A year ago, I sat beside Aunt Evelyn's hospital bed, holding a letter I'd found at home and trying to convince myself that the words on the page were enough to make everything okay.
It was my father's death anniversary. I'd woken up that morning knowing what day it was, though I hadn't needed the calendar to remind me.
The hospital was quiet that afternoon. The corridor outside Aunt Evelyn's room smelled of disinfectant and overcooked vegetables. Somewhere down the hall, a television played a game show at a volume nobody seemed interested in lowering. A nurse had come by twice to check Aunt Evelyn's medication, and both times she'd spoken to me with the type of tone people use when they don't know what else to say.
Aunt Evelyn had been sleeping for most of the visit. When she woke, she looked at me for a long time. She was trying to place me, searching through whatever remained of her memories for a name that should have been easy to find.
"You're here again," she said.
I smiled. "Yes, Auntie."
She glanced toward the window. The afternoon light fell across her blanket, making the thin fabric look almost transparent.
"Have you seen my brother?"
My smile faltered. For a moment, I couldn't answer.
She looked back at me, waiting.
"He's not coming today, Auntie."
"Why not?"
I swallowed. "He's gone."
She frowned, as though I'd given her an answer that made no sense. "Gone where?"
I looked down at our hands. Her fingers were thinner than I remembered, her skin loose around the knuckles. There had been a time when those hands could knead dough for hours without complaint, carry grocery bags up the stairs, or smack the back of my head when I tried to steal food before dinner.
Now she sometimes struggled to hold a glass of water.
"He's no longer with us," I repeated softly.
She kept looking at me. Then something in her expression changed. Her brows drew together, and she turned away from me.
"No."
It was such a small sound. I wished she'd yelled at me instead. I wished she'd told me I was wrong, that my father was just outside the room, that he'd be back any minute with a bag of food and some ridiculous story about how he'd managed to get it for half the price.
Anything would have been better than that quiet, uncertain look.
Aunt Evelyn reached for my hand.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart."
I squeezed her fingers. "You don't have to be."
I wanted to tell her that forgetting wasn't something she could control. That I wasn't angry with her. That she didn't need to apologize every time her mind misplaced another piece of the life we'd shared. Instead, I sat beside her and held her hand while she cried.
When she finally drifted back to sleep, I remained in the chair long after I should have left.
The letter lay folded in my lap.
I'd found it the previous evening while going through one of my father's old boxes at home. It had been tucked between a stack of receipts and several documents the government had sent him over the years. The paper was worn at the creases, and the ink had faded in places.
I'd read it so many times that I could remember entire lines without looking. My father hadn't written it to me. I wasn't even sure he'd intended anyone to find it. But I'd found it, and now I couldn't stop thinking about what he'd written.
Now, with Aunt Evelyn asleep in a hospital bed and the anniversary of his death sitting heavy, I couldn't decide whether his hope had been brave or foolish. Perhaps it didn't matter. He'd believed in something, and he'd spent his life trying to make it real. I wasn't sure what I had left to believe in.
I tried to imagine what my father would say if he were here. Whether he'd tell me to stop worrying, or whether he'd sit beside me and admit that he was frightened, too. He never pretended that life was easy, but he had a way of making difficult things seem manageable.
He'd tell me to breathe.
He'd tell me that tomorrow was another day.
He'd probably make a joke about the hospital food, then sneak out to buy me something better.
'I needed air,' I muttered to myself.
I leaned forward, kissed Aunt Evelyn's forehead, and told her I'd be back. She didn't wake up.
I left the room quietly, walked past the nurses' station, and took the stairs down instead of the elevator. By the time I reached the ground floor, I had already decided where I wanted to go.
There was a hillside not far from the hospital, a stretch of land overlooking the lower districts and the road that wound toward Brumefall Heights. I'd been there a handful of times when I needed somewhere to think, though I'd never told Aunt Evelyn about it. She worried enough when her memories come back without knowing I sometimes wandered off alone.
The sky had been threatening rain all afternoon. By the time I reached the street, the first drops had begun to fall. I pulled my jacket around me and started walking.
The rain was light at first, barely enough to darken the pavement. It settled on my hair and clung to my eyelashes. But I kept walking. The path was muddy by the time I reached it. Water ran in narrow streams between the stones, and the grass bent beneath the rain. I climbed carefully, using the trees for balance where the slope grew steep. When I reached the top, I halted.
The city stretched out below me, a patchwork of buildings and narrow roads, the rusted roofs shining beneath the grey sky. Beyond the distant wall, the Spires rose above everything else, their towers almost lost in the clouds. From up here, the divisions between the zones were easier to see.
The wealthy lived above us, protected by walls and guards and systems designed to keep their lives comfortable. The rest of us lived below, making do with what remained.
I looked toward the Spires.
"I miss you, Papa," I whispered.
The rain answered by tapping against the leaves.
I took the letter from my pocket and unfolded it, holding the paper beneath the shelter of my jacket. I read the line again.
'I'm doing my best to fight for you. To provide you the future you deserve.'
My throat tightened.
"How are you, Little Bird?" he'd say. "Tell me what happened today."
And I'd tell him about school, or a neighbor's argument, or the rabbit I'd managed to catch before sunset. He'd listen as if every detail mattered. To him, it did.
I folded the letter again, but my fingers had started to shake.
Standing on the hillside a year ago, I finally understood. And I'd been too young to recognize how much of himself he was giving away.
I pressed the letter against my chest.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
The words were swallowed by the rain.
I didn't know whether I was apologizing for living, for the things I hadn't understood, or for the fact that I was still here while he wasn't. Maybe it was all of them.
I wiped my face with the sleeve of my jacket, but the tears kept coming.
He'd wrap an arm around me and murmur the same words every time.
'Breathe, little bird.'
I tried to hear his voice over the rain.
'Breathe, little bird.'
I drew in a breath.
It shook on the way in.
I folded the letter and put it back in my pocket. Then I sat on a flat rock beneath a tree, watching the rain slide from the leaves. The sky darkened gradually, and the city below began to blur behind the falling rain. But somewhere in the distance, an engine growled.
I lifted my head. A motorcycle. The sound came from the road leading toward the plateau at Brumefall Heights. It grew louder, then softened as the rider pulled off the main road.
Nobody usually came this way in the rain. The path was steep, the ground slippery, and the hillside offered little reason to stop unless you wanted to be alone.
I listened.
The engine cut out. For a few seconds, there was nothing but the rain.
Then came another sound. Metal striking earth. Someone was digging.
I pushed myself off the rock.
I should have gone back to the hospital. Aunt Evelyn would still be asleep, and I had no reason to involve myself in whatever someone was doing on a hillside in the middle of a storm. But the sound bothered me. Whoever it was had chosen a place where they were unlikely to be seen. They'd arrived by motorcycle and gone straight to work without wasting time.
I tucked my hands into my jacket pockets and followed the sound.
The ground grew softer beneath my shoes as I moved along the slope. I stayed close to the trees, stepping around puddles and patches of exposed roots. The shoveling grew louder as I approached a small clearing near the road.
But a figure came to view. He was crouched beside a hole in the earth, working a shovel into the wet soil. A rectangular box lay nearby, darkened by the rain. It looked heavy enough that he had struggled to move it, though he seemed determined not to leave it where it was.
He was around my age, perhaps older by a year or two. His black leather jacket was simple, without any obvious logos or decorations. His hair was jet-black, slightly messy from the rain, and fell over his forehead as he bent to lift another shovelful of dirt. There was something striking about him, even from a distance. The kind of face that would draw attention in a crowded room, though he seemed to have no interest in attracting any.
Then he turned his head. I saw the small, intentional diagonal gap trimmed through his left eyebrow. It was a small detail, but it caught my attention immediately.
His eyes met mine. For a moment, neither of us moved.
He looked at me once, taking in my wet hair and the jacket clinging to my shoulders. Then he glanced toward the road. He gave a short, humorless look toward the hole. Then he finished burrying the box.
The last few shovelfuls landed heavily over the box. He tamped the earth down with the flat of the shovel, checked the ground, and appeared satisfied that it no longer looked disturbed. I watched him straighten.
He didn't ask who I was. He didn't ask how long I'd been standing there. He simply threw the shovel aside, crossed to his large motorcycle, and swung a leg over the seat.
The engine roared to life.
I blink. The hillside vanishes. The rain, the motorcycle, the stranger with the slit in his eyebrow––all of it recedes, leaving me in the dining hall with a fork in my hand and a plate of untouched food in front of me.
Clay is watching me from across the table.
"Are you all right?"
I glance at him. "Yeah."
"You haven't eaten anything."
I look down at my plate as if I'm seeing it for the first time, pushing a piece of food around my plate. I've barely touched anything, but the longer I sit here, the less appealing it becomes.
Clay notices. "Why haven't you eaten anything?"
"I'm full."
He looks at my plate, clearly unconvinced, but before he can question me further, Weaver reaches across the table and takes it.
"Waste not," he says, already helping himself.
"You could've asked," Gevan says.
"She said she was full."
Gevan laughs. Weaver ignores him and takes a bite of the food, only for his grin to disappear as he chews. He pauses, looking down at his food as if it has personally offended him. That sets Gevan off again.
"What?" Weaver demands.
"Nothing."
"You're laughing," Weaver points.
"Because of your face."
Weaver takes another cautious bite, apparently determined to prove there's nothing wrong with his meal. His expression says otherwise.
I almost smile.
For a moment, we're just four people sharing breakfast, teasing one another over bad food. Nothing about us looks particularly remarkable. No one at the nearby tables would know what we'd signed up for, or how little we understand about what awaits us on Blackwake.
I'm still watching Weaver struggle through his meal when someone approaches our table.
"Mind if we sit here?" Blair asks, holding a tray in both hands. Reagan follows behind her with her own breakfast.
"Yeah, go ahead," Clay says.
Blair takes the empty seat beside him. She has barely settled in when Clay pushes his chair back to reach for something at the other end of the table. His movement catches the edge of her tray, tipping it sideways.
"Oh!" Blair yelps.
Clay grabs the tray before it can fall, but some of Blair's breakfast spills onto the table.
"Sorry," he says, setting the tray down carefully.
"It's fine." Blair reaches for a napkin, her cheeks already turning pink.
Clay looks at the mess, then at the food left on her tray. Without making a fuss, he slides his own breakfast toward her.
"You can have mine."
"No, it's okay. You haven't eaten much either," Blair says.
"I can get something else."
Blair hesitates, still holding the napkin. Clay leaves the plate where it is, waiting rather than pushing it into her hands. Eventually, she accepts it.
"Thank you," she says quietly.
Clay gives her a small nod and settles back into his seat.
I turn my attention to my own plate before either of them catches me watching. Clay has always been like that. He helps when he sees someone needs it, without making them feel as though they owe him anything in return. Weaver, unfortunately, has never been good at leaving a moment alone. I can practically see the comment forming on his face, but Clay speaks before he gets the chance.
"Anyway, we should figure out our strategy."
Weaver closes his mouth. He looks almost disappointed.
Clay rests his forearms on the table. "I think we should stay together during the Hunt. Splitting up might help us cover more ground, but we'd be taking unnecessary risks before we even know what we're dealing with."
"Agreed," Gevan says. "We need to understand how our classes work together first. Otherwise, we're just four people standing in the same place."
"We should wait until we've had some training," I add. "We don't know what equipment we'll receive or how useful each of us will be in the field. We can make a better plan once we know what we're capable of."
Clay considers that, then nods. He doesn't insist on having the final word simply because he was the one who started the discussion.
"We'll work out the details after training, then," he says. "For now, we stay together and focus on finding the Scapegoat."
We're still talking through the idea when Linus approaches with a folder tucked beneath his arm.
"Good morning," he says. "I hope you've had enough time to eat."
Reagan and Blair exchange a glance. Blair acknowledges Linus with a polite greeting before turning to Reagan.
"Let's find another table," she says quietly. "They probably need the space to discuss their preparation."
Reagan nods. They gather their trays and excuse themselves, moving to a table farther across the dining hall. Neither seems bothered by the interruption. They simply leave us to our meeting. Linus takes the seat Blair has vacated and places his folder on the table.
"First, you need to understand how the Hunt will be monitored," he says. "The game makers will have surveillance across Blackwake, and the competition will be broadcast to the public. Your movements and progress will be tracked throughout the playable zones."
My fingers still against the edge of my plate. The Core is watching.
Kenryu's warning from last night returns with uncomfortable clarity. Cameras. Blind spots. The possibility that even a quiet conversation could be overheard. I glance toward the dining hall's high windows, then remind myself that looking for cameras won't tell me which ones are watching.
When I look back, Linus is watching me. He offers a small, reassuring smile, but I can't tell whether he's noticed my reaction or is simply checking that I'm listening.
Either way, I lower my eyes to the table.
He continues with our assigned equipment. "Each of you will receive an item determined by your class. The specific item will be randomly selected from an approved pool, so you won't know exactly what you're getting until deployment. You also won't be permitted to exchange equipment with another participant, even if that person belongs to your team."
Gevan leans forward. "What kind of equipment are we talking about?"
"That depends on your role," Linus replies. "Fighters receive offensive weapons. Scouts are assigned equipment suited to range, projectiles, reconnaissance, and mobility. Tacticians receive precision-based or utility equipment."
He pauses before addressing the last class. "Lifelines receive medical supplies, treatment kits, and other recovery equipment. Their role is to help their teammates manage injuries and endure the conditions on Blackwake."
Clay listens without interrupting, though I notice his attention sharpen when Linus explains what being a Lifeline means for the rest of us.
"You'll need to protect your Lifeline," Linus adds. "If your team loses access to its assigned medical equipment, you'll have to rely on whatever additional supplies you can find. There's no guarantee you'll find enough."
Clay glances down at his hands. I wonder whether he's thinking about the fact that the rest of us will have weapons while he'll be responsible for keeping us alive. It's a lot to place on one person, especially someone who has never been in a competition like this before.
"There's another restriction," Linus says. "If a participant is disqualified, their assigned equipment is destroyed by the system. It cannot be recovered or transferred to another player."
"Why destroy it?" Gevan asks. "Wouldn't it make more sense to let the remaining participants use it?"
"The mechanism is part of the system," Linus answers. "You'll understand the rules governing your equipment once it's issued. For now, focus on learning how to use what you're given."
It's an answer, technically, but it explains nothing.
I look around the table. The rules are presented as though every restriction has a sensible purpose, yet each one seems designed to limit what we can do for one another. We can't choose our equipment. We can't share it. And if one of us is removed from the competition, whatever they were given disappears with them.
I've learned not to mistake a carefully worded explanation for the whole truth. There's one question I can't leave alone.
"Are we going to have to fight each other on Blackwake?"
The question settles over the table.
Linus doesn't answer immediately. He folds his hands over the folder, choosing his words with more care than he has for anything else so far.
"The Red Hunt is a competition," he says at last. "Only one team can win. You should be prepared for difficult encounters, including situations involving other participants. But your equipment also serves a purpose beyond that. Blackwake has its own hazards, including wild animals and environmental threats."
"So that's a possibility," I say.
"It's something you should be prepared for," Linus replies.
He never says yes outright. He doesn't need to.
The Hunt is beginning to look less like the contest I imagined when I signed the contract and more like something I should have questioned from the beginning.
I've spent weeks thinking about the prize money, calculating what it could mean for Aunt Evelyn. Treatment. More time. Perhaps a chance to slow the disease that is taking her memories away from her, one piece at a time.
I've made the decision sound simple in my head. Enter the Hunt, survive the competition, win the prize. Everything else is a problem for later. But what if survival means turning against the very people I'm supposed to depend on?
My gaze drifts toward Clay, Gevan, and Weaver. I know Clay. I know how he acts when someone needs help, how he takes responsibility even when no one asks him to. Gevan is suspicious of everything, but at least he asks the questions the rest of us might overlook. Weaver hides behind his jokes, though I suspect there's more going on beneath them than he lets anyone see.
They're still strangers in many ways. We haven't even begun training together. And I've already agreed to trust them with my life.
For a moment, I want to go back. I want to return to the Sinks, where the dangers are familiar and I know which streets to avoid, which doors might open, and how much food I can stretch across a week. But I think of Aunt Evelyn in her hospital room, sometimes looking at me as though she can't remember who I am.
I can't afford to walk away from the only chance I have to help her.
Linus seems to notice the silence around the table. "Your preparation is meant to help you deal with uncertainty," he says. "You can't anticipate every situation you'll encounter. What you can do is learn your strengths, understand your teammates, and make decisions based on the information available to you."
It's sensible advice. I hate that it is.
He shifts the folder closer and turns our attention to the other participants. "Your team's performance will depend on more than your individual assessments. You'll need to recognize who might be useful as an ally, understand which participants could present a serious challenge, and know when it's better to keep your distance."
Clay picks up where we left off earlier. "Our best option is to stay together. We can cover ground as a group and find the Scapegoat faster than we would alone."
"That could work," Linus says, "provided you learn to use your strengths effectively."
Clay mentions Reagan's size as a kid. Her speed could make her useful when covering ground or moving through difficult terrain. Linus acknowledges the point but doesn't seem entirely convinced.
"Numbers can help, but manpower alone won't guarantee success. You need to be able to adapt. And you should avoid underestimating the people around you."
Something about the way he says it makes me pay closer attention.
Lady Thorne spoke about teamwork, preparation, and the objective of finding the Scapegoat. Linus is telling us to watch the other participants just as carefully as we watch the island. Maybe that's simply part of being a mentor. Still, I can't shake the feeling that he's preparing us for complications the official briefing left out.
He opens the folder again.
"There are a few participants I suggest you pay attention to. Kitana ranked second in the first strength assessment. Sly ranked fourth."
The names bring back two faces from the gathering. I remember the dark-skinned girl with thick dreadlocks, standing near the thin man with sunken cheeks and tattoos scattered across his face. His black hair was shaved at the sides, leaving a rat-tail at the back of his neck. I hadn't known their names then. Now I wonder what else I failed to notice about them.
"Who ranked third?" Gevan asks.
"Kenryu Arata."
My attention sharpens before I can stop it.
Kenryu.
A third-place ranking changes that impression.
"What about first?" I ask.
Linus draws a breath before answering.
"Marek."
The name brings back the bald man from the gathering, the one with tattoos extending from his arms to his neck.
Linus closes the folder. "Finish your breakfast. Training begins in a few hours, and I expect everyone to be ready."
***
By the time the afternoon rolls around, most of the participants have already begun their training. The corridors outside the dormitories are busier than usual, filled with footsteps and the occasional burst of laughter from people who seem far less troubled by the coming days than I am.
I have no intention of wasting the afternoon worrying about things I can't control. If we're going to be sent into Blackwake, I want to know what lives there before I have to find out the hard way. So instead of heading to the training floor, I make my way to the study room.
The library is larger than I expect. Rows of shelves stretch beneath the high ceiling, their contents arranged in neat categories. Some sections hold ordinary books, while others are devoted to subjects I've never encountered outside the Core. One aisle is filled with unfamiliar devices sealed behind glass. Another displays models of animals, some recognizable, others so strange that I can't imagine how they move, let alone survive.
I'm halfway through examining a display when I notice a girl standing at the end of the aisle, her back turned toward me.
The coppery waves of her hair are unmistakable. For a moment, I forget why I came here.
I know her face from the old television mounted in the corner of a shop back in the Sinks. I remember stopping outside with other people from our neighborhood, watching a broadcast while the shopkeeper turned up the volume. She had been on the screen, smiling beneath bright studio lights, looking as though she belonged to a world none of us could reach.
People talked about her for days afterward. The boys admired her, some with an enthusiasm that made me roll my eyes even then. The girls compared themselves to her, usually coming away disappointed. Even those who hated the Spires couldn't seem to hate her beauty.
Pandora Wolfelock.
I was no different. I'd looked at her once and wondered what it would be like to be that effortlessly beautiful, to have people admire you before you'd even opened your mouth. It's embarrassing to remember now.
Back then, Pandora was someone I watched through a screen. I never imagined I'd end up standing a few steps away from her, much less in the same competition.
Her orange-copper hair falls in loose waves over her shoulders. When she turns slightly, I catch a glimpse of her striking green eyes. She's even more striking in person, though perhaps that's only because there's no screen separating us anymore.
What is someone like her doing here?
As I move farther down the aisle, she glances in my direction. Our eyes meet briefly.
I expect her to say something, or at least acknowledge me. Instead, she returns her attention to the small makeup box resting beside her and touches up her lipstick with the casual ease of someone preparing for a photograph.
Perhaps she doesn't recognize me. Why would she? I'm just another face in a room full of strangers.
I select a book about Blackwake's wildlife and open it to the first page. The illustrations are detailed, accompanied by descriptions of the creatures' habitats, feeding patterns, and known behaviors. Some species inhabit the forest regions, while others are found in colder zones where the terrain becomes difficult to navigate. I make a mental note of anything that might be useful, especially the information about territorial behavior.
I've barely begun reading when a sudden cheer rises from somewhere beyond the shelves. Several voices follow, louder this time. Whatever is happening, it has drawn a crowd.
I close the book and follow the noise. The training hall opens into a broad space lined with equipment stations. A group of participants has gathered around a designated combat area, where several human-shaped projections flicker into existence. They look almost human, down to the details of their clothing and the weapons in their hands, but a faint shimmer ripples across their bodies, betraying their artificial nature.
A girl stands opposite them, holding a weapon. I recognize her from her dreadlocks. Kitana moves before the outline can reach her. She steps aside, pivots, and brings her weapon across its neck in one clean motion. The holographic head separates from its body and dissolves into flickering fragments before either reaches the floor.
The crowd erupts. Another figure rushes her from the side. Kitana turns, strikes, and sends it crashing apart in a burst of light. She doesn't hesitate between attacks. There's no wasted movement, no visible panic, only the quick, practiced precision of someone who knows exactly where to put her weight and when to strike.
I watch, forgetting for a moment that I'm supposed to be studying the competition rather than admiring it.
She makes it look easy. That's what unsettles me most. I can handle a knife. I know how to use one when hunting, how to keep my grip steady and my movements deliberate. But there's a difference between cutting through a rabbit's hide and facing something that charges at you with a weapon in its hand.
She looks me over from head to toe, her expression difficult to read. I hold her stare for a second before she turns away.
I'm left wondering what she saw.
Before I can think about it further, the crowd begins shifting. People move aside, making room for someone approaching the center of the training area.
Even among the participants, this person's difficult to miss. His head is shaved, and dark tattoos climb from his arms toward his neck. He's built like someone who has spent years pushing his body past its limits, broad through the shoulders and thick across the chest. Linus called him the most dangerous player to watch. I understand why the moment I see him.
Marek approaches the equipment station but doesn't reach for any of the weapons laid out for the exercise. He steps into the combat area empty-handed.
A murmur travels through the crowd.
"Is he serious?" someone nearby whispers.
I glance at the station. There are several options available, each designed for a different fighting style. Marek ignores them all.
The projections spring into motion.
The first charges him with its weapon raised. Marek meets it head-on. His fist connects with the figure's face, and the hologram staggers backward. Before it can recover, he catches it by the upper body and drives it into the ground. Its form flickers violently, then breaks apart.
The second attacks from behind. Marek turns just in time, catches its arm, and wrenches it aside. The movement is so abrupt that I wince before I can stop myself. He follows with a series of heavy strikes, each one landing with enough force to shatter the hologram's form.
The figures keep coming. But Marek doesn't retreat. He moves through them with his fists, elbows, and sheer physical strength to bring them down. One figure loses an arm beneath a brutal blow. Another crumples after he drives it against the ground. Their bodies fragment and disappear, leaving nothing behind but fading light.
The crowd has gone quiet. This is supposed to be strength training. The projections are clearly designed to test combat ability, but I can't stop wondering why the exercises resemble a fight to the death.
Is this what we're expected to do if another participant comes after us?
The thought lands harder than I expect. Until now, I've tried to convince myself that the Hunt will be difficult because of Blackwake, because of the animals, the unfamiliar terrain, and the shrinking Redline. Those dangers are frightening enough. But watching Marek tear through the figures makes another possibility impossible to ignore.
What if these exercises aren't only preparing us for the island?
What if they're preparing us for one another?
I look at the people around me. Some watch with fascination. Others seem impressed. A few have gone pale. No one says what we're all thinking, but I can feel the question hanging between us.
Marek delivers the final blow, and the last figure breaks apart in a burst of light that fades before reaching the floor.
Silence falls over the training hall. The cheers die out, leaving the crowd staring at the platform. Marek stands alone at its center, his hands hanging loosely at his sides, barely winded after taking down every opponent without a weapon.
Someone pokes my arm.
I flinch and turn to find Clay beside me.
"Did you just see that?" he asks.
"I think the entire room saw that."
Clay doesn't smile. His attention remains fixed on Marek. "Linus wasn't exaggerating."
"No," I say, watching Marek leave the platform. "He wasn't."
For the first time since arriving at the Core, I find myself wishing I knew exactly what we were going to face on Blackwake.
I came here to observe, and watching Kitana and Marek has already given me plenty to think about. Still, they aren't the only participants drawing attention. Across the hall, others demonstrate their skills while the rest of us watch, some with admiration and others with barely concealed apprehension.
Clay glances around the training area. "I'm going to look for Weaver and Gevan," he tells me before heading into the crowd.
I stay where I am, keeping an eye on the ongoing exercises. Some participants struggle to control their weapons, their movements clumsy and uncertain. Others handle them with an ease that suggests they've done this before. Whenever someone performs particularly well, a small crowd gathers around the training platform.
I take note of their faces, their numbers, and the way they move.
I don't see Pandora take part in any of the exercises. That doesn't necessarily mean anything, but I remember how she stayed in the library while the others began training. Perhaps she has a different schedule. Perhaps she has no interest in showing off her abilities in front of the other participants.
Or perhaps she's a Lifeline. Clay hasn't joined the weapon training either, which makes sense given his class. If Pandora has been assigned the same role, that would explain why I haven't seen her on the platform.
I make a note to pay attention when the class assignments become more relevant. By the time I leave the training hall, my thoughts are crowded with things I wish I could ask Linus. Instead of returning to my room, I head back to the shelves. I still have time before the evening meal, and I'd rather spend it learning something useful than sitting around replaying Marek's demonstration.
The library is quieter now. A few participants remain scattered among the tables, their heads bent over books or screens. I return the volume about Blackwake's wildlife to its shelf and move farther into the stacks.
That's when I notice a section devoted to the Spires.
The titles are arranged beneath a polished sign celebrating the city's history, achievements, and prosperity. Several books feature grand illustrations of the skyline, with its gleaming towers and immaculate streets. Others describe the Triumvirate's leadership as a model of stability, crediting its policies for the order and progress enjoyed throughout the territories.
I pull one from the shelf and flip through it.
Every page seems determined to prove the same point: the Spires thrive because the Triumvirate knows what it's doing.
I almost laugh.
I grew up in the Sinks. I know what the government's promises look like from the other side of the wall.
When I was younger, my father spent hours in the basement writing articles about the people who ruled us. He would sit at the old desk beneath the weak light, surrounded by handwritten notes and discarded pages, working long after I'd gone to bed. Sometimes I'd wake in the middle of the night and find him still there, rubbing his eyes before returning to the next paragraph. He wrote about the Triumvirate, about the people who made decisions for both the Sinks and the Spires while living behind walls that kept them insulated from the consequences.
One scandal consumed him for months. Rumors had spread that officials had siphoned millions of credas from a flood-control project meant to protect the Sinks. The money was supposed to reinforce the floodwalls and repair the infrastructure that kept our neighborhoods from drowning whenever the storms grew severe. Instead, reports began circulating about politicians buying jewelry, designer bags, and other luxuries worth thousands––sometimes millions––of credas.
I remember my father reading the figures aloud, his voice tightening with every line. He kept asking how anyone could look at those numbers and pretend the money had simply disappeared.
He knew where it had gone. So did everyone else.
The floodwalls eventually failed, and the water came rushing into our neighborhood. My father died trying to get me to safety.
I can't prove that the stolen money alone caused his death. But I know what those funds were meant to do, and I know what happened when the people responsible failed to do their jobs.
I close the book harder than I intend to and return it to the shelf.
The thought stays with me as I move down the aisle, searching for something that might offer a less flattering account of the city's history.
I pull a thick book from the shelf. It catches against another volume, slips from my fingers, and crashes to the floor. Several books tumble after it.
"Perfect," I mutter.
I crouch to collect them, stacking the fallen volumes beside my knee. One has opened to a page filled with official portraits. Another contains a list of government appointments. Beneath them lies a thin pamphlet with a title printed in bold letters.
THE ORDER OF THE SPIRES
The cover bears the emblem of the Triumvirate.
I turn it over, expecting another account of the city's glorious history. Instead, the first few pages describe the government's consolidation of power and the measures it claims were necessary to establish order across the territories.
The language is polished and impersonal. Every decision is framed as an act of protection. Every campaign is described as a necessary step toward stability.
Then I reach a section titled Heroes of the Triumvirate. It lists the names and accomplishments of several military and political figures. Some entries include portraits and detailed accounts of their service. Others offer little more than a few lines.
One entry catches my attention.
The name has been blacked out.
So have several lines beneath it. What remains is a serial number and a short description identifying the individual as a General responsible for the initial processing of the Sinks.
I read the sentence again.
Processing?
The word sits strangely among the pamphlet's carefully chosen language. It sounds less like a military operation and more like something done to people who aren't being given a choice.
I scan the paragraph for more information, but most of the entry has been redacted. There's no portrait, no name, no explanation of what the processing involved. Only the serial number and a brief statement of responsibility.
Why erase a General's name from an official record while leaving the rest of the entry intact?
"Clumsy."
I turn sharply.
Kenryu sits in a chair near the end of the aisle, his feet resting on the table beside him. He looks entirely too comfortable for someone who has just watched me scatter half a shelf across the floor.
A short laugh escapes him.
"Are you going to help, or just sit there?" I ask.
He lowers his feet and rises without answering. When he reaches me, he crouches to collect the remaining books, picking them up one at a time and handing them over.
For a few seconds, neither of us speaks. I'm too aware of the pamphlet in my hand and the things he told me the night before.
I wait until he sets the last book on the stack.
"What do you know about the Red Hunt?" I ask.
Kenryu looks at me, his expression unreadable.
I hate that look. It gives me nothing to work with.
"Are we being manipulated into joining?" I press. "You said the records don't add up. You warned me about the surveillance. If you know something, just tell me."
He studies me for a moment, seemingly in no hurry to answer.
"You'll figure it out yourself," he says.
I stare at him. "That's it?"
"That's it."
The answer irritates me more than I expect. He was the one who approached me with warnings and half-explanations. Now, when I ask him a direct question, he acts as though I'm supposed to solve the entire thing on my own.
"Then why tell me any of this in the first place?"
A faint smirk touches his mouth.
"I'll make sure you get out alive."
For a moment, I forget what I was about to say.
I search his face for some indication that he's joking, but he looks perfectly serious. There's no warmth in his expression, no explanation for why he would care whether I survive.
"What does that mean?" I ask.
"It means you should be careful."
I want to push him further, but something in his expression makes me reconsider. Kenryu has already told me more than he should have, assuming his warnings are true. Whatever he knows, he clearly has no intention of laying it all out in the middle of a room that belongs to the Core.
He glances toward the far end of the aisle before looking back at me.
"Don't trust anyone running this game," he says quietly, "unless you know they're part of the mole working to tear the Spires apart from the inside."
The words leave me cold.
"The mole?" I repeat. "Who is that?"
Kenryu straightens, giving me no more than a look that says I've already asked too much.
Keep your pretty mouth shut, he says. Then he turns and walks away.
I remain crouched beside the scattered books, trying to make sense of what he's just told me. A mole inside the Core. A General erased from an official pamphlet. A competition whose rules seem designed to keep us dependent on a system we barely understand. Every answer gives me another reason to ask questions.