I can’t take her with me.
She will never get a proper burial. She will never get the goodbye she deserves.
“I’m—I’m so sorry, A,” I whisper, kissing her forehead. “I’m so, so sorry.”
I stand to my feet, wiping at the tears I tried to stop from falling. I start to turn away from her lifeless body, unable to bear the sight of it any longer.
“I love you.”
And then I’m running.
Coward. Just like with father.
The symmetry in their deaths is sickening.
Both run through in the chest.
Both bleeding out before me.
Both left lying on the ground, left to rot without a burial.
Both deaths ending in me running.
I want to scream.
At myself. At their killers. At the world.
I push through the throng of people, through the massive mob fighting in the Pit, the stairs, the stands. Black and white masks clash as Resistance members battle Imperials. But the fight isn’t fair. There are so many Imperials, and even with the power of the Fatals beside the Ordinaries, the Resistance is outnumbered.
I weave between bodies and duck under punches as I shove up the crowded stairs leading out of the Pit and onto an equally crowded pathway above. My many years of dodging and slipping unseen through Loot serve me well as my feet fall into a familiar rhythm, treading softly, swiftly.
Shouts wash over me, cries echo through the arena. The fight is a dull roar in my ears, but I force myself to follow the flow of people trying to get away from the fight rather than join it.
I want to turn around. I want to fight with the Resistance, with my people.
What good would you do?
Those five words snake their way into my head, wrapping around me so tightly I feel like I might suffocate. The choking hold of that thought only tightens when eight little letters string together, creating a word equally as devastating as the last five.
Powerless.
In every sense of the word.
The human current I’ve allowed myself to be swept away in finally dumps me outside the Bowl. Wind whips at my hair when we emerge, all of us spilling out into the long, wide path lined with trees. The path that leads to the palace.
The Ilyans around me scatter. They dart, running around the outside of the Bowl until their feet find another road heading in the opposite direction. The road that leads to the city.
I start to follow them, my legs moving of their own accord, leading me to Loot. Leading me home.
And then I stop.
Something in my chest is aching—my heart.
Adena’s vest.
I spin, staring at the castle that holds the promise I made.
“I’ll wear it every day for you.”
The promise pounds in my head, and it’s all I need to start sprinting down the tree-lined path. The pink flowers and dainty petals that rained down on me the first time I walked this path are long gone. They are now dead and trampled on the ground, leaving only empty buds and leafy branches swaying above me as I race beneath them.
Bloody foot and injuries be damned. The few Imperials that chased me back in Loot for stealing could have never gotten me to run so fast, so far.
When my feet hit the cobblestone courtyard, I don’t bother slowing. I race over it as raindrops begin to prick my skin and slick the ground beneath me. I scramble up the stone steps leading to the giant, gilded doors of the castle.
Get inside. Grab the vest. Get out. Make it to Loot and—
“Miss Gray!”
I startle, looking up to see four Imperials stationed outside the heavy doors I had been too busy sprinting towards to see. An older man rushes down to meet me, concern crinkling his eyes around the white mask he wears.
“Miss, are you alright? Has the fighting stopped? Has the Resistance been defeated?” His eyes search mine, looking for answers.
So they clearly know what is going on inside the Bowl’s walls, and yet they are stuck here. They’ve no doubt received specific orders to stay and guard the castle, along with the many other Imperials I’m sure are prowling inside. The ones I need to get past to get to my room.
“Yes, I’m—” I need a plan. Fast.
And the one that comes to mind is one I’m not proud of.
I let my body go limp as I stumble forward on the steps. I throw out my hands to catch my fall, but the Imperial beats me to it. He wraps an arm around my middle to steady me, and I suppress the urge to snap it in half.
I reach down and clutch at my foot and the blood-soaked cloth carelessly wrapped around it, now nearly falling off with all the running I’ve done. I plaster on my best grimace, though it’s not difficult to do with the adrenaline slowly seeping from my body to be replaced by pain once again.
“You’re hurt.” The Imperial’s eyes dart to my foot when I hiss in pain.
How observant.
“Yes, but I’m fine. I just—” I place my foot back on the step and gasp dramatically in pain. I’m really milking this for all it’s worth. My fingers curl around the Imperial’s starchy, white uniform, my eyes pleading. “I could barely make it out of there. It’s chaos. And I’m—” I take a shaky breath. “I’m so scared and my foot hurts so badly and I don’t know what to do—”
Plagues, I cannot believe I’ve reduced myself to this.
I sound hysterical, and that is exactly what I was going for. The Imperial glances up to his friends at the top of the steps before returning his concerned gaze back to me. “Why don’t we get you back to your room so you can rest and get that foot healed? This will all be over soon.”
A tear rolls down my cheek as I nod fervently at him, hoping I look scared and stunned, though I am neither of those things. I just need him so I can get to my room without looking suspicious. Without drawing attention from the other Imperials who will ask questions I don’t have the answers to. But if I have an Imperial as my escort, the problem that is me will already be handled and under control.
Another two things I am neither of.
“Ranken, take Miss Gray to her room. Then inform a Healer that she needs assistance.” The Imperial gestures to a broad man with bulging muscles that are evident even through the stiff uniform he wears.
Brawny.
He nods and saunters over to me, saying in a deep voice, “This will be faster and far less painful for you if we do this my way.”
Apparently, his way involves scooping me up and carrying me like an incompetent child. His hands are under my knees and around my back, easily holding me against him as we step through the large doors and into the hallway beyond. My first instinct is to swing my legs over his shoulders and lock him in a chokehold before flipping him to the ground. But that was before my smarter, more strategical instinct reminded me that this is what I want, what I need to do.