The alarm drags me out of sleep the next morning. For a few seconds, I lie still, staring at the ceiling and trying to remember where I am. Then the Core comes back to me. The training sessions. The cameras. And The note Kenryu slipped into my hand.
Keep your pretty mouth shut.
I sit up and rub the sleep from my eyes. Whatever answers I might find today, I doubt they'll come easily.
By the time I join Clay, Gevan, and Weaver at the food station, the dining hall is already filling with participants. We collect our breakfast and find a place to sit. It almost feels normal, which is probably why I find it so unsettling.
I want to tell Clay about Kenryu. About the things he said regarding the Core, the missing information in the official records, and the possibility that someone inside the Spires is working against the Triumvirate. If there's anyone I can trust, it's Clay, since he's the person I've known the longest. I also want to tell him about Linus, whose explanations have left me with the feeling that there's more to the Hunt than we've been told. And I want to ask him about the Scapegoat. Is the person we're hunting in Blackwake working for the Government?
But what would I actually be telling him?
I have suspicions, a few strange conversations, and a warning written on a scrap of paper. Nothing I can prove. If I tell Clay now, I'll only give him reasons to worry without offering anything useful in return. Besides, Kenryu specifically warned me not to trust anyone.
I hate that I'm even considering his advice. I barely know the guy. For all I know, he could be using me to get something he wants. Although I can't forget the way he spoke about the Core, as if the walls surrounding us concealed something far worse than a competition.
I've even considered leaving.
The thought first came to me when I began wondering whether the prize was worth whatever the Hunt would demand. I could return to the Sinks, find work, and earn credas the way I always have. It wouldn't be much, and Aunt Evelyn's treatment would remain a struggle, but at least I'd know what I was getting into.
Damn it.
After eating together with Clay and the other two, I decided to wander around the Core. The place is isolated, surrounded by massive walls and guarded entrances. Enforcers patrol the perimeter, and every route leading beyond the compound seems to be controlled. I couldn't find an obvious way to leave, much less one that wouldn't get me caught.
I haven't tried, though. Not because I've stopped wanting to. I simply don't know how.
A sharp chime interrupts my thoughts. The speakers crackle overhead, and Lady Thorne's voice echoes loudly. That sharp, high-pitched voice. I hurrily run back to the dining hall where Clay, Weaver, and Gevan are still sitting.
"Attention, hunters. Please finish your meals and prepare for your scheduled training sessions. Training will begin shortly. Report to your assigned areas promptly," Lady Thorne repeats.
The announcement sends a ripple of movement through the room. Chairs scrape against the floor as participants finish their meals and begin gathering their things. Before I can return my attention to what I was thinking, Reagan approaches our table with Blair beside her.
"Ready for another day?" Blair asks, setting down her tray.
"Ask me again after training," Weaver replies.
"She wasn't talking to you," Gevan mutters.
Reagan laughs, and even Blair smiles. Their presence eases some of the tension around our table, though it doesn't last long.
Today, the Fighters, Scouts, and Tacticians are assigned to the same training area. The Lifelines will train elsewhere, learning how to use the medical supplies and recovery equipment assigned to their class.
When I got to the area where we will be training, I couldn't help but think that the room we're in is larger than the one I visited yesterday. Weapon displays line the walls, each arranged according to type. Knives, short blades, longer weapons, and unfamiliar devices sit in their designated places. Targets have been set up at varying distances, and several participants are already testing their aim.
I'm still studying the available equipment when Linus approaches.
"Good morning, Elowen."
"Morning, Sir."
His gaze moves briefly between Gevan, Weaver, and me.
"Use this session to familiarize yourselves with as many weapons as you can, okay?" he advises. "You won't get to choose your equipment. Before you land on Blackwake, you'll receive your assigned items aboard the hovercraft. Fighters receive equipments that are both offensive and defensive, Tacticians get precision or utility-based items, and Scouts receive ranged items. The selection is random within the equipment approved for your class."
"So we could end up with something none of us has ever used?" Gevan asks.
"That's possible," Linus says. "Which is why you should experiment now. The more comfortable you are with different weapons, the easier it will be to adapt."
Weaver looks over the displays. "What if we're terrible at all of them?"
"Then you have a great deal to learn, Weave," Linus says.
Encouraging.
Linus gives him a faint smile before moving on to speak with some staff on the other side.
I turn back to the weapons.
I know how to handle a knife. That much, at least, isn't new to me. I've spent years hunting small critters, cutting through brush, and using whatever tools I could get my hands on. But most of the weapons here are unfamiliar, and I can't afford to assume that what works in the Sinks will be enough on Blackwake. There are sharp blades, a wooden staff, a spear, swords, and so much more.
I walk along the display until I find a pair of tactical knives. Their handles fit comfortably in my palms, and the blades are balanced well enough that I can adjust my grip without much effort. I carry them to the throwing station, where several circular targets have been fixed to the far wall.
For a moment, I simply study the distance. Then I raise my arm and throw. The knife strikes near the center. I blink at the target.
That was better than expected.
I retrieve the knife and try again. This time, the blade lands just outside the center ring. The third throw is closer. With each attempt, I become more aware of the small adjustments that make a difference: the angle of my wrist, the force behind the movement, the point at which I release the handle.
The targets begin to look less like painted circles and more like the rabbits I used to hunt. Back home, a missed throw could mean going hungry. I learned early that frustration was useless. If I missed, I studied why. If I tried again, I changed something. The same principle seems to apply here. I settle into a rhythm, retrieving the knives after each attempt. My aim isn't perfect, but I'm doing well enough that I start to believe I might have a chance with this particular weapon.
I was about to do my final throw when the knife strikes the edge of the target at an awkward angle. Instead of sinking into the board, it ricochets sideways. Straight toward someone standing nearby.
A sharp gasp cuts through the noise.
Kitana jerks aside as the blade skims past her and clatters against the floor. For a second, I can't move. I hadn't even noticed she was standing so close.
Kitana turns toward me, her expression hardening. She strides across the training area, and the participants nearest us begin to move out of her way.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" she snaps.
"I didn't mean to—"
"You nearly hit me!"
"I'm sorry. The knife bounced off the target," I say, defensively.
"You think that makes it better?"
Her voice rises enough to draw attention from the other stations. I can feel people looking at us, but my attention stays on Kitana. I've seen her fight the training projections. I know how quickly she moves, and I have no reason to believe she'll hesitate with a real person.
"I-I'm sorry," I repeat, trying to keep my voice steady.
Kitana steps closer. "Maybe you should learn how to use a weapon before throwing one around."
Heat creeps up my neck. I want to tell her that I was doing perfectly well until the last throw, but the words would only make things worse. The knife nearly hit her. Whatever I think of her attitude, that part is on me.
I open my mouth to apologize again, but she raises her fist. I barely have time to react. But before it would land on my face, a hand catches her wrist in midair. Kitana's punch stops inches from my face.
For a moment, the three of us remain frozen. Then I look toward the person standing between us.
His grip on Kitana's wrist remains firm, his expression utterly nonchalant. He doesn't look as though he's exerting much effort, though the tension in his arm suggests otherwise.
"Let go," Kitana says through clenched teeth.
Kenryu doesn't immediately release her.
"She's apologized," he says.
"And who asked you to interfere?"
"Apparently, no one. Yet here we are."
Kitana's eyes narrow. She jerks her arm, trying to free herself, but Kenryu holds on for another second before letting go. Sly then appears at her side, his thin frame and sharp features moving closer at us. His gaze moves from Kitana to Kenryu, and a mocking smile spreads across his face.
"Didn't know you were in the business of rescuing people, Arata," he mocks.
Kenryu turns his head toward him, and then he looks back at Kitana.
"Neither of you lays a hand on her," he says.
Kitana lets out an irritated huff. For a moment, I think she'll swing at him instead. Her hands curl into fists, and her shoulders tense. Then her gaze flicks toward the gathering crowd.
She seems to reconsider.
"This isn't over," she tells me, pointing a finger in my direction. "Stay out of my way, or I'll kill you myself."
Sly follows her as she turns away, though not before giving Kenryu a final, contemptuous look. The two disappear into the crowd, leaving a pocket of uneasy silence behind them.
I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. Only then do I notice how Kitana stood when she confronted me. Even with her temper flaring, her weight remained over her right leg, her left shoulder angled slightly forward. Every aggressive movement seemed to favor that side. It might mean nothing. But people develop habits through repetition, and habits are difficult to abandon under pressure.
I file the observation away.
Then I turn to Kenryu, still trying to understand why he stepped in.
"Thank you," I say.
He gives me a brief look, offering no explanation. Before I can ask him anything else, he turns and walks away.
I watch him cross the training area and settle into a chair in the corner, alone as before.
Why did he help me?
The question is almost as troubling as the fact that Kitana had been ready to hit me. Kenryu warned me about the Core, promised to make sure I make it through the game, and now he's intervened before someone could hurt me. I still don't know what he wants from me, and his silence isn't making it easier.
I force myself to look away.
The commotion has drawn attention from the surrounding stations, but I'm more interested in the reactions than the confrontation itself. A few participants have stepped back, putting distance between themselves and the people involved. Others have edged closer, eager to see how things unfold. Some pretend to return to their exercises, though their eyes keep drifting toward us.
When violence becomes a possibility, people reveal where they want to stand.
"Red!" Weaver's voice pulls me out of my thoughts. He approaches with Gevan, Reagan, and Blair close behind.
"Are you all right?" Clay asks, arriving just as they reach me. His eyes move over my face and shoulders, checking for injuries.
"I'm fine," I assure him.
"Barely," Gevan says, glancing toward the floor where it landed.
"She almost hit Kitana," Weaver says.
Blair looks toward the corner where Kenryu is sitting. "Who was that guy?"
I follow her gaze.
"Kenryu," I say.
Weaver raises his eyebrows. "Kenryu? As in the guy who ranked third?"
I nod.
His expression shifts into something halfway between amusement and disbelief. "You nearly get punched by Kitana, and Arata steps in to save you. That's quite a morning."
Across the room, I notice Linus looking in our direction. His expression is difficult to read. When our eyes meet, he doesn't smile as he did at breakfast. He seems to be thinking about something, his gaze lingering for a moment before he turns back to the other participants.
I wonder how much of the confrontation he saw. I wonder whether he'll ask me about it later.
***
The rest of the training session passes in a blur. I try different weapons, paying closer attention to my technique and making sure no one is standing near the targets before I throw. My aim improves, though I still have plenty to learn. By the time the session ends, my arms are sore, and my thoughts are crowded with things I can't quite put together.
By evening, I'm back in the dormitory with my teammates. Weaver and Gevan are still talking about what happened during training when Clay suddenly turns toward me.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
I look up from where I'm sitting. "Tell you what?"
"That Kitana nearly hit you." He sounds more upset than I expect. I glance at Gevan and Weaver, who have apparently decided that this is a conversation best left to the two of us.
"Because I'm fine, Clay," I say.
"That isn't the point." Clay studies me for a moment. Then he exhales and sits beside me.
"Just be careful around her," he says. "And Sly. Especially Marek."
The mention of Marek catches my attention.
"Why?"
Clay glances toward the others before answering. "I heard something during training. One of the Lifelines told me that Kitana, Sly, and Marek all have criminal records."
I straighten. "Criminal records?"
He nods. "Apparently, they've all been involved in serious offenses. Marek's record is the worst of the three, though the Lifeline who told me never revealed his offenses."
For a moment, I can't think of anything to say. I remember Marek dismantling the training projections with his bare hands. I remember the crowd going silent when he finished, and the way he barely seemed winded afterward. Now I'm supposed to share an island with him, along with two other people who have committed crimes?
"Why would they let criminals into the Hunt?" I ask.
"That's what I wanted to know." Clay rubs a hand over his face. "Lady Thorne checked in on the Lifelines earlier, so I asked her about it."
"And what did she say?"
"According to her, joining the Red Hunt gives people like them a chance to redeem themselves in the eyes of the Triumvirate. If they prove themselves during the competition, they can put their past offenses behind them."
I stare at him. "That's what she told you?"
"Pretty much. She also said the enforcers would be there to make sure the hunters remain safe."
Safe. The word almost makes me laugh.
I think of Kitana raising her fist at me, of Kenryu catching her wrist before it could connect with my face. I think of Marek standing alone in the training hall, breaking apart one opponent after another without a weapon. And I think of the rules that prevent us from sharing equipment, the cameras watching our movements, and the warning Kenryu slipped into my hand. If the enforcers are here to keep us safe, why does so much of this place make me feel as though I'm being prepared for something no one wants to name?
I don't say any of that aloud. Clay has enough to worry about, and I still don't know how much I can tell him about Kenryu. Instead, I ask the question that's been bothering me since we arrived.
"Doesn't it seem strange to you? All these people, brought here for one person––the Scapegoat. Why do they need so many of us?"
Clay doesn't answer right away.
"Maybe there's more to the Hunt than we know," he says eventually.
It's the same thought I've been trying to avoid. I look down at my hands, remembering the pamphlet in the library, the General whose name had been erased from the record, and the strange word used to describe the first operations in the Sinks.
Processing.
I still don't know what it means. I don't know who the missing General was, why Kenryu is investigating the Core, or whether the person he's looking for really exists.
All I know is that the more I learn, the less I trust the explanations we're given. And through it all, Kenryu's warning keeps returning to me.
Keep your pretty mouth shut.
For once, I think I understand why.
***
The next day, all one hundred players line for the tube that stretches halfway across the platform, a long procession of hunters waiting beneath the Core's towering departure terminal. Beyond the glass walls, a massive transport runs into the distance, its sleek silver exterior disappearing beneath the horizon.
I'd heard its name mentioned during preparations, but seeing it in person was something else entirely. The Transit, if I remembered correctly. It looked less like a vehicle and more like a structure someone had decided to make move.
For the first time since arriving at the Core, we're being allowed outside its walls. After days of assessments, training sessions, and carefully controlled schedules, the hunters are finally leaving the compound. We have two days before deployment to Blackwake, and apparently, the Triumvirate wants to meet us before we go. The thought does little to improve my mood.
I've spent my entire life hearing stories about the people who govern the Sinks and the Spires. Their names appear in broadcasts, official reports, and the speeches my father used to criticize in the basement. To some, they're leaders responsible for maintaining order. To others, they're the reason entire neighborhoods have been left to rot. I know better than to say any of that aloud.
Whatever their faults, the Triumvirate has enough power to make people disappear from public records, strip families of their homes, and decide whose lives are worth protecting. I've seen what happens when ordinary people challenge those who believe themselves untouchable. And I have no intention of giving them a reason to remember me.
An attendant signals for the line to move. One by one, the hunters board the Transit alongside their mentors. Inside, the cabin is far more spacious than I expected, with rows of cushioned seats, broad windows, and overhead panels displaying our destination. The walls curve smoothly into the ceiling, concealing most of the machinery that keeps the vehicle running.
Several participants stop to stare at the windows. Others press closer to get a better view of the platform as the last of us board. Even Weaver looks impressed.
"Now this is transportation," he remarks, dropping into a seat beside Gevan. "Imagine having something like this back home."
The doors seal with a muted hiss. A low vibration passes beneath the floor, followed by a gentle lurch as the Transit begins to move. The Core recedes behind us.
According to the information we were given, the journey to the Monopolis of the Spires will take roughly an hour and a half. The city lies hundreds of miles away, separated from the Core by stretches of land I've never seen. I watch the landscape slide past the windows, wondering why the government built its training compound so far from the city it supposedly represents.
Perhaps distance makes it easier to keep the hunters isolated. Perhaps the Core was built somewhere the public couldn't easily reach. Or perhaps I'm looking for hidden intentions in everything because Kenryu has made it difficult to take anything at face value.
I turn away from the window before my thoughts can spiral any further.
As I make my way down the aisle in search of water, I notice Reagan sitting near the rear of the cabin. Her head is bowed, and her shoulders tremble with the effort of keeping her sobs quiet.
I slow my steps. For a moment, I consider approaching her. Then I see Blair beside her, one arm wrapped around Reagan's shoulders while the other rests against her back. Reagan leans into her, clutching the fabric of Blair's sleeve as though letting go might leave her with nothing to hold on to.
"I don't want to be alone again," Reagan whispers. This is the first time I actually hear Reagan talk.
Blair says something I can't quite hear. Reagan shakes her head, tears slipping down her cheeks.
"Promise me you'll stay with me. Please."
Blair draws her closer.
"I'll be there," she assures her. "You won't have to face everything alone."
Reagan presses her face against Blair's shoulder. Blair continues rubbing her back until the trembling begins to subside. When Reagan finally pulls away, Blair takes a tissue from her pocket and gently wipes the tears beneath her eyes.
"Try to rest for a while," Blair tells her. "We still have a long day ahead of us."
Reagan nods. Blair waits until she has settled back against the seat before standing.
That's when she notices me near the door.
I consider pretending I haven't seen anything, but it's too late for that.
"Sorry," I say. "I wasn't trying to listen."
Blair glances at Reagan, then gives me a small smile. "It's all right. She just gets scared sometimes."
I look toward Reagan. Her eyes are closed now, though her fingers remain curled around the tissue.
"She's afraid of being alone on Blackwake?"
"More than anything." Blair moves toward the nearby seats, and I follow her. We settle beside the window, far enough from Reagan that she can rest without feeling watched.
For a while, neither of us speaks. The Transit glides forward with barely a sound, carrying us toward a city I've only ever seen in broadcasts. Eventually, Blair breaks the silence.
"When I first met Reagan, I thought she was just a lost teenager who didn't know where to go."
"What changed?"
Blair looks down at her hands. "She reminded me of my sister."
I wait, giving her room to continue.
"I had a younger sister," she says. "My biological sister. She died of leukemia when she was still young. Reagan looks so much like her that the first time I saw her, I couldn't stop staring."
Blair looks at me before continuing. "My mother remarried Reagan's father years ago. By then, my sister was already gone. When I saw Reagan at the Core during the contract signing, scared, afraid, and anxious, it felt like seeing a ghost from a part of my life I'd spent years trying to move past. It felt like seeing my little sister afraid of dying while fighting her illness."
I glance toward Reagan again. In sleep, the tension has eased from her face. She looks younger than she does when she's awake, almost like someone who hasn't yet learned how much the world can take from her.
"What did you tell Reagan?" I ask.
"I told her to follow me and not leave my side." Blair gives a faint, rueful smile. "Reagan followed me here when she learned I accepted the invitation to participate in the Red Hunt. It probably sounded strange. We barely knew each other, and here I was acting like I could protect her from everything."
I understand that feeling more than I'd like to admit. Sometimes, wanting to protect someone is the only thing that keeps you moving, even when you know there are things you can't control.
"What about you?" I ask. "Why did you join the Hunt?"
Blair's smile fades. "I almost backed out."
I turn toward her.
"Then why didn't you?"
"Because of my family." She looks out the window, watching the landscape blur past. "I was afraid that if I refused, the authorities would purge us from the Sinks."
The word sits heavily between us. Purge?
I've heard it used in whispers, usually by people who know better than to discuss it in public. In the Sinks, families who aren't officially recognized can live for years without appearing on any government record. That makes it easier to avoid attention, but it also means they have little protection when someone decides they no longer belong.
Blair seems to read the question on my face.
"Our family appeared in the Sinks years ago," she explains. "We found somewhere to live in the shadows, in places the authorities rarely bothered to inspect. We weren't registered the way other families were. We learned to keep our heads down and make do with what we had."
She tells me she used to work part-time as a barista at a small coffee shop, saving whatever she could to pay for school. It wasn't much, but it gave her something she could call her own.
"Then the Red Hunt came along," she continues. "They called it an opportunity. A chance to earn money, gain recognition, and become part of the society that had ignored us for years."
"Sounds generous," I say, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.
Blair gives me a knowing look.
I think of the Triumvirate's speeches about fairness and advancement. I also remember that one of the Triumvirate's ruling members has a reputation for despising immigrants. I wonder what someone like that would make of Blair's family, but I keep the thought to myself.
"Why did your family come to the Sinks?" I ask.
"We didn't have much of a choice, Elowen," she says. "Our homeland was bombed during a war. By the time we left, there wasn't much left to return to." Blair pauses. "The Sinks weren't safe, exactly, but at least we had somewhere to go."
I don't know what to say. There are people in the Sinks who have spent their entire lives believing the rest of the world is beyond their reach. I wonder how many of them know that some families arrived there because the places they came from no longer existed in any meaningful sense.
Blair turns toward me.
"What about you, Elowen? What made you join?"
I look down at my hands.
"My mother passed away when I was a kid and my father died in a flood," I say. "He was trying to get me to safety when the water swept him away."
Blair's expression changes immediately.
"And your other relatives?"
"I live with my aunt. Or I did, before she became too sick to care for herself." I swallow. "She's in the hospital now. Her health has been getting worse, and the money for her treatment is more than I can afford."
I don't tell Blair about the dementia, or the days when Aunt Evelyn looks at me without recognition. I don't think I could explain it without feeling that familiar ache behind my ribs.
Blair doesn't press me for details. Instead, she moves closer and wraps her arms around me. The gesture catches me by surprise. I'm not used to being comforted, especially by someone I've only known for a short time. My first instinct is to stiffen, to assure her that I'm fine and that she doesn't need to worry about me. But she doesn't ask me to explain anything. She simply holds me for a moment, allowing the silence to do what words can't.
I let myself lean into the embrace.
It's strange how easily Blair seems to understand when someone needs comfort. She doesn't offer empty promises or tell me everything will work out. She just stays beside me, and somehow that makes the weight in my chest feel a little less unbearable.
When she pulls away, she gives me a gentle smile. I return it before I can think better of it.
For the first time since boarding the Transit, I feel a little lighter.
The moment doesn't last long.
"Found you."
Clay's voice draws my attention toward the aisle. He approaches with Gevan and Weaver, all three carrying drinks they'd apparently collected from a service station farther down the cabin.
Blair immediately looks away when Clay takes the seat opposite us. The movement is so quick that I almost miss it, but the faint color rising in her cheeks gives her away.
Interesting.
Clay, of course, doesn't seem to notice.
"How's Reagan?" he asks Blair.
"She's resting now," she says.
He nods, then glances toward the rear of the cabin. Even from where we're sitting, I can see that Reagan's hands are still trembling slightly against her lap. Clay noticed it, too. He doesn't point it out or draw attention to her distress. Instead, he leaves his seat angled toward her, close enough that he can reach her if she needs someone while Blair is away.
Clay has always been good at recognizing when someone needs help without making them ask for it. Sometimes I wonder whether he realizes how much that matters.
The Transit continues through the afternoon, and eventually the landscape outside begins to change. The open stretches of land give way to elevated structures, transport lines, and clusters of buildings that grow taller and more elaborate as we approach our destination. Slowly, the Spires come into view.
The city rises beyond the windows in layers of glass, steel, and gleaming architecture. Towers stretch high above the streets, connected by elevated walkways and suspended transit lines. Light moves across the buildings in shifting patterns, reflected from surfaces so clean they seem untouched by weather. Far below, traffic flows along organized lanes, while smaller vehicles glide between structures with a precision I've never seen in the Sinks.
It's beautiful. I hate how quickly I think it.
I've seen images of the Spires before, of course. Every official broadcast seems determined to show the city at its best. But a screen can't capture its scale. It can't convey the feeling of being carried toward a place so vast that the buildings alone seem to dwarf everything I've ever known.
The Sinks are crowded squatter settlements, patched together from whatever materials people can find. Our streets flood when the drainage systems fail. Our buildings lean against one another, and entire neighborhoods disappear beneath water when the storms grow bad enough.
Here, everything looks different. Every structure seems to have been built with money, time, and care.
I press my fingers against the window. How can two places governed by the same people be so different?
The question has followed me my entire life, but seeing the Spires with my own eyes makes it harder to ignore. The resources exist. The technology exists. The money exists. Someone decided where they should go, and it clearly wasn't the Sinks.
I think of my father in our basement, hunched over his desk, writing articles about the Triumvirate until his hands cramped. The memory feels strange now, with the Spires rising before me in all their magnificence, untouched by the suffering beyond their walls. Somewhere on the other side, the Sinks is still there, as though a single wall could justify the existence of two entirely different worlds.
He was right about that, at least.
I pull away from the window.
The doors open, and attendants guide us toward the waiting transport. From there, we are escorted to City Hall.
The building is larger than anything I've ever entered. Its exterior is made of pale stone and dark glass, with enormous pillars rising around the main entrance. Inside, the ceilings soar overhead, and polished floors reflect the lights of elaborate chandeliers. Everything has been arranged to make visitors feel small.
It works. A grand banquet has been prepared in our honor. Tables stretch across the hall beneath suspended lights, laden with food and drinks that look more expensive than anything I've ever eaten. Staff move between the guests, making sure every plate is full and every glass is attended to.
The other hunters are visibly impressed. Some whisper among themselves, while others stare openly at the decorations and the spread before us.
I wonder how many people in the Sinks could eat from these tables for a month on what has been prepared for one evening. The thought sours my appetite before I've even sat down.
We are guided into place, and the room gradually settles. Conversations fade as three figures emerge at the front of the hall. I recognize them immediately from the official broadcasts.
Viper Cruz. June DeVille. Lucien Bolverkr. The three members of the Triumvirate.
Lucien stands in the center, his position alone making it clear that he is the head of the ruling body. He wears a dark formal suit, and his expression is so composed that it reveals nothing. Viper stands to his right, while June takes the other side. I've seen all three of them on screens, but seeing them in person makes their power feel more immediate. These are the people whose decisions shape our lives, whose signatures can determine whether a neighborhood receives funding or whether a family remains on the government's records.
Viper Cruz steps forward first.
"Welcome to the Spires," he begins, his voice carrying effortlessly through the hall. "It is a pleasure to receive you in our great city, a place built on progress, prosperity, and the promise of a better future. We hope your time here will be both memorable and rewarding."
The speech that follows is everything I expect. He praises the city's architecture, its technological progress, and the systems that maintain its safety and prosperity. He speaks of innovation and civic responsibility, of how the Spires stand as proof of what can be achieved through strong leadership and careful planning.
I look at the polished floor beneath my feet and think of floodwater creeping through the cracks in our house.
Viper's voice continues in the background, praising the systems that have made the Spires what they are today.
I force myself to look toward the stage. Lucien Bolverkr has remained silent throughout Viper's speech. His expression hasn't changed, and his gaze moves across the gathered hunters with detached interest. Then his eyes settle on me.
Only for a moment. It's brief enough that I could convince myself it means nothing. Still, something about the coldness of his stare makes my stomach tighten. I lower my eyes before he can look at me any longer. I tell myself not to be foolish. There are dozens of hunters in the hall. He has no reason to notice me.
Yet I can't shake the feeling that he has. When Viper finishes, June steps forward.
"Each of you has been given an opportunity," he says. "The Red Hunt was created to ensure that advancement is not limited by social standing or financial circumstance. Through this competition, participants may earn scholarships, civic honor, national restoration, and the fortune necessary to build a better future."
The words are polished, delivered with the confidence of someone who has never had to wonder where his next meal would come from. Behind him, the lights dim.
A grand presentation begins playing across the hall, its images spreading across the towering screens. The footage opens with immaculate streets lined with sleek buildings and pedestrians moving beneath suspended transit systems. It shifts to bustling markets, their stalls overflowing with fresh produce and goods, then to advanced medical facilities equipped with technology I've only ever seen on television. Schools follow, filled with bright classrooms, modern equipment, and students learning beneath walls of glass.
The camera sweeps higher, revealing towering skyscrapers surrounded by landscaped gardens and artificial lakes that reflect the city lights. Every district looks carefully maintained, every building pristine, every public space designed to impress. The footage moves seamlessly from one landmark to another, presenting the Spires as a city where progress has no limits and prosperity reaches everyone.
The hunters watch in silence. June continues speaking over the images, explaining that the contracts we signed represent a chance to leave poverty behind and become part of the society that has made the Spires prosperous.
I glance at the other participants. Some look captivated by the display. Others watch with the fixed attention of people imagining what their lives might become if they win.
I understand the appeal. How could I not? But the longer I watch the video, the more it feels like an advertisement designed to sell us something.
They don't show us the Sinks, or the people who will return there without the money they came for. They don't explain why the government needs a competition like this to offer opportunities that could have been available without asking people to risk their lives.
And Lucien Bolverkr says nothing.
By the time the speeches end, the banquet resumes. Music fills the hall, and attendants encourage us to eat and mingle. Some hunters seem eager to enjoy the evening. Others remain subdued, perhaps as overwhelmed by the occasion as I am.
I try to eat something, but the food sits heavily in my stomach. Eventually, I slip away from the tables and find a balcony overlooking the city.
The doors close behind me, muffling the noise from the banquet hall. Cool air brushes my face. Beyond the railing, the Spires stretch toward the horizon, their lights shining against the darkening sky. From here, the city looks almost unreal.
I rest my hands on the railing and stare at the streets below. Somewhere out there are people living in apartments larger than the entire house I grew up in. Somewhere, families are sitting down to dinner without worrying about floods, unpaid bills, or whether the authorities might decide they no longer belong. And somewhere far away, Aunt Evelyn is lying in a hospital bed.
The thought is enough to break whatever composure I've managed to hold on to all evening. I bow my head, pressing my lips together as tears gather in my eyes. I don't want to cry here. Not in the city that seems to have everything my home was denied. Not after standing in front of the people whose decisions helped create the life I've spent years trying to escape.
But I can't stop thinking about my father. I remember the water taking him.
My breath catches. I wipe at my face, trying to keep the sound of my crying low enough that no one inside will hear. I've spent years telling myself that I survived because my father wanted me to. That I owe it to him to keep going, no matter how difficult things become.
I don't hear the balcony doors open. I only realize someone is behind me when a familiar voice speaks softly.
"Elowen?"
I turn my head.
Blair stands near the doorway, with Reagan just behind her. Blair's expression changes when she sees my face.
For a moment, she says nothing. Then she rests a gentle hand on my shoulder.
"It's okay," she whispers.
I look back at the city, blinking away the tears I can no longer hide.
I don't know whether it's okay. I don't know whether any of this will be worth what it costs us.
But Blair stays beside me, and Reagan quietly moves closer, and for the first time that evening, I don't feel quite so alone.