Untamed

Prologue

Haven

My mother is sentenced to die today.

The sun hangs low, casting a dim shadow across the square, and whispers ripple through the crowd. Everyone is on edge, as if one wrong move will see them hauled to the front to be condemned alongside her.

It has been months since the last execution. There were only five this year. A small tally compared to the previous one.

They don’t happen often, not like this. Not with the entire borough summoned to watch.

Screens are lined around us, ready to display the execution to the entirety of the Continent.

Mercy, my twin sister, clutches my hand so tightly it hurts. Her nails dig into my skin, anchoring me in place. I know when she releases me, there will be crescent marks on my flesh.

“Why is he here?” she whispers.

I follow her gaze.

The High General stands apart from the rest. His coat is tailored to ruthless perfection, a simple gun holstered to his hip.

The governors always oversee the executions. Division Eight is a quiet manufacturing hub; its main contribution to the Continent is machinery components and industrial supplies.

Orson Warrick is a long way from Division One.

“Stay here,” I tell Mercy.

“You can’t go up there,” she says, panic laces her voice. “It’s too dangerous.”

“I have to help her,” I say. “I have to do something.”

I wrench my hand free before she can stop me.

Her pleading cries chase after me as I push through the crowd.

No one intervenes. No one ever does in Division Eight.

We keep our heads down. We obey. We survive by pretending not to be seen.

The people won’t save a child who refuses to be saved. They know better.

I scramble onto the stage. The enforcers reach for me, but their hands fly past me as I lunge toward my mother. I can see my green eyes reflected in their obsidian, gleaming visors. They wear matching armbands that mark their status in the troops and bear the regime’s emblem, sewn in silver thread.

“Leave her alone!” I shout at the High General.

Treason. That is the crime they’ve claimed. But it is a lie. My mother has never stolen a slice of bread before, let alone commit an offense so great that they’d put a bullet in her head for it.

He lifts a hand, and the enforcers halt. Their boots screech across the floor as they scramble to follow his orders.

Power leaks from every pore of his body.

“No,” my mother chokes. “You need to go back. Return to your sister.”

I shake my head fiercely. “I’m not leaving you.”

“And who might this be?” the High General asks, crouching to study my face.

His forest green eyes peer into my soul. His hair is neatly groomed, lip half-concealed by a trimmed mustache.

“Mercy or Haven?”

“It’s none of your business,” I snap. “Let my mother go.”

“You know the Supreme Director’s laws,” he says calmly. “The Untamed are a danger to society. Assisting them is—”

“Spare me the excerpt from the Code,” I interrupt.

My mother’s shackled hand brushes my shoulder as she tries to pull me behind her. She wasn’t scared when they broke into our house and took her. She just smiled sadly, as if she knew it was coming. But she is afraid now, because I’m here, standing between her and a monster.

Her fingers tremble when they graze me.

“Return to your sister,” she whispers harshly. “Now!”

I ignore her command. I won’t stand by and watch her die.

“I see you failed to teach the child proper manners,” the High General says. He straightens to his full height, his shadow swallowing me whole.

“I’ll correct that.”

“No,” my mother pleads. “The girls will stay with their aunt.”

Aunt Freida isn’t our real aunt; she’s just Mom’s best friend. She lives in Little Reach, a borough in Division Four. On a big, sprawling ranch. She picks us up every summer on her late husband’s helicopter, and we spend two blissful months, swimming in Old Creek and feeding her goats and mules.

Aunt Freida let me hold her husband’s rifle last time. It hurt my shoulder, and my wrists quivered the entire time, but it felt amazing. Mom would have a heart attack if she knew.

“The girls are mine,” he says.

I speak to distract myself from the chill that settles into the marrow of my bones. The spring air whistles, stirring my dark hair.

“I won’t go with you,” I say. “You’ll have to shoot me too.”

He grabs my chin, forcing my head up. His grip is painfully tight, and I wince at the contact.

“You will speak to me with respect,” the High General says. “Or I will make an example of you.”

“I’m not scared to die,” I say.

My voice trembles, but I straighten my spine anyway. I will not cower in the face of violence. I will not run from the beasts of my nightmares.

This isn’t the first time someone has tried to terrorize us.

There was our landlord, Jullian Gough, the governor’s son, who owns most of the apartment complexes in Oracle.

He had his enforcers visit us a few weeks ago.

They threatened to cut off my arm if my mother didn’t pay with interest. I didn’t cry then, even though I really wanted to.

I just stayed as quiet as a mouse when he held the blade threateningly over my flesh.

Mom threw up a lot when they left, and Mercy did too.

Our payments were never late after that.

The High General nods once, and the enforcers seize me. Mercy’s scream cuts through the air, echoing around the watchtowers. I thrash against their grip, sobbing as they tear me away from my mother.

“Please,” I beg. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Don’t hurt my mother.”

“The Code exists to guide us,” he replies. “To ensure rules are maintained, and treason is punished.”

“She’s all I have,” I whisper.

He approaches me again. My mother sobs, begging him to stop. My heart pounds so loudly, it’s a wonder he doesn’t wince at the violent, desperate sound. I know with striking clarity that he won’t spare her. There is no soul behind his eyes. Only cruelty.

“Your mother lied to you,” he says, lips curled in disgust. “She hid you from me. You could have lived in Division One. You could have been raised among the upper class. Instead, she buried you in filth and dressed you like peasants.”

His gaze flickers to my clothes. Dull, dirt-brown trousers that stop above my ankles, and a matching shirt with missing buttons, identical to everyone else’s. In Division Eight, dye is a luxury that no one can afford.

“You and your sister will live with me now,” he continues.

“And if we refuse?” I ask.

“I am your father. You will obey me.”

Before I can speak, he releases me and turns back to my mother. My mouth drops in surprise. We never knew who our father was. Mother always said it was unimportant. That he wasn’t worthy of us. I would often wonder what job he worked, if he was a factory worker, or a farmer, or a merchant.

In my wildest dreams, I would pretend that he was a writer or a poet or a singer.

Even though people didn’t practice the arts anymore, and if they did, it was monitored and subject to approval.

Most of our books were heavily edited by representatives of the Director’s Office and stripped to their bare bones, like a captured fox skinned for its fur, leaving behind nothing but a pale hide.

I am your father.

The words echo in my mind, over and over, drowning everything else. A hard knot settles in my stomach. I struggle to find the right words to speak, but my thoughts are impossible to capture. The syllables fly on stilted wings, vanishing into the horizon.

I’m so unsettled by the revelation, I don’t see it happen. One moment, my mother is upright and whole, the next, she collapses.

By the time I understand what has occurred, she’s gone—a single wound to the head. Blood spreads across the white stone floor like rainwater dripping off a ledge.

Then the screaming starts. It takes me far too long to realize it’s coming from me.