Deathball (Deathball #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter one

Robin: Annihilation

They came for us on a Tuesday morning.

The alarm bell shattered the pre-dawn quiet—three strikes, pause, three more.

The pattern we’d drilled into ourselves since I was old enough to hold a spade.

My hands moved before my brain caught up, pulling on clothes, yanking on boots, grabbing the knife from under my pillow and my sword from behind the door.

Esme sat bolt upright in her bed across the room.

“Stay here,” I said.

She opened her mouth to argue, but footsteps thundered past our door. Shouts erupted outside. Through the window, torches bobbed along the beach like fireflies. Too many of them.

I shoved through the door, boots skidding on wet sand. Dawn bled gray across the horizon—too dark still, clouds smothering the light.

“Mason!” I shouted. My neighbor turned, rifle already in his hands. “What’s happening?”

“Watchers only just caught them.” Mason’s lined face looked grim. “Cloudy night. They cut their motors, coming in quiet with oars.”

My stomach dropped. Three years since the last raid. Three years of hoping they’d forgotten about us.

The door banged open behind me. Esme stumbled out, still in her nightdress, her blonde hair wild.

I grabbed her arm and yanked her back toward the threshold. “Inside. Now.”

“Robin—”

“I said inside.”

Those gray eyes, identical to mine, blazed with defiance. She planted her feet, chin lifting. Thirteen years old. Old enough to hold a blade, old enough to help defend our home.

Old enough—and pretty enough—to be taken for reasons I couldn’t bear to think about.

The thought iced my veins.

“You know what to do,” I said, quieter now but no less firm.

Her jaw worked. For a moment I thought she’d refuse and I’d have to waste precious seconds dragging her back inside myself. Then something in my expression must have convinced her, as she turned and disappeared into the darkness of our house.

I didn’t wait to hear the floorboards creak open. Didn’t have time to make sure she actually hid in the compartment we’d built when we moved here a few years ago. I had to trust that the fear I’d seen flash across her face would keep her safe.

The beach was chaos. Figures sprinted past me, armed with blades and rifles.

A fierce sense of pride surged within me.

We were ready for this. We’d trained every day for it, in fact.

Even the elderly among us were here—seasoned fighters with weathered hands gripping well-maintained weapons.

Old Carlos hefted his war axe, the same one he’d carried for forty years of raids.

Every soul on Atrea could fight. Had to fight. It’s how we’d survived this long.

In the distance, through the murk, massive ships loomed, their hulking forms anchored far beyond the breakers.

But closer—much closer—smaller boats glided through the water like sharks, silent and deadly.

Every person on this beach was forged by the trials of survival, united in a single purpose: to protect Atrea from those who would take what was ours.

We fell into formation like we’d practiced a hundred times.

A line across the shore, weapons raised, bodies braced.

Antonio appeared beside me, his familiar grin replaced by grim determination.

The sight of him there, solid and ready, calmed my racing heart.

But where was Tobias? I scanned the line but couldn’t spot him in the chaos.

The vessels cut through the water. Six of them. Maybe seven. Hard to tell in the dim light.

Mason stood to my right, rifle aimed. Just ahead, Elena gripped a spear. Her breath came fast and shallow.

“Hold,” someone called. Tomás Verus, our governor.

The boats drew closer. I could make out new shapes now—soldiers in blue uniforms. Victoran-blue uniforms.

Victora. I’d suspected as much, but the confirmation had my hands tightening around my sword as blood rushed through my ears.

Behind us, the island waited. Our homes. Our families. Everything we’d built and rebuilt.

The first boat scraped against sand.

No one moved. Time hung suspended, filled only with the endless whisper of waves against sand.

Then the sound of oars being slammed down. Boots splashing into shallow water. The soldiers formed their own line, maybe thirty feet away. More boats landed. More bodies in blue uniforms. They outnumbered us. Three to one, at least. Far, far more men than last time.

And the rifles. So many of them. Firearms were almost impossible to come by outside the cities, their ammunition even rarer, yet almost all of these men seemed to possess one.

A man stepped forward from their ranks. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a scar cutting through his left cheek. He surveyed us with the detached interest of someone taking in scenery.

“Smart move,” he called out. His voice carried across the beach, calm and conversational. “Standing your ground. Shows spirit.”

No one answered.

“Here’s how this works,” he continued. “You give us what we came for, nobody dies. You fight, and we take what we want anyway. Only difference is how many bodies we leave behind.”

Tomás, standing at the front, spat into the sand. “Not a chance. Get back on your boats.”

The scarred man smiled. Not a pleasant expression. “Didn’t think you’d make it easy.”

He raised his hand.

The soldiers surged forward.

Elena screamed—not in fear, but in rage—and charged. The rest of us followed. The lines collided in a crash of metal and flesh and shouting.

A soldier swung at me with a club. I dropped low, drove my sword up toward his gut. The blade brushed against thick leather armor. No good. He brought the club down. I twisted left, sand scraping my face, and slashed with the knife in my other hand.

The blade bit into his forearm. He jerked back with a curse.

Around me, chaos. Mason fired his rifle, the crack splitting the air, and a soldier dropped. Elena’s spear punched through someone’s shoulder. Old Carlos swung his axe like he was felling timber, roaring with every blow.

But there were so many of them.

I drove my sword through the gap in the soldier’s armor. Hot blood sprayed across my hands as he crumpled.

A fist connected with my jaw, stars exploding across my vision. I hit the sand hard, gasping, as boots kicked it into my eyes. I rolled blind, knife slashing wildly. The blade caught something—fabric, skin, I couldn’t tell. Someone screamed.

I blinked furiously, clearing the grit. A shadow loomed over me. I brought the sword up just as a baton crashed down. Metal shrieked against metal. My arms shook from the force.

Another gunshot. Closer this time.

Just to my right, I caught Mason going down, clutching his leg. Blood pooled dark beneath him, soaking into sand that reeked of gunpowder and death. The waves kept their steady rhythm, indifferent to the slaughter.

“No!” The word ripped from my throat.

I kicked up, catching my attacker in the knee. He buckled. I rolled to my feet and drove the knife into his neck.

“Fall back!” someone screamed. “Fall back!”

But there was nowhere to go. The soldiers pressed forward, driving us up the beach toward our homes. I stumbled over a body—one of ours or theirs, I didn’t know. My eyes couldn’t help but frantically scan for Antonio’s tall frame, Tobias’s red hair, to no avail.

A hand grabbed my shoulder, and I spun, blade raised.

Tomás Verus. The governor’s face was split open above his eye, blood streaming down his cheek.

“They’re taking prisoners,” he gasped. “Get to—”

Two soldiers slammed into him from behind. He crashed forward, taking me down with him. My sword flew from my grip, disappearing into the sand. I scrambled for it, fingers clawing through wet grit.

Boots pinned my wrist. I looked up into a soldier’s face—young, maybe twenty—as he leveled his rifle at my head.

“Don’t move.”

I froze.

They hauled Tomás up, arms wrenched behind his back.

His wife Lydia appeared through the chaos, dragged between two more soldiers.

Her shirt was torn, face bloodied. Next was Lucas—their son, four years my junior—who fought against the arms restraining him until a rifle butt cracked across his skull.

The soldiers moved with purpose, herding the three of them toward Sentinel Rock. The massive black stone jutted from the sand like a broken tooth, twenty feet high and flat across the top. We’d played on it as kids. Jumped from it into the waves. Carved our names into its surface.

No.

I surged forward, boots scrambling against sand. Had to reach them. Had to—

The rifle barrel pressed hard against the base of my skull, stopping me cold. If I got shot, I’d be useless to everyone. The young soldier’s grip tightened on my shoulder, fingers digging through fabric to bone.

All I could do was watch as the soldiers dragged the governor’s family up Sentinel Rock.

They positioned the Veruses as if they were goods on display, every eye on the beach locked on them. Three soldiers arranged themselves behind each of them, blades at their throats—identical short swords, polished steel catching the growing dawn light.

My chest constricted. No. No, this wasn’t—

“I hear you people think this family runs things here,” the commander called out. He stood at the base of the rock, arms crossed, that scar pulling his smile crooked. “That’s cute. Real touching.”

Tomás lifted his head. “We’re—”

“Victora owns every inch of this land.” The man’s voice hardened. “Every rock. Every wave. Every pathetic little island full of people who forgot their place.”

Lydia was crying. Silent tears cutting tracks through the blood on her face. Lucas’s eyes found mine across the beach—dark and terrified and so young.

“Let me help you remember that.”

The commander raised his hand.

Everything slowed. I saw his fingers curl into a fist. Saw the soldiers behind the prisoners tense. Saw Tomás try to turn his head, lips forming words I couldn’t hear.

The hand dropped.

Three blades moved as one.

Blood sprayed black against the gray morning sky.

A scream split the air—high and broken—before someone’s hand clamped over the source.

The bodies slumped forward. Tumbled off Sentinel Rock onto the sand below with wet, heavy thuds.

My knees almost buckled.

“Take everyone useful!” the commander shouted. “Anything of value. You know what to do.”

Soldiers moved through our ranks like reapers. Grabbing arms. Shoving people to their knees. I tried to back up, boots sliding in blood-soaked sand.

Something hard cracked against the base of my skull.

The beach tilted sideways. My face hit wet sand.

Esme. The image of my sister’s face pushed through the haze. Was she still hidden? Still safe? Would they find her? I tried to push myself up, but my arms wouldn’t obey.

Rough hands yanked me to my feet, cool metal sliding against my arms.

And that’s how I ended up in these chains.