CHAPTER 2 // BERO

I brace myself on the edges of the sink, staring at my reflection in the mirror. It’s hard to not see my father staring back at me, to find where his likeness ends and my individuality begins. All my life I’ve been told how much I look like him, how we have the same mannerisms and tendency to brood. When the same observations are made over and over, and your achievements are measured by comparison, it’s easy to lose your own identity.

            Do not let me down, Bero. The nearness of my father’s voice in my head rings with such specificity that he might as well be standing beside me.

            Running my hands beneath the sensor on the sink, I cup them to catch the water. Splashing it over my face, the coolness is a welcome feeling. I do this a few more times, thinking the more I do, the more I might be able to wash him away. But much like a river, no matter how much you sweep away the silt, the bedrock remains the same. The one thing I have to hold onto is that I have my mother’s eyes, a color something akin to amber. Knowing there’s a part of her within me is what gives me hope.

            Visions of the impending trial shift through my head, full of endless and possible outcomes—each outweighing and surmounting the other. Thoughts of who I will be competing against and what the medium will be. Whether or not I will succeed or fail. Whether I’ve trained enough. Or what if I pass the trial, but still am not chosen.

            The stall door behind me creaks open, clapping against the divider with a weak, halfhearted slap. The theatre of my mind is dispelled by the sound. Vander emerges from within like some creature reluctant to end its hibernation. Shuffling up to the sink beside me, he collapses with his back is against the wall and crosses his arms over his chest. He stares down at his feet, boring a hole into the floor with his own worry.

“I don’t know that I can do this,” he says, voice sagging with defeat. I watch him through the reflection of the mirror. Being so tall, he looks almost bent in half. Hunched over in stark profile, the image of mythical sadness. Like some antiquated demi-god whose great, physical conquests cannot prevail over the recent loss of his lover. My eyes trace over him, registering his simplicity. He’s dark-haired like me, but has more brown coloring. Mine might as well be black.

            “You’ll be fine, Vander,” I say in the best encouraging manner I can offer. It’s one of those things friends say to one another with false sincerity. In all honesty, he and I both know he ranked lowest in our class and that his chances of success are slim. “We don’t even know what the trial is going to be. It could be an endurance test for all we know. Something basic.” The chances of that, too, are slim, but again—it’s meant to be encouraging. The reassurance I offer him draws out the weakness in my own uncertainty, sparking annoyance in the pit of my stomach. I make the definitive decision that I won’t give in to doubt. That I’m made of harder stuff.

            Vander lifts his head, his long, narrow face rising into view. He looks back at me with sorry, brown eyes that reflect the intensity of the fluorescent light overhead. The more I look at him, the more I realize everything about him is brown, in a very plain sort of way—his hair, his eyes, the hint of freckles on his face. If I hadn’t grown up with him, and without regard to his height, I would swear he was younger by at least two years.

            I hear the bathroom door hiss open. My eyes shift to see who it is. All I get is a glimpse of white blonde hair and even paler skin before he disappears into a stall. Whoever it is, I don’t know him. Looking back at Vander’s reflection, I try to silently hint at him to suck it up. He cannot allow himself to be seen like this.

            I shoot a second glance at the occupied stall, making sure the door is shut. When I’m certain it is, run my hand beneath the sensors of two adjoining sinks. Water spills loudly into each of the metal basins. The sound isn’t much, but it’s enough to garble our conversation.

“You can’t let anyone see you like this or you really won’t have a chance. So, just… suck it up.” I feel a pang of guilt for saying this to his face, but when it passes, I’ve forgotten that it was even there. Another part of a friend’s duty is to tell the truth. And sometimes the truth can be a bitter thing to swallow. But if any other candidate saw this open display of insecurity, they would destroy him with it.

            Vander’s gaze locks with mine and I can see the shock in his eyes. The flow of water stops and the bathroom becomes quiet again. In the silence, I think there’s a moment where he might actually challenge me—but true to his character, he submits.

“You’re right,” he says, buckling an inch or two. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him at his full height. He could be seven feet tall for all I know.

            The stall door opens and the other boy steps out. Watching from the mirror, I see him hesitate, as though surprised to see us still here, and then choose the sink that’s furthest away. I’ve never seen hair like his before. It reminds me of platinum and has a pale gold sheen, sort of like a pearl. There isn’t much I can see of his face because of the way it’s obscured, nearly hidden behind a curtain of white. When he looks up to see us staring at him, his gaze—an icy blue—is so piercing that I think I’ve been impaled.

            “Let’s go,” I say to Vander, turning to exit the bathroom. He follows, though not improved much in the way of spirit.

The hallway of the arena is packed with people, a good portion of them young men my age. We look like clones, all wearing the same charcoal grey jumpsuits, the same basic black boots. Today is the day that a select few of us will be inducted into the Enoch Academy of Municipal Law Enforcement, the sole institution responsible for training all of the city’s Corvants. It is one of the highest honors an individual—a family—can receive.

Do not let me down.

The words resurrect themselves from my subconscious. Squashing them down, I scan the crowd. As expected, there’s a tumult of indiscernible conversation. However, I notice everyone clustering into groups, but the feeling isn’t casual. It seems more urgent. My insides twist. Part of me fears I’ve missed something important, something pertaining to the trial. Not far from where Vander and I have come out of the bathroom, I see some of our classmates huddled around the flickering display of a holograph. Without prompting, both of us assimilate into group.

Cyril, a boy from our year, holds his hand aloft, the holograph projecting upward from the detached face of his watch. The image is a mini version of the Archon standing outside the governmental palace in the City Sanctum—the innermost precinct of the city most have only ever seen infrequently depicted in the media. Some of the most important speeches in our nation’s history have been made from that exact spot. Knowing that alone, I can gather something is wrong.

“Is this live?” I ask, eyes still fixed on the holographic depiction of Krull.

“Yeah. Happening right now,” Cyril responds.

            “What’s going on?”

“I dunno,” Kiros, another boy from our year, says. “He hasn’t said yet.”

We all turn our attention back to Krull and his broadcast. He details the city’s struggles in a time of peril, how science has been our saving grace, before delivering the real blow: the Cain virus has returned.

Tension ripples through the hall like the gust of a fierce and unexpected storm. All of us know what this means, our parents and grandparents—every adult throughout our lives for that matter—never letting us forget. The struggle for the city, the Battle of Eden’s End. No child does not understand the price we’ve paid for our survival. What we have here in Enoch is precious, and because of that, it’s very fragile.

“As Archon of this great city, my highest priority remains, and shall always be, the safety and well being of its people. Therefore, under federal decree, all citizens of Enoch will present themselves to their precinct’s ReGen center for mandatory medical evaluation,” the holograph of Krull demands. One thing I can say about the man is that he lacks all sense of subtlety.

“Are you serious?” I hear Vander groan at my side.

“You don’t think that means us, do you?” Kiros asks, standing across from Vander and I. His close-cropped, reddish hair is turned a muted blue by the image suspended between us. Cyril reaches into his watch mechanism, pressing his finger on something that pauses Krull’s speech. My gaze lingers on the emptiness of his eyes, enhanced here by the frozen image.

“Don’t be stupid,” Cyril says, looking through the transparent image of Krull and directly at Kiros, whose face is highlighted by the hologram. “Of course it does. If there’s one thing these beakerheads fear, it’s that damned virus. They’ll test everyone in this city twice, and then some, just to make sure they caught the last of it.”

We all know it to be true. Our history as a civilization is colored by it. The reason we live beneath the force field is because of that virus.

“Hold on,” Cyril taps the hologram again. “There’s more.”

Krull reanimates, picking up exactly where he left off. “To oversee the efficacy of these evaluations, law enforcement has been dispatched to each precinct to maintain and instill order. Insubordination will not be tolerated. Anyone resisting assessment will be dealt with accordingly.” He makes a call to action, appealing to everyone’s duty as a law-abiding citizen before ending his address with Enoch’s slogan: may knowledge protect the strong. With the announcement over, the holograph of the Archon vanishes back into the watch face until it looks something plain and ordinary. Cyril retracts his arm so that it’s back by his side, fingers working the device over and over in his hand.

Silence stretches through the group as each of us works to digest the news we’ve just heard. At long last, Vander is the first to voice what we’re all thinking.

“Do you think they’ll cancel the trials?”

“No,” Cyril says, jade eyes drawn inward on whatever thoughts cloud his mind. He snaps back to the present, looking up at Vander. “Krull said it himself. They’re increasing the presence in each of the precincts.”

“So?” Kiros asks, not catching the logic.

“So, asshole, if they’re filling each precinct with more Corvants, that means they’re going to need more Corvants.”

Cyril’s point clicks in my head like a key to a keyhole. “Our chances of succeeding have just increased,” I say aloud.

“Possibly even doubled,” Cyril adds, reattaching the watch face in his hand to the band around his wrist. The others in the hall must have reached the same conclusion. Hushed voices grow increasingly louder, melding into one another and filling the wide corridor as if someone turned up the volume.

 “Bero!” I hear someone call my name, and I turn to see my parents emerge from a section of the crowd. I don’t know when they arrived, or if they had been here for some time also listening to the Archon’s address. I separate myself from the others, meeting my parents halfway down the hall. My mother sweeps in on me, pulling me into a tight hug. Her intention feels twofold, relief to see me and genuine concern. I imagine many other mothers similarly embracing their children throughout the city.

“You made it,” I say. My eyes find my father standing behind her, some feet apart. His flinty, unrepentant gaze turns my stomach to lead. Coming back to my mother, she smells faintly of rose petals and rubbing alcohol, and I know she’s just come from work. I just now notice the suggestion of creases at the corners of her kind and fervent eyes; their amber color warming. It’s an odd thing, observing your parents’ youthfulness succumb to the inescapable tides of time—realizing at some unspecified point that not everyone is immortal. The age lines, however, do not detract from her beauty but define it. As with my personality, my complexion is something centered between them. Where my father is fair, my mother is dark. Her skin the color of rich, fertile earth. I feel the softness of it as she leans in to press a kiss upon my cheek.

            “Of course we did. No way we’d miss it.” My mother looks up, surveying me, before smoothing out a wrinkle on my jumpsuit. I can’t recall how many years have passed since she was the one that had to drop to my eye level. “We’re proud of you,” she says. One of her soft hands cups the side of my face as she turns my attention away from my father so that I’m looking directly at her. “No matter what.”

All around us parents are saying the same thing to their eighteen-year-old sons. At least, that’s what I imagine them to be saying. The noise in the hallway outside the arena is so loud that anything beyond the conversation with my mother is hard to distinguish. There’s no doubt in my mind she understands the pressure my father places on me. Her actions alone are a demonstration of her efforts to counteract it.

Finally, he comes forward. His slowness takes the form of quiet reluctance. Unlike with my mother, I notice for the first time how level our gaze has become. I might as well be staring in the mirror again except for the marred section of flesh beneath his right eye where the Corvant mark once used to be. I compel myself to remember my own idiosyncrasies, the things that make me me. How many times has he seemed like such an indomitable, omnipotent force? The shadow of him always looming above.

What must he be thinking about? That day years ago when he stood in this very hall awaiting his own trial? Or perhaps his own misfortune at having been coerced into retirement. You would think it’s a story I would know well, but the events resulting in my father’s expulsion from law enforcement evade even me. I suspect my mother knows, but her continued secrecy is undoubtedly for my own protection. Not many Corvants ever leave their post to take a place amidst the civilians, let alone marry or father sons. Those that wear the mark often do so for life.

I let my eyes wander around the hallway for a brief moment, taking in the other boys with their fathers. Some appear to be giving pep talks or advice, spiritedly engaged in their own excitement that it infects their sons. Others are more subdued, hugging or, in some cases, shaking hands—establishing that familiar ground between grown men. My father, on the other hand, looks like a surly ghost haunting the wrong place.

Though it’s hard for me to imagine, my mother often tells me of a time when he used to be vibrant and happy—a sweet and curious boy with a desire to do good in the world. I wonder if she still sees these things in him now, even after experience and disillusionment have turned him into little more than the weighted presence of a man that tarnishes the space he occupies.

Following my father’s expulsion from the law, he began working as a treatment technician in the precinct’s water purification plant. It’s a decent job, respectable, but the stress outweighs the money. Constant exposure to the heavy chemicals has papered his skin, making it appear bleached and brittle. His hands are cracked, splitting between the fingers with angry red gashes. Wiry dark hair sweeps across his head, streaked with hard lines of white. The years have been less kind to him than my mother.

“Hello, Father,” I say. The unintentional reverence in my voice surprises me.

“Listen to me, Bero.” He takes hold of both of my shoulders, trapping my gaze with his own. I can see the tiredness that has settled in the skin beneath his eyes, circles so dark and blotchy they could pass for bruises. “There is no one in this hall that is capable of doing the things you are.” His eyebrows rise higher along his forehead, the heat of his eyes intensifying. “You are my son. My one and only son, and you can do so much more than I ever could. Do you hear me?” He pulls me into a hug, the strength and duration of it fleeting. “Do not let me down, Bero.”

The words again. The words that feel like a swift and interminable punch to the gut. Clapping me softly on the cheek, he turns and vanishes amidst the crowd. That’s it. A touch that stands as a memorial for so many unspoken things. I want to run after him, to unleash the burden and my own reticent affection I’ve been left to carry. To accuse and confess the thoughts that assault my mind. But instead I say nothing, do nothing—only watch him retreat away into the throng of familiar and anonymous faces.

My mother eclipses my view, uncompelled to acknowledge my father’s sudden absence. Her lips part, about to say something, but then decides better of it. How long has she fought to undo the work my father has done?

As if sensing the break in our conversation, a pair of doors split at the end of the wide corridor, parting like jaws to reveal a hollow, black mouth. Hundreds of heads turn in unison as three figures materialize out of the darkness—a woman flanked by two Corvants, each of them clad in deepest black.

Unlike those that accompany her, the woman wears a large shoulder mantle that dwarfs her already lithe form. Ruffles of stiff fabric fold into one another to give her the appearance of a harsh yet beautiful bloom. Her copper hair is pulled tightly against her head in a simple, stark design. Instead of a tattoo, red makeup adorns the creases of her eyes and extends outward into sharp, scythe-like wings. Their presence alone demands the attention of the hall.

“Attention prospective cadets,” the woman says. She’s much like Krull in the way that she stands unwaveringly still, her mouth the only working instrument. “Despite recent events and much uncertainty, your trials will continue as scheduled. In light of such trying times, the Academy of Municipal Law Enforcement finds it imperative to continue to fulfill our mission of providing unwavering safety to all citizens.

Therefore, at this time, applicants are asked to proceed into the Debriefing Chamber to receive all necessary instruction. Those not participating in the trials are now asked to say their goodbyes and to please exit the arena.”

The din in the hall returns, friends and parents exchanging words and gestures of encouragement and luck. I look at my mother once more, unexpectedly becoming a child again. It would be so easy to take her hand and just walk out of here, but in my heart of hearts, I know that isn’t what I want.

Since as young as I can remember, I have been conditioned for this. Prime physical fitness is required to become a Corvant. Needless to say, I’m in the best shape of my life, but so is my competition and it isn’t entirely by body type that recruits are chosen. You must be mentally acute as well. But more than my preparation and my father’s insistences, boys are raised in the Seventh Precinct, home of the Academy, with the hope of being selected.

If you make it through the training, becoming a Corvant holds benefits for your family. They receive a yearly stipend. It usually isn’t much, but it’s enough to lift most of the households in any precinct out of squalor. And for that fact alone, my father’s words are heavier than he knows.

“It’s time, Bero.” My mother’s voice is delicate, reminding me of the way she used to gently wake me each morning. Those days long gone. “I meant what I said,” she says with adamant eyes.

 “I know,” I say, my response delayed. I know she means it, but it doesn’t make the pressure of the Choosing nor my father’s demands any less difficult. I lean into my mother, hugging her. She brings her lips to my ear and I hear her whisper, “No matter what.” I smile at this reaffirmation of her words, hugging her just a bit tighter before slipping past her to join the moving crowd.

I won’t see my parents again until afterward, when my fate has been decided. Most, if not all, of the people in the precinct turn out for the Choosing, coming to see who has been able to rise up from the depths. At least for a little while. Not all who are chosen become Corvants.

I fall in line beside Kiros and Vander. We exchange a look, but none of us are able to speak. Our nerves turning us into mutes. The doors at the end of the hall lead to a large perpendicular corridor where the crowd splits into two, half going left and half going right. Vander and Cyril are directed right while Kiros and I are told to head left. I look back over my shoulder to offer Vander one last final nod of encouragement, but he’s once again lost in his feet.

At the end of the corridor is what I take to be the Debriefing Room. It’s a large and dimly lit, circular chamber. Rows of chairs trace the perimeter, breaking in the middle where a few low steps lead up to a central platform. Rails on either side of the stage create a minimal, although effective, barrier. Long, thin pale green lights give the room an eerie glow, making it appear low ceilinged, but when I look up, I realize there’s more depth than I initially perceived.

Five Corvants occupy the room, one pair standing sentinel beside a door at the northern point of the room. Another two guard the entrance from where we just came. The last waits in the vacant space at the edge of the stage. Those guarding the doors are fully suited, helmet and all, but the one in the center is not.

“Have a seat,” he says, the timbre of his voice deep and resonant. Everyone does as told, finding an empty chair on either side of the chamber. With the many of us there are, there isn’t much room for choice. Being one of the last ones in, I’m forced to take a seat toward the back of the second row.

Stepping into the light that illuminates the stage, the unmasked Corvant’s identity is revealed. He’s a man of moderately middle age—my best guess is somewhere on the lower side of forty. His medium brown hair is cut squarely atop his head, dull silver streaking the tightly cropped sides. His thin lips are framed by a thick, neatly-groomed beard, which has also begun to show signs of age. At first I think it’s just the harsh lighting, but quickly realize his features are exactly as they appear to be: sharp, pointed, precise. The look on his face is neither tranquil nor severe, but perfectly neutral. I know he’s of higher status by not having one mark beneath his deep-set eyes, but two below each in mirrored reflection—sickles in opposition. The demarcation of an Auger, an honor and title bestowed upon elite members of the faction.

A hush falls over the room as we all settle down. When it comes to something as important as the Choosing, there’s no room for disobedience. Full attention is being paid to the helmetless Corvant that now steps into the center of the room.

“Welcome,” he says. “I’m Captain Fauchard. From this point forward until the moment the Choosing ceremony concludes, there is to be zero discussion.” Fauchard scans the room so as to add emphasis to his statement. “I shouldn’t have to say this, but any talk of your trial is strictly prohibited. So much as a whisper will have you disqualified and removed from the premises without repeal. Is that understood?”

There’s a collective yes from us in our seats.

“You will be called—individually and at random—to proceed into the arena.” Fauchard gestures with a black-gloved hand to the door at the north end of the room. “From which point, you will receive an identification bracelet and your trial will begin. Your trial concludes once you or your opponent steps out of bounds or yields.”

Every year the trials differ, ranging anywhere from hand to hand combat to tests of strength or endurance. I suppose they do this to level the advantage. How can you prepare for what you cannot expect? In training, we try to cover as many bases from previous trials as possible. The more well-rounded you can be, the better your chances, and all of us want—need—this chance.

I look around the room at all the other boys. Some faces I recognize, having gone to school with them, and others I don’t know at all. This, too, is a form of control. In preparation for trials, students are trained in separate schools so as not to be exposed to another candidate’s strengths and weaknesses. The likelihood of competing against another member of your school is rare. Once again, this is to ensure fairness.

I spot Kiros sitting in the front row on the opposite side of the platform, his head bowed and eyes closed tight. His forearms rest on his legs, which bounce rapidly on the balls of his feet like pistons. Another boy behind him looks a warm shade of green, his face slick with sweat, but the change in his complexion could easily be a result of the ghastly lighting. However, there’s no denying they’re both nervous. We all are. To not be would be cocky and foolish. But whatever silent torture our nerves are waging, the majority of us are better at hiding it.

“Upon completion,” Fauchard continues, my attention pulled back toward him. “You will be escorted to the Containment Chamber where you will remain until all trials have been completed. Once again, I must reiterate, participants are strictly forbidden to discuss their results. I cannot stress this enough. Following the last trial, we will reconvene in the main auditorium where the Choosing ceremony will commence.”

A pause hangs over the room. Fauchard surveys us with his eyes, which look gunmetal grey beneath his dark, protruding brow. I notice some of the other boys look away. When his hollow gaze meets mine, I realize why the others diverted their attention. The weight of them makes me feel small and fragile, like I’m about to crack. Just like the boy in the bathroom, it amazes me how people can reduce you with so much as a look.

Fauchard glosses right over me—my existence not even registered—and addresses the room again. “Are there any questions?” No one makes a sound. Even if anyone had a question, they would need the courage to ask it first. Fauchard’s charcoal eyes narrow, and, looking at no one in particular, he says, “Best of luck.” The sentiment completely devoid of affect. Without a further word, he exits the room from where we entered. The Corvants that guard the door stand as still as statues as he passes between them.

Silence lingers in the room like an unwanted mistress. None of us dares to speak, let alone look at one another. In the moments that stretch by, I swear I can hear the pounding of a hundred hearts in a hundred chests. Perhaps it’s only my own, the sound multiplying and thundering in my ears. Finally, when the wait becomes almost too cumbersome to bear, a voice—female and monotone—floods in from a hidden audio system overhead.

            “Danos Hollen,” it says, exaggerate the pause between first and last and making the one name sound as though it were two. At first no one comes forward, and then, as if electrified out of his seat, the boy named Danos rises and takes the long walk across the center stage toward the arena door, a hundred pairs of eyes watching him. The doors his apart, swallowing him whole, and then seal themselves shut in his wake. I can’t help but close my eyes and swallow the knot rising in my throat.

The trials have begun.

Hours pass, though I haven’t a way to gauge how many. Anticipation and anxiety consume my mind. One by one though divided by eternal stretches of time, the seats begin to empty as the number of candidates called for their trial steadily increases. I look around the room, counting the number of participants left. Twelve of us remain. Kiros, myself, and ten others I don’t recognize. Dotted throughout the room as if we had chosen to sit several spaces apart.

            “Kiros Mulver.”

            My eyes fly across the room to where Kiros is seated in the first row. His eyes pop open and his head snaps up. He rises out of his seat and walks around the perimeter of the stage until the rails on either side lay bare his path. Our eyes connect for the briefest of moments as he comes to the center of the room. I try to offer some nonverbal form of encouragement, but it’s as if he doesn’t see me. There’s a glazed expression on his face, as though he’s witnessed a traumatic accident. His thoughts and vision tunneled on the event ahead. Something about the way he moves conjures the image of a prisoner walking toward his own execution.

Kiros vanishes behind the arena door, and just like that we become eleven.

Another ocean of time and another name called.

Ten.

My angst has manifested itself into physical pain, cramping my intestines and cramming all of my lower organs up against my diaphragm. The feeling makes me slightly nauseous, like the seed of something that requires a single drop of water to grow wildly out of control—a tipping point easily traversed.

“Bero Quidel.”

It feels almost mechanic, the way hearing my name has released all of my viscera to return to its natural, designated state. With the agonizing wait finally over, suddenly I’m lighter, buoyant, alive. I realize it’s not the actual thing itself that has weighed me down, but the anticipation of it. Knowing that, and being able to leave it behind, I finally feel ready.

Rising my chair, I make trek to the center platform. My boots lightly scuff the thin metal platform. Descending the second set of low stairs, I come to the arena door. As with all the candidates before me, the Corvants standing guard make no motion to acknowledge me. For as long as they’ve been silently standing there, I wonder if they’re even real. I’m afforded no opportunity to placate my musings. The metal door slides apart with an exhale of compressed air.

I step into darkness, the way back sealing itself shut. Ahead of me is a staircase, each step lit by a spotlight overhead. As I ascend, I see it open into a smaller, circular chamber. It must be one-fifth the size of the last, lit in tones of white rather than green. Straight ahead is a circular insert just large enough for an arm.

I remember what Fauchard said in his debriefing about receiving an identity bracelet. Stepping up to the insert, I place my arm inside. Something wraps itself firmly around my wrist, securing itself over the skin like an added layer of metal dermis. Retracting my arms brings the chamber to life. The walls around me turn on a mechanized swivel, filling the room with glittering silver. I’m distracted for only a moment to look down at the flexible strap of black metal coiled around my wrist—my identity bracelet. Who knows what information it contains. I can’t be bothered to riddle it out, now distracted by the things around me.

Lining the curved walls, and set within indentations perfectly matched to shape and size, are cases of all kinds of weapons. Really, anything you can imagine: broadswords, short swords, daggers, axes, polearms, sais, chakram, shuriken, and others I can’t even identify—all close range weapons; weapons that require you to abandon safety.

Each of the weapons is a mixture of polished silver and black, glinting in the light. Resting in their places they look beautiful, like works of art deceivingly disguised against their true purpose of inflicting pain. Looking at the weapons now, there is no indication that any one of them has been used previously, though I know that isn’t the case. They must have been cleaned and restored between trials. Something about that makes my skin itch.

The same disembodied, female voice fills the small room, catching me off guard and nearly making me leap out of my skin.

“Your trial will be a test of strength, endurance, and skill. Of the provided arsenal, you may only choose one weapon for combat.” A wave of relief rushes through me. Armed combat was one of my stronger areas in training. “You are encouraged to choose wisely. Once your selection is made, prepare for descent into the arena.”

I look around the room, not having noticed any other exit point except where I came in. Something compels me to cast my gaze downward, and there I find I’m standing on a circular platform, outlined by a thin black ring of shadow. I wait for further instruction, but none comes. I take this as a sign to select my weapon.

Choose wisely. The words echo in my head. My eyes play over the weapons once more. I’ve used some of them, but there’s nothing I know better than a broadsword. Walking over to one of the cases, I choose a blade that is both long and wide enough to offer some defense as well as good striking power on the offense. It’s lighter than I anticipate, the metal feeling almost hollow. I test out the sword, making a few empty cuts and getting a sense of how it feels in my hand. It sings, as if the weapon and I had been crafted for each other. Satisfied with my selection, I take my spot on the center platform.

A brief moment passes as I wait for something to happen.

“Your trial begins now,” the voice says. “Good luck. We will be watching.”

That last comment is haunting. My eyes wildly search around the edges of the room, half expecting to find a camera or panel of tinted glass. Before I can find anything—if there is anything to find—the platform beneath me thrums to life. I almost lose my footing as I sink through the floor. Thankfully, I’m able to sustain my balance and not drop the broadsword. Lowered slowly and steadily through a large, glass cylinder, I feel like a parcel being delivered by some new age courier system.

The arena opens wide around me as the platform settles into place, the floor becoming level once more. Like every other room I’ve encountered thus far, it’s darkly lit. Spotlights prevent me from looking up, forcing me to squint so hard that my eyes are practically closed. Instead, I look ahead. Some twenty feet away, concealed behind a glass tube of his own, is my opponent.

I instantly recognize the platinum white hair, the laser-like ice blue eyes. It’s the boy Vander and I encountered in the bathroom. He’s chosen a polearm of some sort. My best guess at this distance is a glaive judging by the length of the pole and two-foot blade. Choosing a weapon like that means only one thing: he’s skillfully trained. Whatever it is, and whatever his skill, my broadsword will do nicely.

We stare at each other across the distance, each contained within our own vacuum of deafening silence, waiting for our chance at victory. The cramped space begins to heat up with my breath, which occasionally fogs the small section of glass in front of me. Four points of light flicker around us, extending lines of pale blue light until they form a twenty-by-twenty foot circle that hovers just above the floor.

The boundary.

I remember what Fauchard said in his debriefing, that the trial ends when once of us yields or crosses that line. Even through the slight haze of breath, even across the arena that separates us, I can see the same thought in my opponent’s pale, cold eyes.

It won’t be me.

The glass cylinders that contain us retract back up into the ceiling and we step off the platforms into the arena, and that is when I know the trial has officially begun.

The moment feels taken, seized, as if some giant hand reached down and pulled the elastic of time upward until it slowed to a stop. And when the band is released, time accelerates until it is so fast I can barely register what is happening.

My opponent is the first to strike. He comes charging at me at such a blistering speed I’m forced to watch his shadow to know which way he’s going to move. The glaive comes down toward my thigh at a wide angle. I swing the broadsword to my left, the end of the blade pointing down, and our weapons sing a song of dancing metal. Light is thrown into the dark corners of the arena, bouncing off the reflection of our blades.

He moves fast. So fast that I’m made to stand still and defend. Amidst a flurry of blows, I’m unable to attack. The advantage here is that he’s going to tire himself out. Sooner or later. Though the continued speed of his assault worries me that I’ve underestimated his endurance.

He feints a cut toward my chest, which I try to parry when I see the glaive coming down from above. I sidestep—a second too late on the block—and feel the bite of metal against my shoulder. My teeth clench together at the pain, and I think they might burst out of my mouth from the pressure. My thoughts are stolen by the blood that flows along my shoulder cuff, turning the area of dark grey jumpsuit to a shade of black crimson. Anger washes through me at the unexpected distraction. What do I care if I’ve been cut? Injuries heal. Broken pride does not.

The wind is punched from my lungs as I feel his boot press forcibly against my chest and send me reeling backward. I think I’m about to fall when I manage to regain my balance, thrusting one foot out behind me and finding the ground. Stumbling has thrown me off significantly. I hear the buzz of the electric censor. The blue line of the boundary an inch or two from my back. I don’t need to turn around to know it’s there. All my opponent has to do is push me just the slightest bit and it will all be over.

Watching him advance, I try to best gauge where his next move will land. Finding the opportunity, I swipe with my blade toward his midsection and draw a line of red against grey. He lets out a wail, and I watch those piercing blue eyes darken with intent.

We split apart, both moving back toward the center; both reassessing each other. That was too close of a call. One I can’t let happen again. I muster up my strength and realign my focus so that it is on nothing except him.

I’m the first to attack this round, breaking into a run with the sword held above me. Swiping at his upper arm, he beats away the strike with his polearm. I round the blade above me, trying for his right. Again, I’m blocked, the edge of my blade sliding against the rod of the glaive with such direct force that it creates sparks. Our closeness gives me an advantage. Capitalizing on it, I drive my elbow up under his chin.

He thrusts me away with his forearms, turning his head to the side and spitting out a gob of blood. It splatters against the white of the ring like a gunshot. He drags his thumb against his lip, examining the severity of the cut. I can’t help but grin when he looks at me. I know I shouldn’t be cocky, but it feels so good.

My smile incenses him. Just as it should. He thrusts toward me, the blade of his weapon driving right for my stomach. I pivot and block the glaive with my sword, but he’s one step ahead. The end of the pole collides with my wrist in a flash of hot pain. I feel fire. I see fire. And when I recoil, I realize I’ve dropped my weapon.

The ground rushes to meet me, slamming against my back and causing me to expel every ounce of breath. Lights pop in front of my eyes and the arena spins. A stinging at the back of my knees tells me where I’ve been hit; a blow I must have sustained when I was too busy grabbing a wrist that is no doubt broken.

My senses coming back to me, I readjust in time to find the blunt end of the pole dropping down above my chest. Rolling to the side, I hear metal cling against the floor. The electrical current of the ring’s edge hums in my ear. I’ve gravitated toward it again, but before I can scuttle away, the crushing weight of his entire body falls on me. My hands thrust upward, pushing against the pole that is being pressed down with overwhelming force, right above my throat.

The joint of my injured wrist screams, and it feels as though someone has dragged the blade of a knife up the length of my entire forearm.

“Yield,” he says, his voice a dark whisper coming through clenched teeth. I blink away a film of tears, finding those laser-like eyes amidst a mess of platinum hair. I don’t recoil or collapse beneath them anymore, but bore into his gaze with a fire that’s all my own. “Yield and it will all be over.”

Do not let me down, Bero. I hear my father’s voice in my head, distracting me with his ethereal words. I throw the image of him from my head, sending him into the recesses of my darker subconscious, and force my attention back to the ring—back to my opponent who’s face is only inches above me and I only inches from defeat.

“Never,” I say with a deadly coolness. Something swells up inside of me, from the pit of my stomach outward, until it washes over the pain in my wrist. It all happens so fast that I’m barely able to register it happened at all. A blazing heat spreads through the metal of the glaive—a heat like sweltering flame. I know he feels it too when he yells aloud, as though burned, and pulls away.

In one quick, sweeping motion, I thrust the pole against my opponent’s chest, causing him to falter and break the boundary line of the ring. An alarm sounds around us, signaling the end of the match. Relief settles over me, and I smile the truest smile of sweet victory. Even with the pain throbbing in my broken wrist, the gash on my shoulder, and the tremendous need to vomit, I feel invincible. And before I can control it, or make sense of what’s happening, my mouth falls open with a full, incredulous laugh.