That does it. She bursts into laughter, and I can’t help laughing with her. The sound feels like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. By the time we reach the door, she’s still smiling, though her breath trembles.
“Sadie,” I say, slowing down, “I am so lucky to have had you as a friend. You stuck by me through everything — when I was at my lowest, when people should have pushed me out long ago. You and Peter gave me some of the best memories I’ll ever have. Even if things go… badly, they can’t take that from us.”
I swallow hard; the words tumble out in a rush. “We’ll always have our memories, witches’ brew in your backyard, those endless nights at your place talking about boys we thought were cute… and how we couldn’t stand any of them.” I chuckle out. “Sneaking into the gauntlet just to stir up trouble. That’s ours. They can’t take that away from us. Don’t lose that, Sadie. And when you think of me wherever I am… don’t remember the sinless loser. Don’t remember this shitty line in this shitty hot weather. Remember us.”
Her tears trickle, but she finally has a soft smile. “I’ll remember, Arwen.”
She pulls me into one last hug, and we step inside.
2
Thou Shalt Not Flinch at the Test of Destiny
Arwen
“Name?”
“Arwen Davies.”
“Height? Weight?”
“5’5”, 125 pounds.”
“Hmmm…small,” The stern-looking woman in front of me notes on her pad. I wonder where this information will go or why they need it? Perhaps they will use it to measure my coffin? Unlikely. Most soldiers who have died in battle are lucky to get a burial; there’s no way a sinless 20-year-old will get one.
Looking around, Apex Arena hardly looks like its usual self. White tarp sheets bury the dirt floor, making it crinkle with every step, and thin curtains stitch together the vast circle where fighters typically clash, dividing it into cramped medical bays. I shift in the hard plastic chair, its edge biting into the backs of my legs, and stare at the curtain beside me—blue, sterile, trembling faintly with the weight of someone’s heavy sobs on the other side.
“This is bleak.” I mutter, the words slipping out before I can catch them.
“Is your hair naturally red?” she asks briskly, brushing right past my comment.
“Yes,” I respond. “Most of the people in here can’t afford items like hair dye. If you want to save time on your next victim…”
“And eye color? Blue? Natural?” She interrupts, plowing through her questions.
“Yes, again.” I murmur, letting boredom flatten my tone. “I’m pretty sure the only sin faction who could manipulate eye color would be Envy. Is that a trick question?”
“And the date of your last menstruation?”
“Seriously?” My voice pitches up. “Why are our cycles questioned for a power rating?”
She sighs, rolling her eyes at me and tapping the end of her pen on the clipboard, waiting for my answer.
“... Three weeks ago.” I grit the words out.
“And how many sexual partners have you been with in the last year?”
“Okay. That’s enough.” I hold up my hand. “There’s no way that’s relevant. Can we just get this over with?” She’s probably immune to sass by now—Wrath patients can’t be easy. Still, she only exhales sharply through her nose.
“I will just mark it down as unknown,” she says with a nasty smirk, as her pen scratches across the clipboard. Must be nice, having a cushy job in the shade, asking invasive questions all day without caring if your boxes and checkmarks send someone to their death.
Death. I’m tossing the word around too casually.That’s… concerning.
It’s not that I want to die. It’s that I can’t find a reason to feel excited about living. In a society where success, survival, and even happiness hinge on the powers you manifest, being powerless is a curse. When I turned sixteen and nothing came, I learned exactly what it meant to be an outcast. Friends I’d trusted stopped speaking to me. Teachers stopped bothering with my studies, as if I wasn’t worth the effort. In the streets, I felt eyes on me, heard whispers trailing after me. And when I went home, there was no family waiting to remind me I mattered.
“Next section is regarding your family. Is your father deceased?” the nurse asks.
“My father is in Northwest Vail, fighting the outcast Rebels,” I say. “I hear from him rarely and see him even less. Five years have passed, and he probably wouldn’t even recognize me.”
