Chapter 1
chapter
one
Haven
Sweat slides down my neck, soaking the collar of my compression shirt as the morning’s drill reaches its peak. The lieutenant runs the foot soldiers hard every afternoon inside the stone walls of the High General’s estate.
My leg tightens around the red-faced soldier’s neck while his breath comes out in sharp, panicked gasps. His murky brown eyes bulge when he realizes I have no intention of loosening my hold.
“Forfeit, Parren,” I say. “You won’t last more than five seconds.”
He resists for a few more seconds before he taps out. Only then do I release him.
“You are getting worse,” he mumbles.
“Better,” I correct. “You’re just a sore loser.”
“I wasn’t talking about your skills,” Parren explains. “I meant your attitude.”
Mercy sits beneath the lemon tree at the edge of the yard.
Ebony hair coiled into a thick, swinging braid.
It drapes over her shoulder like a shawl.
A few loose tendrils flutter across her heart-shaped face, sweeping across her eyes.
Some days she comes to watch me spar. Other days, she comes to drag me to the infirmary after I get my ass handed to me.
She gives the defeated soldier an encouraging smile, momentarily glancing up from her thick-bound book.
The cover is wrapped in a false foil. Sullivan often brings her books that were published before the regime.
Books that were now outlawed. He never expressly says where he got it from, but I assume it is from the black market.
He puts himself at great risk to satisfy my sister’s unending curiosity.
Sullivan steps forward and extends a hand.
I ignore it.
The last time I accepted his help, he dropped me flat on my back with a warning about trust. Sullivan has been a lieutenant general for as long as I can remember.
Between high-level briefings with Warrick and strategic assignments, he still finds time to run his new cadets ragged on the field during his frequent stops here en route to the capital.
Warrick’s estate sits on one of the bigger plots of land in Fort Canyon.
Rolling green fields stretch out like a rubber band.
In the distance sits a sandstone facade, its tall columns flanking the entrance.
Windows line the wall in perfect symmetry, each pane reflecting the copses of trees in the distance.
It is different from the high-rise buildings that were constructed in the capital.
Their tall, winking frames, dancing under the moonlight.
Or the short, crowded apartment complexes built in the poorer divisions, packed so tightly that it resembles a row of crowded teeth.
We lived in one of those in Oracle. The peeling plaster and mold stains had grown like a tumor each year.
While the sun-blanched floorboards had lifted, revealing the nail-ridden mouth of the unit.
I feared that one day we’d wake up, and the ceiling would crumble over our heads.
“I need better soldiers,” I say, spitting blood onto the grass. “These ones aren’t worth my time.”
“What did I say about arrogance?” Sullivan asks calmly.
“That I need more of it?” I raise a brow, smiling cheekily at him.
“Less,” he corrects. “Way less.”
I dust my hands on my cargo pants, picking up my discarded holster and gun.
Sullivan exhales slowly, as if he is bracing himself for a particularly unpleasant conversation.
“Have you spoken to your father today?”
My jaw tightens at the mention of Orson Warrick.
Twelve years ago, he executed my mother.
Then he dragged Mercy and me from Oracle in Division Eight to Fort Canyon in Division One.
Fort Canyon is named after the chasm of red rock formations that bracket us from the west. To the east are the Gold Plains and deserts.
We have sweltering summers and dry winters.
I get a lot of nosebleeds since we moved and tons of heat rashes.
Warrick, like most of the inhabitants in Division One, is Gifted—born with abilities the rest of the Continent fears.
The regime created an implant called the Bind.
A device designed to regulate the people's powers and ensure obedience. Officially, it’s a safeguard: a way to track location, regulate ability output, and destabilize powers if needed.
But in truth, it is nothing more than a leash.
Sullivan has a Bind. A luminous blue flicker flashes under the pale skin of his throat. I don’t know how he is not afraid of it. Mercy and I were spared the procedure because we are both Commons.
The rebels avoid the Bind. They flee before mandatory testing because they fear being controlled by the regime.
“We don’t speak,” I say.
Warrick keeps us locked inside his estate and spends most of the year away on military campaigns. When he is here, I avoid him as best as I can.
Pathetic as it is, Sullivan is the closest thing I have to a father.
He trains me and lets me eat in the barracks with him and the cadets.
And when he leaves, I wait impatiently for him to return.
The second I hear his chopper hovering above the helipad, I’m outside, racing towards him.
Last time, I almost knocked him off his feet.
“He’s requested your attendance this evening,” Sullivan says, “for a private family dinner.”
“I’m busy.”
Warrick drags Mercy often to gatherings and functions. He never risks bringing me. He knows I’ll embarrass him. I won’t play the obedient daughter. Everyone claims that he is a saint for taking us in, even though he is our father. I don’t know how she stomachs being around them.
“I can attend as well,” Sullivan adds, clearly trying to soften the blow. “My schedule is clear.”
I fold my arms. “I can handle Warrick on my own. Besides, I’m not going to his stupid dinner.”
“It’s mandatory,” Mercy says quietly. “He said it’s important.”
Mercy cradles her book to her chest, as if it can protect her. My sister despises conflict. She only indulges Warrick, so he doesn’t force me to stand by his side and pretend to be his loyal daughter in public.
“Sounds ominous,” I mutter. “I’ll pass.”
Mercy catches my hand before I can leave.
“Can we talk?”
I sigh. “Fine.”
She pulls me under the lemon tree. Her eyes are green, identical to Warrick’s. It is proof that, despite all his lies, the one thing he never lied about was being our father.
I used to stay awake at night, wishing that this entire thing was a nightmare.
“He gave me this,” she says.
She presses an envelope into my hand.
I unfold the letter, my stomach dropping. Nobody does paper mail anymore. Except for one place. I break the wax seal, the two ends forming the sun—the symbol of the regime.
“You were conscripted?” I demand. “They’re sending you to the Forge?”
The Forge is a specialized training facility. It is a self-contained compound, located in Division Two, designed to turn civilians into soldiers. It is separated into two areas of focus: one intended for the Gifted and the other for the Commons.
I’ve begged Sullivan for years to accept my enrollment request, but Warrick gets the final say, and he has always refused.
“How?” I ask. “You’re a terrible shot.”
Mercy winces. “I know.”
“And you can’t throw a punch.”
“Exactly,” she says. “I don’t know why he would do this.”
I do. Warrick is using Mercy against me. He wants to reward her with my dreams because she obeys him. But this isn’t my sister’s idea of a fun time; she despises violence.
“He’s punishing me,” I say. “By giving you everything I want.”
“Maybe he knows why you want it,” she replies softly. “He doesn’t trust you.”
“I owe it to our mother to destroy him and the Supreme Director,” I say.
I still remember the speech the Supreme Director delivered. I watched it so many times that I memorized it. He had stood at the podium on the Grand Forum, the capital’s performance ground, where the elite gathered in their pressed suits and elegant gowns, hanging onto his every word.
The screens rose behind him like towering mirrors, carrying his image into every family home and personal tablet. His dark hair had been combed to perfection. Behind him stood his wife, her pale hair wound upwards in a delicate twist, and grasping her hand was a young boy with ice-blue eyes.
The Supreme Director’s voice carried, smooth and precise.
“Astrid Mallory,” he began, pausing for dramatic effect, “is a reminder.”
The wind stirred the banners above him. The emblem of the regime floated high like a ghost. A white sun that lay on a black background with eight rays surrounding its circular head was meant to symbolize the establishment of the divisions.
“There will be an amendment to Article IV of the Code.”
A murmur rippled among the crowd.
The camera shifted slightly lower, angling him toward the sky, giving him a God-like presence.
“From this day forward, any kin descended from a traitor will share in their sentence,” he said. “We will not allow the seeds of rebellion to be raised in the name of false martyrdom. We will not permit children to be shaped by the poison of their parents.”
His gaze swept across the crowd.
“The Children of Treason, Mercy and Haven Warrick, will be the last of their kind. Betrayal does not end with the individual. It ends with the bloodline.”
It makes my stomach turn to remember his vile words and the extent of his cruelty. He was going to start killing children whose parents joined the Resistance.
Mercy swallows. “What do we do? I don’t want to go.”
“I’ll talk to him,” I say, squeezing her shoulders, “and convince him to let me come along.”
She nods, relief flooding her eyes as she squeezes my hand.
Mercy learned to survive the hand we’ve been dealt, while I’ve chosen revenge. I know it worries her how single-minded I can be. She doesn’t want me to walk down this path.
They took my mother from me, and I swore that I would take everything from them.