“You were loved?”
“Very much so.”
I can’t help but juxtapose his life of privilege to Killian’s life of poverty and rejection.
Killian spent most of his early years in the Center of Learning, an orphanage. He was unwanted, possibly abused. I’m not clear on the details, and I haven’t pushed him for more. He’ll share when he’s ready.
A prince adored by his people, Archer often visited the orphanage to play with the children, and he’d eventually befriended Killian. A friendship that raised Killian’s social standing. Soon after, Killian was adopted by Pearl Bennett, a Leader who’d acted as my original ML; she’d wanted Killian to be a companion to her daughter.
A short time later, Pearl’s daughter died, and she decided the orphan boy was a nuisance.
She returned him, as if he were an ill-fitting shirt.
Killian experienced another deep-rooted sense of betrayal when Archer, his best friend, reached the Age of Accountability and defected to Troika. Archer Prince had everything he’d ever wanted—a father who doted on him, money, prestige—and yet he eschewed it all, leaving Myriad and Killian behind.
Killian had raged, unable to forgive him.
Everyone has scars. “How well do you know Killian?”
“I knew of him, but I never spent time with him. Archer and I had different mothers, and we weren’t raised together.”
I’m confused. “If you weren’t raised with Archer, why did you follow him to Troika?”
“Before I reached the Age of Accountability, I’d finished my training to become a Messenger. Every time I was sent to the Land of the Harvest, Archer found me and told me of the happiness he enjoyed in the Light.”
A small smile blooms. Archer had talk—talk—talked about happiness with me, too.
I enter a second sitting room, where multiple weapons are on display. A long, golden staff practically begs for my attention.
“May I?” I motion to the staff.
Victor is watching me with a curious expression. “Out of all the guns, daggers, chains and swords, that’s the weapon you pick? Did you not see the wristband over there? It controls the four elements in the Land of the Harvest.”
“Neat.” I make grabby hands at the staff. “Gimme.”
He barks out a laugh. “Fine. Go for it.”
I tremble as I lift the staff, certain I’m holding something precious. I wrap my fingers around two distinct indentations—perfectly spaced handholds—and lift. It’s solid, heavy, and all too soon my biceps protest.
Upon closer inspection, I find a crack in the center of the staff, too precise to be an accident. With a frown, I tug the two sides in opposite directions. The crack widens, revealing two separate swords made of...opaque glass? Precious gemstones?
The dark sheen glistens with different colors, but inside one, there are three Troikan symbols and inside the other, there are seven.
3 + 7 = 10
“It’s yours,” Victor says. “Levi told me to tell you to pick a weapon, any weapon. Archer had planned to give you one as a welcome home gift.”
Tears well in my eyes. Uh, oh. Here come the waterworks. “Really?”
He nods. “Really.”
I don’t know why or when accepting gifts of great monetary value became taboo among humans, but there’s no way I’m rejecting this one. I say, “Thank you.” I will cherish this gift, and I will learn to use it. I will make Archer proud. When he returns—and he will, I’ll accept nothing less—I’ll show him how good I’ve become by knocking him on his butt...in the grass...because I’m a mean little lass...who’s taking her opponent to class...because she’s all about sass.
One of the tears escapes, gliding down my cheek.
A high-pitched alarm suddenly screeches to life inside my head. I nearly jump out of my skin. I do drop the staff in order to clutch my ears, my heart hammering. “Something’s wrong.”
Victor pales. “The alarm. Do you hear the message coming through the Grid? TLs and MLs are engaged in combat in the Land of the Harvest. We’re losing, and more soldiers are needed. Location...near the home of Javier Diez.” He pauses to rub his temple. “Only our group is to know Javier has been infected with Penumbra, like Dior, and there’s a chance he’s already spread it to someone else.”
No, no, no. After all our precautions...
This is bad. This is very, very bad.
“We don’t have a moment to waste.” Victor heads for the door. “Let’s go!”
chapter thirteen
* * *
“Fate says: when a door closes, you’re not meant to go in. We say: kick down the door.”
—Troika
Messengers and Laborers sprint down the streets, Victor and I among them, and every single one of us is barreling toward the nearest Gate. Shells and spirits alike are armed for battle. I even spot two Generals. Tall, thin Jane and the dark, bald Spike. Those in noncombative positions—Headhunters and Healers—watch us with trepidation.
Fueled by adrenaline, I clutch my new staff to my chest. When one of the ends accidentally knocks someone to the ground, I yank the sides apart, content to have a sword in each hand.
Levi is posted at the Veil of Wings, shouting words of encouragement as TLs and TMs race through.
Without a pause in his step, Victor vanishes through the waterfall. I’m right on his heels, determined to do my part and—
A hand shackles my wrist, wrenching me to the side, out of the way, before I can follow.
“Very much so.”
I can’t help but juxtapose his life of privilege to Killian’s life of poverty and rejection.
Killian spent most of his early years in the Center of Learning, an orphanage. He was unwanted, possibly abused. I’m not clear on the details, and I haven’t pushed him for more. He’ll share when he’s ready.
A prince adored by his people, Archer often visited the orphanage to play with the children, and he’d eventually befriended Killian. A friendship that raised Killian’s social standing. Soon after, Killian was adopted by Pearl Bennett, a Leader who’d acted as my original ML; she’d wanted Killian to be a companion to her daughter.
A short time later, Pearl’s daughter died, and she decided the orphan boy was a nuisance.
She returned him, as if he were an ill-fitting shirt.
Killian experienced another deep-rooted sense of betrayal when Archer, his best friend, reached the Age of Accountability and defected to Troika. Archer Prince had everything he’d ever wanted—a father who doted on him, money, prestige—and yet he eschewed it all, leaving Myriad and Killian behind.
Killian had raged, unable to forgive him.
Everyone has scars. “How well do you know Killian?”
“I knew of him, but I never spent time with him. Archer and I had different mothers, and we weren’t raised together.”
I’m confused. “If you weren’t raised with Archer, why did you follow him to Troika?”
“Before I reached the Age of Accountability, I’d finished my training to become a Messenger. Every time I was sent to the Land of the Harvest, Archer found me and told me of the happiness he enjoyed in the Light.”
A small smile blooms. Archer had talk—talk—talked about happiness with me, too.
I enter a second sitting room, where multiple weapons are on display. A long, golden staff practically begs for my attention.
“May I?” I motion to the staff.
Victor is watching me with a curious expression. “Out of all the guns, daggers, chains and swords, that’s the weapon you pick? Did you not see the wristband over there? It controls the four elements in the Land of the Harvest.”
“Neat.” I make grabby hands at the staff. “Gimme.”
He barks out a laugh. “Fine. Go for it.”
I tremble as I lift the staff, certain I’m holding something precious. I wrap my fingers around two distinct indentations—perfectly spaced handholds—and lift. It’s solid, heavy, and all too soon my biceps protest.
Upon closer inspection, I find a crack in the center of the staff, too precise to be an accident. With a frown, I tug the two sides in opposite directions. The crack widens, revealing two separate swords made of...opaque glass? Precious gemstones?
The dark sheen glistens with different colors, but inside one, there are three Troikan symbols and inside the other, there are seven.
3 + 7 = 10
“It’s yours,” Victor says. “Levi told me to tell you to pick a weapon, any weapon. Archer had planned to give you one as a welcome home gift.”
Tears well in my eyes. Uh, oh. Here come the waterworks. “Really?”
He nods. “Really.”
I don’t know why or when accepting gifts of great monetary value became taboo among humans, but there’s no way I’m rejecting this one. I say, “Thank you.” I will cherish this gift, and I will learn to use it. I will make Archer proud. When he returns—and he will, I’ll accept nothing less—I’ll show him how good I’ve become by knocking him on his butt...in the grass...because I’m a mean little lass...who’s taking her opponent to class...because she’s all about sass.
One of the tears escapes, gliding down my cheek.
A high-pitched alarm suddenly screeches to life inside my head. I nearly jump out of my skin. I do drop the staff in order to clutch my ears, my heart hammering. “Something’s wrong.”
Victor pales. “The alarm. Do you hear the message coming through the Grid? TLs and MLs are engaged in combat in the Land of the Harvest. We’re losing, and more soldiers are needed. Location...near the home of Javier Diez.” He pauses to rub his temple. “Only our group is to know Javier has been infected with Penumbra, like Dior, and there’s a chance he’s already spread it to someone else.”
No, no, no. After all our precautions...
This is bad. This is very, very bad.
“We don’t have a moment to waste.” Victor heads for the door. “Let’s go!”
chapter thirteen
* * *
“Fate says: when a door closes, you’re not meant to go in. We say: kick down the door.”
—Troika
Messengers and Laborers sprint down the streets, Victor and I among them, and every single one of us is barreling toward the nearest Gate. Shells and spirits alike are armed for battle. I even spot two Generals. Tall, thin Jane and the dark, bald Spike. Those in noncombative positions—Headhunters and Healers—watch us with trepidation.
Fueled by adrenaline, I clutch my new staff to my chest. When one of the ends accidentally knocks someone to the ground, I yank the sides apart, content to have a sword in each hand.
Levi is posted at the Veil of Wings, shouting words of encouragement as TLs and TMs race through.
Without a pause in his step, Victor vanishes through the waterfall. I’m right on his heels, determined to do my part and—
A hand shackles my wrist, wrenching me to the side, out of the way, before I can follow.
