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.

Rowan Kline Zorida  DAY TWO “Welcome! If you have made it this far, you have nothing to worry.” An elbow jabs my side, and I know this is Oakley's way of saying she was right.  “While most of you know me only from the hallogram in the testing rooms, few may recognize me from brief face-to-face interactions. Unfortunately, not everyone got that opportunity. “As you all know, each of you were individually picked for different reasons. We are happy to have you here with us.”  I roll my eyes.  “You have one more celebration tomorrow before the games begin. I presume you’ve noticed the watchers that are stationed inside your rooms. They are our eyes and ears. If you break any of the rules, we will know. They will not hurt you, and feel free to ask them any questions you have.” I cast a glance at the robots glued to the wall under the balcony that Muscaria presents herself on.  “You are provided one set of rations a day, which can be collected at any time. Tomorrow's celebration will take place at the same time as today's. You are required to attend.  “I will leave you with that. Please enjoy the rest of the night, but remember, too stay safe, you must stay secret. We will not tolerate any slip-ups.” There is no noise in the room as she walks back to where she came.  Her voice seems amplified, as it carries throughout the room.  Once the chatter picks up again, and a soft string of music notes starts to play, I turn back to her.  “If you're staying, I’m staying.” She claps her hands happily at the words. I look over her shoulder and see something that makes me groan internally.  Alexander is heading our way. I haven’t met the man before today, but I hate him. One look at him and you can practically smell the arrogance, sense the way he holds himself above others.  “I think you’ve interrupted for plenty of time. And, now that we have music, I think I deserve a dance with the lady.” He wraps his arm around Oakley. She's smiling up at him as if he’s her savior.  “Okay! Bye Rowan, we can talk later, I promise.” She's being tugged away, “Oh, and thank you. For staying with me.”  I nod.  Alexander has a wicked grin on his face as he whisks her away from me.  I look at the ceiling, softly hitting the back of my head against the wall a couple of hundred times. I run my hands up my face and through my hair, just too stimulate the growing chaos I feel.  “That was a trainwreck.” I look forward and see a face of freckles looking back at me, “I’m assuming that was who you were looking for last night?”  “The one and only,” I mumble to the boy who helped me the other night. I feel like I was in the wrong for letting him see me like that. His hair is still very copper colored, but now that I'm not in that hazy state, I can make out a pair of brown eyes and his hundreds of freckles.  “Tough luck, buddy. Don’t worry, I’ll be your wingman—we’ll get her.” He elbows my side teasingly.  “It’s not like that.” His mouth drops open, and he leans in closer, clearly confused, “Then why do you look like you're going to punch a hole through the wall?” He purses his lips and raises his eyebrows inquisitively.  I suddenly want him to leave. Badly. “I don’t like him. She’s in fairytale land right now, I can tell. If she wants a partner, fine. But he doesn’t deserve it.”  _He definitely thinks he does. _ I don’t know why I’m talking to this stranger, but I'm frustrated, and the thoughts are flooding my mind, and apparently out of my mouth. Is this what it feels like to be Oakley?  “So I can shoot my shot? Nice to know.”  “She doesn’t like gingers.” I have no clue if that’s true or not, but I say it anyway. My eyes are following her; her dress flows with every movement she makes. She is smiling, and I pretend it does not affect me. “Harsh. I was just joking. Not my type.” I roll my eyes. “What’s your name again?” He puffs out his chest, proud, as he answers, “Tucker, Beau Tucker. 19 years old, and probably better than everyone at everything.” He is teasing, but I glare at him from the side of my eye.  “This is the part where you tell me yours,” He whispers, breaking character before returning his extravagant pose.  “Rowan,” I answer. He drops the pose, and his shoulders sag.  “That was so boring. Could have at least _tried_ to make it fun, buddy.”  “Not your buddy.”  “Come on, I practically saved your life last night. You should be begging on your knees for my time.”  “No, I shouldn’t. And you’ll never see me like that again, not while you're still breathing.”  “Aggressive. Relax. You have no sense of humor.”  “I have a sense of humor, you just actually have to be funny to find it.” I’m trying to get him to leave. To scare him off, since he seems insistent on forming some sort of alliance with me. I know Oakley thinks it’s safe here, but it's not. I don’t know who to trust.  “I like you. You’ve got an attitude.” He says, “But seriously. Go, get her. You have barely taken your eyes off of them this whole conversation.”  I look over at him, and he urges me to go. I don’t want to intervene. She wants to be there with him.  Tucker throws his hands up, clearly giving up. We sit there in silence, watching the couple move.  The majority of the people here are complete strangers to one another, yet multiple couples were dancing anyway. Admirable. Either that or completely idiotic.  Oakley is smiling as Alexander talks, which I find strange. If Oaklay loves one thing, it's talking. It's what makes her so fun to be around; she loves telling everyone what's on her mind.  But she isn’t talking now; she has hardly said a word the whole time.  This is what the rest of my night looks like. I watch the couples dance, with a talkative man at my side, and a pit in my stomach, while battling the urge to kill someone.  But after a few more miserable minutes, a young girl walks up to the pair. She has medium-length blond hair, but that’s all I can make out from here.  They talk, just the three of them, for a few minutes, before the girl walks off, and Alexander follows. Oakley is left alone in the middle of the room. “By the gods, _finally! _He’s gone, go get her! She's alone, you’re making her look lonely, go!” Tucker looks almost angry, yet clearly excited; he was talking so fast that he barely finished one sentence before starting the next. He pops up, “Get off your ass, you’re going to lose your chance!” He scolds.  “I hate you.” “I feel the love, man, but I'm not joking. Go.” He is practically bouncing, pushing me forward. I swat him away, but listen. I merge into the crowd, dodging swaying groups. She is sitting there watching him go, as I sneak up beside her.  “How did it go?” She startles, despite my talking quietly.  I find her reaction humorous, but I don’t show it.  She slouches, “I’m so very sick of dancing to this painfully slow music.” She leads us off the floor and over to a table filled with a random assortment of food.  “I’m going to turn in soon, but first,” she claps her hands and turns towards me. “how was your night? Meet anyone special?” She asks, waggling her eyebrows. She laughs at herself and grabs something off the table to shove into her mouth while she waits for my reply.  “No,” I was planning to leave it at that, but I saw a crazed look in her eye I know all too well, “and I’m not trying to either.” I’m surprisingly tired and I think it reflects in my lazy words. Last night I felt like I was dying, every inch of my body in pain, but tonight, somehow, I feel fine again. It’s completely irrational, the only thing I feel now is a slight soreness in a few places, and a heavy sense of weariness.  “A shame, really. I know your content being all dark and brooding, _but… _you’re tall and have a pretty face. Symmetrical, nice shape, pretty eyes…  I’m honestly jealous!”  “I am _not_ dark and brooding.”  “Shh, yes, you are. _But,_ you have pretty handsome features overall, girls our age would rip you to pieces if you let ‘em. You check most of the boxes,” she nods.  “I don’t, _‘check any boxes,’_” I mock, “I don’t want any of that.”  She doesn’t believe me, of course, “Everyone wants that. Someday, you'll want someone to build a future with—someone to be there for you. You can pretend you can't fathom it in the meantime, but when you snap out of it, I’ll help you find her. I mean, or him, whatever floats your boat, ” She shrugs. I laugh out loud, before smothering it with my hand. Her eyes go wide, and her smile even wider. “I’ve never heard you laugh like that! I mean a chuckle here or there, sure! But that was a full belly laugh!” Her smile is so broad it keeps mine on my face, even as I roll my eyes.  “Why did you stop?” She starts again, “How can I make it come back? Are you ticklish?” She reaches forward, but I grab her hands. “Don’t even try it.”  She smirks, “If you weren’t ticklish, you wouldn’t be trying to stop me.” She angles her head to the side, squinting her eyes.  She’s adorable.  “You have a very nice laugh, Rowan. You should do it more. Might lighten the load.”  I realize her hands are still in mine, and let them drop. The words were enough to make my face go hot; physical contact was simply too much. “Okay then, what did you do?” “Mainly watched you dance. You looked beautiful. Red is your color.” I reach a hand out and touch one of her thick, long braids. “You’re the only person with their hair up.”  She pulls her braid from my fingers with a gasp, looking around at the now dwindling crowd.  “Really? Does it look bad?” She asks, concerned. “Not even a little bit.” She sighs, “Oh, thank the gods.”  I try to keep the conversation going, but when she mentions she's tired once again, I don’t force her to stay. I offer to walk her to her room, and she accepts.  We make our way up the same spiraling set of stairs I came from, and down a long hallway.  “My room is just above yours. Very last room?” She smiles like it's the best news she's ever heard. She looks at the roof before slowly lowering her gaze. It lands on me with a mischievous smirk playing on her lips, “Know Morse code?”  I nod.  She motions for me to enter her room, and I do so timidly.  “Do you have one of these windows?” She tries to make herself taller, while still just barely peeking through the glass.  “Yes…” I answer, a hint of suspicion in my tone.  “Have a little trust, grouch.” She walks past me, waving one of the watchers into the already crowded space.  “Is there any rule saying this window has to be here?” The watcher stays silent before answering that there is no such thing. “Fantastic! Will you help me break it?” It pauses again. I doubt it will comply, and I wait for it to say so. It walks over to the window and pushes one hand through the glass. The square falls out, onto what I know is the ballroom below. There are a few sounds of surprise, just barely audible.  “Thank you, Mr. Watcher,” she smiles.  “It’s not a person.”  “Don’t listen to him, he doesn’t know what he's talking about,” She waves me away with her hands, “but will you do the same thing for his room, please?” The watcher agrees, and she ushers both of us out of the room. I show the robot to my room, and it follows instructions. I can’t tell if I’m confused, in disbelief, or even angry.  “Based on the glass shattering, I’m assuming it's done?” I hear her voice faintly from below me.  I laugh to myself, “Yes, Kiki. I can hear you.”  “Oh, good! I don’t want to yell at each other. I was thinking we could pull a rope or something. You know, so we can talk without disturbing anyone,” Oakley says.  “We don’t have a rope. But I think we could get one. It needs to make noise, just a little to grab attention.” I entertain the idea, even though I am much less enthusiastic than she is about it.  “Smart, but I’m drawing a blank.”  “Don’t stress yourself, you need sleep. We can figure it out another day,” I sit underneath the window, resting my head against the wall.  “Yeah… Yeah, you're probably right,” I can hear the sigh in her voice. “Well, goodnight, Rowan. Thank you for staying with me, I don’t think I’m putting into words very well, but it really does mean the world.” “Always,” The word slips out under a breath, and I assume it never reaches her ears. “Goodnight, Oakley. I’ll see you in the morning.”

**Chapter Seven** Oakley Ruby Oriana DAY TWO I’m wrestling with latex—half of my energy is spent dragging it up my body, and the other half is spent keeping myself steady. It’s a black bodysuit I found in a wardrobe stationed near the foot of the bed. The room is small, just a twin bed crammed into a corner, a table beside it, and a wall dividing the space. On one side, the bed and wardrobe. On the other, a bathroom and the door out. I flop on the bed, left breathless after the battle with the suit. I listen as the watcher restates almost everything Muscaria had told me the night before, but as it drones on, I lose interest.  All of the players are expected to join together and celebrate the game. I don’t know how many people will be there, but the uncertainty isn’t too unsettling. Surprisingly, the body suit causes the most stress. It’s tight, black, and suffocating. It covers every inch of my legs and abdomen, and I’m itching to get it off.  I’ve been dreaming about my first ball for as long as I can remember, and I distinctly recall them featuring dresses. Not bodysuits.  I tried not to let it spoil my attitude, but it did. There were no powders, paints, or anything to pretty myself up with. I walk over to the robot, who has made it clear he wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon.  “So… are we going to go, or what?”  The robot stands idly, without response. I groan and throw my hands up. I freeze. The suit shines, then melts, billowing into layers of crimson. Fabric piles around me, and I feel as if I am vibrating.  Red pours down my body like wine. Silk presses against my skin, flowing over my chest and down my legs.  The hem brushes against the floor, but doesn’t drag. It moves like it knows where to go, even if I don’t.  Sometimes I forget how much I love magic. The dress is made of multiple thin layers piling around me. The waistline transforms into a basque style, complementing me perfectly. Around my stomach, there is a corset, with each wire covered in deep scarlet fabric. In between each wire, there is a red mesh. Around my bust, there is another bunch of material, solid but ruffled. It has a sweetheart neckline, and the overall dress is a perfect A-line ball gown, with ribbons wrapped around my arms.  I twirl a time or two, admiring the design.  An idea comes to mind, and I tug at the ribbons adorning my arms. They covered the cuts there, but I had a better purpose for them. When they finally come free, my dress starts to become discolored.  “Oh, relax, Magic. I’m not breaking your dress, I’m just repurposing this part.” The change stops, before receding, and then turns back to red.  I pull my hair up, trying my best to braid it. I try to weave in the ribbons, but they either jut out in weird places or fall out entirely. It’s too long anyway.  I toss the ribbons on my bed. “Okay, I did break your dress. I’m sorry.” I wait for it to change again, but it doesn’t. It’s being forgiving now.  “Look, isn’t it pretty?” I swish the fabric, but I still get no reaction from the watcher.  “You are expected to be there in 10 minutes,” it says.   I sigh, “Can I just go right now? I’d rather be early than sit in here.”  He steps to the side. I want to speed down the hallway, but I have no idea where I’m going. So, instead, I wait as the watcher walks out in front of me. He leads me down a flight of stairs before turning and walking through an arch that opens into an expansive room.  _This _is what a celebration should be. There were white tiles on the floor, a tall ceiling, and a balcony watching over all of it. What grabs my attention is the long tables of food.  The watcher leaves my side and stations itself near the archway.  I cross the room, approaching the tables. I walk around a time or two before picking at a few things. There are little meatballs on sticks, as well as strange foods I’ve never seen, scattered throughout the display, alongside fruit. There are delicate glasses filled with dark red liquid for the beverages.  People start to file in. There had to be at least half a hundred people here, but the majority stuck to the walls, while only a few ventured or talked.  One girl caught my eye simply because of her anxious nature. She pulled at small pieces of her hair, twirling the strands. Her eyes flew around the room, and I could sense the panic behind them. I pick up a glass in each hand and make my way over to her.  Her eyes grow wide when she watches my approach. I smile in an attempt to shake her nerves, but she doesn’t reciprocate. I hold the drink out as I introduce myself, but she makes no move to take it from me. I hold one of the cups out and blink. She looks down and shakes her head, gnawing her lip nervously.  “Oh, right. Don’t take things from strangers,” I say, scolding myself, “There's nothing wrong with it though, I promise.” I look around before putting the goblets on the floor up against the wall. I brush my hands against my dress just to give myself something to do.  I wonder if walking away would make the situation less awkward or make it worse. I decide to give it one more shot.  “I love your dress!” I put all remaining energy into the statement, hoping it would be the icebreaker.  She smiles and blushes, and her blond hair falls into her blue eyes as she looks down. Her dress is more pink than red, complementing her suntanned skin. It’s made of silk, hugging her nicely. She looked to be a year or so younger than me.  Red seems to be the theme, everyone dressed in varying shades of it, both boys and girls.  She mumbles a short, “Thank you,” but nothing more. It takes a moment, but she continues the conversation.  “I doubt you did anything to the drinks, I just don't know what's in them.” Her voice is soft, like warm blankets and crisp spring mornings.  “Honestly, neither do I,” I laugh softly with her, “you just looked a little spooked, so I thought I should come over and try to shake the nerves.”  Her face softens before a large hand lands on her shoulder. She flinches before recognizing the person. I hadn’t noticed the boy approaching until he was here. I find the owner of the hand to be a tall boy with dark hair and ice-blue eyes. My focus flickers between the two.  “I see you’ve met my sister.” His voice is the opposite of hers, confident, deep, and loud.  “I have! Very sweet girl.” It’s the only thing I could think to say, seeing how she doesn’t display anything other than a shy demeanor. I introduce myself and hold my hand out for him to shake.  He takes it, brings it up to his lips, and carefully kisses my knuckle. It’s unexpected, but I would be lying if I said I am disappointed about it. He_ is _a very striking young man. It takes everything I have in me not to giggle.  “Alexander,” He says, dropping my hand. My stomach immediately tumbles.  The girl whispers to her brother before sparing me a slight wave and leaving the two of us to our own devices. I smile at her as she leaves, before turning back to the young man.  My face still burns, and his eyes are still glued to me. We sit that way for a few breaths, before I break the silence. “So,” I start, “is your sister always that shy, or is it just me?” He laughs, rolling his eyes, “It’s just her. Evelyn’s not good with people. Always been the silent type.”  “She’ll warm up, I’m sure. It’s nice to have a friend, and we’re both here alone; it’s a win for both of us.” He smiles down at me, “I’m sure she would appreciate it. As annoying as she is, I wouldn’t trade her for the world.” I raise an eyebrow, trying to understand, “I think I would trade my sister for a cupcake.” I don’t understand the bond that other siblings most often share. “Actually, I take it back. I would probably have to pay someone to take her.”  “You’re a funny girl, Oakley.” His laughter is loud and turns a few heads, and suddenly imthe shy one. I take the compliment, offering him a soft thank you. “Are you ready for this? The whole game thing?” I nod excitedly, “Oh yeah, I can’t wait.”  “Really?” He asks, genuinely intrigued, “Not nervous? Not at all?”  I shake my head, smiling widely, “I’m actually really excited about it. It’s going to be fun.” He looks at me wonderingly. He opens his mouth but closes it a moment later, his eyes finding something behind me.  “Do you have any friends here, Oakley?”  “No, I don’t think so. Why?” He squints, “A blond boy is storming towards us.”  I can feel my face lighten, and I whip around so fast that one of my braids smacks into the side of my face.  I run forward before practically mauling the man.  “Rowan! I’m so happy you're here!” I squeal, “Well, not really, I think you should have just left me back in the forest, but I’m happy you're here now!”  He looks horrified. He looks down at my dress, and I step away, “It’s pretty, isn’t it? Here, let me give you a twirl, it fans out and it's gorgeous, you'll love it,” I ramble. “Whoever the designer is, is truly amazing. Well, I guess the magic designed it, but—” “Oakley, your arms.” He says, finally, the words spoken in a hushed tone. I almost forgot about the scratches, but now that they have been brought to my attention, I want nothing more than to hide them. Before I can, Rowan's hands are already running up and down the damaged skin, gingerly touching each scrape and bruise.  “Oh, I don’t know how those got there, but they don’t bug me too much, only a little.”  “It’s my fault.” He whispers.  I tilt my head, looking up at him, “What do you mean?” “I did this to you. When I thought that man was trying to hurt you, I fought as hard as I could—I had him down. I grabbed you and tried to run. He hit us, and you fell out of my arms, I’m so sorry, Oakley.” He never takes his eyes from the markings until the last sentence.  “It’s okay, I hardly even feel them, just scratches that’s all.” He finds the various slices on my hands, and I pull away.  “Oh, those were me. The light in the room, it… broke.” I choose to leave out the part where that was my fault, too.  Alexander clears his throat behind me, and though I don't notice it at first, Rowan does.  “Where are my manners!” I exclaim, “Alexander, this is my best friend Rowan. Rowan, this is my new friend Alexander.”  Neither of them says a word. The weight of the silence is enough to make my head hurt, but I seem to be the only one. They seem content staring into each other's souls.  “Well then, I’m going to get a drink…” Rowan stops me from pulling away, grabbing my armwith care, clearly still paranoid about the cuts.  “Kiki, I need to talk to you.” “Her name is Oakley.” Alexander interrupts.  “No, it’s a nickname.” I giggle.  “What does that mean? If you're going to call her anything but her name, at least come up with something good.”  Rowan doesn’t respond, just pulls me away. He leads us away from the people, towards the corner of the room. “We have to get out of here.” I’m snapped out of my daze, my mind slinking off without my knowledge.  “Excuse me?” I stutter. “We need to leave, find a way home.”  “No… we need to play the game. Muscaria said we needed to play _the game_. If we get eliminated, we go home anyway. It’s just a game, Rowan. It’s okay.”  “Kiki, I don’t think you understand. We aren't safe, not while we’re here. We have to leave.” The words send a sense of panic through me. Rowan has always been the sensible one, yet he is being anything but. But part of me is scared he is telling the truth.  “Hey, hey, I don't want to scare you. We’ll be fine, I promise. I just really need you to trust me. Please.” My hands ball up at my sides, and I fiddle with the fabric there.  “Rowan, we need to stay here. We’re here for a reason, I know it. We are going to play the game and then go home. Either that or fight for a _good _cause. The line between right and wrong is thin, and no matter what we do, it's going to feel like we are using that line as a tightrope.” I take a deep breath before continuing, “I’m staying. You can try to leave if you want, but if you do, please don't go unprepared. There is clearly magic here, which either means we are in Candorless, or somewhere neither of us knows of.”  He stays silent, my seriousness surprising him. I fill the silence as soon as the thought comes to mind.  “I'm leaning towards the latter. I’ve lived in Candorless my whole life, and I can promise you I have never seen a castle. And if there were one, the magic would make sure everyone knew about it. It likes pretty things. The big, the magnificent, the colorful; all of it.” I gesture wildly with my hands. I smile when he raises his eyebrows.  “Wow,” he crosses his arms, “what makes you think the magic is like a person? That it has preferences?”  I roll my eyes. “Because, of course it does. But that's not the point.” I cross my arms too, in more of a pout. “Are you leaving or not. I won’t judge you either way, I just want to know the plan. I’d like to keep you alive you know, however I can.”  He takes a moment to just look at me before he answers. A voice slices through the crowd, completely silencing his response before it can reach my ears.

Rowan Kline Zorida  DAY ONE Where the _hell_ is Oakley?  I don’t remember waking up; I only remember going out.  I pound against each wall, listening for the sound each permits. I got in here somehow, and I would get out the same way. There has to be one hidden latch, false wall, or escape route.  _There. _One of the walls feels different, and I don’t waste a second, shouldering into it. I’ll tear this wall down with bloodied fingertips if that's what it takes to get to her.  I can’t let someone hurt her. I vow to die of exhaustion trying to get through the stone separating us if that's what it takes to keep a single soul from touching her. I am aware of what the world could do. She is not.  I plead for it to give way, but it shows no sign of doing so. A sharp pain bursts through my shoulder, but I repress it. Each movement taking more effort than the last. Whatever is possessing me at the moment isn’t strong enough.  The possibility of the consequences of my failure is enough to keep me going. The one who suffers the most won’t be me, and that hurts more than the feeling of throwing myself against this wall. I’m breaking, and my attacks become weak and sloppier by the second. The drugs aren’t keeping me unconcious anymore, but they still have some affect on me. My movements turn sluggish, but they don’t stop. I give it my final push, harnessing everything I have left. _Pound, pound, pound. _ And then— _Crack._ ——<+>—— The scientists watched from the other side of the wall. Cries from the boy were heard from inside the observation area, yet not one of them reacted. It had been the same action repeated since the beginning. It is very common for people to attempt breaking through the wall, yet they rarely succeed. Few ever found the weak spot in the wall that was the door. Those who were smart, or lucky enough, rarely ever had the brawn to break through.  This boy would be no different. He was only going to injure himself, possibly die trying, and every person in the room knew it. So they sat, idled, spinning pens and tapping their fingers against desktops.  He was persistent. They were instructed to record observations made, but there were very few. He had only done one thing. He woke up, found the wall, and has been throwing himself against it ever since.  The scientists believed that he would eventually change tactics. After two hours in the room, they would activate the intercom and speak to him. The boy would have to persuade them to release him, or he would die in the room.  He wasn’t part of the few that refused to try, and for that, the observers were grateful. Few give up, and even fewer never start trying in the first place. The ones that rely on others never make it out. They expect a savior, and by the time they realize the falseness of their belief, it's too late.  The boy could have found the puzzle. If he found the wall, he could find the key slot. It had the same symbol as the disk on the ceiling light, and he could easily dislodge the key and get out.  He injured himself, that much was clear, but there was no sign of stopping.  “Do you think he will break through?” One scientist asks another quietly.  “Not a chance.” The other replies simply, “Most of them try this. Only a few succeed. I don’t believe he will be one of those few, taking into account the circumstances.”  “He's persistent, he definitely has motivation,” another adds.  “They all do, they fear what they do not know. He's no different.”  The first woman speaks up once more, “No, this is different, I assure you.”  Muscaria enters the room, and every spine in the observation room snaps straight. She speaks cooly, lending her weight into her arms as she leans over the table, looking at the screen.  “How is this one doing?”  A scientist on the far side of the room responds, updating her on the child's behavior.  Muscaria smiles, intrigued, “He wasn’t even supposed to be here. He was just an addition during the abduction.” She looks through a stack of papers on the table, before pulling one from the pile, “This girl, Oriana. Oakley Ruby Oriana. I had my eye on her for a while. It seems she is well-liked and well-known, so I had hoped she would be able to sway votes. Do we have any updates on her?”  “No, not at the moment. She is still under the effects of the drug, but we plan to wake her sometime in the next hour.”  She nods, watching the boy on the monitor. “At the rate he's going, he shouldn’t last long. Throwing yourself into a wall with that much force for that long will result in numerous injuries. Your numbers won't be thrown off.”  She shrugs, “I don't care about the numbers. It only means more people for our cause.” She turns up the volume and listens. It was a series of grunts or yells as he threw himself into the wall time and time again.  “How long has he been awake?”  “Just under 50 minutes.”  “And how long has he been attempting to escape this way?”  A pause.  “Just under 50 minutes, Miss,” He says timidly. Her eyebrows quirk up in an amused smirk, “Interesting. I hope this one escapes. He could be an asset if trained correctly.” She stands straighter, crossing her arms, and turning to look at the one in charge, “And he was administered the correct ratio of gas?”  They confirmed her question, nodding and mumbling.  A burst of sound streams from the monitor as one excruciatingly angered sound is ripped from the boy, Zorida. He thrust his body into the wall, but this time, a sickening crack echoed through the room.  A wicked smile sprang into Muscaria’s face, and a short, harsh laugh burst from her lips. She lurches forward, clapping her hands together. This time, with almost more force, he slowly made the crack grow. It took him less than five minutes to break enough of the wall to stumble through the hole.  Muscaria cackled, the sound high-pitched, while she clapped her hands repeatedly, clearly impressed.  Every jaw in the room was on the floor. “What was his time?” she whirled to the scientist, a crazed look in her eye.  He stuttered and stammered, scrambling to find the answer for her. He turned to his monitors and clicked a few buttons, a string of code running across the screen.  “Fifty-four minutes and thirty-seven seconds.” He mumbled back, still unable to comprehend it.  Absolute silence.  ——<+>—— I'm bleeding, and I'm sure my whole body is about to fall apart as I walk through the debris of the wreckage. I don’t know how long it took me to get through, but every second is agony, knowing she could be hurt.  My heart sinks as I see another door in front of me. I slink down the hallway, my head threatening to fall right off my body and roll down the rest of the way.  I reach for the doorknob, begging it to open. I’m disposed into a dark room, a dark purple hue overcast. The door shuts, and I’m too foggy in the mind to care. There is a video playing, but I can't focus on that either. Is it talking about Candorless? I slump to the floor and drop my head between my knees, holding onto consciousness by a thread.  I have to keep going.  I listen with my ears as a soothing and powerful voice tells me about a game I have been put in against my will.  No one kidnaps someone with good intentions. There is trouble here, and I know that someone is going to get hurt. I just can’t let that someone be Oakley.  They talk about a compartment I don’t care about. I would have a role to play, and I would either be forced to kill or be killed.  But Oakley can’t kill. I will have to do it for her. The woman explained the rest of the rules, and I understood most of them. Everything's a blur as I force myself to crawl to the compartment and wrap my fingers around the container inside.  I almost don’t open it.  When I do, I feel my heart stop beating, and my lungs collapse.  My vision fades in and out, and it’s hard to force it to focus long enough to make sense of the symbols, the glowing blue words engraved into the glass rectangle.   ASSASSIN. I want to throw the glass piece, but my shoulder isn’t working like it should. I would cut myself to slivers with this one shard of broken glass. I clasp the slip in my palm, looking at the ceiling.  I don’t want to hurt anyone. I promise I don’t. But I’m starting to feel like no matter what I do, or how hard I try, I always end up doing so. I smother the war playing out in my mind and body before it can grow any larger.  I stagger to my feet as a door opens and light spills into the room. I am told to find my quarters within the fortris. There were seven floors, but four were tall enough to be five stories each.  Multiple doors lined the hallway, leading to a spiral staircase. There is a strange-looking man dressed in all white at the top of the stairs. As I get closer, I noticed that the man _wasn’t_ a man. The robot had a screen where the face should be, and parts of its body were cut too perfectly. The strange gadget it held in its hands is something I had never seen a person hold before. Something isn’t right with me.  It asks for my name, and I almost feel as if I can’t give it. I have a strange taste in my mouth. Once I speak my name, the screen displays it and a corresponding number.  1036 A tower and a room. I’m falling forward with every step, but I stumble down the stairs anyway. I'm on the very top floor, in the very last room. I stagger to the floor as I step off into my hallway, sitting in a pathetic pile of pain against the wall.  I hear a voice before I can pull myself up. It’s not Oakleys, which only makes my heart puncture again.  “What hell did you escape from?” The man had a juvenile tone to his voice. Open, expressive, and almost childish. I am surprised to look up and see he looks my age, if not older. He has copper hair and a face full of freckles, his only features my mind can grab onto. He is looking at me as if I were some sort of spectacle, one he would pay to watch.  He grabs my arms, and I am not in a state to fight it. Adrenaline is the best pain killer, but it isn’t pulsing through me anymore, and I can tell there is something wrong with me. He could be trying to murder me for all I know, and I don’t think I would mind it. He rambles, but I don't find myself trying to listen. When he stops, he seems to be waiting for an answer from me.  “Holy hell, man, you really are out of it, huh?” “What was your question?” I try not to cringe at the pain the words shoot through me.  “It’s a miracle, he lives.” He throws his hands up and they smack back at his sides, “What’s your room number?” I repeat the number and he groans, “Of course you get the room all the way at the end. I stop to help someone out of the _kindness_ of my heart, and now I have to drag his ass all the way to the end of the hallway.”  I would roll my eyes if I had the energy.  “Come on, up you go big guy.” He helps me walk down the hallway, pointing out every injury he finds.  I suck in air with every movement I make, they all send a new wave of pain through my body. I have to spend every ounce of control I have left to keep my eyes open and not let my mind go black.  “I’ve been exploring this place a bit, if you want to call it that, and I’ve run into a few others. They seemed somewhat loopy and tired, but _you… _Whatever demons you fought in that room got you pretty good. Your body wants to give out, I can tell. By the blood in your mouth, I would guess there is some internal bleeding. That, or you bit your cheek. You’re pretty bruised up, I’m guessing internally as much as externally. They should be sending healers to every room, or at least that’s what I was told. But hey, what do I know?” He changes our course and we are face to face with a door. He battles between carrying my weight and opening the door.  We stagger inside, and he tries to push me onto the bed, but I fight him on it. It’s tempting to let myself crumble apart on the mattress, but I fight the urge.  I sit, but that is all I allow.  I hate being this vulnerable. I hate showing people how weak I am. Shame clouds my thoughts, but I hide it. “You said… you said you saw a lot of people…” The words are as dragged out and sloppily spoken as my mind is. My lips close as my eyelids battle to do the same.  “Yeah…” I feel the words in my mouth, but I can’t push them out of me. My world swirls, and my limbs turn numb, and I can’t remember what I'm doing, or who I'm trying to find.

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.