Chapter 1
Serafina
Some must die, so others may live. Some must die, so others may live. The phrase echoes in my mind as I walk down the alley lined with decaying brick walls. Reaching out, I drag my finger across the rust-colored surface, enjoying the feel of the crumbling clay.
The apartments down this way were built centuries ago, and they haven’t been maintained. Why would they be? No one lives in these neighborhoods.
At least, not anymore.
Most of the homes in Village 28 are empty—they’ve been empty—but that’s exactly how it needs to be.
Some must die, so others may live. It’s the saying of our people. What’s been recited to us every day for as long as I can remember. But even after being told those words countless times, they still feel thick on my tongue—unnatural even—and I worry that feeling will never go away.
Beneath my feet, the bone-dry dirt scuffs my worn leather moccasins. Moccasins I took from under my sister Telfi’s bed the morning after she was killed. They’re too big for me, but I wear them anyway. I’ve been wearing them for four years, waiting for the day they fall apart completely.
I pick up my pace. I rarely take this way home. No Enforcers patrol this route, considering these streets to be abandoned.
But that’s what makes them dangerous.
I look to the sky, to where a thin line of faded blue fills the space between the vacant buildings. The sun is setting. It’ll be dark soon.
If only my legs hadn’t been so tired. If only my feet hadn’t been so swollen from a long day of bartering in the market, trying to trade my homemade salves for something—anything—that would put a smile on my mother’s face.
With my final trial rapidly approaching, she’s been a bit more sullen than usual.
But they were.
So here I am, taking the quickest route home, telling myself it’s worth the risk.
Only it isn’t.
Because someone’s following me.
They’ve been following me.
I picked up on it a few streets back. With the third trial only sixty days away, I should’ve expected this. Each village is only allowed one hundred graduates, and as of this morning, there are just over two hundred of us.
There are rules about attacking someone outside of the trial window. Rules that are known to be broken, but the Enforcers rarely bat an eye when they are. In their minds, if you can’t survive until the trial, then you wouldn’t have survived during the trial.
And truthfully? They’re right.
I hold in a curse, sensing my pursuer growing closer and closer. I’m all too aware of the sharp metal blade strapped to my outer thigh, hidden beneath my sand-colored skirt blowing angrily in the heated wind.
Turning the corner, I reach for the blade, dropping my satchel full of healing balms to the ground. The glass containers clink together, and I cringe at the thought of even a single one breaking.
I press my back flush against the side of the building, the rough edge of a brick digging into my shoulder and threatening to tear the thin white blouse that belonged to my mother when she was my age.
I think back to the many books I’ve read about the human body. I know where every vital organ lives, where each major artery pulses beneath the surface of the skin. If I couldn’t be stronger, then I needed to learn how to fight smarter.
And I’ve spent years doing exactly that.
The thigh or the jugular, those are my best options.
I hold my breath and count to three.
One. The heavy footsteps grow louder.
Two. They’re almost here.
Three. I push myself off the wall and directly into the path of the hooded wannabe assassin.
My body slams into his—a hard wall of tense muscle. Air flees my lungs, but with a steady hand, I hold my blade to his throat and heave in a big breath.
Before I say a word, before I can even think of what to say, I’m met with a burst of deep, rolling laughter. Laughter I recognize. Laughter I’ve heard countless times.
“Char,” I say between gritted teeth. “I could’ve killed you!” I click my blade, so the pointed end is hidden before giving him a hard shove.
“Sorry, Fi,” he quips, calling me by my childhood nickname.
He removes his hood and gives me that cocky half-grin of his. The one where a dimple forms on his right cheek. The one that lights up his entire face, making the women in our village giggle and swoon.
But I don’t giggle.
And I don’t swoon.
But I can still appreciate how the smile reaches his blue eyes, making his irises even more vibrant. The same eyes that are now watching me carefully as I pull up my ankle-length skirt, just enough to slide my blade back into the leather strap wrapped around my leg.
“Eyes up here,” I say, feeling my body heat rise by his blatant perusal, but I know Char doesn’t see me that way. We’ve been friends for over half our lives, and in our world, that’s rare. We’re encouraged not to make friends.
Alliances? Sure. But friends? Absolutely not.
We’re told to wait until after the third trial because, chances are, those you befriend won’t make it past their twenty-first year. But Char and I could never stay away from each other. Bonded over our hatred of the Elites, the trials, and the general unfairness of it all.
He raises his hands, feigning innocence.
“Just making sure you secure it properly,” he jokes, earning a glimpse of my coldest glare, which only makes him laugh harder.
He knows damn well I know how to secure my own blade.
“I didn’t steal it for you just to have you lose it.
” His voice is smug, and I shake my head.
Although grateful for the weapon, and everything he risked to acquire it for me, he’s still a thorn in my side.
“What were you thinking? Sneaking up on me like that?” Bending down, I grab my satchel, holding my breath as I peek inside.
Everything’s intact. Thank the gods.
It took me weeks—months really—to find the ingredients needed to create these remedies.
Some being easier to get my hands on than others, like the silverwhisper that grows from the cracks in the streets and the sunthorn sprouts that sit in a pot perched on the windowsill of my bedroom.
But the dustveil leaves with their purifying properties and the desert ash which when properly prepared serves as the perfect antiseptic…
those items had been much more difficult to acquire.
Finally, I look back at Char.
He runs his calloused hand through his dark brown hair, a shade that matches my own, even though we couldn’t look more different.
Where his build is tall and muscular, mine is small and frail.
Where his skin is ivory in color, mine is a deep shade of olive, made even darker by the burning sun that I spend way too much time beneath.
But I suppose that’s to be expected when you’re constantly scouring the streets, searching for anything you can turn into a tonic or salve.
Char still hasn’t answered me, and I let out an exaggerated sigh.
“I asked you a question,” I remind him, and he rubs his jaw.
“I was thinking,” his grin vanishes, his eyes narrow, “that you were being foolish when you disappeared down that alley. I was thinking that if the wrong person saw you, they might think you were an easy target to take out before trial day. I was thinking—”
“That you would teach me a lesson?” I huff, turning on my heel, too annoyed to say much more.
I’m not a child. I can take care of myself. Char knows that.
At least, I thought he did.
“Fi, wait!” he calls after me, but I continue on my way.
“Fi!” he says again, only this time I can hear the shuffling of feet behind me.
He grabs my wrist, spinning me around with so much force, I almost lose my balance.
“Fi, I’m sorry. I just…we’re so close, you know?
” I don’t look at him, fixing my gaze instead on where his long, rough fingers press against my skin.
“So close to our third trial. So close to proving that we deserve to survive. To live.” His voice cracks, and my eyes lock on his. “I’m scared, Fi.”
The admission causes my heart to pound. Pound and pound so loud, I’m sure he can hear it.
Char doesn’t get scared.
He doesn’t do scared.
“You’re going to be fine, Char,” I tell him, my voice soothing, the anger suddenly gone and replaced by the desire to see the crease in his forehead ease. “There were even people in the market today placing bets on you. Everyone thinks you’ll come out on top.”
Char’s the strongest of our class, the tallest, and the fastest. We may not know exactly what’ll happen on trial day, but he’ll be prepared for whatever it is.
When he’s not with me, he’s training. Both his mind and his body. All of his siblings have made it through, which isn’t common. There’s never been a question of whether or not he’ll succeed in the final trial, but even so, Char never fails to put added pressure on himself.
His father is the mayor of Village 28, and all Char’s ever wanted is to follow in his footsteps, but only those who rank number one in their year are allowed to run. He’ll have to wait until he’s older, but winning the final trial is the first step needed to make it happen.
“You don’t get it,” he says, squeezing my wrist even tighter.
I tilt my head because what could I possibly not get? The only reason Char might not secure position number one is if there’s a hidden Essentari among us. Is that what he’s worried about? An Essentari? But Essentari are rare. So rare that our village hasn’t seen one in over ten years.
“I’m not scared for myself, Fi.”
Finally, understanding washes over me, and I see red. Literal red—a phenomenon that happens more often than I’ll ever admit because seeing the world drenched in a shade that unmistakably matches the color of blood is far from normal.
“You’re scared for me, is that it?” Heat blazes beneath my skin, and I rip my arm away, the anger I felt before back with a vengeance.
“So what if I am?” His hands fly into the air. “Is that really such a bad thing? That I worry about you? That I care about you?”
“Yes!” I scream, and I watch as his lips purse and his thick eyebrows weave together.
“No!” I place my palms over my eyes, trying to calm myself.
Controlling my emotions has never been easy.
Telfi’s favorite word to describe me was volatile.
“I don’t know!” I finally settle on. “But what I do know is that I don’t need you worrying about me.
I’ve made it this far, haven’t I? What I need is for my best friend to believe that I can make it through.
Because if you’re worried? Then, it feels like I don’t stand a chance. ”
He lets out a frustrated groan. “Fi, you’re smaller than everyone else—”
“My size,” I say slowly, my jaw so tight I can barely get the words out, “is not a disadvantage. I’m quick, Char.
You know I am. A few moments ago, I had this blade to your throat, did I not?
” I gesture toward the metal we both know rests just beneath my skirt.
The metal he gave me. The metal he taught me to use.
He smirks at that. “You did,” he agrees, stepping closer, an action that makes me cross my arms over my chest. “I’m sorry, Fi.
Really, I am.” He angles his head down, looking at me through long lashes.
“I just wouldn’t know what to do with myself if anything ever happened to you.
” The sincerity in his tone catches me off guard. “You know you mean a lot to me.”
He reaches for my wrist again, and this time, I let him take it. He uses his thumb to rub small circles on my palm.
“You mean a lot to me, too,” I say, forcing myself to return his smile, but there’s still a bitter taste on my tongue.
I worry about you. I try to shake it off, and instead of berating him further, I allow him to rest his arm around my shoulder, urging me back toward the main alley.
But when we round the corner, my eyes go wide because somehow, during our bickering, neither of us heard them approach.
Neither of us was aware of the danger that lurked just beyond the wall.
And neither of us are properly armed to take on the ten men who are standing there waiting.