by Marie Lu
I twist my sword suddenly, attempting to disarm him, but he anticipates my move and spins his blade out, tossing it to his other hand with ease. He steps toward me with the blade raised.
He stops the sword an inch from my chest. I sidestep and yank out a dagger, pointing both blades at him, and spin low, ready to catch him on his legs. But he anticipates that too, shifting out of the way and bringing one of his boots swiftly down on my dagger. He moves much faster than his height would suggest. It reminds me uncannily of the size and speed of Ghosts, and I find myself swinging out at him less in play now, and more in defense.
He dances with me, parrying in sync, seemingly as used to a blade as any soldier I’ve ever fought. The others have gone quiet now as they watch us. Red is no Corian—we haven’t had years together to train, to match up our every move. Nor is his style at all like a Striker’s. He doesn’t move quietly in the same way we do, doesn’t test the sound that each of his steps makes. But he’s good—really good. Good enough that I think he might be toying with me, intentionally holding his true skill back.
I make a final move, arching back to twist my dagger toward his neck. He catches my hand by the wrist. His skin is as shockingly warm against mine as it had been in the prison, as if he were running a constant fever.
I know immediately that, if he wanted to, he could break my arm with a single snap—but his grip is gentle enough that I realize he’s only holding me in defense.
We stay still like that for a moment, our eyes locked, neither of us wanting to step down. From the corner of my eye, I can see Jeran’s shocked expression and Adena’s wary one. My cheeks flush in frustration at the strength of Red’s grip. I’ve fought many much larger than me—but his brawn feels less like a human’s and more like a steel vise. Why couldn’t I be fast enough to stop him? How can he move so quickly?
In Red’s eyes, I see a hint of the same amusement that had been on his face when his damn mouse scurried up my arm. Then he releases me and takes a step back, giving me a subtle bow of his head. My skin tingles where he’d held me, the warmth of him seeping into my bones. Is he mocking me now? He isn’t even trying.
Again, I find myself thinking about what must have been done to him in the Federation. What had they meant him to become, before he escaped?
It’s my last thought before the air splits with the wail of a battle horn.
We all turn toward the sound and draw our blades in unison. Guns appear in our hands. I look to the horizon, where a red glow sits low and angry, the telltale sign of fire on the plains. It’s where our neighboring compound is supposed to be.
Before I can think anything else, screams go up from the front of our encampment.
The cease-fire is over. The Federation has crossed the warfront.
9
My first thought is that it’s impossible.
Ghosts have never wandered this far into Maran territory—it would have to mean that two of our main defense compounds at the warfront have been overtaken.
And if those compounds have already fallen …
But there’s no time to let this terrible thought sit in my mind. I’m already on my feet, blade in one hand and gun in the other, shifting into an attack formation before I can register exactly what has happened.
Red moves quickly into a crouch. Beside us, Jeran and Adena draw their weapons at the same time. Even from here, I can feel the inferno at the front of the compound. Soldiers rush by with blankets and buckets of water, while screams of agony fill the air. Outside the gates comes the gnashing of teeth and the shrieks of Ghosts.
I look sharply beside me to see Red’s face drained of blood, his expression suddenly vulnerable.
I hurry with Jeran and Adena toward the side gate. Red keeps pace with me, his shackles clacking against his chains.
We rush out into a nightmare. The horizon is ablaze with fire, unmistakably coming from the two defense compounds at the edge of the warfront. Federation soldiers, clad in bold scarlet, have now doused our front gate in black oil. The flames roar a hundred feet into the air.
What makes me freeze, though, is the sight of a line of Ghosts at the crest of the nearest hill, their pale, hulking figures orange in the light. The sound of their grinding teeth, wet with the cuts on their mouths, fills the air. Heavy chains hang from their neck cuffs. They hold back, trembling, as their handlers sit on horses beside them.
“What are they waiting for?” Adena shouts.
My hands grip my blades so hard that my knuckles have turned bright white. I realize that my stance has turned instinctively, protectively, toward Red. His gaze is locked not on the Ghosts, but on one of the Federation soldiers on a horse.
Unlike the others, this soldier is draped in a long crimson robe, his arms and shoulders protected behind armor of black steel. At his side, two of the Ghosts lurch forward. Their neck chains clank, swinging, from where they are hooked onto the saddle of his steed. The fire outlines the young man’s cheeks and sharp angles, exaggerating the bone thinness of him and the dark circles underneath his eyes. A bold slash of paint runs long and black down the right half of his face. All it takes is a single glance to know that he’s sick, maybe seriously so. His skin is unhealthily pale, his head bald and brows scarce. Even so, there is an authority in his silent presence and regal chin, and most of all, a ferocious intensity in his stare. It is the expression of a conqueror.
I’ve never seen this man before, but I remember his profile adorning Karensan flags. This is Constantine Tyrus, the young Premier, son of the Federation’s late Premier and leader of his regime. He is the one who brings armies into new nations and conquers them in his father’s name. He was the one responsible for the destruction of my homeland and my flight into Mara, had rode into Basea’s capital when he was only nineteen years old.
Beside me, Red’s profile is lit from behind by the harsh yellow of the fires. His expression has transformed into one of stone. What has brought the Premier himself into our land?
Now he lifts his voice to address us as we face his troops. “Where is your Firstblade?” he calls out. I blink, startled by his near-perfect Maran accent in his rasping voice. “I’d like a word with him.”
From the center of the line steps Aramin. He strides forward with a fearless gait, his long coat streaming behind him, and if I’m not mistaken, the ferocity on his face looks almost delighted by the prospect of the fight ahead.
The silence that hangs over us now is punctuated only by the crackle of flames from the gates behind us. The Firstblade looks at the Premier. “You are in Maran territory,” he shouts. The growl in his throat rumbles low and angry. “And in violation of the Speaker’s cease-fire agreement. Turn back with your troops.”
Constantine doesn’t smile, nor does he move. Beside him, his general raises his voice indignantly, speaking in Karenese as if to defend his Premier—but cuts off as Constantine waves his hand once. His voice is cool and bored as he calls out to the Firstblade.
“I’m only here for a bit of property you’ve stolen from us,” the Premier says.
“What property is that?”
“You have something that belongs to me,” he goes on. “An experiment. He crossed the warfront line between us, which has forced me here to look for him.”
I know better than to glance at Red now, but I can feel his presence stiffen beside me as he moves deeper into the shadows behind our line.
Constantine scans the scene, then turns that calm, deadly gaze back to the Firstblade. “You wouldn’t happen to have seen him, would you?” he asks.
I wait for the Firstblade to look in my direction. He has no reason to protect Red—he never even wanted him here. Returning him to the Federation in order to avoid this siege would be the wisest choice.
My hands rest on the hilts of my swords. Aramin will tell Red to step forward. What will I do, then? Why should I keep protecting someone who has been nothing but a punishment for me? I could step aside and expose Red, allow him to be taken back to the Federation. And goo
d riddance. He has no desire to live, anyway, has shown nothing but scorn for me for saving him.
The Firstblade is quiet for only a moment. When he speaks again, though, he doesn’t look our way. “Your deserters are your business,” he says. “Get your soldiers off our land and back over the warfront. This is your last warning.”
The Premier gives him a humorless smile. “No, Firstblade,” he replies. “I think I will do the warning. I will give you another chance to return the Federation property you owe us. Think hard.”
He shifts, moving his gelding forward, and the clanking chains of his Ghosts make the beasts snarl, snapping their jaws hungrily in our direction. The Premier stares at us all in the darkness, searching for the face he’s come to retrieve. Red stays motionless.
The Firstblade is silent, and for a moment, I think he will point his sword in our direction. But he never does. Instead, he calls out, “You are in our land now, not yours. We don’t follow the orders of a foreign ruler.”
“It will be easier for Mara if you do, you know,” the Premier says with a sigh. “You’ve seen the ruins of those who came millennia before us. I took a vow never to let that happen to Karensa.” He nods around at us. “Your people are slowly starving to death in this tiny country. Why do you want them to keep suffering? We are powerful and organized, have strived to build a society so strong that it will never crumble. It will be better for your people if you just step aside.”
The Firstblade straightens the lapels of his coat. He remains calm in his movements, but I can see that furious light appear in his eyes, the sign of an inevitable battle to come. “If your Federation is so powerful,” he says, “and we are so weak, then why do you even bother?” His teeth flash with his smile. “Or do you still fear Mara? Perhaps we’re not as small as you think.”
A hint of annoyance shows on the Premier’s face. “We are the rightful heirs to the Early Ones,” he says. “But unlike them, there will never be ruins of Karensa. We were always meant to inherit their Infinite Destiny.”
The Firstblade nods in the direction of the line of Ghosts. “Then come get your precious destiny.”
Constantine doesn’t look surprised. He just shakes his head. “So be it,” he says.
Then he releases his Ghosts from their chains.
The realization surges through me. We are going to die here tonight.
Adena takes in the scene with a sense of eerie calm. The same thoughts must have occurred to her too, just as they must have occurred to every single one of us. But she doesn’t show it on her face.
Beside her, Jeran—the same boy who had just been blushing earlier about his cooking—has already pulled on his black mask.
I pull on mine too. Beside me, Red shifts closer—and for an instant, I think he’s going to attack me with his chains. But he doesn’t make a move. Instead, his stance is turned in the direction of the Federation’s troops, and his eyes have narrowed in rage. He casts me a single, steady look.
I twist my blade toward his chains. He flinches before he realizes that I’m freeing him. With two slices, the chain comes apart, and his arms snap free. I cut him loose from his leg bounds too.
He gives me a blank stare, as if not quite willing to believe that I’ve released him. And for an instant, I wonder if it’s a stupid idea.
Then, he gives me a single nod. I return it, relishing this tiny moment where we can understand each other. If we’re going to die here tonight, it doesn’t make much difference whether my prisoner is shackled or not. Maybe he’ll even fight alongside me.
It’s the only thought I have time for. Then we fan out into an attack and charge straight into the jaws of death.
Adena is the first to reach a Ghost. She yanks out both her swords, twisting their hilts together so that they combine into a single deadly weapon—then she twirls it in an arc that cuts straight through the Ghost’s front leg. As the creature topples forward, she untwists the swords and lands two heavy blows against the protective shackle clipped around its neck.
The injured Ghost is still frighteningly fast. It whips its head around and snaps its jaws at her. But Jeran wastes no time. In a single fluid move, he darts onto the injured Ghost’s shoulder, swings up to its back, and yanks out his daggers. He stabs it before the Ghost even realizes it is fatally injured. As it falls, Jeran leaps from its body. His slender figure lands on the shoulders of another Ghost coming up from behind Adena. He crouches on its head, crosses his arms, and brings both daggers straight into the creature. It shrieks, trying in vain to throw him off. There is no sign of Jeran’s sweet smile here, his gentle concern. He hangs on mercilessly. Adena whirls around and fires her gun at the Ghost’s neck shackle. The bullet cracks it with a clang.
Nearby, Tomm and Pira press their backs together, guns out, and fire in a circle. But even as they cut their way through the monsters as fast as they can, more lurch toward us.
I crane my neck, searching for the Premier again. He’s no fool on the battlefield—and that means he knows not to be in the thick of the fighting. Still, I look for him, hoping to have a chance to cut him down.
But he’s nowhere to be seen.
I wave at Red to come with me, then sprint up the hill to the thick of the fighting. The ruins of the Seven Sisters rises ominous in the night, jagged black teeth of steel, seven tall and thin skeletons that tower above the seething masses of bodies. As I go, I pause at a Maran soldier who’s been bitten by a Ghost. Without hesitating, I slash a blade at his throat. He lets out a startled gurgle. I don’t dare stop to look at him. I just run on.
Beside me, Red’s jaw is clenched hard. Our movements aren’t synced in the way the others are—he is harsh and blunt in his attacks, uncoordinated, as if out of practice. We look like nothing more than a pair of people with absolutely nothing in common except the desperate will to survive.
I try to understand what kind of fighting style this is. He’s stiff in a way that tells me he hasn’t seen much open combat, but his movements are as quick and dangerous as they’d been during our practice spar. Had he trained at all in the Federation? Maybe he had only been a recruit and never seen a real battlefield. That would explain the awkward nature of his motions, like some kind of fledgling bird.
A Ghost comes charging without warning over the crest of the hill toward him. He turns in its direction, but I’m already moving, my gun hoisted. I fire three shots into its face and another round into its neck shackle. In the same gesture, I grab Red’s hand and pull him behind one of the metal ruins. The Ghost, temporarily blinded, charges right over us. I stab a sword into its stomach as it goes. It flinches, rolling over and taking me with it. As it falls onto its side, I slash deep into its exposed neck.
There are at least three more hunting us. I haul myself up the side of the ruins, my feet finding shallow dents against the metal as I hop up to higher ground. Red presses himself into the shadows below. Another Ghost circles around us, listening for the sound of my boots scraping against the structure, but my steps are silent. It snarls, stalking away from me for a moment and turning its attention toward another part of the ruins. I reach down and seize Red by the wrist. His head jerks toward me, and our eyes meet.
I try to pull him up as quickly as I can, but he’s even heavier than I imagined, his body a solid brick. He gives a mighty leap and joins me. His eyes sweep the scene of carnage around us. There are Strikers being taken down everywhere, their throats clawed out, mouths open in dying screams. Red’s teeth are bared, and his grip against the metal ruin is so tight that his knuckles look like they might tear right through his skin.
I get a good look at the Ghost circling below us, its wild eyes, the teeth splitting its once-human face from ear to ear. Then I launch from the top of the wreck onto the creature’s back. Before it can throw me off, I’m prying underneath its iron collar and jamming a dagger deep into its rotting flesh.
It whirls so hard that it throws me completely off, slamming me into a ruin. Stars erupt in my head. My ankle tw
ists in a strange way and pain lances up my leg. Red leaps from the top of the ruins and attacks one of the Ghosts, but he’s too far away to get to me in time. Four Ghosts close in on me, their jaws grinding, sensing victory.
The same scene is playing out all around us. The gate has collapsed at the defense compound. A battalion of scarlet-clad Karensan soldiers march through the inferno. Our dead are littered everywhere.
A stillness washes over me. My gaze settles helplessly on the monsters that twitch toward me now. I wonder if this is what Corian had felt when he realized it was too late. I wonder how bad the pain will be when a Ghost’s fangs break my skin, when it tears my flesh until its poisons flood my own veins.
It occurs to me that I will never see my mother again. Strange; my next thought is that I wish I’d stopped to have tea with her.
The Ghosts stalk closer. I brace myself, ready to fight to the end. My vision blurs.
That’s when I realize Red is no longer where I saw him last. He has vanished. I blink in the haze of night, searching for his silhouette. Maybe he’s taken the opportunity to leave me behind and make his escape, test his luck elsewhere. It would be smart of him, something I might have done in his position. Or maybe he’s even fooled us all and decided to surrender to the Federation, take his chances by begging forgiveness from his Premier. Maybe a Ghost had grabbed him—
A blast of wind cuts off my thoughts.
An impact shakes the ground so hard that I’m thrown to my knees. The shudder of it rattles my teeth. An earthquake, goes my first thought, like one I’d felt back in Basea that had rocked our entire house, leaving us to run out the door in terror. The world beneath me cracks and caves in, as if from a mighty force.
Something powerful lands behind me.
I flinch, dagger clutched so tightly in my fist that my fingers feel like they might break, ready to stab the creature about to attack me.
But when I glance behind me, I don’t see rotting, ashen limbs—instead, I see the outline of a mighty figure in the night, black steel extending from either side of his back.
