by Marie Lu
“No news?” he signs up to me.
I shake my head, and he turns away to continue his pacing. He must be wondering the same thing about Aramin.
Another night comes. Then a third day, a fourth. Jeran’s pacing turns more frantic, and the bond between Red and me ripples with unease as we continue to wait. None of the guards who visit my cell can understand signs, so I am powerless to ask them if they have any news for me.
I dream about Aramin appearing, coat flapping, to unchain me from the wall and lift me to my feet. The dream occurs over and over again, so often that I start to have trouble distinguishing when I’m dreaming from when I’m awake, waiting for him to come through my door. The reality only settles in when I realize no one is coming.
And then, on the fifth day, the guards storm in. They don’t say a word to me—they don’t even meet my stare. I’m instead hauled to my feet as one of them unlocks the chains from around my wrists and ankles. I manage a glance down through the grating on the floor. Jeran, who had been leaning against his wall, has already leaped to his feet at the sound of the commotion in my cell. All we can do is lock eyes before they drag me out.
We make our way through the dark belly of the prison upward, spiraling into the light until we finally emerge back on the grounds of the National Plaza. Red’s presence seems to be growing more distant. I can feel the beat of his pulse dimming with distance.
Is he not being brought out here with us?
Only moments later, I see Jeran emerge from the prison, flanked on either side by guards with their guns trained on his head. Adena comes next, her hair tangled in a mess. She exchanges a silent stare with us.
A sinking feeling fills my stomach. Somehow, something in me had hoped that the Firstblade would find a way to save us, that he’d ordered us up here to free us and reinstate us in the Striker forces. As if we could go back to the days when we practiced in the arena and headed out to the warfront. But the warfront is going to collapse soon, and we are now enemies of our own state.
And Red. Where is he?
Red. Red. I call for him again, but he’s too far away. Still, I can sense his emotions rise, fury amid his confusion. He knows we’ve left the prison.
The feeling grows stronger, tipping into nausea. They’re not going to kill him. Are they going to keep him alive for their own purposes?
The Firstblade is already waiting for us in the center of the space, his arms folded behind his back. In the stands are the other Strikers of our ranks, quietly waiting, while standing behind the Firstblade is an arc of Senators, the Speaker in the center of them. Jeran’s father and brother stand at one end of the half circle, their eyes trained on Jeran. I wonder if I’ll see only cold disdain on their faces, but even though Gabrien looks satisfied to see his brother’s fate, their father appears grave.
Maybe here, in the end, even a monster can recognize that he’s about to lose his son.
Across the arena, Jeran’s and Aramin’s eyes meet. They hold each other’s gaze for a moment, some silent acknowledgment of what they had learned about each other in the prison. Then it’s gone, and Aramin looks away. Jeran lowers his head. I look on in disbelief. After everything, will Aramin really allow the execution of the person he loves?
As we approach, I see the Speaker lift his chin to stare at us, satisfied to see that we’ll soon be facing our justice.
There is a range of Strikers standing in a block formation before the Firstblade, their guns out. It takes me a moment to realize that they have been chosen as our executioners, Strikers being the only ones trusted to take the lives of other Strikers. I see Tomm and Pira among them. When once I would have imagined them doing this with glee, I instead see no joy on their faces. Pira bites her lip at the sight of me and averts her gaze.
My heart begins to pound.
Aramin, to his credit, meets my gaze without looking away. “You have been brought before us to answer for your actions,” he says. It is the same speech he gives before every execution of a traitor or prisoner of war, and I remember the echo of it from the day when they’d first brought Red out here and into my life. “Because of your betrayal of your nation, the Senate has sentenced you to death.”
I look around the arena, wondering if here, at the end, anyone will vouch for us. Many of the Strikers had loved Jeran, had admired Adena for her ingenuity. Will they watch now as they’re executed for trying to save Mara? I stare at them in the stands, my fellow Strikers. As stony as we’re trained to keep our faces, I see sadness there, resignation. Even some anger. For who executes soldiers like us, soldiers willing to fight, before the Federation comes tearing at our gates?
But no one moves forward.
Beside me, Adena and Jeran exchange looks with each other.
Then I turn to Aramin, a silent question in my eyes. What will he do?
Whatever secrets are in him, he doesn’t say. But the Speaker steps closer to him and utters a few words, then moves away, and the Firstblade continues.
“When a betrayal to Mara happens on such a grand scale,” he says, “it is only right that the consequences be witnessed by those dedicated to protecting this nation.”
He looks at us. Then he turns to face the Senate.
“Let this be the witness stage, then, for the Speaker’s treason to Mara.”
The Speaker’s face bleeds white.
I blink, stunned for a moment into stillness. Around the Speaker, the Senate shuffles their feet, unsure what to make of the Firstblade’s declaration.
Jeran’s eyes jump back to Aramin in shock.
The Speaker frowns, unable to speak. But Aramin doesn’t back down, doesn’t act like he’s somehow misspoken. He just stares coolly at the Speaker as he holds out a blood-flecked letter.
“I sent a hawk after your messenger birds last night,” he says to the Speaker, loud enough for the entire arena to hear. He begins to read the letter:
“‘Constantine Tyrus of Karensa, it is my pleasure to inform you that your Skyhunter has come back into our territory. We will arrange for his return to you as soon as the invasion is over. Regards, Ramel An Parenna, Speaker of Mara.’”
Even from a distance, we can glimpse the unmistakable flourish of the Speaker’s bright crimson stamp on the letter. They were going to return Red to the Federation, so that they could continue their experiments on him.
“This is treason of the highest order,” the Speaker says to the Firstblade, his lips curling, his eyes dark with rage. “This is a lie, and you know you have signed your own death warrant with it.”
But Aramin doesn’t look concerned at all. When I glance up at the stands, I don’t see surprise on the faces of the other Strikers either. The shock reverberates through me. They already know. I am witnessing a coup.
Only the other Senators buzz, enraged and confused. “What is this theater?” one of them scoffs with a frightened laugh.
The Speaker narrows his eyes at the Firstblade. “Arrest this man,” he calls out to the guards with him.
They turn their guns toward Aramin.
Then I see the Firstblade’s hand flicker, and in a single trained movement, every Striker in the stands rises and draws their guns. The sound is thunderous.
I stare at them, surprised by the sting in my eyes. They had not spoken for us earlier because they already knew that Aramin would turn on the Speaker.
They are standing for us.
And then it happens—here, in this tense standoff, the sound we’ve all dreaded to hear suddenly pierces the air.
It is a sound we have trained to hear since we were children, a sound that has haunted our thoughts and given us nightmares. It is the sound of the alarms on the Inner City’s double walls, designed to warn us that the last of our defense compounds has fallen.
Speaker, Senator, Firstblade, Striker—in this moment, we are all the same. We turn our heads toward the walls. As if on cue, the earth shudders in the distance. And then comes a new sound—one none of us has ever heard before, and
one so chilling that it raises every hair on the back of my neck.
Fists. Thousands of them, pounding desperately against the gates in a ripple of thunder, accompanied by the screams of Outer City refugees trapped outside and begging to be let in.
The time has come. The Federation has arrived.
32
All my thoughts vanish, replaced by a single, searing goal: Find my mother and get her inside. If the city falls tonight, she won’t stand a chance out there. Already, I can smell smoke in the air, the telltale odor of burning metal that I remember from the shanties.
The Speaker is still screaming for the Firstblade’s arrest—but with the blast of one alarm, his power has been stripped away—and suddenly all I see standing before me is a small, weak man with expensive robes and a shrill voice. Every Striker turns instinctively to Aramin, awaiting his next order, while the guards and soldiers freeze in their motions, unwilling to lay a hand on the person we need to lead us into battle.
The Firstblade ignores the Speaker. Instead, he nods toward us. “Unchain them,” he calls out, “and get them into their gear. We don’t have time.”
And just like that, hands are on me, loosening the shackles around my wrists and ankles and letting them clatter to the ground. Guards do the same to Adena and Jeran. As they do, the Speaker keeps shrieking, his voice rising higher and higher.
“You damn traitor, you damn traitor!” he repeats at the Firstblade, his spit flying as he shouts. “I should have you beheaded for this! I should have executed you long ago! I—”
Then he lunges for the nearest soldier. He manages to get his hands on the butt of a gun and raises it at Aramin—but before he can fire, a bullet hits the gun and knocks it out of his hand. The Speaker yelps and shoves his hand in his mouth, hopping a little from the sting.
I look to see Pira pointing her gun at the Speaker, her lips turned down in a scowl, the barrel of her gun still smoking.
Aramin casts the Speaker a cold look. “You’ll be fine,” he calls out to him. “The Federation will be sparing your life anyway, won’t they?”
The Speaker stands there, frozen, as the Firstblade turns his head to his Strikers and lifts his voice, as if he had been ready for this attack all along. “Form your ranks!”
Their fists go to their chests in unison, and as one, they stream from the stands and run out of the arena, off to take their positions in front of the double walls. At the same time, the Senators, finally realizing the full extent of what’s about to happen, break into clusters and run too, hurrying for their homes.
Tomm and Pira are the only ones who run with Adena, Jeran, and me as we hurry to the supply halls outside the arena. Through my link, I send frantic messages to Red.
The Federation is here. The attack has begun.
He still can’t hear my words. I curse to myself, try again in vain, and then hope that he can feel the desperation pounding in my mind as I sprint to the supply hall. Here, dozens of weapons line the cases. One by one, we strap them on without a word as Tomm and Pira look on.
Six daggers each, their edges ready and sharpened, into our bandoliers and halters.
Two long, curved blades, tucked into their sheaths with a flourish.
Two guns each, strapped securely to our belts, a cloth bandolier of bullets around our waists.
Our crossbows slung over our backs.
Not long ago, Corian counted our weapons with me every morning. Now we do it without him, in what might be the last time we ever strap on our weapons.
Beside me, Adena finishes first and turns momentarily to face Pira. “Why’d you help us that day?” she says. “Out at the warfront, when you caught us running?”
She still wears that sneer on her face, the same one she’d always turned on me, but this time she looks away toward the walls. “They said you were going to destroy the Ghosts,” she replies. “I thought that was worth it.”
Beside her, Tomm yanks out a blade and a gun. He frowns at us, but this time, his wrath is trained not on us but in the direction of the gates.
“Are you done?” he snaps at me. When he sees my full arsenal, he nods. “Hurry up, then.”
Adena turns instead toward the Grid. “I’ll meet you all there,” she calls at me over her shoulder. “There are some supplies I need to grab.”
Then she’s off before anyone can say otherwise. Jeran dashes after her, the two of them soon running in sync as they disappear past the Plaza.
I call out again to Red as I run with Tomm and Pira. Still no answer, but I feel the rumble of something buried deep in him, that power he calls when his true fury rises. It sends a current through me, and I shudder with anticipation.
By the time we reach the edge of the Inner City, a fire is burning at the top of the outer wall, where a flaming rock hurled from a catapult had ignited a store of our own explosives and collapsed an upper portion of the gate. The rest of the steel gates seem to be holding, but I can feel the heat of the flames even from the ground, and the soldiers on the walls are running frantically, shielding their faces from the inferno as they attempt to put it out.
We run into Adena in our rush down toward the gates. Her eyes are wild, her face smeared with oil and grease, and when she sees us, she wipes a hand across her face.
“I don’t know what they’re using to hit us,” she says breathlessly, “but the fuel igniting the walls is burning hotter than any flame I’ve ever known. It’s strong enough that I can see some signs of it melting the steel along the ruined area of the outer wall. You see that?” She points to where some of the steel has started to warp. “It’s a reaction I haven’t seen.”
That makes me blink. The walls were built by the Early Ones, their steel near impenetrable. “What?” I sign. “That steel has resisted every kind of attack.”
“I know. And yet, here we are. Have you seen their Ghosts at the wall?” The fear in her eyes seems to hollow her from the inside out. “They’re enormous. The size of beasts. I’ve never seen so many.”
I think of the Premier and the two he had brought with him during the siege weeks ago. Then I picture my mother out there in the panicking crowds, trying to escape the Federation soldiers by hiding in her home. Or maybe she’s not hiding at all. She might be helping others escape, trying to gather them into areas of the shanties where the Federation’s soldiers aren’t looking.
“I have to get out there,” I sign grimly to Adena.
“You won’t be able to do it before we all head out together,” Adena replies. “The Firstblade’s going to send us out through the gate tunnels, and then they’re going to collapse them the instant we get out.”
That means there’s no retreating for us tonight. Once the Strikers head out to fight, we’re not coming back.
“And the citizens?” I ask.
“They’re fleeing through the tunnels in the back of the city,” Adena says as we stop at the inner gates, where other Strikers have spaced themselves out into a long line of orderly rows. “We’re going to try to hold the Federation off as long as possible while the citizens escape.”
There are hundreds of thousands of people in the Outer City with nowhere to go, no tunnels to use to get to the forests safely, no walls to hold back the enemy that will soon be on them. And they will be left to fend for themselves.
I draw my blades. As I do, another flame streaks through the sky. It’s so bright that I pause to stare at it. This one soars high—high enough to clear the walls. A deep dread lodges in my throat.
And right as I think it, the streak lands in a cluster of metalwork stalls along the edge of the Inner City, behind the protection of the double walls. Everything explodes in a shower of light. We’re all thrown to our knees by the impact.
High in the sky, through the smoke, I see the first silhouette of a winged creature.
The fear burning in my chest turns into terror. Red? But it isn’t him. It’s someone else, clad head to toe in black armor, his face shielded behind a mask, steel wings expanded to
their full size.
It’s a Skyhunter. Then, flying behind him, another.
The memory of others in Cardinia’s lab complex with wings grafted to their backs overwhelms me now in a sickening wave. The Federation has been busy creating more like Red—but unlike him, these are fully under the Federation’s control. Red’s feverish words to me in the infirmary, right after the warfront invasion, come flooding back.
I tremble at the sight of them and remember the carnage Red had left on the battlefield in just a few minutes. How many of them are there?
The ground beneath us rumbles. I feel a shock jolt through my link with Red. Suddenly, the images in his head—murky and undefined until now—turn sharper for an instant, and I see him break out of his cell amid a scene of fleeing guards, then walk to the center of the prison’s cylindrical pit. He looks up. His eyes are glowing, and I can no longer see his pupils. His lips curl. I can sense his rage welling up and spilling over, forcing him into blinding fury. His steel wings unfurl behind him in a rush of sliding metal. He bends his knees.
Red, I say again through our link.
And then there’s a blur of motion. I shudder once, violently, as a blast comes from the prison below the National Plaza. I look behind me to see a winged soldier burst into the sky, all black steel and metallic hair, his figure silhouetted against the sky.
I let out a breath at the sight of him. Maybe we can have a chance. With Red, I dare to believe it.
Our bond pulls tight. Then he vanishes over the wall.
Out by the front gates, another fireball comes hurtling over the edge of the gates to crash into the Inner City.
“Steady, Strikers!” the Firstblade calls out, holding his gun aloft. His eyes are fixed on the shuddering gates. Beyond them come the shrieks of Ghosts driven into a feeding frenzy from the sounds of hundreds of thousands of human voices.
In unison, every Striker fans out until we form an arc facing the steel walls. Our conversations die as we each pull on our masks.