something the crowd thoroughly enjoyed. However, the spike of laughter caused a shift in the fight. The bad kind.

Suddenly, the soldier was no longer holding back, not with his pride on the line. I felt it in the ferocity of his swing, in the swiftness of his step; he was done playing games.

I shuffled back, raising my arms to defend myself as he pummeled away at me, sword striking again and again. Harsher movements and fiercer sounds. Panicking, I forgot to take the breadth of the ring into account, and right before my heel kissed the chalk, some small, inner voice whispered a forceful stop!

I wobbled, teetering backward, and just as the soldier prepared to deliver the finishing blow, I reached through the junction of our swords and grasped his breastplate.

And that was when the bell sounded, capturing a picture worth painting—a young contestant bent backward over the ring, clinging to the armor of her opponent.

Both feet safely inside the circle.