Chapter 11
The Citadel looms like a prison. The Mercyenforcer guides me inside, but when I turn toward the cells, he directs me to follow him in a different direction.
“Contestants are arriving through the night and in the morning,” he says. “Tomorrow are the pre-tournament festivities.”
My fate is connected to convincing one of them I’m in love with them.
My heart thunders as I climb the stairs.
He leads me to a long hall full of people: Grainfolk in thin, breathy robes and dark tans from working out in the sun all day, Stonebound shepherds and miners in thick, dusty-brown wool tunics, and several Saltblood.
Dozens upon dozens have been chosen for the tournament, it looks like.
They clog the hall, with tentative smiles and excited whispers, gluing their gazes to the ground when a Mercyenforcer passes.
The hall stretches longer than Dockers Row with what must be nearly a hundred doors. My escort beckons me to follow.
The districts seem to stick together, Grainfolk with Grainfolk, smelling faintly of wheat and sun-warmed soil, their faded gray smocks streaked with stains and sweat-bleached from years in the fields.
Stonebound are with Stonebound, moving in crowded lines like quarry caravans—walls of muscle, some long and lean, others thick and broad, draped in the coarse gray lowborn dress with raw wool for warmth.
Saltbloods are all gathered together like tidewater in a gutter, silently watchful. I don’t recognize any of them, but I can tell by their salt-drenched skin, their gloves, and their hard stares that we are from the same district.
One of them watches me as I move through the crowd.
He’s ghost pale and tall Saltblood, with raven-black hair falling in a cascade of strands.
On one side of his head, his hair is shaved into a clean undercut, and dark inked art curls from his temple to his scalp, depicting a creature with a long tail.
A striking earring dangles from one ear, its gemstone gleaming.
A jeweled earring? Stolen, it has to be.
I watch him curiously, wondering what his trade could be.
Heartfillers like me? Or something else?
Did love bring him here? His gaze meets mine from across the room as if he can feel me watching him, and they flash with something like recognition.
I scan his features, searching for a memory to go with them.
But nothing comes. I think I’d remember him if I’d seen him before.
Mercyenforcers wade through the crowd with baskets full of gleaming yellow-faceted crystals. I break gazes with the Saltblood stranger.
“Last guaranteed chance to feel good!” they shout. “Get your final euphoria Heartfiller here! When the tournament begins you won’t have access to them!”
Commotion stirs near them, a demanding line forming around them. One shoves another. Someone shrieks.
“Order. We will have order!”
The chatter rises, and it feels like chaos. I walk faster.
“One Heartfiller per contestant!”
I give the ruckus a wide berth, sticking to my escort’s heels. “Get in line if you like,” he says to me. “I can wait.”
“I’ll go straight to my room,” I say. “I’m fine.”
He scratches his brow but continues to lead the way. Why am I being escorted? No one else is.
“Be ready to break your fast by sunrise.” He stops at a door, and I realize he is holding a pale-blue Heartfiller and a pair of keys, waiting for me to go inside.
“You’re locking me in?” I ask.
“You’ve committed a crime. Orders are to treat you as a criminal.”
I swallow my retort and open the door to my room but freeze immediately at broad windows with a view looking down on Skyhaven, more picturesque than anything I’ve ever seen. The guard clears his throat. He gestures at my chest with the sedative Heartfiller. “This one’s not a choice,” he says.
“I—” I can’t fake being sick. Not this time. I close my eyes and hold my collar aside as the cold glass touches my chest. An icy shudder shoves through me as the drug settles before spreading throughout my body.
The door lock clicks behind me, but I stand rigidly in place, taking in all of the room despite my chest tingling.
A long bench is beneath the window. Privacy curtains hang on either side of it, thick enough to shut out the world outside.
Enough to imagine that here, no one from our lives before exists.
Across from the view is a giant bed buried in blankets, ornamented and intricate like a shrine.
The entire room is lavish, with rich fabrics in pinks, gold, and deep violet.
The ceiling is painted with clouds and scenes of people embracing one another, touching, and kissing.
I force a foot forward and remove my gloves to run my hand along the bed linens.
There is a pair of silky sleeping clothes folded up on the bed.
They are the softest thing I’ve ever touched.
My gut cinches with guilt. Nichol and Miss Omon are spending tonight in a tent.
My head feels light, the sedative gnawing at my skull as it works its way through me.
On a small table there’s a glass tray with all kinds of liquids that have strong smells.
Authorized Scent No. 9—Curiosity
Authorized Scent No. 7—Electric Anticipation
Authorized Scent No. 18—Gentleness
Authorized Scent No. 2—Lingering Desire
Authorized Scent No. 16—Soft Ache
Authorized Scent No. 20—Emotional Yield
Authorized Scent No. 6—Allure
Authorized Scent No. 4—Tempered Affection
Authorized Scent No. 10—Mutual Regard
I smell Curiosity, and it turns my stomach, reminding me of the smell of the Evergild Gardens. I slide the jars off the desk into a waste bin.
Along the walls are a series of frames, some with papers: government-stamped love declarations, emotion permits, and grief waivers.
Privileges of the Skyborn. I’ve heard stories about how Skyborn live, but seeing it laid out like an exhibit—proof that feelings can be owned, granted, revoked, manipulated—makes it feel less like a lifestyle and more like a sentence.
There is even a vintage lowborn marriage certificate—when mothers and fathers could cohabitate with supervision—before it was reduced to signatures on state-approved procreation forms.
Other frames have photographs: the carnage of the Redwake rebels being captured, the Benevolent holding a flag, piles of bodies, and several sketches of lovers.
I have to squint to read the fine print in the frames. My head begins to throb, my vision blurring. Rebels snuck into Skyhaven and burned down the buildings where grief waivers are printed. If lowborn couldn’t grieve, neither would they. That was when the war turned, Miss Omon said.
It happened when I was young. I don’t remember much.
Miss Omon was living with her sister and helping in a mothers’ tenement.
Rations stopped, the water along the shore darkened, mixed with something that made everyone sick.
And eventually, the Benevolent sent Mercyenforcers into the districts in the middle of the night to arrest anyone affiliated with the rebels, anyone ever seen having a private conversation with them, of any age.
They were dragged from their beds, parents separated from children, made to watch as they were executed.
A large photograph in a fancy frame shows a line of stoic children, standing in front of freshly dug graves with shovels in one hand and their other hand lying flat over their heart.
Staring at death. I’ve smelled more dead bodies in my life than I can count.
I usually let my eyes blur them out. But now for some reason, looking at a mere photograph punches straight through me.
My throat goes dry, like the dirt they are standing in.
I glance away. A knot in my chest moves into my stomach and twists.
But I force myself to look back at the photograph of the dead and the children they left behind. They deserve to be seen.
I step closer, until the glass fogs with my breath. My hands tremble. Something weak and helpless curls in my gut. Then, it burns, sharp and hot, climbing my spine.
The Benevolent doesn’t want us to feel this…
He doesn’t want us to ache for them.
He just wants us to remember what happened—to fear that their fate could be ours.
But I let myself feel all the discomfort.
And everything that comes with it—confusion, anger, and fear as I stare at the children.
So many are Serafina’s size, holding pain like they were born to carry it.
The strange emotions are heavy on my chest, and yet I’m not sure I’ve ever felt more alive, like every raw, shaking piece of me is wide awake.
I have to make the people who did this believe I want to be one of them more than anything.
When I sit on the edge of the bed, a cloud of pink mist sprays overhead, another Scent.
My nose tickles as a strange feeling unsettles my senses.
I hold in a breath and dash away from the bed to the desk instead, trying not to breathe it in.
But every movement is more difficult than the one before it; my limbs are growing heavier. I yawn.
There is a stack of papers printed by the Bureau of Bonded Union on a low table beside a long cushioned seat.
It’s a calendar of dates with a few circled in hearts: The Binding Eve, the Purge of Passion, the Hour of Holding, Fleeting Hearts Festival, Comrade Recognition Day, Maternal Reverence Day.
We don’t celebrate any of these. The holidays we have in the Saltblood district are our seasonal days of thanks, when the entire district goes to our gates and places offerings of gratitude for the Benevolent.
Written in fine print is Duty Blues or Chastity Whites Are Approved for Ceremonies.
Expressions of love are not a right here either.
It’s another form of the Benevolent’s control. It’s a reminder of his power. I’m suddenly cold, hugging myself, craving some warm milk and one of those oat breads Miss Briss sometimes makes when there’s enough extra.