Chapter 1 #2
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.
Sticky fingers close over mine, the honey coating Adena’s hands as sweet as the spreading smile she shares with me.
My secret is stowed in the glint of her eyes, in the loyalty lining her expression.
I’ve spent so much of my life resigned to the fact that nothing would ever be real.
Every friendship false, every kindness calculated.
“Hide your feelings, hide your fear, and most importantly, hide behind your facade. No one can know, Paedy. Trust no one and nothing but your instincts.”
My father’s gentle voice is oddly jarring as it echoes in my head, reminding me that every part of my life should be a lie and the girl sitting before me should be as deceived as the rest of the kingdom.
Selfishness only stole my sanity for a single night, but that was all it took for me to endanger the both of us.
“Alright, enough talk of the Plague,” Adena says cheerily, scanning the alley before adding, “and your ... situation.”
I don’t bother stifling my snort. “It seems that two years haven’t been enough time for you to practice subtlety, A.”
I doubt she even heard me. Doubt she can focus on anything other than the fabric now gliding between her fingers.
With hazel eyes scanning over sewing supplies, Adena abandons our previous conversation to ramble about what pieces she’ll be making with the new silk.
Her warm brown hands dig through scraps of fabric in the flickering lamplight, beginning to fold edges, pin corners, prick fingers, curse relentlessly.
We fall into the type of easy conversation that only comes after spending years surviving on the streets together, making it easy to interpret Adena’s garbled words around the pins pressed between her lips.
I roll over, finally falling quiet as I watch her steady fingers and furrowed brow, too engrossed with her work to sleep.
A stabbing pain in my side has my drooping eyes flying open, drowsiness forgotten. The jagged stone jutting up from the alley floor has me groggily grumbling, “Mark my words, I’m going to steal a cot one day.”
Adena rolls her eyes at me, just as she does every night I make the same empty promise. “I’ll believe it when I feel it, Pae,” she singsongs.
I’ve rolled over about a dozen times before a scratchy, balled-up blanket collides with my head. “If you don’t quit your squirming, I swear I’ll sew you to the bloody ground,” Adena says with all the sweetness of a sticky bun.
“I’ll believe it when I feel it, A.”