Chapter 29 Thou Shalt Not Hug Ghosts Too Tight.
Thou Shalt Not Hug Ghosts Too Tight.
“Dylan is always late,” Greg groans, kicking a rock around the dirt floor of the makeshift training grounds. He shoots me a look like he wants me to agree with him.
I don’t. “Then go hit a dummy if you’re bored,” I snap. “And stop talking about him like that. You know student housing is further away than where his mom lived.”
Greg backs off. He should know better than to badmouth my best friend around me.
The doors creak open as he walks in. His hair’s sticking up like he ran the entire way here, and there’s a dark bruise blooming under his eye.
My stomach drops. I jog over. “Dyl? What happened? Did someone jump you on your way here?”
He doesn’t meet my eyes. That’s not like him. “Just sparring practice,” he mumbles.
“That’s crap,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “You never spar without me. And that’s your third black eye this month. We’re best friends. We’re supposed to tell each other everything.”
He jumps and flinches away from me. Actually flinches.
Dylan doesn’t flinch. Not when older kids tried shaking him down for rations.
Not when we snuck out on freezing nights and heard the soldiers yelling across the barracks.
We’ve seen the same ugly things since we were four.
But now, looking at him… he looks smaller.
Like the world is closing in on him, not the other way around.
And it doesn’t stop.
A week later, he shows up with a limp. Says he tripped on the stairs. The week after, a cut on his cheek that’s too clean to be from a fall. Then his wrist is wrapped. Then he wears long sleeves even when it’s too warm for them.
Every time, the same shrug. The same “don’t worry about it.”
But he’s shrinking. Quieter. Jumpier. His eyes flick around like he’s waiting for someone to appear out of nowhere.
And every day he’s thinner. His cheekbones stick out. His clothes hang wrong.
Something’s wrong.
One afternoon after training, I try again. I try every day, but today I grab his sleeve so he has to look at me.
“Come by my house later,” I say, keeping my voice light even though my stomach’s knotted. “We’ll play cards. Like old times.”
He pulls his arm back like I burned him. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
He just mutters, “Just leave it, Brix.”
“I’m not leaving it.” My throat feels too tight. “Talk to me. Please. You’re my best friend. You’re supposed to—”
He cuts me a look, panicked almost. Glancing around like someone’s watching. “Not here.”
He shakes his head, tight-lipped. “You wouldn’t get it.”
“I’d get it if you let me. You know I would. We’re supposed to tell each other everything.” I hold out my hand for the promise handshake we made up years ago.
He tugs me toward the little storage shed behind the training grounds, the one that smells like old rope and metal dust. Once the door swings shut, he stares at the floor, fists shaking.
“The student housing…” He swallows hard enough I can hear it. “Brix, it’s bad.”
I don’t breathe.
“The kids there don’t care about rules. Or teachers. Or anything. If you’re weak, they… they make you pay for it.” His voice cracks. “
“They gang up in groups and.. I don’t have anyone. I’m trying to get stronger, but I can’t keep up. There’s no one to help me. The adults don’t care. There’s no one to stop them. People disappear, Brix.”
He shakes his head fast. “I’m scared.”
The words hit me like a punch. Wraths don’t say they’re scared. Not even kids. It goes against our nature. How bad do things have to be to have him feeling like this?
“I won’t make it another year,” he whispers. “I can feel it.”
Dread hits me hard. Everything inside me goes hot and sharp at once.
“Come stay with me,” I blurt. “I’ll talk to my mom. She’ll make room. She always makes room.”
Dylan’s eyes go wide with terror. “No. No, Brix, listen. You can’t tell anyone. If they find out that I said anything—” His breath shudders. “They’ll kill me.”
Kill. Not hurt. Kill.
“I’ll protect you,” I say, because it’s the only thing I have. “I don’t care who it is. I’ll fight them. I’ll fight all of them. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
He just looks at me — tired, scared, older than ten.
And that’s the first time I realize some people don’t get to be kids in Wrath.
Some of us have to fight way sooner.
Days pass. And then weeks. I try to help, stay around him at school and help him train. But I can’t do anything when he goes back to that house of horrors.
One day, Dylan stops coming to school. I wait, check, ask teachers — everyone shrugs, gives some sort of excuse every time.
“Where’s Dylan? He’s been gone eight days,” I demand to Mr. Fisher.
“Not my problem,” one says, flicking a hand like I’m an annoying fly. “Get to your class.”
I feel a flush of fury, but also panic. “He’s my friend! Someone needs to check!”
“That’s not my job. My job is to teach. You’re still here. You need to focus on your own studies,” he says.
Still here. The words hit me like a stone. My stomach twists. My fists clench. This isn’t normal. This isn’t right.
After school, I shove through the doors of Student Housing, fists balled, pretending I’m not shaking.
I shouldn’t be here. Dylan said not to come. But he also told me he was scared, and I am determined to find my best friend.
The air hits me first—wet and sour, like something got left in a bucket too long. I wrinkle my nose, trying not to gag. The hallways are dim even though the lights buzz overhead like dying bugs. The floor squishes under my boots. I don’t want to know why.
A kid about our age sits against the wall, hugging his knees. His eye is swollen shut, and there’s a bloody tissue stuffed up one nostril. He doesn’t look at me—just stares straight ahead, like he’s trying not to exist.
I swallow hard and keep moving.
Someone’s arguing behind a door. No, yelling. Something heavy hits the wall, and the whole frame rattles. I flinch before I can stop myself. A small, maybe six or seven, lets out a whimper. My stomach twists.
Dylan lives here?
I pass a room with the door cracked open.
A mattress sits on the floor — no frame, no sheets.
Just a thin blanket bunched up like someone had tried to make a nest. The walls have dark streaks down them—water damage or something worse.
A kid lies on the mattress, turned away from me, ribs sticking out like he’s made of only bones and skin.
I try to breathe through my mouth. That’s worse. The air tastes like mold.
I walk faster.
I round the corner, heart pounding so loud it echoes in my ears. “Dylan?” I hiss under my breath. “Dyl—”
A group of older boys leans near the end of the hall, blocking the way.
They’re whispering about something, but it’s the way they whisper that makes my hands sweat—low, mean, like they’re planning something.
One of them has bandages wrapped around his knuckles.
Another has dried blood on his shirt. I don’t think it’s his.
I duck into a doorway before they see me. My throat feels tight. I’ve fought before—Wrath kids always do—but this place feels different. There are no rules here. No adults shouting to break it up. Just… whatever this is.
I peek back out once the boys turn away. Then I run—quiet but fast—down the next hallway.
“Dylan!” I say a little louder, voice cracking.
Halfway down the hall, someone grabs my sleeve. I jerk back, ready to swing, but it’s just a tiny girl with patchy braids and big eyes. “Shh…” she says. “You’ll make them mad.”
“Where is Dylan Briorson’s room?” I ask.
Her face crumbles, and she leads me to a nearby door.
“That was his bunk.” She says, pointing at a bare mattress.
My throat feels tight, like I swallowed a fist. His bed… it’s empty. Everything’s gone. There’s nothing here that shows Dylan even exists.
“No…” I whisper. My voice cracks as I remember him saying, people disappear.
“He’s gone?” I ask her, and she nods her head, a tear slipping down her cheek.
Dropping to the floor, I pound the stone with my fists.
I bite my lip until it splits, and I taste blood.
My eyes burn, and I can’t stop shaking. Dylan…
my best friend. And the people who did this?
They’ll never get caught. Because no one cares about these kids left to student housing.
No one cares if a few disappear. It’s survival of the fittest.
That night, I lie on my crate bed, staring at the cracked ceiling, trying not to think about the halls of Student Housing. Every time I close my eyes, I see bruises. Hear the yelling. Smell the rot.
A soft shuffle breaks the quiet.
“Brix?” A tiny whisper. My little sister—Lina.
She’s clutching her blanket, toes curling on the cold floor. Her eyes are wide, shiny with tears she’s trying hard not to blink out.
“I had a bad dream,” she mumbles. “Um… can I…?” She lifts the blanket a little, meaning: Can I come in?
I scoot over. She crawls into the bed, small and warm, her tiny fingers fisting the corner of my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll disappear.
We lie there in the dark, the house creaking with every winter wind.
After a long minute, her voice pipes up again—small, shaky. “I know we’re not supposed to say when we’re scared,” she whispers. “Wraths don’t. I’m sorry; I tried to be brave. Will you not tell anyone? Please?”
My chest goes tight. Angry at the world. At rules that make little kids swallow fear like it’s poison. Angry that she even has to ask.
“I won’t tell,” I whisper back. “Ever.”
She lets out a breath like she’s been holding it all night. She presses closer, falling asleep.
I stay awake.
I think about how she jumped at shadows last week. How our other sisters pretend they don’t hear Mom crying when she thinks we’re asleep. How, one day, when Lina’s old enough, Mom will have to go fight for our faction, and I might already be gone—sent off at twenty like every other Wrath soldier.
And then what? Who keeps them safe?
The Student Housing halls flood into my mind again—dark, hungry, cruel.