Chapter 2 #2
My breathing quickens as I stare at those walls. Whatever happens next, whatever they plan to do with us, it’s going to happen in the shadow of that place. Under the eyes of people who live behind walls like that, who think walls like that are normal.
People who can take families from their homes and execute them on rocks just because they feel like it.
A second truck pulls up behind ours, and we’re joined by ten more prisoners.
All men. I scan their faces, searching for Antonio and Tobias, anyone really, but my heart sinks as quickly as it had lifted.
Nobody I recognize. Why did I have to be separated from every other Atrean after the ship?
Another cruel twist of fate kicking me while I’m down.
The guards shove us all into a long line, chains dragging in the dust. The hollow-cheeked man next to me sways on his feet. His breathing comes too fast, too shallow.
Another vehicle approaches from the direction of the city. Smaller than our transport. Sleek white paint that gleams like it’s never seen dust or blood.
It purrs to a stop twenty feet away.
The driver steps out. Black uniform, pressed sharp. He opens the back door and steps aside.
Three figures emerge. Two older men in crisp white shirts. Clean-shaven. Soft in the way that comes from never missing a meal, never sleeping on stone, never wondering if tomorrow will bring enough water to survive.
Behind them, a third man. Younger.
My breath catches.
He’s nothing like the others. Where they’re pale and soft, he’s all bronze skin and lean muscle.
So much muscle, oiled and glistening head to toe.
His loose black sleeveless shirt barely covers his bulging chest, the rise of his enormous pecs pronounced at the center of the deep neckline.
Dark hair falls almost to his shoulders, catching the light.
He’s tall enough that he has to look down at the older men when they speak to him.
He looks like a warrior.
He looks like a god.
Beautiful in a way that doesn’t belong here. In this wasteland. Among these people.
But his posture tells a different story. Ramrod straight, like a soldier at attention. Like someone who’s learned to hold himself ready for orders. Ready for violence. I recognize something of myself in that posture.
The two older men start at the far end of our line, talking quietly to each other. Their voices don’t carry, but I can see their mouths moving. Discussing something. Deciding something. The younger man trails behind them, silent.
Everyone in the line has gone still. Too still. Like we’re all holding our breath, waiting for something terrible to happen.
The silence stretches until it feels like a physical weight pressing down on my chest. Even the guards have stopped their casual chatter. Whatever’s about to happen, they know what it is.
Caspian shifts beside me, leaning close enough that his shoulder brushes mine. When he speaks, it’s barely a whisper—so quiet I almost miss it.
“You know, it wouldn’t be hard to make them shoot you. If that’s what you wanted.”
My heart stops. Suddenly I understand the silence. The stillness. The way everyone’s trying not to draw attention.
They’re choosing. The men in white shirts are moving down the line, choosing what happens to us. They study each face, exchange a few words, then glance back at the younger man. He nods once—sharp, decisive.
They say something to the guards. Two soldiers step forward and drag the first three men away from the line, back toward the truck.
Relief floods their faces and I almost laugh—how do they know what their fate entails?
They could be on their way to a butcher, to be chopped up for meat, for all they know.
The men in white shirts move on.
Closer now. My heart thunders as they approach the middle of the line. The younger man’s eyes sweep over each captive with clinical assessment. Like he’s examining livestock at market.
“What about this one, Marco?” one of them asks him.
Marco. That’s his name. This strange, beautiful man who is deciding our fates.
They stop in front of the next prisoner. The older men confer briefly, then look to Marco for his opinion. Why does he get to call all the shots? Who is he?
Marco considers for a moment, head tilted slightly. Those dark eyes take in the captive’s face, his build, the way he holds himself, lingering on an open wound on his thigh that’s festering with days of heated travel.
“No.” His voice is lower than I expected. There’s no emotion in it at all.
One of the older men nods at a soldier. The guard raises his rifle.
The shot splits the night.
The man drops. Blood spreads beneath his head, dark against the pale dirt.
Chaos erupts down the line.
Someone screams. The hollow-cheeked man beside me reels backward, terror overriding sense. But the chain connecting us all yanks him up short after half a step. He crashes into the man next to him, who stumbles into the next person, and suddenly the entire line wavers like a rope in the wind.
“Stay in formation!” a guard shouts.
But panic spreads faster than the command. A man near the end of the line throws himself sideways, trying to break free from his shackles. The chain goes taut. Three other prisoners get dragged off balance, falling in a tangle of limbs and iron.
The guards don’t hesitate.
Crack.
The man who’d tried to break free jerks once, then falls still.
Crack.
Another shot takes down someone who’d been struggling too hard against his bonds, his desperate thrashing marking him as a threat.
Crack. Crack.
Two more prisoners—ones who’d been shouting, drawing attention to themselves in their terror. They drop where they stand, still connected to the rest of us by iron links.
The line goes dead silent, as if any sound at all might invite the next bullet.
One of the white-shirted men walks over to the nearest corpse. He nudges it with his boot, rolling the man onto his back. Blood pools around the shattered skull, reflecting that harsh artificial light like spilled oil.
“What a waste.” He shakes his head, genuine disappointment in his voice. Like he’s lamenting spoiled meat. “Could have been useful laying bricks.”
The rest of us freeze in place. The weight of dead bodies pulls at the chains, throwing off our balance, but no one dares move to adjust. Every muscle locked tight, afraid that shifting might draw their attention.
Marco hasn’t even blinked. He stands perfectly still, bronze skin glowing in the moonlight, watching the blood spread with the same detached interest someone might show a passing butterfly.
The white shirts resume their inspection. Closer now. Close enough that I can see the fine fabric of their clothes, the gold thread embroidered along their cuffs. Clean hands that have never held a shovel or pulled a fishing net.
They stop in front of the man to my left.
He’s older than me—maybe sixty, with graying hair and calloused palms. A laborer. One of the white shirts tilts his head, studying the man’s face like he’s reading a book.
“Hmm. Old, but decent muscle tone. No obvious defects.”
The second man nods. “The mines?”
The man being examined starts to shake. His breathing grows faster, more desperate.
Then he drops.
His knees hit the dirt hard enough that I wince. His chains clatter as he throws his hands up, palms pressed together.
“Please!” The word tears from his throat. “Please. Please don’t do this. Anything but that. Please don’t…”
Tears stream down his face. Snot runs from his nose. He’s sobbing now, great heaving gasps that make his whole body convulse.
“Please, I’m begging you, let me go. I’ll give you everything I have—”
Marco starts to laugh.
Not a cruel laugh. Not mocking or harsh. Just… amused. Like the desperate man has told him a particularly good joke. The sound is rich and warm and completely at odds with everything happening around us. I can’t help but glance at Caspian, who raises his eyebrow in reply.
The white shirts look at the man on the floor, then at each other. One of them starts chuckling too. The other covers his mouth, shoulders shaking with suppressed mirth.
“Oh, that’s good,” a white shirt says. “As if that’s how this works.”
The begging man looks up at him, confusion cutting through the terror on his face.
One of the white shirts looks back at Marco, as if awaiting his word.
The condemnation is low and swift. “He won’t last a week down there. It’s not worth the bread to feed him.”
The shot comes instantly.
The man’s head snaps back. His body crumples sideways, still twitching. More blood on the ground.
Marco turns his head toward me.
Those bottomless eyes meet mine. For a moment, everything else disappears—the corpses, the soldiers, the distant city walls. Just him looking at me like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.
Up close, his beauty is even more striking. Sharp cheekbones, perfect jawline, skin that looks like it’s been kissed by summer sun. But there’s something wrong with his eyes. Something empty behind all that warmth.
Like looking into the eyes of a well-fed shark.
The two white shirts step aside like courtiers making way for royalty. He moves forward, closing the distance between us until I can smell him—lavender soap and something expensive. Nothing like the sweat and fear that clings to the rest of us.
His hand rises toward my face.
I jerk back, but there’s nowhere to go. A soldier behind me blocks any retreat, and the chains around my wrists make it impossible to defend myself properly.
His fingers brush my cheek.
The touch is gentle. Almost tender. Like he’s examining something precious, something fragile that might break if he’s too rough. His thumb traces along my jawline, down to my chin. He tilts my head up, forcing me to meet his eyes.
The moment stretches. His thumb strokes across my cheekbones as if I’m something he owns. Or a horse he’s thinking of buying.
Every nerve is screaming wrong, wrong, wrong.
Rage floods through me. Hot and pure and sharp and all-consuming.
How dare this man decide who lives and dies, as if he’s a god? How dare he put his fucking hands on me?
“?Sabes qué, idiota?” The words come out in the old tongue, the dialect we use on Atrea when we don’t want outsiders to understand. You know what, asshole? “Agarra esas manitas tan lindas tuyas y métetelas por el culo.” You can take your pretty hands and shove them up your ass.
I gather the saliva in my mouth and spit directly into his face. It hits him square in the eye. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t step back. Just stands there for a moment, my saliva running down his cheek like a tear.
He wipes his face with the back of his hand, never breaking eye contact. The emptiness in his eyes flickers. Just for a second, something real cuts through. Something dangerous.
He leans closer to one of the white shirts. Whispers something in his ear.
That’s it, then. Dead because I couldn’t keep my fucking mouth shut. The thought slams into me, and something breaks loose in my chest. Laughter. Harsh and bitter, bubbling up from somewhere deep. I can’t stop it.
The official nods, making a note on whatever list he’s carrying.
Marco, his beautiful face now twisted with ugly malice, turns back to me. His fist comes up fast.
The world explodes into stars and darkness.