21
My trial arrives three days later.
It’s morning, and I’m given a full tray of food and clean clothes to change into. I’ve been fed adequately, but I could really use a shower. I pull on the black shirt and pants and stuff my feet into the same boots I arrived in.
Still, I’m grateful for it all. I understand that I’ve been afforded these privileges thanks to my father and maybe a few secret strings pulled by General Sol.
Then I try to smooth my hair back, running my fingers through it and knotting it into a braid to tame my frizzy locks. I stare at the ends, the bright amethyst streaks, and the deeper purple, so dark it’s nearly black.
A sign that my father knew what I was hiding.
General Sol encouraged a silly fashion trend to protect herself and people like me.
I had no idea that she was saving my life before I even understood what I was.
My respect for her and everything she’s tried to protect grows at that moment.
All I’d ever seen was a distant leader, steady and unyielding, but I didn’t understand the burdens she was carrying.
I think about the first time I saw Rook and that deep flash of purple hair, and some instinctive part of me knew we were the same. Maybe it’s part of why we were so drawn to each other when everything was telling us to keep our distance.
Heavy footsteps mark the arrival of a pair of Extinguishers dressed in their bloodred uniforms. One is the infamous Lieutenant Dire.
His dark hair is slicked back from his forehead, and he’s grown out his beard, making him appear older.
I remember the furious look on his face as he dragged Trinity into the ballroom with his arm clamped around her throat. I’ll never forget it.
My other escort is a woman of average height with dyed purple hair twisted into two long braids.
They both wear stunners strapped to their backs, and they stop outside my cell, expressionless.
They look mean. They look like they’d much rather sentence me to death without the annoyance of a trial to prove my innocence.
“Morning, darling,” Lieutenant Dire sneers, all warmth and sunshine.
He waves a keycard against my cell’s lock, and it hisses open, sliding away on smooth tracks. I say nothing as they cuff my wrists behind my back with a bit more roughness than necessary.
I am resigned to this fate. There is no point in fighting it.
They march me down long, silent corridors. I’ve suspected I’m the only prisoner here, and that’s confirmed as we pass a dozen empty cells. I doubt it’s because I’m their only captive.
Sol said they’ve been rounding up people left and right.
But it’s obvious they wanted to keep me separated.
Because I’m a danger to them? Because they wanted to keep my presence quiet? Because of everything I know?
We arrive at an elevator and ride all the way up, seventy floors to the very top of the Citadel. Until this moment, I felt relatively calm and in control of what was happening.
We had a plan. Sort of. I had no choice but to offer myself up as a sacrifice.
But as we enter a soaring foyer paneled with slick gray tiles, my courage falters and trips on its face.
Every surface is polished to a high shine, and the words Protect. Preserve. Prosper. are embedded into the floor in flowing silver script.
For some reason, that makes me more nervous than anything.
The words were a promise. The tenets around which this entire world was built.
But that promise was a lie.
And now, I know the truth.
We march through the empty space, and I look up to see that the roof is made of windows that expose the sky. Clouds tumble over each other, flashing with points of amethyst light. A storm is coming.
That’s when the itching starts.
It begins in my fingers and travels up my palms and wrists, creeping up my arms.
I can’t react. I can’t let anyone see how the storm affects me.
Another set of wide doors awaits us, revealing a rounded room with windows.
I start to panic, my vision blurring and white noise filling my ears.
But I force myself to focus. Now isn’t the time to fall apart. I must be alert, on my game, if I have any chance of surviving this.
My escort pulls me in, where again the words Preserve. Protect. Prosper. are etched into the floor in a circle. Each word feeds into the other like a snake devouring its own tail.
They take me to the center of the room, release me, and step away.
Ahead of me is a long, curved table, and three people sit behind it.
On the left is Chancellor Tennessee Marks. His graying brown hair is artfully coiffed, swooping up from his forehead, while his dark, beady eyes bore into me. He wears his signature robe, his hands folded on the table as he stares at me.
On the right is Chancellor Colt Orsen, his thinning, dark-brown hair combed neatly.
He’s wearing an expensive-looking charcoal suit that shimmers under the lights.
He’s sitting back in his chair, one ankle resting on a knee, his posture casual.
He glances at me, then at the others, as if he’s wondering what we’re all doing here.
And in the center sits General Sol. She’s watching me intently, and our eyes meet. I wish I could read her mind right now. Today, she’s her usual formidable self. Not the vulnerable woman who sat in High Commander Athira’s study and confessed her sins.
She’s wearing her signature black leather, and her straight midnight hair hangs on either side of her face, bearing that single vibrant streak.
When I look at her, I sense no flicker of acknowledgment.
Suddenly, I wonder if everything she claimed was another lie.
A ruse to get me to return to the city for some reason she never disclosed.
Why did we all just believe her?
But what would be the point?
She could have just ordered her guards to handcuff me and drag me back.
She promised she would earn our trust.
She blinks, and I see it. A flicker of assurance. At least I hope.
“Thank you for joining us,” Chancellor Marks says, sitting forward in his seat. I don’t answer because what choice did I really have? “You’ve been accused of a crime, Poet Graves. You are infected and a danger to everyone around you.”
I nod. “Yes, Chancellor.”
“And today you’re here to prove your innocence?”
“Yes,” I answer, my voice shakier than I would like.
The clouds outside tumble, more lights flashing across the sky.
This high up, it’s almost like we’re sitting inside the storm, and it’s doing nothing to settle my nerves.
More itching climbs over my scalp, and I try desperately not to squirm.
With my hands tied up, I can’t scratch my arms regardless. Maybe they did me a favor.
The three members of The Shield share a range of looks I can’t fully interpret before Chancellor Marks turns to me again and offers me an oily smile.
“Then I suppose we should get started.”