We settle around the table, our routine as fixed as the walls imprisoning me. My father takes the first bite, humming as he nods his approval—the signal we can begin. These small ceremonies maintain our semblance of normalcy, as if we’re just a typical family instead of conspirators in a lifelong crime.
A crime in which the only payment is death.
“How was the library today?” mother asks as she passes a piece of bread.
Father swallows, the worn skin of his throat bobbing before he replies. “Busy. The Syndicate’s latest decree about approved reading materials has everyone scrambling to ensure compliance.” A flicker of something—anger perhaps—crosses his face before disappearing beneath a veil of calm. “Three more books were added to the restricted list. Something about content potentiallyencouraging female independence.”
The words hang suspended in the air. My fingers tighten around their spoon, but my mouth remains closed.
“Anything else?” mother prompts, her tone forced with a lightness I’m certain she doesn’t feel.
It’s difficult to feel light at all in the world we’re forced to live in.
Father reclines in his chair, grazing a hand over his chin. “Actually, yes. Word is the Syndicate is organizing some new Enforcer group. They’re recruiting men from across every province.” His brows crease as his dark eyes go distant. “It’s not clear why. Enforcer numbers are already at capacity.”
The front door swings open before he elaborates, a current of cool air swimming through the house. Heavy footsteps approach—my brother’s distinctive gait, slightly favoring his right leg from an old injury.
A smile claims my lips as Lachlan appears in the doorway, his tall frame filling the space. Despite the exhaustion evident in the shadows beneath his eyes, his familiar face brightens when he spots us.
“Perfect timing,” he says in a voice a bit deeper than mine, echoing my earlier words. “I’m starving.”
Mother pushes from the table, rising to fetch another bowl of stew. “How was your trip?”
Lachlan drops his pack by the door and slumps into the empty seat across from me. “Long. I really hate how cold it gets in the mountains. Ailridge might look pretty from a distance, but the wind cuts right through you up there.”
“The delivery went well?” father inquires. He is very good at showing interest in Lachlan’s job as a messenger, even when it’s anything but.
“As well as can be expected. The Syndicate officials inspected everything twice, but the paperwork was in order.” He accepts the bowl my mother offers with a smile, nodding his thanks. “The manufacturing hub in Pyrem is ramping up production for something. No one would say what.”
I sit quiet, content to absorb their words while savoring the warmth of the stew. This is my window to the outside world—snippets of information gathered by my father and brother, carefully pieced together in my mind like a mosaic of places I’ve never seen. Flat images and maps can only offer so much.
What’s it like out there?I ask my inner self, repeating the same inquiry I have for thousands of days in a row.
I’ve constructed elaborate mental images from books and stories, but imagination can only take you so far. I’ve never feltrain on my face or wind through my hair outside these aging walls. Never walked on streets, entered shops, or stood beneath an open sky without the frame of a window blocking small pieces of it.
I steal glances through the windows sometimes, when no one is looking. Quick peeks at the world—the tall, neighboring buildings Enforcers patrol, scuff marks along the stone ground that change day after day. But these glimpses are like trying to understand an ocean by looking at a single drop of its water. Impossible.
The stack of books my father brought home catches my attention where they rest on a side table. A surge of excitement rushes through me as I spot a worn leather binding with faded gold lettering; a history book, by the look of it. Those are my favorites. My fragments of a past when our world operated by different rules. They may as well be fantasy books for how unthinkable some of the entries are.
I reach for the stack, wheeling the table closer and yanking hard when it catches on an annoying dent in the floor.
“Found some interesting things in the archives today,” father muses, following my movements. “That history volume was in the restricted section, so handle it carefully. I’ll need to return it without any evidence that it left the library.”
I nod, understanding the risk he’s taken and beyond thankful for it. “I’ll be gentle.” And I will. These books will be handled with the care of a newborn baby.
My fingers trace the embossed cover.
A Comprehensive History of the Northern Territories: Pre-Unification Era
My heart beats faster at the title. The pre-unification era—when Dascenia was divided into what they callstatesinstead of provinces. When borders were more permeable and rights more universal.
“So,” a feminine voice begins, breaking into my thoughts, “what were you saying about this new Enforcer group, Pierce?”
He shrugs. “Not much more to tell. The postings mentioned special assignments outside regular Enforcer duties.”
“Outside the perimeter, maybe?” Lachlan suggests in a passive tone. “There have been rumors among the traders about activity beyond the border.”
“Escapees?” Mother’s voice drops to a whisper, though no one outside can hear us.
