Interwoven

by Rene Folsom

  Copyright © 2021 by Tigris Eden and Rene Folsom

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission from the authors, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Editing Services Provided by Cynthia Shepp

  www.CynthiaShepp.com

  Cover Created by Phycel Designs

  www.phycel.com

  Contents

  Synopsis

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  The End

  Interwoven: The Rebellion

  About Rene Folsom

  About Tigris Eden

  Synopsis

  My name is Zhavia Starke, but I’m not known for my name.

  I’ve always wanted to run from this life I’m forced to live… a life of slavery and oppression. I thought the annual selection would be my ticket out of this hell. So when another woman from my camp is chosen to be the lady of an elite house, I am forced to take matters into my own hands. In this harsh world, I have no allies. I am the only person I can depend on to pave my future—my freedom.

  Being selected to an elite house has great responsibilities, yet I have never been motivated by status. Now won’t be an exception. Instead, my desire to escape has consumed my every waking moment, even when I’m assigned as a servant to one of the five royal houses.

  My undoing comes in the form of five handsome and mysterious brothers hell-bent on thwarting my escape. The secrets and magic that hide behind House Kincaid prove to be an enticing challenge, which ends up putting major kinks in my plans for freedom.

  Along with a mixture of precise timing and the hope of immunity, I will still find a way to get out… or die trying.

  1

  When I die, it will be a death of my own choosing. My demise won’t be because I gave up, or because some idiot man had his way with me and later discards me like trash. No… I’ll go down fighting. I won’t beg or even cry for my life when the time comes, but I won’t accept death either. When my time on earth comes to its end, it will happen on my terms, and only my terms.

  If I perish today, it will be because I couldn’t get out of this godforsaken camp. And when my time is up, I’m taking at least three of these suckers with me.

  There are more than two hundred fifty women milling about in the grand hall, preparing themselves for what lies ahead. Well, we’re in what used to be a grand hall. The paint has long since peeled, there are holes in the walls from gunfire, and there are patches of black soot from past fires. The grandeur is all but a washed-out memory with little remnants here and there to remind people of a time when war was a real thing. The area outside is no longer a sprawling yard of green grass and immaculate gardens. A barren decay of weeds and soot is the new setting that all in our camp have come to memorize.

  The area is known as the processing center, but it should have been called a refugee camp. There are fenced-in areas with security gates and black and gold flags posted every twelve to fifteen feet. A labyrinth of makeshift tents marks the landscape, acting as sleeping quarters for most. The large building that sits back behind the homes of the less fortunate has tarps covering its roof. There are children outside playing with garbage while guards stand in corners eyeing the women and wondering when it will be their turn to choose.

  The answer is never.

  Women are scarce, the human population a dying breed. The mating process is dangerous, and the few men who guard this section of the camp are given strict rules to follow. If they touch a woman in any way, they are to be executed on the spot. The sentinels see all—hear all—and there is nothing anyone can do to avoid their eyes.

  My name is Zhavia, even though what I am called no longer matters in this new world we live in, especially while I stand among the other women. My hair is matted, my skin bruised from the constant fights and arguments with fellow camp mates. The smell of sweat, unwashed bodies, and soiled clothing clogs my senses, yet I struggle until I’m blue in the face to hold in my cough. Urine and feces are the new cologne of choice, apparently, and I haven’t adjusted to it. I know I never will, even though I’ve lived this way for as long as I can remember. Regardless of how sad it may seem, I’ve never known anything else. Bland food is what my palate absorbs, mixed in with the other horrible smells that surround me day in and day out. My clothes are stiff and stained with sweat. No matter how hard I scrub when allowed a bath, my skin is a tattooed canvas of bug bites and bruises from sleeping on the hard ground. It took me quite a while to understand the bruises aren’t something that can be cleansed away.

  But today could prove to be the day. The one day that everyone awaits. A day to be chosen. For me, it’s a day for escape. I’ve been planning and plotting for months. Watching, waiting. The guards come and go in twenty-four-hour shifts. The medics will be in today to inspect us, and that’s when I’ll make my move toward freedom. Because to be selected is certain death. It will happen. It always happens. If someone isn’t selected, they are worse off than dead. But if they are chosen, their fate is assuredly sealed.

  One woman is selected every five years—always the same process. The medics come, they give their assessments, and some deciding factor unknown to the public will seal one woman’s fate.

  Well, not mine.

  I’m known amongst my kind as resilient. I fight hard and work even harder to build my strength. I purposely allow myself to be put in situations where I am forced to fight. It makes me stronger. I’ve broken my arm twice now, and each time I heal, I find the pain is less and less. My legs are strong because I make sure to run the length of the camp daily, training myself for the harsh conditions I’ll face outside the fenced wall. Weapons aren’t allowed, but I’ve watched the guards, mimicking their movements, and know for certain I can hold my own if I have to.

  Unfortunately, I had to put my strength to the test not too long ago.

  One of the guards, Tobias, tried to have his way with me when I was caught stealing food from the pantry. He’d learned fast that I was not someone to fuck with.

  For my crimes, I was thrown into the pit—a place filled with rotting flesh and maggots. It’s the place they toss the dead. When I was finally allowed out, I was covered in wounds, my body mass less than what it was when I first entered. For my troubles, the wounds were severe and infected. I spent a total of twenty-one days inside the medical facility… something most would count as a dream vacation. But it couldn’t erase the days I lost count of when I was forced to rot away in the hole. It had been at least five days, if not more.

  No lights, no food. The stench of death was my only company.

  The first night, I thought I would die, but then I reminded myself death is a quitter’s escape. I am not a quitter. My refusal to put my fate in the hands of another is what keeps me alive.

  One of the older women in the group starts talking to the others. Her name is Greann, but ever
yone refers to her as Gree. She is not a nice person, her gray eyes harsh. It comes as no surprise that she becomes fast friends with the guards. It is already assumed she’ll be the one chosen. Her strawberry-blonde hair, which hangs halfway down her back, is finger combed daily. Somehow, she manages to keep her body fed. She’s healthier than most since she bullies the others for food, but her clothes still barely fit, which is common with the women in camp. It’s not like our meals are bountiful. The rumors say those selected will have better living conditions—a better life. But I know better. I’m confident that’s not the case. I’ve been witness to three selections, and after each, the women were never heard from again. Even the women chosen as servants forgotten over time.

  “The medics are arriving,” shouts one of the girls in the crowd. The building that half encloses us faces the rear fence where they will enter. This broken-down building serves as temporary shelter before they line us up in a row.

  Everyone else rejoices at these times, yet I feel little joy. My nerves consume me. When people are examined and considered too sickly, they are taken to the facility where they’ll be made somewhat whole again. The sighs in the crowd rise in crescendo as the medics fan out in front of the gate. The camp-bred women react as if these medics are their only salvation. And maybe, to some, they are.

  Women and children call out to the medical personnel as their vehicles stop in front of the gate. I can’t help but roll my eyes at camp’s desperation. In a single file, the blue-dressed medics approach the gate.

  “Line up to receive your inspections,” comes a voice over the loudspeaker.

  Per the norm, I do as I am told. Like the other women in our camp, I stand in line and wait to be received. I make sure I am toward the end, absorbing every single interaction between the women and the medics. It will take them a while to get to me, which gives me enough time to prepare myself for their inspection. I’ve gone over my plan thousands of times in my head.

  Today is my day.

  Escape.

  Leaning forward, I study the progress of the examinations. The medics are going down the row of women, their fingers busily performing the same procedure over and over. They haven’t removed anyone while making their rounds—checking eyes, mouths, and for the presence of open wounds on the body… all so routine, yet so very invasive.

  Digging my fingernails into my palms, I wait.

  Stay calm.

  I don’t want to get too excited, since I don’t want them to suspect I’m up to something. The girl next to me shuffles her feet, and one of the guards doesn’t hesitate to call her out.

  “You there! Stand still.” His bark has my muscles bristling, more for the girl’s safety than my own.

  Once again, I remind myself to stay calm.

  The girl nods her head as her eyes go wide. She bows her head, probably in the hopes she will remain unnoticed.

  Too late.

  The guard walks to stand in front of her, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from groaning out of frustration. A metallic taste fills my mouth.

  “What did I tell you? Stand still!” His words make my insides flinch, even though I try with all my might to keep my muscles still. My body wants to bolt, but not out of fear. My need to run away from this camp is born from sheer determination. I want out of this place, and I’m willing to take the risk if it gains me even a moment of freedom. I’m willing to sacrifice a lifetime for just a moment—whatever the cost—even if that means doing something stupid.

  “Yes… Yes, sir. I’m… I’m trying…” The girl manages to speak, even though she stumbles over every other word. I admire her strength to even think of putting two words together. Being shunned by the medics is something everyone fears.

  I push my thoughts outward, hoping the man will somehow pick up on my energy and move on.

  Move away from us.

  No such luck.

  The medic is almost to me, and I am forced to hold back several curses that are tumbling around in my mind. I definitely don’t want the guard to get in the way of my plans. If the guard is here and decides to take an interest in me, my attempt at freedom will undoubtedly be foiled.

  I’m nervous, and he can clearly feel my anxiety as he approaches. Even with my head lowered, my eyes focusing on my worn, mud-covered boots, I can feel the arrogance surrounding his form. He thinks he’s better than me.

  “You.”

  I assume he’s speaking to the fumbling idiot girl next to me, so I don’t bother to raise my head. Looking at him when he’s clearly addressing another would be a life-altering mistake.

  “Are you deaf?” he barks out, but this time, I can feel his words on the sensitive skin of my forehead, his breath making the hair on top of my head move. The strands shift just enough for me to notice, and I flinch.

  Steeling my nerves, I glance up. In my head, I have to keep repeating that this… this is what I want. I want to be chosen. I need to be chosen. It’s the only way I’ll get out of this place.

  When my eyes lock on his, I can’t help the breath that is held hostage in my throat.

  It’s now or never.

  2

  The medic’s eerie gaze is on me, the grin still evident on his face. I can only hope after looking at him that I’ve been selected. Not wanting to appear overeager, I try not to smile. I don’t want him to know that if I’m not chosen, this will be the end of Zhavia Starke. I would be lying if I attempt to find a single good moment in my life, especially while being secluded in this god-awful compound the Prime Houses call The Weeds. The worst day was when I lost my mother during the selection five years ago, her body too sickly and frail for the medics to pass by.

  She disappeared into the medic tents, and I haven’t heard from her since. I know what happened to her, but I try not to think about it. I can’t think about it. Infusing calm into my body, I try my best to remain calm.

  Regardless of how I feel, I hold my chin up high, my eyes on him even while focusing on something in the distance, hoping he won’t see it as an act of defiance. Medics, while in a higher station than we are, know they hold very little rank when it comes to the five remaining Prime Houses—Kincaid, Rian, Garde, Berlin, and Roarke. There are stories that they are dragon kin, distant relatives to the five great dragon races awoken from their slumbers. But I think the stories are just a way to frighten the camps.

  “Your name,” the medic demands, his face mere inches from mine through the fence.

  I try to get my brain to work with my lips, but I come up with nothing. My efforts are completely obliterated when I hear the sizzle of a stun, the girl next to me crumbling to the ground with a light whimper.

  Beside the medic addressing me, another pushes a stunning stick through the chain links of the fence, making contact with the girl’s body once more.

  One would think I would know her name. After all, we are stuck in a small compound together. But if any outsiders think we have a solitary moment to make friends in this hellhole—they’d be wrong. We don’t have freedoms. We don’t have quality of life. All we have is work and selection day. The harder we work, the more likely we’ll be chosen to breed with the most elite Primes. They want someone resilient and strong. The stories, and overall reasons given to us for our sacrifices, tell us that dragon magic is gone, but their offspring are still infused with the traits of their ancestors. Some of the elite females are rumored to have jewel-like eyes, others are resistant to fire, and all will be found during the selection process—their bodies bound to the Prime Houses with that magic. But I can’t seem to wrap my head around it all. The rumors are that dragons have either died or returned to their slumber, but the House Primes still wish to procreate and continue their legacy, regardless of their magical status.

  “Are you deaf?” the medic yells again while raising his stunner so it’s front and center in my vision. “Tell me your name before you end up on the ground like your girlfriend there.”

  I don’t dare look down at her, even though I can hear
her crying in pain.

  “Zhavia,” I say, yet it comes out more like a croak than an affirmation. After clearing my throat, I try again, not that my name matters. “My name is Zhavia.”

  The medic’s eyes don’t leave mine as someone approaches from behind him with a port-device cradled in the his hand. The sound of a muffled walkie talkie echoes off the remnants of what used to be a forest. “Zhavia Starke. Mother passed away from exposure. Father unknown.”

  And now… now is the time for me to show my true human side.

  My mother is dead.

  A lone tear trickles down my face as I try desperately to hold the gaze of the first medic. He sees it. I know he does. He would have to be blind not to notice just how hard the news about my mother hits me. It’s like a punch to the gut. There’s a dull roar in my ears as my mind and heart try to process what I now know to be true. My mother might’ve been a weed, but she was amazing. It saddens me I now have to speak of her in past tense.

  “This one looks good enough. Take her in and examine her more closely. She’ll be a good addition to the staff.”

  It’s exactly what I wanted. I was hoping they would spend the time inspecting me, but as I size up the man in front of me, I remind myself there is no other choice.

  I have to do this.

  I had hopes of being selected, but understood the benefits of being chosen as a house worker. The medics only want to bring girls from the colony who are healthy enough to work. It’s in this I had hoped to be chosen; it is the only way I can secure my freedom.