CHAPTER 4 // BERO
Once again, I find myself sitting in agitating silence. There are no windows in the Containment Chamber to hint at the time of day. It feels like a lifetime since the Archon’s address, since I’ve seen my parents in the hall. Even Fauchard’s debriefing seems a memory long cloistered away. My trial, though, is fresh in my mind despite the time that’s passed. Like a wound that attempts to heal though I refuse to let it. Picking at the scab so it bleeds anew. But the more I try to replay the events the more they blur together, becoming indiscernible action. With my adrenaline long gone, so too is my clarity.
The only physical reminders that remain are my wounds. The laceration where the glaive sliced my shoulder has finally congealed, the aftermath leaving the right side of my jumpsuit a bloodied, wet mess. My wrist has swollen to thrice its normal size, beating with the heat and thickness of my pulse. The black identity bracelet restricts some of the swelling, causing the tissue to bulge on either side. Severe bruising has caused the skin above to blacken where the blood has pooled beneath the surface. Against my better judgment, I try to make a small motion to test if the bone is broken. I’ve barely moved when a torrent of pain surges through my arm, making me grit my teeth and wince.
Looking up, I notice the other boys in the room. It’s the same group as was in the Debriefing Chamber. I haven’t to think why they keep us separated, knowing that they do so in order to prevent further conflict between opponents. That’s assuming there’s any further damage to be done. We might as well be seated in a ReGen ward provided the sorry state we’re in, each candidate sporting injuries that run the gamut in severity. Even those in “better” shape are nursing open wounds—bloodied hands pressed tightly to shoulders, stomachs, legs.
On the opposite end of things, in the first row across from me, there’s a boy with a cut below the knee that is deep enough to show bone. Danos Hollen. I recall his name as he was the first of us to complete his trial. He’s leaning forward, hunched over his leg and clutching the meat of his thigh as if to keep the limb attached. Face a pale shade of green. I wonder if my fortune would have been different had I been chosen sooner.
Kiros sits a few chairs down at the end of the row, his hair turned a deeper shade of red from sweat. It’s matted over his forehead, and I notice a gash above his left eyebrow that continues to dribble down along the bridge of his nose. I want to make some motion to grab his attention, hoping to get some nonverbal indication of how he fared in his trial, but it’s no use. From the vacant expression on his face, I can tell he’s gone; receded to a place in his mind and shut off from the world. In fact, the more I survey the other candidates, the more I realize how many of them look traumatized.
How long will they leave us here to bleed and agonize?
The rear entrance to the chamber opens as yet another boy enters, and I recognize him as one of the last in the Debriefing Room. He slides into the nearest vacant seat and buries his face in his hands. Though he tries to hide it, a muffled sob bellows out of him. Heads lift in his direction, but no one speaks. We all remember the directive Fauchard gave in his debriefing—talking is strictly prohibited.
A few minutes later, the entrance to the chamber hisses open once more. This time, it is the resplendent woman from the hall that steps in. Her ruffled mantle brushes the edges of the doorframe, arms hanging perfectly at her sides. The overhead lighting exaggerates her makeup, making her appear predatory and hawkish. Captain Fauchard emerges from the brightness behind her like a wraith taking form. Shadowed, amorphous shapes melding together to form a very solid and intimidating man.
Whether or not it’s protocol or a sign of respect—or even fear at this point—we rise out of our seats like a wave, standing at attention. For some, like Danos, this is a challenge, and a few boys threaten to topple over. I see the person beside Danos tug on his arm, holding him upright. I contemplate whether or not I would do the same. In here, everything is a competition. Whether or not we come from the same school or share a childhood, it is every man for himself.
Fauchard strides to the middle of the room, stepping up onto the central platform so that he’s bathed by a singular bright light. “Your trials are complete,” he says, that steely gaze surfing over us; again, finding no one. “It is now time for the Choosing, and I should remind you that the result of your match may or may not influence your acceptance. So no one should be resting on the laurels of their performance.”
I can’t help but feel like he directs this comment towards me. Maybe it’s the way he looks right through me when he says it. I can’t have been the only one to be pleased I won my match, but then again I might be the only one that actually laughed afterward. In my defense, it was pure elation—giddiness at what had just happened. To Fauchard and the other judges, I’m sure my behavior came across as a show of arrogance. And maybe it was, but what is so wrong with that?
“If you will proceed into the amphitheater,” the woman says, lifting a gloved hand to gesture in the direction she and Fauchard entered. Those closest to the door exit first, and soon we all march single file out of the Containment Chamber into another long stretch of metal-sided hallway. I wonder when our mannerisms became so militaristic. Even in school we were never this rigorous.
As I stand amidst the other candidates waiting to make my way into the hall, I hear a hushed bit of conversation behind me. Looking over my shoulder, I see Danos speaking to the boy that had been seated beside him. Fauchard turns in their direction, having caught the exchange as well.
“Is something the matter?” He asks, face still devoid of emotion. The two candidates freeze, staring up at the Auger in swift and sudden silence. There’s a moment where both of them are unsure if they should answer the question, torn between responding to an official and remaining obedient. I want them to know better, to remain quiet, but the boy beside Danos decides to speak.
“His—His leg, sir. He can’t walk.”
I fume. Why is he helping this kid? What an idiot to throw away his chances on someone else. Danos, too, understands the boy’s implications. He shakes his head in protest, trying to signal that he’s fine. It’s clear he’s not. Sweating profusely, drops gliding down along his forehead and chin, Danos has done barely more than stand in front of his chair.
Fauchard glides down from off the center platform in a single, sweeping movement to diminish the distance between him and Danos. If he had been pale-faced before, there’s no color describe his fear now. The Auger’s eyes rake over the wound, examining the jagged white bone that pierces through purpled, bloodied flesh.
“If being inducted into this Academy is important to you, you will find a way to walk,” Fauchard says before turning his attention to the second boy. “Without assistance.” Fauchard turns and brings up the rear of the line, forcing me and the other candidates in front of me to move quickly and steadily out of the room.
For a moment, there is a lingering, heavy silence that accompanies us down the hallway until it’s interrupted by the distinct sound of someone falling and a consequent cry of pain. As if audibly sealing away Danos’s fate, the door to the Containment Chamber hisses shut.
No one turns back. Not a single head before me. But if any of the other candidates feel the absence like I do, their back tingles with the numbing sense of reality.
The amphitheater is massive. At first it seems squat, as if the ceiling has been squashed over a gradual incline of seats, but as I look up, I realize there’s more depth to the large, ovular room than I first perceived. The seating has been divided into two arcing sections that surround a smaller raised dais. Black banners emblazoned with the vivid red mark of the Corvant hang from high, stone-grey walls that flank the perimeter. Central to the space is a single red banner whereupon Enoch’s opaque, geometric emblem presides over the dais. It stretches the full height of the auditorium, draped from unseen ceiling to polished granite floor.
People spill into the amphitheater from every direction. Above, from a larger, more formal entrance, parents and other spectators begin to occupy the upper ring of seats. Somewhere amongst them are my own parents, or at least my mother. My father may not have stayed, but she will be here holding true to her promise. I search through the passing faces, trying to see if I can find either of them. My attention is stolen before I can locate them by the second line of candidates entering from the opposite end of the room. It’s the second group of candidates—the opponents to each of the boys I just spent the past several hours alongside in aching silence.
Cyril and Vander are not too far down the line, and as we begin to file into the lower section of seats, we drawer closer to one another. Cyril passes me, starting a new row of candidates as he heads for his seat, and flashes a quick smile. He must’ve done well in his trial. I return the smile, suddenly imbued with my own confidence, but the feeling of victory curdles on my lips the moment I see a tousled head of platinum hair.
His stare is deadly—full of such bitter hate that makes the blue of his eyes seem more like ice than ever. I hold his gaze until we pass one another, determined not to look away. He may try to intimidate me like Fauchard, but he does not hold rank. Given the opportunity again, I would love to put my opponent back in his place. Let him be jealous. It was his arrogance that cost him the trial.
The boy in front of me stops short, causing me to do the same; each of us having reached our seat. We don’t sit, however, doing nothing we’ve not been told to do. Glancing over my shoulder, I find my nameless opponent only a few seats away in the row behind me. His proximity makes the gash on my shoulder itch. I give him one final, lingering glare and turn to face forward as the last of the candidates file into position. Once the commotion has stopped, a hush falls over the crowd.
“Welcome.” The word echoes throughout the auditorium, filling the vast space with such resounding profundity as if it were the spoken covenant of some omnipotent god. Though he may not be immortal, the man who speaks is a god. At least to the hundred of us that stand before him. General Xiphos—the commanding officer and chief Auger who oversees the entire Corvant faction.
He’s a goliath of a man in presence alone, as if such a large space were still not enough to contain one person. The two others that join him onstage—Captain Fauchard and another Auger I don’t recognize, his black hair buzzed short along the skull—are dwarfed by his stature, easily a head shorter at the least. If I were to guess, I’d say he is close to seven feet tall, but unlike Vander, he is not thin and gangly. Instead, he’s fleshed out with muscle; muscle that looks fortified with steel rather than human fiber.
The suit the General wears is not the typical Corvant black, but a luminescent white—a stark contrast from his dark complexion—and draws out the ten-pointed star on the city emblem above. As with any high-ranking official, Xiphos bears the dual sickle marks beneath each eye, the red ink faded to deep brown. A half-cape hangs from his left shoulder, the ends trimmed with rich crimson. For half a moment, I question if the color is dyed material or something else, but my wonder is laid to rest when I spot the accessories on his suit tinted to match. The General appears to glow, as the amphitheater dims and he stands beneath a single, dominant beam of light. Fauchard and the other Auger beside him recede into the transparent darkness, standing in grim solemnity with their hands clasped behind their backs.
Dual, holographic screens appear at both ends of the dais, flanking the three men who preside over the crowd. Images of a fully suited Corvant fill the screens, detailing their sleek and militaristic caliber in varying shades of translucent blue; adding spectacle to what is already coveted. As the images continue to shift and play, General Xiphos speaks.
“Early yesterday morning, Archon Krull announced the Cain virus—virus that once threatened to extinguish our existence—has made a resurgence within the city’s walls. In light of this news, our need for top law enforcement officers has never been greater.” I steal a moment to find Cyril in the row behind me. Our theory was right, how the reappearance of the Cain virus has increased our odds. My eyes never find him, instead falling on my opponent from the trial. He stares at me with such ferocity that I can only assume he’s been boring a hole in the back of my head. His look alone tells me our business is not finished. I ignore him, my original thought curdling in my head, and I turn back to face forward.
“For more than a century,” Xiphos continues, “Corvants have protected and secured the borders of this city. We have sought and strived to bring order and peace—to align chaos and corruption with swift, unyielding justice. Generations of young men have offered their lives in service to defend our city, and, today, we continue this tradition… welcoming into our ranks the newest echelon of Enoch’s bravest. Together, as a unified front, your sons and brothers—comrades and peers—will march forth unto greatness and uproot the evil that threatens to take hold.”
I wonder how much of the speech has been rehearsed, perhaps even recycled. There’s something about the way Xiphos speaks that entices me to think this is the sort of address he gives to every new crop of candidates. But more than Fauchard, there’s a tinge of emotion, even reverence, in the way he speaks. His deep voice booms through the amphitheater with little help from the audio system.
“The fine young men that stand before me have completed their trials… Competing against one another in a show of physical and mental capability,” Xiphos says, looking down to address us directly. “For the most of you, your performance has been exemplary. This class of candidates has shown, by far, the most promise yet. Something all of you should take pride in. But even amongst the strongest of men, we only accept the elite. Those of you who are not chosen will go off to lead respectable, fulfilling lives—becoming productive members of your precinct; loving husbands and fathers.”
I bite down on my tongue, holding back a scoff. Each one of us has pursued the training of a Corvant because it is our best hope at escaping our precinct, at bringing honor to our families. There is no glory is staying behind. The husbands and fathers he speaks of are men like my father—men who pressure their sons to pursue a better life beyond what fortune and ability have allotted them. Suddenly thinking of my father, I have the desire to turn and search for him in the crowd. I’m not sure why. Perhaps out of curiosity to know if he’s even here or perhaps for approval, but in the way our relationship has always been, the desire is interrupted.
Do not let me down.
I stare up at the dais with renewed focus, invigorated by the full display. The holographs change between scenes of the Academy and the graduation of the cadets. “Those of you who are chosen, however,” the General continues, “will step forth into a life of duty, of brotherhood. You will understand what it means to live for others, to find honor in service, and preserve the unstained glory of this city. Now, more than ever, is your chance to become a part of history.”
Rehearsed speech or not, it’s effective. Longing spreads through me like ink spilled into moving water. Hearing Xiphos’s words has never made me want anything more. So much so that should I not be chosen, I cannot even think about the alternative. There have been other boys who’ve taken their lives, preferring death in lieu of failure.
“Let the Choosing begin.” The words are the harbinger of unbearable anticipation. Fauchard steps forward from his place in the shadows, offering the General a datascroll. Xiphos pulls the cylindrical device apart, creating a rectangular, razor-thin stretch of pale blue light between the two ends. I don’t have to guess at the data it contains.
One by one, he will call the names of the new recruits and I can only pray that mine is one of them. My heart pounds in my chest, my pulse finding new life in my injured wrist and the wound on my shoulder. Each passing heartbeat brings back the once forgotten pain. I close my eyes to try and level the sensation.
The Choosing proceeds in the same manner as the trials, name after name being called as each new recruit breaks from his place in line to ascend the stairs along the side of the dais. The first to be chosen, Tielo Brax, is a tall boy with shoulder-length hair. As he takes his place on stage, the third Auger directs him to form a new line in front of one of the holographs. It’s a triumphant scene, one that Tielo must certainly feel himself as he stands proud and rigid beneath the fanfare. Another name is called and another boy leaves his row to stand beside the first. I recognize him as one of the first of my group to take the trial.
Three through seven are boys from the other two schools, and it isn’t until the eighth that I know the person who’s been chosen. Vander. Guilt clashes with a stronger sense of envy. I know I should be happy for him, but that does not leave me any less jealous. I’m also shocked he’s the first of my training group to be chosen. Cyril I would understand, if not even expect. Kiros, too, despite the vacant look that has occupied his face ever since he returned from the arena. But if Vander the walking nerve-wreck—the boy I had to encourage because of his own doubts—was chosen over me…
When he takes his place on stage within the growing line of recruits, he turns to face forward with a goofy, lopsided grin. My hands clench into fists at my side and I have every urge to knock that smile off his face. I’m surprised by own rage, but deep down I knew it was in me somewhere. My schoolmaster once told me no one truly decent ever wants to become a Corvant. Or if they do, they lose their decency by the end.
Before the name of the ninth candidate is revealed, the heavy tension suspended over the crowd snaps as one of the side doors to the amphitheater hisses open. The unexpected brightness from the hallway cuts through the dimly lit space like fire in the night. A silhouette stands in the threshold, leaning against the metal for all of its support. As my eyes adjust, sifting features from the shadow, I see it is Danos Hollen. The front of his jumpsuit is drenched with sweat, deepening the grey of the fabric down to the middle of his chest. His right pant leg is a bloodied mess from where the bone has further protruded out of the skin, hammered through the flesh by Danos’s sheer determination. Even in the few seconds he stands in the doorway, all eyes upon him, blood pools at his feet as if it’s a puddle of steady growing piss.
Women gasp, men groan, and Danos Hollen collapses backward into the light. Some of the parents rise out of their seats in the section above to see if he’s okay. I steal a glance in Xiphos’s direction where he stands upon the dais. He, too, is watching, but with a much milder expression of surprise. His reaction registers two things. Either candidates have done much worse to prove themselves, or his years as an Auger have hardened him. I suspect the truth may be it is a likely combination of both.
Xiphos doesn’t even need to address the interruption. The death bloom of a woman arrives at the open door, shoulder mantle barely shifting with her movement. Two lesser-ranked Corvants follow in tow, the visors of their helmets distorting the reflection of the fluorescent hallway light. Lifting Danos up by the pits of his arms, they lead him back along the corridor from where he came. Before the doors seal shut, the last I see of Danos are his feet sliding weightlessly along the floor and leaving a thick smear of blood in his wake.
The room settles, though it takes a moment. Some are horrified by the event, others at the means of resolution, but incidents like these are not unknown to Enoch. As I turn back to the three men on stage, I catch Cyril’s attention. He rolls his eyes and shakes his head, obviously unimpressed by Danos’s efforts. Of the boys I know and have grown with, Cyril is perhaps the most suited to become a Corvant. Something about the post seems natural to him, more than skill and ability require.
“Cyril Rhodes.”
At first I think my thoughts have been given voice inside my head, but the sound comes from without. Cyril has just been chosen as the next and ninth recruit. The envy within me has grown into a monster—roaring, constrained against my ribcage and clawing to be set free. There’s a sudden and real moment that crashes down on me from crown to toes as I realize the possibility my name could not be called. My journey and everything I’ve worked so hard for could very well end here. In front of hundreds of people. The thought of such humiliation pits itself in the depths of my stomach, twisting. If the Academy continues with tradition, they will only be accepting thirty-five recruits. My odds are still good, but, again, there is zero guarantee.
Xiphos calls out the names of ten through nineteen. As the rows of candidates begins to thin, a pathway is created so I can see Kiros standing a few people ahead, head bent in shame or prayer. He and I are the only two left from our group whose names have not been announced. The same thoughts must be plaguing him.
“Soren Ilenbrand.”
Twenty-one.
“Varik Dest.”
Twenty-two.
I begin to wonder if there is any method to the order in which the new cadets are selected. Does it have to do with ability or preference? Or is it entirely at random? As Xiphos is about to call out the name of recruit twenty-three, he pauses, turns back to look at Fauchard, and then makes an amendment to the datascroll. The sea of heads in front of me comes alive, bobbing and weaving side to side as if trying to read what name has just been crossed off. It’s a useless effort. The datascroll remains a luminescent blue, the white writing too small and skewed to be legible from this distance. After a span of several long seconds, Xiphos continues reading.
“Bero Quidel.”
Twenty-three.
Kiros lifts his head and turns in my direction. He looks pale and worried. Others around him begin to do the same, looking at me but with blank, apathetic stares. Finally it hits me.
“Bero Quidel,” Xiphos says again.
My name. He called my name!
Reality shifts into a dreamlike state. The corners of my vision blur, smudging out my periphery. The wrenching in my gut releases, my insides finding their natural, comfortable state. The rows of candidates part in front of me, creating a clear pathway to the dais. I feel swollen with light and air, and when I walk to find my place beside the other recruits, I’m not sure my feet touch the ground. In fact, I’m not sure how I got on the stage at all. One moment I was a part of the crowd and the next I’m standing above it beside my new brothers in arms.
It’s an odd thing. Feeling numb in place of elation. It’s as if my body doesn’t know how to process such explicit happiness that it instead feels nothing. I stare out at the faces in the amphitheater, each of them shadowed and featureless. Dizziness creeps in at my left temple, and I slacken at the knees to keep from passing out. My best guess is that it was Danos’s name on the recruit list, but his ineptitude and the embarrassment he caused the panel cost him his chance at glory. That will not happen to me.
“Leto Acanthus.”
Another boy separates from the crowd, but all I see is a silhouette. The brightness of the stage spotlight masks much of the auditorium. It isn’t until he ascends the stairs to the right of the dais that I recognize the crop of silver-white hair and the condemnatory, laser blue eyes. Any happiness I felt burns away like moisture on a hot stove as my trial opponent takes his place beside me, making sure to get a lingering stare in my direction before turning to face forward. The transparent and inverted images of the massive hologram behind us dance on his pale face.
I barely pay attention to the names of the final recruits, my thoughts preoccupied with the new and unwelcome presence of Leto. As the last of the boys takes his place amongst us, Xiphos closes the datascroll. The blue light of the holographic page disappearing as the ends are clasped together. The General hands the device back to Fauchard who steps forward to retrieve it and addresses the whole of the auditorium.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the newest class of the Enoch Academy of Municipal Law Enforcement.” Cheers and applause come from the upper section of the crowd. Most of the other candidates are still too stung by the news to show their enthusiasm for our fortune. “Recruits, allow me to remind you that this is the beginning of your journey. There is still a long and arduous road ahead. Should you continue to embody the strength and perseverance you have shown today, your successes will be immeasurable. Congratulations to you, and may knowledge protect the strong.”
“May knowledge protect the strong,” we respond in unison, like soldiers calling to their general on the eve of battle. The sound is infectious, and the euphoria my body rejected earlier floods through me in unrelenting waves.
Do not let me down, Bero.
My father’s words return to me now in light of my triumphs of the past two days. No longer do they hold sway over me. Not in the way they used to. Thirty-five of us awoke yesterday as boys, but now, standing before our peers, friends, and loved ones, we will return to the world as men, unburdened by the pressures of our fathers.
Following the Choosing, the thirty-five recruits follow Fauchard and Harpe—the other Auger whose name I did not know—into one of the open Containment Chambers. It will still be a few hours before we are allowed to reunite with our families. For the time being, the lot of us are too excited to sit, taking the time instead to introduce ourselves and congratulate each other on our acceptance. My jealousy completely forgotten, I find Vander and Cyril lingering by the back wall and approach them.
“I did it! I mean—we did it!” Vander says, his hands raking down the length of his cheeks, which have mostly returned to their normal coloring.
“See, I told you there was no need to worry.” I jab him lightly in the shoulder with my good hand, the friendliest expression we’ve ever shared between us. Cyril props himself against the wall and for the first time I see the still-bleeding cut on the side of his ribcage, the cloth of the jumpsuit shredded to show skin. He covers it with one free hand, folding his arms across his chest in an attempt to hide it. The wound looks deep, and it’s just high enough to potentially affect a lung. I dare not to say it, but if the bleeding isn’t staunched, we may be leaving here with only thirty-four recruits.
“You better get that looked at,” I say, gesturing to his torso with my chin. The look I receive in return is one of annoyance, clearly for having stated the obvious.
“Mind your fucking business,” Cyril says, a rasp in his voice. I know his attitude is only because I’ve called him out. “It’s just a scratch—A battle scar to impress Vander’s mom.” Cyril and I shoot a sidelong glance at Vander whose only retort is to turn red. A grin spreads across my face and we laugh.
A hand that belongs to neither Vander nor Cyril crushes against my injured shoulder. Before I understand what’s happening, my back hits the wall with force, pushing the air from my lungs. When I realize what’s happened, I find myself face to face once again with the platinum-haired boy, his blue eyes wild with fury.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t have you exposed,” Leto says. The pressure of his hand grinds my shoulder into the metal and I can feel the scabbing tear open. I grit my teeth against the pain, trying to resist him. Vander and Cyril look as surprised as I feel, and it’s Cyril who makes a move to get the other boy off me.
“I wouldn’t try anything unless you want me to make short work of that lung.” His is the same deadly whisper he used in the ring. The ferocity in his eyes makes Cyril think twice, but it incites me.
“What’s your problem?” I say, unable to contain the anger in my voice. Heads turn in our direction, but I ignore them. “I beat you fair and square. Sorry, but you lost.”
“Fair and square? Is that what you call it?” He slams my shoulder against the wall and I see sparks. Taste blood on my tongue. I’m about to retaliate, fist ready to fly, when his words bring me up short. “You and I both know you pulled some kind of trick in that arena.” From the corner of my eye, I see Vander, Cyril, and a few others looking at me with confused expressions. They can’t honestly think this guy is telling the truth.
My mind reels, flitting back to that moment during my trial when that blaze of heat consumed the metal of his glaive. Did that really happen, or was it just my imagination? They say adrenaline can make you do strange things—things that are sometimes considered superhuman. But there is no way…
“Give me a reason I shouldn’t tell Fauchard what you did.” Leto’s knife-like eyes bore into mine with unequivocal heat.
“Prove it,” I say. His threat resurrects the bit of strength I have left to finally push him off. I shove his arm away, the motion making my broken wrist flare with pain. It’s only after the challenge leaves my mouth that I realize it was probably the wrong thing to say. I may not have confessed to anything, but I didn’t deny it either. The statement might be just enough to cast a shadow of doubt in the other recruits’ minds. The last thing I need is them thinking I conned my way here.
“Just wait,” Leto says, blue eyes cutting through a fringe of white blonde hair. “Xiphos won’t be happy to know he’s got a cheater in his ranks.”
When he turns to leave, it takes everything in me to not chase after him and continue what I thought I’d finished in the ring. Even if by some small chance he managed to prove what happened really did, who’s to say that the Corvants would be upset by it, if not even a little impressed.
“What the hell was that about?” Cyril says, watching me burn a hole in Leto’s back as he stalks away into the rest of the group. I turn my head to meet his speculative gaze, fingers wiping the blood now seeping down my shoulder. “Did you really cheat?”
“You’re kidding, right?” Something in the moment that follows leads me to think he’s not. “Of course I didn’t!” I say, maybe a little too defensively. I turn back to find Leto, sitting by himself in a row of empty seats. “Some people just don’t know how to lose. And what does it matter anyway? We both got chosen.”
The realization of that thought brings with it a resounding conclusion. This isn’t over. Leto won’t stop until he’s brought me down. He’s made that much inexplicably clear. The only solution I see to that problem is this: I will have to bring him down first.
