He pointed at Soren, a smile tugging at the edges of his lips. Soren swallowed, locking eyes with his father.
“You are special, and you’re going to be somebody. Evolution selects the faithful,” he said, repeating one of the many Cult sayings. “Obey now, keep your head down, and follow the road before you, and one day you’ll be the one issuing the orders. Many factors go into interpreting the will and the words of the Oracle, not the least of which is the direction the Oligarchy wishes to move. The Core is the brain behind our society, but it has neither hands nor feet.Weare the movers and shapers, Soren. Thatwecan include you one day.”
He let his father’s words sink in.Maybe this is all part of the Oracle’s plan—that I missed meeting Nathan, that he left without me.
“Have your cry, then wash your face and take your application into the dean’s office. There will be other young men and a wife to fulfill your physical and emotional needs. Remember your priorities. To doubt is to falter, to follow is to rise. And when you become the leader, the people will worship at your feet.”
His father’s words rang with certainty, but Soren’s chest still ached with loss. Could faith really silence love? Should it?
Chapter twenty-nine
Bastion of the Bluffs
Marchland, Verdancia, two days later
Bad roads, lumbering transport trucks, and a raider ambush delayed VERT’s arrival in Marchland. Queen Frost had been wise to send the squad as a security escort. Bandits had lurked in the ghost town of Demopolis, west of Monty, lying in wait for whoever came along. It had taken hours to get one of the two cargo trucks out of a spike trap they’d dug in the road and covered with painted cardboard sprinkled with dirt. The fully human highwaymen had fired arrows and hurled bricks at them, then charged with spears, clubs, and machetes. One raider pinned them from a fourth-floor window with a .22, until Diego taped a stick of dynamite to an arrow and had Lark fire it into the crumbling building.
Wes was banged up, Luke’s shoulder grazed by a bullet. Five raiders lay dead—including the one blown apart—and the rest fled. VERT didn’t pursue. After changing the truck tires, it was too dark to continue, so they spent the night, taking turns keeping watch.
The caravan rolled west through broken farmland and pine stands, the air sharp with resin and heavy with humidity. Rolling pastures broke up fields of cotton, corn, and soybeans, cows and horses swishing flieswith their tails. The rhythmic bouncing, warm sunshine, and repetitive landscapes almost lulled Lark to sleep.
“Look!” Wes exclaimed, pointing ahead. Lark and Diego snapped alert, leaning in to peer through the windshield.
“Marchland,” Skye announced.
As they approached the first rows of houses, mud-red brick and whitewashed plank, with roofs of clay tiles, wooden shingles, and tin, the road changed from rough asphalt to brick interspersed with concrete slabs. Azaleas burst with color, magnolias and pecan trees shaded yards, and laundry snapped on taut lines in the breeze. Streets bustled with pedestrians, marching troops, and vendors hawking wares. The air smelled of wood smoke, hot iron, honeysuckle, and manure from the mule teams dragging supply wagons down the thoroughfare.
But rising beyond, the expansive Marchland Fortress dominated the skyline—thick stone walls layered with salvaged concrete, steel plating, and scavenged shipping containers welded into battlements. Watchtowers jutted from the bluff, their signal fires smudging the sky with smoke, while on the north side of town, atop the highest hill, stood the mighty citadel. From its flagpoles snapped Verdancia’s green and gold.
As they rumbled ever closer to the walled fortress, ancient monuments lined the street—men with muskets and sabers, caps on their heads, packs on their backs. History hemmed them in—nostalgia waving from open windows, ringing in the voices of children and elders alike. A gust carried the briny scent of barges moored below at the dockyards, mingled with the muddy, fishy smell of the Mother River herself.
A platoon running drills outside the main gates stopped, snapping to attention as Captain Moreau led the caravan through on his motorcycle. The soldiers saluted them as they passed. From somewhere, a brass band began to play. Lark saw Marchland as Verdancia’s shield—a place that lived and breathed discipline, where every soul moved with purpose. The walls whispered both safety and siege, its people carved from resilience itself.
Lark’s blood raced with nerves and excitement as the Jeep passed through the towering iron gates—not just because Marchland Fortress impressed andintimidated, but because she would get to see her father for the first time in years. Glancing at the sprawl of buildings and thousands in uniform, Lark realized finding him on a base this size would be a challenge.
Luke turned right, rumbling past men and women sweeping walkways, pulling weeds, and scrubbing walls with long-handled brushes. A drill sergeant hollered at his charges hanging onto the rungs of a water tower ladder. “If you can’t climb faster than that, a gator will have you for a snack!”
They passed an office building and a barracks before stopping behind a warehouse. A stout man in his mid-forties, shaved head, pencil stub behind his ear, stepped around a corner, eyeing them with displeasure. His rank boasted master sergeant; his nametag read “Callum Briggs.”
“Took you long enough,” he snorted and ambled up to the first truck, a slight limp on his right side.
“I know.” Luke secured his kickstand and joined Briggs to inspect the cargo. “There’s a nice shipment here, though—almost everything you requested plus a little extra.” Lark watched him lift a tarp covering the beer crates. Briggs’ face lit. “And we have the malaria pills, other medical supplies.”
“About bloody time.” The gruff lifer returned to grumbling. “Where are they? I’m taking those to the infirmary myself.”
“In the other truck,” Luke answered.
Briggs waved at two men and two women with dollies. “Over here. Unload this truck—careful now. Anything breaks, it comes out of your hides.”
“Yes, sir!” sounded a crisp reply.
Luke opened the back of the second truck, where they’d stashed the busted tires. Wes had thought the rims were still good.
“Figures!” Briggs flung up a hand. “Every time you people bring a shipment, something’s busted. Do you know how hard it is to get tires replaced? There’s only one rubber plant in this whole rustin’ country!”
When his eyes fell on the mailbag, Briggs’ deportment flipped on a dime. A smile spread across his broad face. “And I’ll take personal charge of the mail as well.”
Luke laughed. “We don’t bust things on purpose. When’s the last time you made a run to Nelanta,Sergeant?” He quirked a brow, emphasis on rank.
