Clearly has nothing to do with me.
I slip down a smaller alley, making my way towards the dead end. There, tucked in the corner, is a mangled barricade of broken merchant carts, cardboard, old sheets, and Plague knows what else. Before I’m even halfway to the pile of garbage we call home, a face obscured by wild shoulder-length curls pops up over the Fort.
“Did you get it!?”
Untangling her long legs from where she sits, she effortlessly stands and phases right through the three-foot wall of our trash barricade without a second thought, and then she’s bounding toward me with so much hope in her eyes that you’d think I’ve offered her a real roof over her head and a warm meal. And though I can give her neither of those things, I do have something far better in her opinion.
I sigh. “I’m offended you doubted me, Adena. I thought you’d have a little more faith in my abilities after all these years.” I sling my pack from my back and pull out the crumpled red silk from within, unable to suppress my smile as a look of awe settles on her face.
She greedily claws the silk from my hands, running her fingers through the soft folds of the fabric. Peeking up through the curly bangs hanging in her hazel eyes, she looks at me as though I’ve just singlehandedly irradiated the Plague rather than steal fabric from a woman not much better off than we are.
Like I’m the hero and not the villain.
Adena’s smile could rival the sun over the Scorches desert. “Pae, you and your sticky fingers work magic, you know that?”
She throws her arms around my neck, pulling me into a crushing embrace that causes more honey to ooze down my vest and pool in my pockets.
“Speaking of sticky fingers ...” I peel myself from her hug to fish around in my pockets. I retrieve six smashed sticky buns, only slightly unappetizing with the hay now decorating them.
Adena’s eyes go wide at the sight before snatching one from my hand just as greedily as she did the fabric. She turns mid-bite and strides right back through our fort without a second thought, plopping herself down on the colorless, rough rugs that lay on the inside of the barricade. She pats the spot beside her expectantly, and unlike her, I ungracefully leap over the wall before I can take a seat.
“I bet Maria wasn’t too happy about her shop being looted. Again. Poor thing should really up her security,” Adena says between bites, a crooked smile joining the crumbs on her face.
Despite my robbing the woman at least once a month for the past several years, she’s still only managed to conclude that I am a he. At least she’s trying.
“Actually,” I say with a shrug, “she had two more Imperials stationed around her shop than normal. She must be getting tired of all the stollen sticky buns over the years.”
Adena narrows her hazel eyes at the sight of my smile. “Thank the Plague you didn’t get caught, Pae.” As soon as the familiar phrase slips past her lips, my jaw sets instinctively while hers falls open mid-bite. She visibly cringes, her brow crinkling and throat clearing. “Sorry. Bad habit.”
My fingers drift to the thick ring on my thumb, spinning it mindlessly while I muster a weak smile. This topic is one we typically try to avoid, though it’s my fault the subject became suddenly awkward to speak of in the first place.
All due to a moment of weakness that I wish I wasn’t so relieved about.
“You know it’s not the words that bother me, it’s—”
“It’s the meaning behind them,” she cuts in with a smile and a shockingly accurate imitation of my voice.
I nearly choke on my laugh and a piece of sweet dough. “Are you quoting me, A?”
By way of answering, she takes a bite of sticky bun before declaring between mouthfuls, “And it’s not the Plague that makes you sick, it’s what came after.”
I nod slowly while absentmindedly tracing the rug’s worn pattern beneath us, the feeling familiar beneath my finger. The idea of thanking the Plague that killed thousands of Ilyans makes me lose my appetite for even sticky buns. Thanking the thing that caused so much pain and death and discrimination.
But all anyone cares about now is who the Plague didn’t kill. The kingdom was isolated for years to keep the sickness from spreading to the surrounding cities, and only the strongest in Ilya survived the disease that altered the very structure of humans. The fast became exceptionally faster, the strong became unbeatable, and those who lurked in the shadows could become the shadows. Dozens of supernatural abilities were bestowed upon Ilyans alone, all varying in strength, purpose, and power.
Gifts given as a reward for surviving.
They are Elite. They are extraordinary. They are exceptional.
“Just ...” Adena trails off, poking at her sticky bun while struggling to form words for once. “Just be careful, Pae. If you get caught and aren’t able to talk yourself out of it—”
“I’ll be fine,” I state far too casually, ignoring the worry that washes over me. “This is what I do, A. What I’ve always done.”
She sighs through her smile, waving a dismissive hand. “I know, I know. You can handle yourself with the Elites.”
I feel that rush of relief once again, making me feel both guilty and grateful that she truly knows me. Because not all those who survived the Plague were fortunate enough to be gifted with abilities. No, the Ordinaries were just that—ordinary. And over the next several decades following the Plague, the Ordinaries and Elites lived in peace.
Until King Edric decreed that Ordinaries were no longer fit to live in his kingdom.
It was over three decades ago when sickness swept through the land. Due to the outbreak of what was likely a common illness, the king’s Healers used the opportunity to claim that Ordinaries were carrying an undetectable disease, saying it was likely the reason they hadn’t developed abilities. Extended exposure to them became harmful to both Elites and their powers, and over time, the Ordinaries were dwindling the abilities Elites are so protective of.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes at the thought.
My father believed that was bullshit, and I think no differently. But even if I had proof of the king lying through his teeth, it’s not as though a girl from the slums is in any position to be believed.
But the king couldn’t allow his Elite society to be weakened or worse by mere Ordinaries. Extinction was not an option for the extraordinary.
And so began the Purging.
Even now, decades later, tales of the bodies that scattered the sand under the scolding sun are casually passed around campfires, scary stories whispered among children.