Months Later
I've lost track of how many days it's been since I've seen the sun. Since I've felt the wind on my face or heard the rain fall or held my sister in my arms. And there are claws in my heart, slowly ripping me apart until I am nothing but a pile of shredded pieces on the floor. Torn and burnt and bleeding.
But I'm still alive. I know this for certain, most of the time.
I've spent too many days in this room surrounded by these four walls where only light crawls through the small crack between the metal door and the frame. But usually darkness obliterates everything, shadows consuming every inch of the cell until I am utterly blind.
But I still have my thoughts and I still have my memories, and I wrap myself in them, hiding beneath them like a blanket. Like a shield.
They protect me. They give me enough strength to keep going. She gives me enough strength. Just the thought of her smiling. The memories of her laughing. The sound of her humming in the garden as she works. If only these thoughts and these memories didn't hurt so damn much.
The cell door grinds against cement as it opens, metal screaming in protest until the cage bars are the only thing standing between me and the outside world.
"Warden wants to see you," a guard says to me, hiding in a wave of blinding light. "Don't try anything."
The warning is accompanied by the hum of electricity from a baton. One jab and my body would be rendered useless and my muscles would be paralyzed for several minutes.
It's their favorite weapon. I can tell by the hidden grins and the dark glimmers in their eyes.
They are soldiers, minions of the Guard, the ruling government that has taken an oath to protect the ordinary people from the Casters, the beings who came out of hiding a few decades ago to restore our dying planet and punish the humans responsible for killing it, which as everyone knows, was all of us.
All of them.
"I'm going to unlock the door now and you're not going to move. Okay?"
I think my tongue might be bleeding from keeping it still with my teeth.
"Okay?" He says, louder this time. His voice pounds against the four walls of this cell like dynamite, ready to blast through the walls in my mind.
"Okay," I snap, having a sudden urge to rip the black pair of socks I'm staring at off his feet and shoving them down his throat. But I don't know how many more stuns and beatings I can stand. I don't know how many more hours I can manage to stay alive in this place. I'm slipping, dissolving into this stone slab, and I can feel it. I can feel myself losing my mind.
So I do as he asks, possibly for the first time without scheming an attack. But not without thinking about it. I could kick at his knees and make him buckle. I could take the fork I have stashed under my pillow and stab him in the eye. I could even sink my teeth into his arm and listen to him cry out in pain as he has done to me for hours... as they all have. But I don't. I won't. Because I'm tired.
I'm beginning to think that maybe they've broken me. Maybe I'm finally too weak to fight. Too scared to push forward. Too heartbroken to care.
I almost envy them in their cruelty. Sometimes I wish I could be numb like them, unfeeling and unsympathetic to a young girl rotting away in a dark, cold jail cell.
The metal hinges on the cage door squeal open, and a moment later the heat of his body is radiating on my back, reminding me of the prisoner brand on my shoulder blade I received my second day here. It sparks life into me—sparks fight into me. Every bone in my body is screaming to turn around and pounce on this disgusting excuse for a man, but somehow I manage not to move a muscle. Maybe it's the fear that's pouring in with the heat. The fear he has for me.
I close my eyes, trying and failing to suppress the small smile forcing its way onto my lips.
They're all so afraid of me. Afraid of what I could do to them. What I would do to them, given the chance.
"What does he want?" I ask, my voice small and low and full with as much strength as I can conjure.
He grabs my arms, pulls them behind my back, and starts to cuff me. "Don't know. But I'm sure he has fun things in store, sweetheart."
And just like that, I'm not tired anymore. My skull swings back and I think I break his nose. I hope I break his nose. Two more guards storm in and reach for me, but I don't fight them. I throw my uncuffed hands up by my head, showing them there's no need to blast me with volts of electricity.
They don't hit me, but minion number one climbs to his feet, disregarding the cuffs on the ground as he grabs his purring baton instead, and he swings it at my leg.
Pain is such a tedious thing. After a while it gets so incredibly old, but it never seems to find an end.
Other than an occasional twitch, my body is limp as they drag me to his office. After several minutes of waiting for me to recover, they finally pull me to my feet and escort me inside the blood-red door at the end of the hall.
The Warden stands in front of his desk wearing the same dull grey uniform they all wear. His, however, is accompanied by a golden badge the shape of an acorn that matches the brand on my shoulder. I have no idea what it means, nor do I really care. But I find myself staring at it, the gleam on the edges a short distraction.
When I finally meet his steel gaze , I decide I'd like to kick him in the face. But then he says, "You're being transferred." And the room around us begins to spin. They only transfer felony prisoners for one reason: to get rid of them.
Two guards hold my shoulders, steadying me like anchors as the ground rocks underneath my feet. I thrust myself against one of them, catching him unprepared. But as he tumbles to the ground and I begin to run, the other tightens her grip on my arm. She yanks me towards her, shoves me against the metal floor with a knee on my spine, and cuffs my hands behind my back in one swift motion.
A shot of sharp pain splits through my skull, the ache already blooming around the curve of my head. I keep my eyes closed even when they begin to wrench me to my feet. A groan escapes the back of my throat as they push me forward, slamming my face against the wall. I let the soldier pin me, and I tell myself it's because there's no use in fighting. But I know it's because I'm too weak.
My muscles are still sore from the baton, the headache has found its way behind my eyes, and I'm still trying to process the fact that they're going to kill me when the soldier pulls me off the wall and pushes me into a chair.
"You're not being executed," the Warden sounds annoyed, crossing his arms over his chest and blinking his disdained filled eyes.
I taste blood. I run my tongue over my bottom lip and find it's been busted open. I wonder when it happened. I don't remember any pain on the front of my face, but then again, it all tends to blend together after a while.
"The Commander has requested you."
As if anyone in the Guard, or anyone with power in general, makes requests. They only ever make demands.
Maybe it was different before. Maybe once upon a time before the air turned to smog and the oceans became acidic and the plants stopped growing. Maybe before the Casters took over half the world and left the remaining humans to punish each other on this doomed continent.
"What does he want with me?"
The only other time I've been in this office was when the Warden hit me with an electrified baton right after I broke his nose. He's still got a small bandage on it. Every time I see it I can't help but smile. Small pleasures.
I spit blood at the metal floor, satisfied by his irritated expression. I hope he never gets the stain out and every time he looks at it he remembers me. I hope he never forgets about the girl who bested him, a curse forged by willpower instead of magic.
"Hopefully he'll find some use for such a pathetic waste of power," he hisses the words like an insult, but I only smile, sure blood is painted across my teeth now, too.
He's furious about this. I'm pretty sure he's been begging his superiors to let him kill me ever since the day my fist met his face.
"Wipe that smirk off your face little girl," he smiles now, but it's an empty thing, hinting at his true intentions. "You're still my prisoner for," he glances at the digital watch on his wrist, "another thirty-three minutes."
I purse my bloody, cracked lips together until they've made a perfectly straight line.
"What shall it be today?" He closes the space between us and his fingers reach for my chin, pinching my cheeks in his grasp. "Cold or hot?"
I begin to spit at him, but he pushes my face away and jumps back before I get the chance. A shiver runs up my spine, the hairs along my arms sticking up. "How about you burn in hell."
He reveals a wicked grin. "Hot it is."
My face has been hit by a scalding hot frying pan. My mom accidentally did that once when she was cooking. I was six or seven and in the way, as usual, and she whipped the pan around the kitchen and chucked me square in the forehead.
I cried and cried and clung to her as she rocked me back and forth, whispering apologies and rubbing my back gently with her sharp nails. The tips of her fingers felt like they were knitting a shield around me.
But this time there are no motherly touches to comfort me. No warm hugs and bandages. This time, I am completely alone.
And I can't move my legs because my head hurts so bad.
So they drag me.
Down a hall towards a light that's too bright. Then through doors where I can feel the sun on my face, the glorious rays piercing my skin, and the fresh air hits my burning flesh, cooling it. Rejuvenating it. And I can smell the trees. I can feel the warm scents of spring. Of everything I love about the world.
I didn't realize it before but I was empty because now I'm being filled with images, memories of moments where the sun has warmed my skin and the wind blew through my hair and the leaves and the grass whispered all around me.
They flood through my mind, hundreds of moments just like this where the sun was my spotlight and the wind was my friend and the birds filled my world with music, and my heart flutters. But everything pouring in is brought to a halt as I'm tossed into the back of a van.
The door shuts behind me and the sun departs. The wind vanishes. The birds music fades. And I am hollow again.
I scramble upwards with weak knees and my arms still bound behind my back. I manage to sit upright and prop myself against the side of the van, taking in the space around me. It's an empty, dark box with no windows. My heart sinks. I just want to feel the sun on my skin for a few more moments. I just need the breeze against my pores for a few more seconds and I'd be happy. But I should know better by now than to get my hopes up.
I've never heard of Commander Jackson, but that isn't surprising. I've spent my whole life living on the edges of the district, a place the locals call the Void because it's the furthest residents from the central command of our sector. We hardly ever see or hear about soldiers there. Some think it's the worst place to live because it's so far away and we're almost cut off from the sectors resources, but I think it just made us more free, for the most part, to live undisturbed by the Guard. Growing up my family struggled, but everyone's does. I was happy, mostly. As happy as anyone can be in this country. But that changed when my sister got sick.
She laughed less. Coughed more. Her body started failing her. The doctors said they didn't have a medicine that could cure her, only a kind that could slow the progression. So we spent everything we had on that medicine, hoping it would give her enough time to at least grow up. But it didn't work fast enough. She was close to death. And I had to do something.
I had to save her.
Only when my eyes fly open do I realize I've fallen asleep.
"Get up," someone in a dark uniform says. I'm blinded by the change in light, a light that I realize quickly, is not the sun. We're in a warehouse, I think, where there are hundreds of soldiers dressed in black-blue uniforms. They march and stand in immaculate rows like robotic bees, all buzzing around and working for their queen, which here, is the Commander.
I get to my feet and force my legs to move, willing my body not to topple over. The soldier frowns impatiently and holds out a hand to help me down. It's the first act of kindness I've experienced in quite some time, no matter what his motive.
The warehouse is full of transports, vehicles, tanks, cargo vans, motorbikes, quads, and other kinds I don't recognize. There are also missiles. Large rocket ship looking things lined up in rows, which I've only read about in school. They are things from a world before the Casters took over. Before the magical creatures demanded humans step down and let them fix our dying planet.
"Emery White, age seventeen, born in sector fifteen, district nine." My head snaps in the man's directions, and I'm almost startled by his youth. He can't be much older than me.
His hair is dark and his eyes are an icy blue that might be sharp enough to cut through stone. His curved jaw only hints at a shadow, and his broad shoulders carry muscle with a straight back. "Charged with theft, assault, and use of illegal energy."
I almost snort in response. They are very particular about what types of words they use to describe certain activities. God forbid they just call it what everyone else does. Magic.
"Do you deny these charges?"
I can't help but become absorbed in his immaculate uniform, looking for the slightest hint of imperfection and finding none. It's the same shade as a clear sky at midnight, silver and golden tags pinned into the shoulder like stars. On the other side the name Jackson is stitched into the cloth. And here I thought he was going to be some old man with a bad attitude and cold heart. He's seems to only be two out of the three.
"Do you deny these charges?" He repeats, his eyes wide and alert as if I might attack at any moment.
"It was self-defense," I mumble.
"What was that?" He leans in closer but his feet don't move.
"The assault," I say it louder this time. "It was self-defense."
He presses his lips into a hard line, either suppressing a smile or a frown, I'm not sure which. "I see." He steps closer, waving at the soldier at my side. The man goes to a line of them standing behind the Commander. I look over them, finding all of their feet the same length apart, all of their shoulders straight, and all of their arms held behind their backs. They're such a rigid looking bunch as they watch him, waiting for orders. I wonder what that must be like, acting like a robot. I also wonder if their minds are as mechanical as their robotic bodies.
"White," he drinks me in, his blue eyes devouring every inch of my body. "You've been released to me under the condition you follow my every order. If you do not oblige you will be sent back to prison, where you will most likely be executed. Do you understand?"
I'm a lot of things. But I'm not stupid. And this man, this boy, is much too young to be a commander. But I also know when to shut up and do as I'm told, even if it kills me on the inside.
"Yes."
He looks pleased with my response.
"Soldiers," he shouts, and I almost jump. "Escort White to her room." He doesn't even look at them. Instead, he just turns and walks away as I'm swarmed with a team of soldiers, pushed towards a flight of metal stairs and through a set of grey doors until we reach a hallway with bland white-tan tile floors that dead ends into a silver elevator. There, half the soldiers enter first, one pushes me in, and then the rest surround me, facing me with alert, focused eyes.
I can't believe they think I'm worthy of this much security. What do they think I'm going to do, start turning people into frogs?
The room they bring me to is simple. It has white carpet, white walls, a white bed with white sheets, and a white door that leads to what I think might be a bathroom. But it's not having my own bathroom that gets me, it's the windows. The giant wall directly across from me is completely made of glass. My entire body freezes when I see the mountains, the endless trees, and the sun setting in the distance painting the sky a warm orange and light blue that seeps into my skin and warms my blood. And I'm so lost in the view that I almost don't realize that someone has undone my handcuffs.
I turn, but before I can say anything the soldiers are gone and the door shut. I reach for a knob and find nothing but a flat, silver surface. That's when I find the glass keypad built into the wall beside the door. It has digital keys and place to scan a fingerprint, and I very much doubt it's designed to let me in and out as I please. But there's hardly anything I can do about it right now, so I turn my attention back to the windows and step towards them until my fingertips meet the warm glass.
I imagine that I am a ray of sun, sparkling over the land for thousands of miles, free to fall wherever I like. I'd fall on the blue ocean, the one place I've always dreamt of visiting. Or I'd fall on the forest by my house. On the treehouse Ella and I built, poorly, when we were still too little to know how to work a hammer and nails properly. Anywhere, really. But here.
I suppose this is better than a cold, dark jail cell. But I know better than to trust it. That boy—that Commander, he doesn't see me as a person. He looks at me like a weapon. And hoping for anything other than what I have already received would make me a fool. The only thing they give people like me is pain, torture, and imprisonment.
The assault really was self-defense, but it makes no difference to them. I've still ended up here, at the top of a castle, locked away in a room, and the only reason I'm still alive is because they can use me.
I am a half-blood Caster, and my powers are the thing they fear most in the world. But it's also what they need most to protect their home.
The only problem is, if I could use it, I'd already be out of here.