Chapter 3
Chapter Three
On the night of the Commanders’ Ball, I’m sitting in front of a screen in my tiny room, watching a nature documentary about the packs of Ur-wolves surrounding the Disputed Lands.
I’m watching, but what I’m truly thinking about is the footage that Stella showed me the last time we trained.
I’m doing my best not to linger on it. But how can I, when the whole of tonight is a reminder of how much of a failure I am?
In the end, I couldn’t even secure an invitation to the Healers’ Ball. I never managed to recover those points that Chrissy had taken off on the day of the Field Healing Simulation.
Hardly even a Healer, she’d said, within earshot of Top Team.
On the screen, the Ur-wolves have successfully hunted down a deer and they start devouring it. I stop the documentary. The very last thing I want to see is how the weak are being culled.
I pull out my ART, ready to read a bit more about nutrition supplements, when it pings and the screen lights up.
It’s a message from Stella.
You’re cordially invited to the Commanders’ Ball.
Please adhere to the strict dress code.
My heart almost stops altogether. I blink at the message, uncomprehending. Then, the doubts begin sinking in.
Is this an elaborate joke?
I check the sender again. Everything seems legitimate. It’s Stella. But I still can’t believe it. A true invitation to the Commanders’ Ball – that would be akin to a miracle. And miracles don’t happen to people like me.
I call up Stella. ‘Is this true?’ I ask, my voice wavering.
Her projection materialises in front of me. ‘Of course it is. If I were you, I’d start getting dressed already,’ she says. ‘Admission begins in half an hour.’
‘Thank you. But you could have given me a bit of a heads up,’ I say. Why am I, of all people, invited to the Commanders’ Ball? ‘Are you behind this?’
Since I have a special relationship with Stella, it isn’t out of the question. She’s not allowed to have favourites, but she has a bit of wiggle room.
‘You could say so,’ she says. ‘Now move.’
I decide to question her tomorrow, when I’m not in such a hurry to get dressed.
I pull out of my wardrobe my only piece of eveningwear: a plain, dark blue jumpsuit, made of a stretchy fabric that accentuates my hourglass figure.
Dresses have been out of fashion for more than a century.
As a city of Warriors, practicality and freedom of movement for women has long been favoured over flowery dresses.
And my jumpsuit is elegant in its simplicity.
Most importantly, it doesn’t look cheap.
Usually, only the high-ranking Apprentices get invited to the Commanders’ Ball, and they’re better paid, so they can afford nice things.
If I don’t want to look like an impostor tonight, like the underachiever that I am, I have to look impeccable.
The jumpsuit looks neat, but shoes are going to be a problem. Pretty shoes cost a fortune.
I hurry to the bathroom. I open my bun, and my dark brown hair falls on my back in loose curls that show off nicely the amber highlights. The latter cost me a fortune, but they were a good investment. I carefully paint my cheekbones in gold, then inspect my eyelid palette.
Tonight is my night. It’s a miracle and I’ll make the best of it. I’ll never, ever be handed an opportunity like this again.
My decision is made. ‘Stella,’ I ask. ‘Please show me my shoes wish-list.’
The surface of the mirror lights up with the shape of half a dozen pairs of shoes, but my eyes go directly to the top right corner. I know what I’ll see there: evening sneakers made of a pearly white leather, with golden thread. The sole is raised and narrows at the back.
I tap on their reflection on the mirror, zooming in on the most beautiful shoes I’ve ever laid eyes on, until their reflection is as large as my mirror. And then, I see the price.
My mouth goes dry.
‘You should leave in ten minutes, if you don’t want to be late,’ Stella prompts.
‘Okay, okay.’ I get back to my eyes, painting them with dark brown and shimmering gold powder, then use the eyeliner to make them even more catlike. I’m quite adept at make-up: it’s just another way to look put together and give at least the appearance that I’m successful.
The make-up is perfect. My jumpsuit is perfect. Can I let my cheap shoes give me away for the failure that I am?
I tap on the surface of the mirror with trembling fingers.
A few motions, and my entire savings go poof, but a clanking sound from my bedroom tells me that my purchase is already on its way.
I hurry out of the bathroom just as the delivery chute opens, and the most beautiful shoes I’ve ever seen land in my lap.
Yes, tonight will be perfect. Tonight, I’ll be who I always wanted to be.
I rush to the ball in my new shoes.
They make me look taller. More confident. Like someone who does, in fact, belong, at a high-profile ball. Even if walking so fast in them is no piece of cake.
The ballroom is on the eleventh floor of the Command Centre, and that’s where the Moving Tunnel deposes me: in front of a tall, golden arch. I scan the invitation on my ART, hoping it will work. Some part of my brain still seems to think this is an elaborate joke.
Miraculously, the huge doors open for me.
I stop at the entrance, breathless.
I’m at the top of stairs that descend onto an enormous dance floor made of dark tiles, lit up by insertions of blue, glimmering electrical lights that go off in moving patterns.
The dance floor is half-full, still providing the opportunity for everyone to see and be seen. That’s the point. It’s supposed to be an exclusive event.
At the back of the room, there’s a stage where a band is performing, and on either side are four towers, on top of which scantily dressed acrobats and dancers are showing off their skills.
On the left-hand side, there’s a huge table laden with chocolate and drinks fountains. I’ve never seen so much food piled up together. Since resources are so limited at The Citadel, we often get the same bland stew for lunch and dinner. This table looks like sheer decadence.
My eyes go to the back corner of the ballroom and, like a compass pointing north, find Mace’s silhouette. He’s breathtaking in a plain shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, which shows off the sheer breadth of his shoulders.
Xandra, the only girl in Top Team, is clutching his arm. Of course he came with Xandra. They’re speaking to a man who is dressed in a slick uniform. I realise with a start it must be one of the Commanders.
How often, in the nine years since we were separated, have I dreamed of being in the same room as Mace again?
Last week, I was in the stands and he, in the arena, but those dozens of feet were a chasm I couldn’t cross.
We could have been on different planets: he was the one everyone was watching, and I was no one.
I never thought that I was even worthy of approaching him.
My heart thumps hard in my chest. I’ve always been so afraid to seek him out.
But tonight feels full of possibilities – and tonight will be the night when I finally say ‘hi’ to Mace Hardfield, after all this time. If there was ever a time to be brave, it’s today.
I weave between the dancing silhouettes, making my way towards him. I’m just a few steps away when Xandra says something that has all three of them laughing. Central Command are barely aware of my existence, let alone ever laugh at a joke I make.
A figure stops in front of me. He’s wearing tight, black trousers, and a smart shirt with rolled-up sleeves. His short, dark hair has been styled in spikes. He looks good in a casual, rakish way that suits him.
‘Julian?’ I say.
He blinks, then a small smile curves his mouth. ‘Ellen, right?’
He picks up two champagne flutes from a server walking by. I think he’s going to offer me one, but he just downs both in quick gulps.
Mace is still speaking to the Commander, his back to me. I want to catch his gaze, but I can’t. I can only see a cheekbone, the stubble on his jaw.
Xandra turns. I’m standing so close to Julian now, and she scrutinises both of us.
She’s spotless in her sky-blue jumpsuit, which leaves her back bare and her strong arms on show.
Her hair is styled in loose waves and she’s wearing the sort of smoky eye make-up that makes the blue of her irises seem unimaginably bright.
And cold.
I open my mouth to introduce myself, when she cuts me off, with a glare. ‘Who’s this, Julian?’
‘This is Ellen,’ he says. ‘The lowest ranking Healer in the Quarter.’
I flush furiously, hoping that Mace isn’t overhearing this exchange.
I feel as small as a mouse. No matter what I do, I can’t escape who I am.
My own status in this city. Sometimes, I wish that I could just leave.
But there’s nowhere for me to go. The other kingdoms hate us so deeply, that they would kill me on the spot.
We keep seeing newsreels with images of people who’ve escaped The Citadel lying in pools of their own blood.
I’d seen one of a heavily pregnant woman, too.
I still feel nauseous thinking about that and the warnings that are constantly shoved down our throats.
Do not try to leave The Citadel. This is what will happen to you.
No wonder I’ve never stepped foot outside of our city. The Disputed Lands are harsh and dangerous – and what awaits us beyond them is even worse.
Xandra points at the two empty champagne flutes in Julian’s hands. ‘Did you already down both of those?’
‘How clever of you to notice,’ Julian deadpans.
‘Get your shit together,’ she says. ‘Ease up on the drinking. What if the Test Missions start tomorrow and you’re dealing with a massive hangover?’
‘Relax, sugar,’ says Julian. ‘We’re probably weeks away from the Missions. And not even Command would be so evil as to send us out the morning after the party of the year.’
‘That sounds exactly like something they’d do.’