Chapter 1 #2
A dense crowd waits up ahead as the square appears.
Census Day. People sprawl in winding lines through the heart of the Saltblood district—the lowest of lowborn districts—where Dewy will clean out your teeth with vinegar and pull any bad ones for a silver, where Maiden Harriet can fix a broken mouth chain the same day, where Abigail Chandler and all eight of her children will hound you about their latest wax creation.
Today none of the usuals are here peddling.
Every Saltblood in Ethyria drifts around a towering stone figure at the center of the square, waiting their turn to be counted.
The Benevolent statue looms with one hand outstretched in mercy, the other clutching a heart in his fist. Some are gathered around leaving gifts.
Cobblestone ripples out from the statue’s base like a sunburst—except for one brick, near the back, slightly raised.
My heart ticks faster. The dirt around it is unsettled the way it is when someone’s left a message for me.
A request for my smuggled goods.
I can feel my pocket getting heavier, my chances to book passage rising. I’ll have to check it when the square is clear, after the census is finished.
Children are lined up along the bordered barricades, marking our district’s boundary, kicking stones and daring each other to touch the fence.
Just above them, bodies hang from the iron gates—some limp, some bound in twisted poses meant to shame.
One still wears a ribbon in her hair and a tie covers her mouth, marking that she was condemned for kissing in public.
Another hangs by her wrists, bare hands blistered and blackened for touching without clearance.
None of the children look up. They’ve seen it all before.
A pair of twins stick their hands through the metal gates, trying to grab the burgundy flowers growing in the pits outside our territory, until a Mercyenforcer makes them stop.
Miss Omon says that’s where they buried the Redwake rebels over a decade ago.
There are rumors more have risen up in the last few years because the fields of flowers have quietly grown.
“Get checked first, then get in the census line,” the Mercyenforcer orders.
I force down a dry breath and obey. I join the checkpoint line where Saltbloods shuffle silently in rows like prisoners on their way to execution. But with smiles. Wide-eyed, eager, anticipating smiles.
“She lives,” Ferdin—the fisherman who lives beneath our orphanage—salutes me, stopping as he passes me in line.
That’s his usual greeting when I return from smuggling with heavier pockets.
Saltbloods who are too frail to work as couriers, making the delivery route up the Dredge to the other districts, have to rely on trade.
His counter is the choice fish market in Dockers Row.
Probably in all the district. He’s often awake in the wee hours of morning on his way to catch food for the day when I’m just slipping back into the district, evading curfew.
“Just finished.” His thumb jabs his chest, which glows faintly from a Heartfiller.
Finished being checked. Finished being drugged.
“You look like you need more sleep, Axira. Maybe try a sedative filler the next few days.” Ferdin isn’t a tall man.
He’s lean with a beard that never quite fills in.
His boots are always damp, and he smells faintly of fish and salt.
He smells like home, like comfort. But he stares blankly at me, with glassy eyes and a serene smile, as if he’s not really registering that I’m here.
His brows are pulled too high, like he’s always surprised.
Always happy. Whether he wants to be or not.
I have to force myself not to glare at the dim light emanating from him.
It’s been fourteen days since my last Heartfiller. I don’t miss it.
“It’s good to see you, Ferdy.” That’s what Serafina calls him. It stuck.
The line shuffles forward quickly, and my heart knots in my chest as Heartfillers are dosed to each person up ahead. I’ve evaded having to take them for two weeks, but I’m not sure how I’m going to get through today without being forced to partake.
When the Benevolent took power in Ethyria, he brought peace to the island, guiding us into harmony by issuing these substances to fill us with good feelings.
Heartfillers.
Everyone working age—twelve years old—is required to use one each morning. For our good, they say. Your happiness is the Benevolent’s promise.
But the last dozen days have been fine. I am fine without it.
“Spread out these rows!” Another Mercyenforcer marches by.
I consider the space between myself and the person in front of me before scanning the ground for white space lines.
Then, I search for a head of thin gray hair or someone corralling a troupe of kids.
If Miss Omon is near the front of the line, maybe we can get back to the docks before the Saltblood streets are full of witnesses.
But there’s no sign of Miss Omon, Serafina, or the others in the checkpoint line.
“You stay out of trouble, Axira,” Ferdy says.