I can’t believe my own body. I’m stiff from solitary confinement, I haven’t practiced combat in months, but instinct and adrenaline kick in, and soon enough I am dodging the beast like a pro, careening off corners, ducking between its legs.
The piken roars, frustrated, getting more and more worked up, battering the walls with its head.
I haven’t had this much fun in years, I think, as I manage to give it a roundhouse kick across the face.
I land on the ground, beaming from my well-placed kick, but I land in one of its spit puddles and my arms and legs give out in the slime. It’s a momentary lapse, but it’s enough: The beast has me in its jaws.
My whole body floods with warmth, and I am sure that this is the end.
But no pain comes. The creature lets out a long whimper and then releases me from its jaws. It’s a five-foot drop from its mouth to the floor and I land on my knee, which hurts worse than the bite.
I turn to see the piken sprawled out, mouth open, chest heaving powerfully. A massive crescent of puncture wounds stud its chest. It took the brunt of its own bite.
It lets out another low, pitiful moan.
Of course, I think. A Mogadorian beast is as much a Mogadorian as any of the rest. It’s susceptible to the charm too.
I whirl around, trying to get the attention of whoever is watching. It is clear to me that the creature, though wounded, will live. Left to their own devices, the Mogs will nurse their beast back to health so it can live to spoil another day.
I stride over to it, remembering the rabbit I killed all those years ago in Nova Scotia. I hear the footsteps of approaching guards and know I must act fast.
A Mog guard bursts into the room. He wields a long blade, and is about to swing at me when he thinks twice, realizing he will only kill himself in the process.
I use his hesitation to my advantage. I leap off the ground and hit him with a high swing kick, his blade clattering to the floor. One more kick to keep him down, and then I swipe the blade from the floor.
I approach the heaving, panting beast as more guards enter the room and I bring the blade straight down, through the piken’s skull.
Dead in an instant.
The guards swarm around me and drag me out of the cell. I am dazed but happy.
No mercy.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I have come to appreciate the tiny differences in the food they serve me. It’s always the same gray slop, some protein and wheat blended into a paste and ladled onto my serving tray. But sometimes it is made with more water and less wheat, more wheat and less protein, etc.
Today is a heavy protein day. I swallow it down without joy but with some gratitude: my muscles still hurt from my battle with the piken and the guard, and I figure the protein will do me good.
I take my last bite and back into the corner.
It is dark in my cell, but there is just enough light from the foodslot that I can see my feet, and my hands, and my food tray.
Except today I can’t see my hand. I can see my left one, but not my right one.
It has taken a long time to hone my vision to this state of sensitivity in the dark, so I’m furious at its failure. I wave my right hand in front of my face, twisting it left and right in my sleeve. But still all I see is darkness. I slap my face, blink, trying to bring my vision back.
But still my right hand is a void.
Finally I reach down and pick up my fork, holding it in front of my face.
I feel a thrill in my stomach as I push it down into my hand. I don’t want any false hope. I know I can’t survive any false hope.
But I can see the fork. And I still can’t see my hand.
At that moment my cell door opens and a lowly Mog enters. He’s come to retrieve my serving tray. All it takes is the light from the hallway flooding the room to confirm my suspicion.
My right hand is invisible.
My first Legacy has arrived.
I gasp. Of all the skills I could develop, this seems like the one—the only one—that might get me out of this prison alive.
The Mog grunts at me suspiciously, and I tuck my hollow-looking sleeve behind my back, hoping he didn’t see. I am dizzy with joy.