Except now I’m sitting under a tree and arguing with a bird. I chuck another rock at it for good measure before turning my attention back to the bundle of sticks at my side. I pick up another arrowhead that I’ve collected along the way, one of the generous gifts left to aid us, and fasten it onto one of the sticks. I’ve been making arrows for far too long now to accompany the bow and quiver I found conveniently resting against the trunk of a tree.
As if the Elites need weapons.
The feathers supplied by the annoying, yet useful bird above complete the arrow. I stare at my handiwork with a small smile, studying all seven wobbly arrows now filling the quiver. Thanks to my father, this was not my first time having to craft and arrow from scratch, and my smile grows at the distant memory.
I throw the quiver over my shoulder and cross the bowstring along my chest, saying my goodbyes to the bird still perched in the tree. I heave a sigh and begin, once again, heading towards the water I so desperately need. My feet are light and quiet as I tread across the terrain, my eyes peeled for any animal I can devour.
There.
A fat rabbit hops out of the bushes a few dozen feet away, completely unaware of my ill intentions for it. I pull the bow over my head and slip an arrow from the quiver. I knock it, aim, and breathe deeply just as my father taught me to. And then I send the arrow flying towards its mark.
Straight through the rabbit’s eye.
It’s dead before it even crumples to the ground. I snatch up the animal, wipe the arrowhead on a nearby plant I hope wasn’t poisonous, and return the arrow to my quiver.
Find water. Start a fire. Eat food.
And then I’m back to walking, tripping over tree roots and stumbling over stones.
Riveting.
I let my thoughts run wild as I keep a steady pace through the foliage, thinking of my opponents, the ball, the calloused hands on my back and grey eyes studying my face.
I huff in annoyance and kick a rock harder than I should. A string of curse words spills from my mouth—directed at the rock, myself, and the cocky bastard I hate for not completely hating.
The sun is making its descent across the sky as I continue to trample through the greenery, swearing at the multiple spiderwebs I walk through and the giant spiders that accompany them.
A Sight catches up to me and I try my hardest to ignore his presence. Once he’s satisfied with the footage he’s collected of me stomping and huffing through the forest, he turns and disappears.
Warm, late afternoon sunlight streams through the trees, casting the forest in golden shadows. For a moment, I allow myself to take in the ominous beauty of this eerie place.
And then something hits me in the face.
Well, I hit something. I nearly trip backwards, sputtering, only to find that I walked right into a large, cotton shirt hanging from a low branch. I grab it, grumbling about how I don’t need the king’s kindnesses even as I slip on the garment.
I walk and walk.
I’m bored. I’m bored during a bloody Trial.
And then something catches the light, glittering out of the corner of my eye. I pivot towards it, leaves crunching beneath my feet. My mouth nearly falls open at what lies no more than thirty yards away from me.
A deep pool of crystal water sparkles in the sunlight, rippling slightly in the warm breeze. Welcoming and wonderful. I blink. I didn’t see this pool when I was high in the tree, scouting. Then again, the shimmering water is surrounded by trees, nearly swallowed by the foliage around it.
I practically trip in my haste to reach it.
Water. Water. Water.
I’m so thirsty, so greedy to gulp as much as I can. Then build a fire, cook my rabbit, and—
There’s something in the water, bobbing on top of it.
I’m much closer now, the sun not so blinding as it glints off the clear surface, and I can make out an outline on top. A human outline. I creep forward, pulling my bow from across my chest, clutching it in my fist.
The figure isn’t moving.
The figure with dirty blond hair plastered to his tanned forehead.
The figure with the same glassy green eyes as the king, staring unseeingly up at the blue sky.
A strangled scream rips from my throat, sending birds scattering out from the trees around me.
Kitt.
He’s dead.
I’m gasping, stumbling to the edge of the pool. I may hate his father and the kingdom he will one day rule, but that doesn’t mean I wish to see him dead. The thought startles me, considering how very much I crave that fate for the king that looks so much like him. But what if their familiar features are where the similarities between them end? What if there is hope for the prince to step out of his father’s shadow, out of his footsteps, and create change in his kingdom?
I force myself to meet his glossy gaze where I now only see the potential of the prince rather than the presence of his father. Those once amused green eyes will never crinkle with laughter again. Instead, they stare up at nothing, wide, dull, and leached of life. That crooked grin will never again grace his lips. Instead, his mouth is pressed in a thin line—blue, kissed by the chill of death.
I jump into the pool, wanting to pull him from this watery death.
Instead, my feet are met with solid ground.
My bones sing with the impact, feeling as though they will crack with the force.
I blink away the pain, though it does nothing to clear my confusion. There is suddenly no pool under my feet, no Kitt floating dead on its surface. I look at the dirt beneath me in disbelief, trying to puzzle out what is going on.
“Help me.”
I knock an arrow and draw my bow before I’ve even turned to face the owner of that broken little voice.
I choke on my gasp.
It’s me.
Deep blue eyes bore into mine—sad, starved eyes. Long silver hair, tangled and matted, hangs from the little girl’s head. She is—I am—small, so small. Weak and weary and wide-eyed as she stares up at me.
She stretches a bony finger towards me. “Please,” she whispers, whimpers. I stumble back at the sound of that—my—broken voice, nearly losing my footing when she takes a shaky step closer.
This isn’t real.
I turn, ready to run from this nightmare, only to nearly run into another little Paedyn, her cheeks sunken and eyes hollow.
I’m delusional. Dehydrated.
I bite my tongue to keep from screaming as I turn to my right, finding another starved version of myself staring back at me.
I’m surrounded. Completely surrounded by pleading Paedyns. They step forward, begging me to help them as they reach out, trying to grab hold of me.
This time, I don’t bother biting back my scream.
They are closing in, crowding me. I’m crying out, confused and—
No, not delusional.
They stagger towards me, seeking help I can’t give them.
This is Ace.
Even knowing that, I still can’t stand to look at them, to look at myself. Can’t stand to hear them begging for help as I do nothing. This was me. I was this starved and sad girl once. Because when my father died, so did a piece of myself.
This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t real.
I cry out, dropping to my knees and clutching my head in frustration.