There are rules about attacking someone outside of the trial window. Rules that are known to be broken, but the Enforcers rarely bat an eye when they are. In their minds, if you can’t surviveuntilthetrial, then you wouldn’t have survivedduringthe trial.
And truthfully? They’re right.
I hold in a curse, sensing my pursuer growing closer and closer. I’m all too aware of the sharp metal blade strapped to my outer thigh, hidden beneath my sand-colored skirt blowing angrily in the heated wind.
Turning the corner, I reach for the blade, dropping my satchel full of healing balms to the ground. The glass containers clink together, and I cringe at the thought of even a single one breaking.
I press my back flush against the side of the building, the rough edge of a brick digging into my shoulder and threatening to tear the thin white blouse that belonged to my mother when she was my age.
I think back to the many books I’ve read about the human body. I know where every vital organ lives, where each major artery pulses beneath the surface of the skin. If I couldn’t be stronger, then I needed to learn how to fightsmarter.
And I’ve spentyearsdoing exactly that.
The thigh or the jugular, those are my best options.
I hold my breath and count to three.
One. The heavy footsteps grow louder.
Two. They’re almost here.
Three. I push myself off the wall and directly into the path of the hooded wannabe assassin.
My body slams into his—a hard wall of tense muscle. Air flees my lungs, but with a steady hand, I hold my blade to his throat and heave in a big breath.
Before I say a word, before I can eventhinkof what to say, I’m met with a burst of deep, rolling laughter. Laughter I recognize. Laughter I’ve heard countless times.
“Char,” I say between gritted teeth. “I could’ve killed you!” I click my blade, so the pointed end is hidden before giving him a hardshove.
“Sorry, Fi,” he quips, calling me by my childhood nickname.
He removes his hood and gives me that cocky half-grin of his. The one where a dimple forms on his right cheek. The one that lights up his entire face, making the women in our village giggle and swoon.
But I don’t giggle.
And I don’t swoon.
But I can still appreciate how the smile reaches his blue eyes, making his irises even more vibrant. The same eyes that are now watching me carefully as I pull up my ankle-length skirt, just enough to slide my blade back into the leather strap wrapped around my leg.
“Eyes up here,” I say, feeling my body heat rise by his blatant perusal, but I know Char doesn’t see me that way. We’ve been friends for over half our lives, and in our world, that’s rare. We’re encouraged not to make friends.
Alliances? Sure. But friends? Absolutely not.
We’re told to wait until after the third trial because, chances are, those you befriend won’t make it past their twenty-first year. But Char and I could never stay away from each other. Bonded over our hatred of the Elites, the trials, and the general unfairness of it all.
He raises his hands, feigning innocence. “Just making sure you secure it properly,” he jokes, earning a glimpse of my coldest glare, which only makes him laugh harder. He knows damn well I know how to secure my own blade. “I didn’t steal it for you just to have you lose it.” His voice is smug, and I shake my head. Although grateful for the weapon, and everything he risked to acquire it for me, he’s still a thorn in my side.
“What were you thinking? Sneaking up on me like that?” Bending down, I grab my satchel, holding my breath as I peek inside.
Everything’s intact.Thank the gods.
It took me weeks—months really—to find the ingredients needed to create these remedies. Some being easier to get my hands on than others, like the silverwhisper that grows from the cracks in the streets and the sunthorn sprouts that sit in a pot perched on the windowsill of my bedroom. But the dustveil leaves with their purifying properties and the desert ash which when properly prepared serves as the perfect antiseptic…those items had been much more difficult to acquire.
Finally, I look back at Char.
He runs his calloused hand through his dark brown hair, a shade that matches my own, even though we couldn’t look more different. Where his build is tall and muscular, mine is small and frail. Where his skin is ivory in color, mine is a deep shade of olive, made even darker by the burning sun that I spend way too much time beneath. But I suppose that’s to be expected when you’re constantly scouring the streets, searching for anything you can turn into a tonic or salve.
Char still hasn’t answered me, and I let out an exaggerated sigh.
