If your didn’t sign the contract…. Ggggyyyeeeeetttt out🤍 No jk but go sign the contract under the last post and then come back because I love yoiuuuuuu And for the legal contract abiding citizens, I hope you like itttttttt😌😌😌 This is scary for me, but no skimming I need actual reading of this pleaseee >:-{<+>}-:< Chapter one Oakley Ruby Oriana Two days before —— All heroes are born from pain, the same way villains are.  I didn’t always think things through as if my life depended on just one question. I used to be innocent. Naive in the way I assumed the best of everyone. I never went to sleep, wondering if I would wake up the next day. I never wondered which of my friends I would have to watch die.  I used to think I had no regrets. I comforted myself with the foolish belief that everything would work out if given time and hope. Only now do I know better.  (It’s not gonna let me put my page break in there so pretend this is it) _Run, run, run. _ _He is going to catch you. You can’t let him. _ My chest heaves, gasping for air. A stinging sensation stabs into my lungs with every shallow breath I force myself to take. The feeling surges persistently to the inside of my chest. His footsteps are faster than mine, thumping against the jagged floor of the forest. I quicken my pace, though my legs can hardly handle it. I change course, pushing off a tree to help ease the transition.  _Dang it, Oakley, go faster!_ The scenery around me becomes undefined, everything turning into only blurs of color as I build up speed.  The wind whips past me, and I can almost hear secrets buried within the wood whisper to me, before being carried away in the cold breeze that bites into my skin. My body aches, screaming at me. It waits for a moment to slow and catch its breath, but that time never comes. It’s angry with my disregard towards its request, and I feel it in every muscle. I push myself past my limit, winding through the twisted path of the forest.  I won't break. I won't_ let _myself break_._ _Just long enough to get away. _ I battle between the need to crumble to the floor, and the want to step into the air and walk above the treetops. My senses leave me, and a smile creeps onto my face.  The boy's footsteps, which had once been heavy and persistent, began to quiet behind me. I don't look back to check, however tempting that may be.  Have I finally outrun him? For the first time, I might have. It immediately goes to my head, unfortunately.  An excited giggle tumbles from my lips, and I lock my eyes onto my destination. My mind draws a finish line, painting the checkpoint.  _50 yards._ Leaning forward, I get the momentum I need.  _30 yards. _ My eyes brighten, and I almost skip to the wall, exhilarated by the mere thought of victory.  10 yards. _This is it! I’m finally going to—_ Arms grab me from behind, jolting me backwards. They snake around my waist, trapping me. I kick my feet and squeal, trying to escape.  _No!_ I watch victory slip from my fingers. My legs swing pointlessly, and I am aware I look like a tantruming toddler, but I don't stop for a second.  He turns around, his back facing the wall I was so desperately trying to reach. He walks backwards so he can reach the stone before me. I claw at his arms, kicking harder, run by determination alone. I’ve never been this close to winning, and if I could only— His back hits the wall, and his arms are gone. I whip around to chastise him, “_Blades,_ Rowan.” I look up at him, a smirk playing behind his seemingly blank eyes. He lifts an eyebrow, leaning against the wall. He keeps his mouth shut.  Wise man, I am _absolutely _not done talking.  “I was this close! You fell behind, I _heard _you fall behind. I pushed _so hard!” _ “Proud of you for that.” He says plainly. I glare at him. However, he doesn’t react, just runs a hand through his sandy blond hair. “Do not interrupt me,” I sneer, trying not to laugh as I mimic the attitude that most often belongs to him. I roll my eyes, trying to be annoyed with him as I continue, “You don’t deserve me.” “I know.” He pushes off the wall and walks past me, and I follow hot on his heels. “I hate you, Rowan. With a passion.” I smile as I say it. I could never mean the words.  “I know that, too.” Typically, his words would scare me, but the almost smile on his face lets me know he doesn’t believe me. And thank the gods for that.  Rowan is my best friend. He truly means the world to me, and it's important to me that he knows it.  He’s a strange boy with complicated emotions I don’t fully understand yet, but it doesn’t affect our friendship.  Usually, I am good at deciphering expressions. It is difficult with a select few, though. For example, Rowan likes to pretend has no feelings at all. However, his jaw might occasionally tighten, or his eyebrows barely raise. When it's just the two of us, he lets go a little more and puts less effort into suppressing his reactions.  As aggravating as it is, I wish I could hide my emotions as easily as he does. My state of mind shows on my face like I’m begging people to see what's happening inside my skull.  Not that it’s hard to guess, a smile usually finds itself plastered on my face. I notice the little things that make me smile, like when there's a cool breeze on a hot day, or in my most recent example, I just lost the same race through the woods I do every week. I’ve never won once, and I’ve had to do it a million times. It seems like the type of thing to get under most people's skin, but I smile. I smile because someone I love did win, and I will always have these memories with that person. And I tried, that counts, and because of it, I’m a little stronger now.  “Why couldn’t I hear you anymore? It sounded like you fell behind. I could hardly tell where you were,” I try to lace the words with a sour poison, as Rowan often does, but even _I_ could hear the curiosity hidden in my voice.  “I took a shortcut,” He says.  “Hey,” I furrow my brows, “That’s cheating.” “Kiki, we both know there aren’t any rules. We run through the forest, and the first one to the wall wins.” “I say it's cheating.” I cross my arms, “But I’m done doing anything running-related. Including talking about it.”  We are both out of breath, and I have a familiar shake in my legs as we walk out of the forest and onto the main street of Candorless.  Candorless is only a fraction of our island. There is a long list of differences between our portion of the land and the rest of Cardlem.  The word, “Candor” means honesty, or truth. Truth is simply fact; we don’t have any of those here. Plants might glow, or the sky might light up in bright colors bleeding across the black night. The stars might move in front of your eyes, or gravity might just quit on you. If you are born outside of Candorless, you might never adjust to the animals changing sizes or the trees going through all four seasons in just one day.  Most never adapt, hence the small population, but to me, it's home.  Our island is large, and I’ve never seen the end of it. Never tasted the salty air of the cold water, or felt the sand beneath my feet. I’m okay with that. I prefer a tranquil lifestyle that is unperturbed and free. I don’t yearn for more.  It’s a strange land, but this is home. No matter where I go, I always want to come back. The feeling is indescribable. When the tall trees and confounding land do not surround me, I feel uneven and wrong and the feeling doesn’t leave me until I return here.  I can always tell when a person is from Candorless, simply by the amount of metal we decorate ourselves with. Armlets cling to our skin, some wrap the metal around their legs or necks,but it is far less common.  I have a small thin band around my upper arm, the width of a string of yarn, with an inch gap in the circle. On one side of the gap is a small moon, smaller than the nail on my smallest finger. On the other side is a crescent moon about the same size. It serves as a reminder to find the beauty in opposites.  Rowan’s are much different than mine, bold and dangerous looking. His decorative cuff is an inch wide, and he keeps it on his bicep. I’ve seen it a thousand times, but can’t tell its significance. I can’t see any design or pattern; it’s simple, undecorated. The only connection I can draw is that he chose silver instead of a gold or copper. I tell myself he chose the metal so that it would match his eyes, but he never answers when I ask. He has a small chain around both his wrists, and five smaller ones that lead to rings on each of his fingers. I assume he wears them to make himself look unaproachable and unkind. I believe, he is the opposite, though he tries to hide it. As we break through the forest line and step onto the main road, the familiar scent of a Candorless market fills my senses; the smell of the shops lining both sides, a mixture of freshly washed fabrics, the hot iron of the blacksmith's shop, and the aroma of freshly baked bread.  It's comforting to me.  The smell of the bakery draws my attention, and I feel my mind wander. My eyes find the counter proudly displaying the goods. Baskets of round rolls, bathed in buttery cinnamon and sugar, sit in the front, calling my name. The other twists of dough are far less tempting.  “We can go tomorrow. If you feel up to it, that is.” As if reading my mind, Rowan's quiet voice breaks through the everyday sounds of our town. His gaze lands on me, patiently waiting for my response. That’s one of his most admirable traits. I’ve never met one as patient as he is.  I give him my widest smile. His jaw relaxes, and his gaze softens.  “I would take you today—” He continues—“but I doubt you would want to walk home in the rain.” He tips his head towards the sky, and I follow. I don’t know how I didn’t see it before, but dark clouds are wrapping around the sky—a promise of rain sitting in each shadow. “Tomorrow then,” I swallow, trying to shake off my worry. I can't seem to tear my eyes from the gloomy clouds occasionally lighting up with colorful yet threatening bursts of light. Drops of color seep through the cracks in the sky, keeping us from being enveloped by complete darkness.  It’s only minutes before the rain begins to hammer the roads. Dirt turns to mud, and the wind slashes violently as we quicken our pace. My clothes cling to me, and comfort feels like a foreign concept. While the rain has a fresh, earthy scent, and a palette of soft patterns and hazy colors that most would find comforting, I find it miserable.  The rain is so dull compared to the warmth of the sun. On the other hand, Rowan has his head tipped back as we walk, and the raindrops are visible on his skin, sticking as if they belong there.  “Careful, Rowan, or you might just smile,” I tease, which earns me a playful glare. I smile back at him, unable to stop it.  “Let's get you home, we can’t have you freezing to death.” He attempts to shield me from the rain, it’s unsuccessful, but the effort warms my heart.  Rowan makes it his personal goal to walk me home every day, and I have no problem with it. We say our goodbyes, the same way we always do, before heading our separate ways. He doesn’t leave until I wave and close the door behind me.  The soft click of the door closing echoes the thud of my drenched boots falling to the floor. I make my way into the main room of my house, following the muffled sound of my mother's voice. To my surprise, a woman roughly my mom's age is sitting beside her.  The woman’s spine is straight and tall, a strange command radiating from her. Confidence and possible arrogance were potent in her spirit and challenging to ignore.  I smile, despite wanting to shy away. I greet her, and her sharp eyes lazily make their way to mine. The color is shocking, a shade similar to a honey brown, but it’s more vibrant and demanding, something brighter.  A fire. The embers of a fire, just beginning to burn. It's unsettling how they capture my attention and hold it hostage.  She smiles, but it lacks the familiar warmth smiles are usually partnered with.  Something about her is so captivating that I wanted to mold myself into whatever she wanted me to be. I wanted to ask her every question, and search for every hidden answer. Though quieter, the other part of me told me to keep my distance. I should be careful about what I let come out of my mouth.  Usually, I wouldn’t listen or even have second thoughts, but this time, I do.  I don’t let my smile hide, but I only give my mother a small explanation as to why I am promptly leaving for my room. I pretend I have some sort of project I can’t spend another minute procrastinating.  She believes me, after the many times when it wasn’t a lie.  The woman holds my gaze and doesn’t break the contact until I turn away. Her eyes burn into my back as I walk down the hallway.  A shiver runs down my spine when I'm finally out of sight. I close myself in my room, jumping onto my bed.  Guilt knots in my stomach. I judged her too quickly, and I feel horrible about it. But the unfamiliar fingers of fear seem to be wrapped around my mind, holding me back from changing my actions.  I don’t sleep much, and my thoughts ensure I never close my eyes. I find myself never fully pulled under into unconsciousness.

Rowan Kline Zorida  ONE DAY BEFORE  She is laughing. Of course, she laughs; she always laughs.  “What was that?” she is looking around curiously, trying to get a sense of what the sound was.  “Not good.” I grab her hand, carefully pulling her to the ground. I hold her closer to me, and we slide under the table of the booth.  For a moment, I question whether it was just paranoia —a moment of misjudgment. But a piercing sound breaks through the air—a scream. What happens next is chaos. We are blinded to it, only able to hear it from our hiding spot. Oakley's face is quickly drained of color. She grabs my arm, digging into my skin. I cover her hands with mine. It looks like you can see her heartbeat through her neck. Her eyes are open wide, searching my face for answers. For a solution she doesn’t find.  We were in the middle of a raid. They were becoming more common by the day, but I had never witnessed one firsthand. From what I heard, they were just local looters, traveling from town to town, but I never would have thought they'd come _here._ I don’t know what to do. I want to stop it, but common sense talks me out of it. I want to help Kiki, but I dont know how. I’m useless.  She is panicked, and her breathing becomes irregular and rushed. I pry her hands from my arm, looking her in the eyes, and leaning in close, “Hey, listen to me.” A tear falls from her bright eyes, and I wish I could stop her from ever shedding another, to keep her away from all the dark and the bad.  I talk over the thought, “We need to stay calm. Calm and quiet, easy right?”  I didn’t think my heart could become more deformed, more dysfunctional, but when both of her hands fly to her mouth, trying to stifle the harsh breathing, it did.  I pull her hands down, pinning them at her side. “No, no, you can still breathe. Can you just look at me for a second, just until you can calm down? You can do that for me, right?” Her focus locks on me, whereas before her eyes were glued to the underside of the table, as if she could see the sounds of the raid.  “Breathe, in… and out. You're not doing anything wrong. We’re going to be fine. There are some scary people out there, but I won’t let them hurt you; you're safe. Just breathe with me.”  I can’t tell if I’m making empty promises, and that’s almost as scary as the situation itself. I keep my voice low, hoping Oakley is the only person to hear it. She matches my breathing pattern, and as soon as she is in control of her body again, I slowly begin to move. I motion for her to follow me, but before we can make any progress, she finally says something. It’s so innocent, it breaks my heart.  “Can I hold your hand? Please?” She looks like a baby deer caught in a trap.  The world is a cruel place.  “You don’t even have to ask.” With her hand now in mine, I gently tug her forward, out from under the table. I doubt we can be seen, but I pull her just a little closer, just in case.  I stop in my tracks when a slight sound catches my attention, and I find myself crouching lower. _Psst._ I hear it again. I turn to the voice, shielding Oakley's body with my own.  “It’s okay, kid, I want to help. Come here, I’ll protect the two of  you.” A large man with dark hair tied in a loose knot motions for us to come closer. I hesitate, but Oakley immediately walks towards the man. I don’t let her.  “Oakley, I’ve never seen this man before.” I don’t bother hiding my suspicions.  “We don’t have a choice, and you can’t memorize every face you come by,” she rushes the sentence. She looks as if all words have been stolen from her lips, and she is still fighting to get them back.  “No, that's not right. We always have a choice.”  I feel like I’m holding her back, and while I feel like I should let her go, I can’t force myself to.  The man cuts in, “You guys are kids, I’m getting you out of here. They could kill us if they wanted, it's their call.”  I ignore him, resentment building inside when I see Oakley start to act up again at his words.  “Is this the choice you want to make?” I hum the words, trying not to stress her out more than she already is, “You know my opinion.” The chaos never slowed behind us, and it is putting even more pressure on her. While I act calm and collected, I’m terrified. But even above that, there is anger. An emotion I try to hide from her to the best of my ability.  She gulps, “I think so. I don't know, Rowan. I’m scared, I don’t see any reason not to trust him.” Her eyes dart around, and I watch her control slip from her fingers.  I force her to look at me, cupping her face with my palm so she can’t see the distraction.  “I trust you. I’m going to follow him. I want you to follow me.”  “_Finally. _We _have _to go.” The man is getting on my nerves now, but I choose to trust Oakley's judgment over mine.  I blink away the images flashing through my head, but I can't stop the shaking in my hands. I silently beg them to stop, for her sake. If I crumble now, she will too.  I can’t let that happen.  I pretend I’m focused as my vision starts to falter.  The man breaks into a run, and we follow close on his heels. I think of Oakley as my heart, and if she were to die, so would I. I have to protect it.  I’m glad I’ve been training Oakley, just in case. I made sure she knew how to get away from anything that could hurt her. I turned it into a game, one that she could play and get better at. She never knew what it truly was. My overthinking seemed to win this time. What seemed like a game to her was my anxiety getting the best of me.  We are fully submerged in trees when the man comes to a sudden stop. I do too.  Oakley does not.  I realize the man's intentions only by the look he gives me when he turns. He’s not as innocent as he pretends to be.  _He was with them. _ I lunge at him as soon as he turns on her. He can hurt me, he can kill me for all I care—I’m already broken—but he can’t hurt the one good thing in this world. My arm wraps around the man’s neck, and in the same breath, he flips me over his shoulder.  Pain explodes through my chest. Whoever this man was, he is skilled—undoubtedly trained.  I stagger to my feet, but he is faster than I am, and he has already clamped some sort of glass contraption over Oakley's face before dropping her.  She is trying to rip it off, kicking and fighting with such a little thing. She goes limp in seconds.  All rational thought evacuates. My blood is boiling, hot under my skin. I see red.  He's dead. I’m going to kill him.  I charge him, slamming him backwards as hard as I can; he staggers for only a second before engaging in the fight.  I draw back to land a punch on the right side of his face, only for him to counter.  It’s the same back and forth, I fight, he fights back. I gain the upper hand for only a moment, and I use that second to get his legs out from under him.  He hits the ground, and I run. Not away, but towards the unconscious Oakley. I wrap her up in my arms, and I’m on my feet running. The weight of two bodies slows me, and every second drags on. Adrenaline and anger are the fuel that keeps me going. The exhaustion racking my body is slowly breaking down my defenses. And blades, _I hate it. _ Something heavy slams into my back, and I'm sent sprawling to the ground. We hit the floor. She slips from my arms just enough to get a series of scratches on her skin, blood trickling slowly.  _It's my fault. I hurt her. _ My hands feel like intruders, and I’m tempted to cut them off, just to stop the shaking.  She is still out cold.  _What the hell did he do to her?_ I flip onto my back and see some sort of sphere lying by my side, which was used as a projectile a moment earlier, the source of my now bruised ribs.  A small hole opens from the side, and gas spills out onto the floor beside me. I have no idea what to do. I kick it away, but not far enough. My thoughts trail away as I see the man unpack the same sort of mask he has clasped over Oakley's face.  I’m suddenly weak, unable to stand, to fight. He fastens the gadget to my face. It looks almost like a glass bubble, stealing the oxygen from my lungs. I see now why Kiki struggled.  _It burned._ My eyes water, and I try to get to Oakley, but every movement I make is wrong and lopsided.  _Why isn’t he trying to stop me?_ I reach her as the world around me starts melting.  _Melting…_ _I’m dizzy. My head is spinning… spinning… spinning…_ I wrap myself around Oakley, my last feeble attempt at protecting her.  _It burns. _ _It burns, it burns, it burns._ _Deep in my chest. _ The world finishes falling, the colors bleeding into a dark black, stealing my sight.  And then, I feel nothing.

Oakley Ruby Oriana DAY ONE _Kicking. _ _Screaming. _ _A blur of color, then none at all._ The room I wake up in is not my own. White light is the first thing I see, so bright I’m almost sure my irises have been bleached of color.  A little man is living inside my head. That tiny man is pounding against my skull, desperate to escape. I want him to leave quite badly, actually.  My limbs are logs, heavy and immovable. My stomach churns, and I am overcome with sickness.  My body jerks, and I am certain the sickening soup in my stomach is about to make an appearance. I  throw myself off the bed, turning onto my hands and knees, coughing violently.  Nothing comes up, yet I can't stop the heaving. Tears run hot, and it feels like my mouth has fallen off my face.  I don’t know where I am, alone and afraid. It _hurts—my_ whole body aches, an endless throbbing.  The room I'm locked in is small and white, covered entirely in tiles. They reflect the light, making it appear much brighter than it is. My head still spins, the weight of the uncertainty pulling down on my body. There is no door, no windows, no latches… There is only a small ledge made of the same tile that wrapped around everything else. It’s what I woke up on, what I had mistakenly taken for a bed. There is a single circle on the ceiling, emitting the blinding white light.  There is no way out. My heart beats, trying to burst through the cage that is my ribs, only making my chest heavier.  I’m terrified. This isn’t a bad dream. This isn’t something I can wake myself up from.  I hit the wall with my palm; it’s the only distraction I can find. I scream, begging anyone to hear me. My mind is at a loss, desperately trying to make sense of _something_.  Rowan. The last image of him I have replays behind my eyes. He was fighting, fighting the man that I told him to trust. The attacker ran over to me, and I tried to fight him, I really did. But the next thing I knew, something was slicing into my face. All the oxygen was pulled from my lungs, and I was unable to draw another breath. The device pumped steam into my throat, keeping my lungs working, but in the wrong way. My eyes saw funny pictures then. Irrational and wrong. Blue trees and flashing lights.  I don’t remember anything past that.  My brain is bleeding, I’m sure of it. It is pushing through mud, slowing its everyday work.  Tucking my legs under me, I collapse into myself. I cross my arms and back myself into a corner, waiting and waiting for anything.  My arms burn.  I hold them out in front of me and blink at the streaks of red adorning them, a series of cuts lining the skin. Some general redness leads me to believe I was dragged, but I'm unsure.  Why would they cut me? Sure, some of the scrapes were just scratches, but there were a few larger slashes.  I was just kidnapped. I'm not sure why I'm so offended that they wouldn't at least be careful while I was defenseless. I have no answers, and it makes me sick. I only wonder.  I wonder how long Rowan fought alone. I wonder where he is, if he ran like a sane man, or fought like a mad one. I would like to know where_ I_ am, if there is a chance of getting out, and if anyone is trying to save me. I look forward, staring at the empty wall. The light is echoing through my head. I use my hands to blot it out. It's unbearable.  Overstimulation makes everything worse, a thin layer of sweat coating my skin, my hair sticking to my neck, and that _goddamned light._  I’m going insane, I’m sure of it. I knot my hands in my hair in an attempt to ground myself.  The room is too small. It's too bright. My eyes throb.  _I can’t do this._ I scream, and I cry, yet no tears fall.  If I could just stop the burning, if I could I beg for the smallest mercy, the slightest sign I’m not going to fight this alone.  My head is too full, and yet entirely empty. I lose it. Anger builds, and I’m sick of begging. I climb onto the ledge and press my hands against the light bulging from the ceiling. It’s burning the inside of my head, a migraine pulsing in my temples.  I draw my fist back and slam it against the glass. It doesn't break, but it cracks. My hand already hurts, but I can't stand it anymore. I feel heavy, impossible to move. I punch it again and again, until an explosion of sparks burst from the spot. I shrink down as the glass shatters, covering my head with my already sliced arms. When I drop my guard, it's black. The darkness is worse because in the darkness, the mind runs wild. I can’t win. I can feel the shadows move in the dark, surrounding me, whispering odd sounds.  _It’s all in my head._ I repeat the phrase, trying to keep everything else out. _I see something._ I let my defences fall, zoning in on a small purple light, shining from a crack in the wall. It's tiny, unnoticeable, placed between two tiles.  I run my hands over the crack, temporarily blotting out the color. I miss it instantly. It's only an inch long, and hardly tall at all. The light casts a shadow around the slot, forming a small circle that encloses the gap.  It's a keyhole. A keyhole I wasn't supposed to find. I just had to find the missing piece.  Hope pulses through my bones while battling the doubt in my blood. There is nothing in here. It’s a white room, with nothing but the ledge and the light.  _The light. _ Though I couldn't see now, I remember the way it looked, a slight bulge on the ceiling. Made of glass, but there’s a small circle in the center. I assumed it was just design, but it might have be much more than that. It has a symbol on it. My mind doesn’t remember the picture clearly, it only knows that there was one.  Of course, I could be wrong; I might be letting my hope cloud my judgment. But, if I’m right, it could be my escape.  It's better to take the chance. I fumble around in the darkness. There is broken glass everywhere, so I make sure to move slowly. My hand roams the floor, feeling for the disk. It didn't look like a stereotypical key, but it seemed like it would fit. If it wasn't the intended key, it might still help pick the lock.  I whimper as my hand meets the first shard of glass, slicing open the skin on my palm. It’s not deep, but I pull back, hissing, only allowing myself a few deep breaths before forcing myself to continue the search. It’s too dark to see anything, so I have to feel my way using my fingers.  I let them roam despite the pain, wincing at every nick and slice. It's nothing but broken glass, and I question my memory.  But then my fingers find it, a disk, something that's _not _slicing my skin open.  I hold it up, and the tears I cry are tears of relief.  I stumble back to the light, carefully sliding the key into place.  It fits perfectly, jutting halfway out of the wall. I turn it in a full circle until it returns to its original position. At first, it doesn't budge, but when it does, a sense of comfort floods me, and a broken laugh falls from my lips.  Where the wall meets the floor, something lights up. A door that wasn’t there before slides out of the wall. It pushes back, then slides to the side, leaving a doorway for me to walk through.  The second the gap is big enough for me, I slide through. It opens to an empty hallway, only a few feet long. There is only a door on the other side.   I throw myself forward, praying silently as I push against it, pleading for it to open.  It does with ease. I suppress my surprise, and I stumble into a room, similar to the last one. Panic rises temporarily, but this room is different.  It’s dark, but lit with the same purple light that seeped through the keyhole, only brighter. It lights up the room, coating everything in a sheer layer of color.  I walk into the emptiness, and the door clicks behind me. I jump, and a picture is displayed against the wall.  A projection, a video. I’m fascinated, I’ve never seen anything like it.  But my heart drops when I see what is being projected. A familiar face lights up the darkness, dark lips and bright, amber eyes. They stare into my soul, and I squirm uncomfortably. The air around me is shattering, getting pulled apart.  I saw her only a day ago, sitting in my very house, next to my mother. She is the nameless woman.  _Is she behind all of this?_ I move forward, feeling as if I can’t blink my eyes closed for even a moment as my lungs shrink and shrivel, not remembering their purpose.  She opens her mouth, and as the words fall from her red lips, I have one answer.  She did this.  “Congratulations. You’ve passed your first test. Now that you have escaped our rooms, you need not worry. It was simply a test of strategy, a way for our team to assess the way you act in stressful situations.”  A test. Of course. Why would someone leave the key to freedom in a room with the person they were trying to steal it from? I feel completely idiotic.  “I understand this may be disorienting, but I promise, my intentions are pure. The Kingdom of Cardlem is corrupt. There are many faults that they hide behind elaborate parties and banquets. Don’t let them fool you.” The screen flashes pictures of the Sembiars. A smile creeps onto my face. Traitor. I choke on my laugh, trying to muffle it.  I have never seen the creatures, and I definitely didn’t expect them to look like that. They are tall and bony, but their face is that of a serpent. I figured it would have a mouth with thousands of teeth, saliva spewing. They didn’t.  They looked underdeveloped, it's the only words I can find to describe it.  When the pictures shifted to images of the creatures standing on their hind legs, towering tall, my insides swirl. My smile flees, and a yelp slipped from my mouth, before my hand can catch it. Pictures of them eating, as well as videos of them snapping necks and running people through with nothing more than their claws replay.  I space out through pieces of the speech.  “The kingdom is using these creatures known to most as ‘Sembiars’ or ‘The Night Guard’ in the section of Cardlem known as Candorless. Some of you have never heard of such a thing. The king is good at concealing questionable actions. Others, however, may not be affected by these images, as they are normalized.  “The kingdom is run by two men, the king, Segard Cardlem, and the Commander in Chief, Tamas Cardlem. Neither man is fit to run a kingdom. There is a corruption buried deep within the bones of the kingdom, slowly cracking it down and eventually tearing it apart.  “I cannot disclose anymore until you join us. We have watched each of you for varying amounts of time. We picked each of you for a different reason, but you all have one primary objective: we are building a rebellion.  “Which is why you are here. We need to build an army that is bigger, stronger, and better. However, to do that, we need to test each of you. We will be playing a game of sorts. Simple rules, simple rewards.” I smile then. It’s a game, a game I am  now determined to win. “There are four roles, all very important. You will be assigned a role after I explain the rules. I will explain in greater detail when we meet again.” My stomach sinks at that part. She demands respect, and I feel guilty about not being able to give it to her—something about her causes my mind to draw up flags of warning.  “The roles are: Angel, Detective, Citizen, and Assassin. The Angels will be trained to save people, much like medics. Each will be given an elixir that they can use at any time to heal almost any wound. Detectives will be trained to notice unnoticeable details, until they can find and eliminate the Assassins. Every morning, a meeting will be held, where you will gather and attempt to vote Assassins out of the game. If you are a citizen, your job will be to control the crowds and sway the votes in your favor.  Be careful what you convince people to do, however. If you vote incorrectly, an innocent person could be eliminated from the games. People that could save you in times of need, like Angels, could be eliminated, leaving you defenceless.” My mind is swarming, trying to take in every drop of information. It’s complicated, but it makes sense in a way.  “And finally, Assassins. Your task is to eliminate the person you are assigned before your time runs out. Assassins receive targets at random, so be ready. Simple as that. Your primary objective is to remain discreet while also being assertive. _Don’t get caught—the_ most essential rule.  “As for the other rules, do not tell anyone your role. You cannot communicate your role in any way. You do not have to come forward with any information you find, though it is advised. You must attend each meeting, or there will be consequences.”  I try to jot everything down mentally, sensing the serious attitude in the air. I’m grasping at straws, trying to piece it all together.  She continues, “The games will start in two days. You will find your room, rest, and then you are expected to make an appearance. The Watchers will explain the rest. You will make one more appearance the next day; then we will start the game.  “Hidden in a compartment, in the middle of the wall where this is projecting, you will find a vial. Inside, there will be a glass card. On it, your role.” The woman smiles. A chill races down my spine.  “We have given you the role that fits you the best. Stay safe, stay secret. Sincerely, Whitney Muscaria.”  The projection clicks off, and I only sit there for a minute, processing. A metal square is visible where the woman’s—Muscaria’s—head used to be.  I lunge for it. I push against it and it opens with a click. A glass vial rolls to the opening of the compartment, and I pull it out as soon as my eyes land on it.  I open the top of the bottle with my eyes closed, wanting the excitement to last just a little longer. I pour the contents into my uninjured palm, closing my fingers around the glass slip.  The whole kidnapping thing was a little excessive, but I didn’t realize our kingdom was broken. I’m glad to restore justice, even if I spaced out while they read off at least half of the accusations against Cardlem. They should have just asked me, of course, but I see why they didn’t.  Of course, the stalking was unsettling, too, but they only thought I was capable of great things. At least that's what I tell myself.  Excitement runs through me in waves, and I’m forced to take a series of deep breaths between giggles. With eyes still closed, I open my fist, placing it in front of my face.  My smile is so large I worry if it will split my lips in half as I open my eyes. The glass is clear, but the words engraved inside it glow a light blue. The words are what make me smile even larger. I read the word out loud, rushed and breathy, but filled with pure joy.  DETECTIVE. 

Oakley Ruby Oriana ONE DAY BEFORE I’m jolted from sleep as something lands square on my stomach. The air leaves my lungs, and I sit up in a second, pressing my hands into my gut. Getting something thrown at me Isn't my favorite way to be woken up, but my sister tends to do it often. I roll my eyes and drop the shoe on the floor beside my bed, before turning my back to her. I harbor a strange resentment towards Dahlia, despite our shared blood. She tends to spend her time either annoying me or casting glares at the general public. But today, something seems different. I decide to listen to the words leaving her mouth, something I rarely do. I roll back over and try to make sense of her whining. Eventually, I give up. “What are you talking about?” I squint, trying to read her expression, but the light coming in through the window blinds me. “Blades Oakley!” She’s angry now, “Someone is missing.” Any drowsiness I was feeling disappears in an instant. “Mom and Dad are making us go out and help them look.” She finishes, crossing her arms. I shoot out of bed, clumsily pulling on dayclothes, tripping over myself. Dahlia may lack basic human empathy, but I don't. I’m out the door in only a minute or two, ignoring the morning chill as I approach the murmuring crowd of people gathered in the street. I gently push myself towards the center of the circle until I’m right there with the woman, who I assume has some sort of relationship with the missing person. She is trying to give a physical description, “...cut her hair short, she has big brown eyes, I’d say two or three inches shorter than I am…” She breaks out in sobs, and a man hugs her. Questions arise around me. They ask if it's possible that she could be a runaway, if she's with someone, or if she's just lost track of time. A few just look empty in the eyes, casting glances around, as if they know all the answers. I don’t understand why, until one of them vocalizes their worry. “Do you think she broke curfew?” The comment is loud, and it silences most, but the woman wails even louder. I feel sunken like the others. It was a probable answer, but not many were willing to accept it openly. Breaking curfew is unheard of. This is the first disappearance I’ve ever witnessed firsthand. Of course, there were stories from the other towns in Candorless, but never here. There would be signs, some reassurance that it had or had not happened. Right? A group of people volunteer to search for the girl anyway. I throw my hand into the air, waving down the man who was earlier comforting the woman. He clearly had some sort of authority and is now gathering the small crowd, picking out the people he felt were eligible. “Me! I want to help!” He casts me a glance and shakes his head. I’m taken aback, but before I can argue, he cuts me off. “No kids. We don’t know what we’ll find.” I furrow my brow, “I’ve been alive for seventeen years, I’m sure I can deal with it. Plus, we have no proof it will be—” I pause for a moment, fishing for the right word— “Gruesome… She could just be with a friend or went for a morning walk and got lost…” This catches the attention of the woman, and she grabs my shoulders, gripping them so tightly it aches, “You think she’s okay? Do you know where she is? You said a walk? Is she on a walk? Is she okay?” she asks exasperated, a glint of hope in her otherwise darkened eyes. My eyes go wide at her frantic speech, and I gulp, “Uhm, no, I don’t. I’m just saying maybe we should think positive…” I say the sentence with a rush of air, and it sounds more like a question. She breaks out in sobs once more, throwing herself onto the shoulder of the man again. He glares at me subtly, and embarrassment burns hot in my cheeks. “No kids,” he restates, “go home.” I nod solemnly, turning away so they don’t see my face fall. Tears prick at my eyes, and I blink them away. My heart hurts for the woman. I fear the worst, yet hope for the best. I pray it’s all a wild misunderstanding, and the missing girl simply fell asleep at a friend's house, and would run home as soon as she realized. I slink away, my feet moving faster than my mind. They won’t let me help, and I won't go home to deal with my sister, so instead, I wander. I’m supposed to meet Rowan at the front of the town square, closer to noon. It’s too early, but I walk over anyway. I feel like I have a strange, weighted fog wrapped around my shoulders, pulling me down. I need a hug. I shouldn’t need a hug. I didn’t even know the girl. I only hurt more for the woman, who I assume is her mother or some sort of guardian. I carry their burden as if it were my own, making a very bright morning seem dull. I continue walking until I reach our designated meeting place. I sit down outside the market, under a small tree, and mindlessly shift the dirt beneath my fingers. Hot tears burn pathways down my cheeks, and I wipe them away. They show no sign of slowing, so I stop trying. I just let them fall, watching them hit the dirt. Maybe it will help the trees grow. I know it won't, but I let myself think so anyway. I try to convince myself I'm not entirely useless. A soft hand reaches down and angles my face up towards his. I smile up at him despite the tears I cry. But when my eyes meet his, I feel my lip quiver. He is kneeling by my side, looking at me as if I were a kicked puppy. I feel like one. He holds my hand in his and utters soothing words of comfort; Yet I ramble over them. “I couldn’t do anything. They won't let me help, and she was crying, and I made it worse. I didn’t know what to do, Rowan. I can’t make it better.” My voice can't hold a steady tone and quivers with every sorry syllable. My voice gets higher the longer I talk, but Rowan cuts me off, pulling me into his arms. He is warm and helps the swelling sadness inside slow. It’s not often I get hugs from him; he’s not the most physically affectionate person. He never hesitates to hand them out when he sees I’m struggling, though. He knows they make me feel better. “Oakley, it's not your fault.” his voice is low and soothing, the familiar rasp an instant comfort, “You know that, right?” I pull away just a few inches so he can see my nod, but feel the instant regret at the absence of warmth. I miss the embrace, which is absurd because I've only just lost it. “Good. Is there anything I can do? Anything to make it better?” I shrug, “Can you just distract me? Do something?” “That I can do. I’m almost sure I owe you about a dozen cinnabuns.” He holds my face in his hands for just enough time to wipe away my last tear, which makes me laugh. His face softens at the sound. It’s the exact smile I wear every day, yet he looks at it like I change it out for a brand-new one each time. I smile even bigger at the thought. The corner of his mouth tips up, but his eyes show his real smile. They dance like silver smoke, and I'm captivated in a second. We walk through the carefully crafted roads, enjoying the warm sunlight that bathes the area in golden shades. Each booth was unclaimed, and each shop moved daily. It was a first-come, first-served type of thing. It never got boring that way. Always jumbled up, with an array of irregular shops scattered in the mix. I stop to look at each cart and tent, so each person's work is seen by at least one set of eyes. Rowan looks at the booths with me, but he is mostly silent. He seems to go non-verbal when others are around, like they might jump out and bite him if they see past his walls for even a minute. But I don’t mind, I enjoy his company. I only make ten booths before Rowan's offer becomes too tempting to ignore. From there, it’s a game of hide and seek, twisting down the aisles, trying to find the cart with our desired prize. Once you get close, the heat drowns you, but it’s worth it for any sweet treats you can snag. And in a heartbeat, we find it. The smell alone is enough to make my mouth water. We greet the workers, who are now familiar with our faces. Rowan buys the dessert after a playful debate about who should pay the expenses. We walk to a nearby tree, the branches providing a breath of cool air. They come in a small basket, which I set on the ground between the two of us. I grab a cinna-bun for myself and hand another to him. I sit with my legs crossed beneath me and bite into the bun. I see stars, the warm, sugar-filled cream in the middle spills into my mouth, and the cinnamon-sugar sticks to my lips. I happily lick them off before shoving the rest of the dessert into my mouth. “It never ceases to amaze me how happy these make you.” He says simply. “I think I would sell my soul if I could have these every day,” I answer back, reaching for another. “Woah, there will be no soul-selling.” He retorts. I shrug, unable to hide my happiness, “What a shame, I already have a buyer.” I joke back, he lifts his eyebrows feigning intrigue. I finish, “Guess I’ll just have to cancel.” He drops his head into his hands. I assume he’s questioning what he is going to do with me, as most do. We chat mindlessly while we finish off the food. And I mainly mean me, Rowan only ate a few, claiming he couldn't stomach any more. We make our way back to the market, having at least thirty more things to look at. I pull him over to a wooden booth with strange hats on every surface that could hold them. The shop owner is nowhere to be seen, but I don’t mind. I pick up a top hat and gently place it on Rowan's head, flicking the rim before I turn to grab another. He takes it off almost immediately, putting it on my head. I glare at him, which seems to be the reaction he was hoping for. His shoulders are slumped, and he’s not entirely tensed up. He’s having a good time. I switch between hats, my favorite being a laughably large blue one with a flower on the side, almost as big as the hat itself. I’m asking Rowan's opinion on said hat, a smile already refusing to leave my lips. But before he can answer, a sudden crash sounds. It’s loud, like an entire building collapsing, and I cover my ears, still laughing. I’m surprised, but my curiosity is piqued. That was, until I saw Rowan’s eyes go wide and watched his whole body go tense.

Chapter Two Rowan Kline Zorida TWO DAYS BEFORE The rain only worsens. It pelts against my back in an erratic pattern as I walk back through the dense forest. I find comfort in the way rain drowns out all other sounds. When the rain comes, the people tend to go away. The sound of everyday life fades, and I’m left to my thoughts. It is a dangerous place to be, yet I constantly find myself getting tangled in the twists and turns. My boots are thick with mud by the time I reach the spring. I am either here or with Oakley. I live with my grandparents, but it feels wrong for me to be there. It is their home, not mine. They should not be forced to raise another child. I know that my presence is somewhat burdensome, despite their constant reassurance to the contrary. They are loving people, but I can’t find it in me to force myself into their lives more than I have to. Instead, I slink off to the forest and find the same spring I’ve escaped to for years. There is a small grove of willow trees in the middle of the forest, and a pool of water waits underneath them. The willows act as a wall, keeping the rest of the world out. The pond is roughly 20 feet wide, with boulders surrounding it. The waters are cold and biting, a perfect relief from the heat that worsens every headache that pounds into my skull. I strip off my armlets, boots, and shirt, not bothering with my pants, then step into the pond. The cold water makes me flinch. I adjust quickly, ambling to the deeper center of the water. Even in the deepest section, my feet barely leave the stone floor. I let my face go under the surface, and immediately feel the relaxation of muscles I wasn’t aware were tense. Water feels like a portal to a land only I can walk through. A place that only houses me and my thoughts. No excess noise, no overwhelming feelings, just the water. I break the surface, reminding myself to breathe. I take deep breaths, lie on my back, and let myself float. I close my eyes, letting pictures flash through my mind as they always do. Memories dance, pictures of racing through the trees, taking new routes through the forest, Oakley almost winning. Oakley is the kind of girl who lets the first thing that comes to mind tumble out of her lips, the second it does. She lets her face display her emotions proudly. I don’t understand how she is always smiling, but she is. She’s like the sun, shining bright all day in the sky, giving warmth to all that can find her. Even when she isn't around, you can see her light reflecting off people like the moon. People like me. The moon is nothing like the sun; without it, the moon doesn’t shine. It is nothing more than a rock in the sky, visible to none. Oakley is as confusing to me as she is beautiful. She is a good distraction, my favorite puzzle to piece together. We are opposites; When all I want to do is leave, she begs me for just a few more minutes to ensure she gets to every person, looks at every booth, and climbs every tree. Her face is the model of joy. A wide smile with full lips and almond eyes that are a pale green, mirroring her bright spirit, with freckles lightly scattered around her sun-kissed cheeks, all framed by her long, dark hair. Every inch of her screams friendly, where there is light, there is life, and Oakley is just that. Light. I flip over once again, fully submerging my body under the frigid waters. I run my hands over the rocks on the spring floor. The water drowns out the endless chaos that daily life brings. I let myself close my eyes, lying in the water, silence my only company. I let myself drift, time becoming irrelevant. Sanity finds me once again, and I let myself feel it. A long, drawn-out series of bells brings me back to the present. My heart stops. My eyes snap open, and I spring from the water. I am surprised to see the moon in the sky, hanging there coldly. I lost track of time. I mumble a series of curses under my breath, hurriedly grabbing my armlets and my shirt, slipping on my boots once more. I don't waste a second, my shirt in one hand, and a clump of metal in the other. And then, I run. I have five minutes. Cardlem is a kingdom that claims to believe in freedom, or so they say. We have laws and basic rules, just like any other. However, Candorless has one law that the rest of the kingdom does not. We call it curfew. When the sun dips below the horizon, you only have a few minutes to admire the stars before they sound the bell. You have five minutes to get inside your house and lock your doors when you hear it. Then, the night patrol comes. The night patrol's task is to ensure no citizens are out after dark. They reason that most crimes take place at night. Being enveloped in darkness lowers the chances of being caught and held accountable. It gives most criminals confidence, and it’s the night guard's job to steal that from them. Even if that’s true, I’m convinced there’s more to why the law was established. It’s effective, and crime rates have dropped, but it's a sinister solution. The punishment for breaking this law is death. People disappear without explanation. But it wasn’t considered murder if it was by the hands of the patrol. I’m not going to be the next disappearance. I pick up my feet faster. My clothes feel wrong, and my pants are heavy with the water that they hold. The fabric rubs against my skin, causing chafing on my legs. It steals my attention, slowing me enough to irritate me. I pull my wet shirt over my head to cover my scars as I reach the forest line. I pull my armlets back to distract myself from my discomfort and growing panic. One last drawn-out ring of the bell, and I skid to a stop. It’s too late. I am officially breaking curfew. I close my eyes and hear the nightwatch run throughout the village streets just a few yards away. I slow my breathing. My heart beats faster. My mind goes a million miles a minute, but my body remains frozen. The night guard comprises a couple dozen creatures, much faster than any man, and more powerful. They are most commonly known as sembiars. They have long limbs, are around the size of a horse when on all fours, and double that when on their back limbs. They are covered in barely visible scaly skin marred by burns and brandings. Sembiars have incredible hearing, a good sense of smell, but they only have thermal vision; hunting skills have been enhanced through years of genetic modification. They are designed to be lethal, and want us to know it. We are taught about their destructive potential as kids, and carry that knowledge with us as we grow. We are told to follow the law and avoid the creatures at all costs. Panic floods my system, and my vision flashes in bright, painful colors, despite the darkness that coats everything around me. The distressing scenarios pound into my head, and I desperately try to block them out. Would the sembiars find me? Entertain themselves by slowly picking me apart, peeling my skin off like parchment paper? Would they make me watch as they… Stop it. I force my head to stop spinning, and I reach my hand out, touching it against the rough bark of a tree, attempting to ground myself. You have to live, remember? You promised Kiki you would buy her cinnabuns. I reach up, grabbing a branch as quietly as I can. I hardly let myself breathe. I pull myself higher, grabbing branch after branch. My palms are calloused, yet still feel raw as I climb. The branches are getting thinner. One breaks under my weight, tumbling down before clattering to the ground. I freeze, before turning and pressing my back into the tree trunk. My breathing is heavy, but steady. I’m just over fifty feet off the floor. Winded and cold, I gulp down air as shivers rack my body. Winds thrash angrily, still raging from the earlier storm. A different kind of shiver runs down my spine as I watch a negligible figure creep down the pathway of a street near Oakley's house—another person who broke curfew. My heart refuses to work. A flash of darkness crawls over to the figure. Fast. Run. By the gods, run into a random person's house. A pained realization stabs through my ribs. Most would have their doors locked. My head spins as the sembiar races towards what I assume is a man, based on what I can see from my viewpoint. A piercing screech slices through the air, painful, borderline agonizing. My eyes refuse to close as I watch the boy run faster, desperate in what I know will be his last moments. I clench my jaw and wait, fighting the impulse to let my lip quiver. Bright hues of purple and green slice through my vision. I see in spots, my ears torturing me with a prolonged, high-pitched ringing. I watch solemnly as the sembiar goes on its hind legs. It reaches its long arms out, silencing the boy's last scream with a painful twist of his neck. It pauses for a moment, holding up the corpse. The sembiar drags the limp body of the boy through the street by his neck. A twisted dog, bringing its latest kill to its cave. I don’t cry. I hold this burden deep in my chest and try to force it out of my mind. Instead, it replays, again and again, regardless of my attempts to stop it. Yet I stare blank-faced, watching the creature bring its kill back to whatever hell it crawled from. Another shriek sounds, and I flinch, looking down at the sembiar now at the base of the tree I'm using as refuge. I cling to the trunk, watching as it claws at the base. There is nothing I can do but sit and hope it can't reach me. I watch it struggle, letting out starved cries of frustration. I try to stop my own shaking, but I can’t. If I die, it will be at my own hand; I won't let some demon do it for me. In a moment, another is doing the same as the first. I close my eyes and tilt my head towards the stars. I find comfort in them, but not enough to stop my spiral. I stay that way, looking at the stars, refusing to look below me. Breathing becomes a fragmented memory that I can only recall in pieces. I question if this will be how I die, my only hope being that the sembiars struggle getting more than a few inches off the floor. Minutes stretch into hours, and each one feels like days. After a night pinned up in the tree, ignoring the twists in my stomach, the sunlight seeps through the branches surrounding me. Nothing is audible, yet the sembiars look like something is squirming around in their heads. They take off in the same direction, leaving me and the sun alone. I allow a full breath to fill my lungs for the first time since nightfall. I don't move for at least half an hour after the monsters leave, anxiety getting the best of me. I don’t allow myself to feel relief for more than a second before making my way down the tree. When my feet find the floor again, I shake, and my legs only work halfway right. I walk through the forest alone, before quietly slipping back into my grandparents' house. I doubt they noticed my absence, sleeping at early hours; they wouldn't have known I never came home. I escaped the night guard. And that information will stay disclosed with me. As far as everyone else knew, it never happened. I intend to keep it that way.