“Possibly.” Father’s expression darkens. “The Syndicate wouldn’t mobilize a special unit for nothing.”
Glancing between the three of them, I catalog their expressions. The tension in their shoulders, the careful way they choose their words even in the privacy of our home. This is what the Syndicate has done to us—made us afraid in our own sanctuary, trained us to speak in half-truths and implications.
My thoughts stray to the women in the breeding facilities. About the powers they do not carry to fight back, and the laws that bind them to the men who purchase them like cattle. About my mother, who was lucky enough to be bought by a good man, but who still cannot leave this house without him.
And then I think about myself.
I shouldn’t exist. An undocumented woman who grew up outside the three facilities. A woman with powers she should not possess. Only men have powers, so why am I different?
My eyes roll before I can stop them. Lachlan is always the answer to anything strange that happens to me—sharing a womb will do that. Sometimes the weight of such knowledge feels like bloated pressure in my chest, pushing against my ribs, begging for release.
“Did you see the market in the city?” mother asks Lach, steering the conversation to safer waters—though I’m notcertain our wonderful city of Pyrem is a much safer topic. “Were there fresh vegetables yet?”
He nods, settling his spoon in the now-empty bowl. “Some early greens,” he answers. “Prices are high, though. The Syndicate’s taking a larger percentage this season.”
Discussion continues while my attention turns back to the history book. Its pages are thin and delicate beneath my fingers, containing truths the Syndicate doesn’t want remembered. The layers of dust between pages are evidence enough.
I read about a time when the territory now called Dascenia was part of something larger, something called the United States of America. How its states formed a loose coalition with their own governments but united under central principles. How people—all people, including their women—could travel freely between them.
Like I said, it may as well be classified as a fantasy book.
I suck in deep, calming breaths as I skim through the pages. The book describes vehicles calledcommercial airplanesthat carried people through the sky, metal beasts that somehow defied gravity.
Creases pinch my forehead as I recall what our flying contraptions are called—drones, I think, but as far as I know, they cannot even carry one person.
The text discusses democratic voting, where people chose their leaders instead of submitting to those who stole power. It speaks of women who owned property, ran businesses, and led governments.
It truly sounds like the best fiction. A beautiful, impossible dream.
The conversation flows as I absorb these scraps of history. Eventually, the dishes clear, and I’ve waited the appropriate amount of time after dinner before I can reasonably excusemyself. I do not want to be disrespectful, but I’m aching to dive further into these pages.
“I think I’ll head to my room,” I announce to no one in particular, gathering the thick stack of books.
Father nods, reaching to muss my hair, smiling when I groan and pull away. “Don’t stay up too late, dove.”
“I won’t,” I promise, already calculating how much reading I can fit in before sleep claims me.
The hallway to my bedroom—our bedroom—is short and narrow. The house isn’t large, but it’s been home my entire life. Sometimes I wonder if I should feel more confined, more desperate to escape. But how can you miss what you’ve never known? Still, there are moments when the walls contract, when I find myself staring at the ceiling and imagining what lies beyond our small corner in Pyrem.
The door to the room I share with Lachlan pushes open easily. Two narrow beds against opposite walls, a small dresser between them, a bookshelf crammed with volumes I’ve read and reread until their spines have cracked. It’s not much, but it’s mine.
Ours.
Sometimes I wish for my own space. Not because I mind sharing with my twin brother—he’s my closest friend, the keeper of my existence—but because privacy feels like a luxury I’ve never tasted. Even on the nights he’s away, traveling for his job.
In this world where I must remain hidden, where my very presence is a crime punishable by death for my entire family, having a corner that’s just mine seems like an unattainable indulgence.
But I understand the necessity. If Enforcers were to raid our house, having a single bedroom for theonly childmakes ourdeception more believable. And in the grand calculation of risks versus comforts, this small sacrifice hardly registers.
I grunt as my body settles on the bed before scooting back against the wall and revealing the insides of the history book with reverent hands. The soft crack of the spine reminds me once again to be careful—this book doesn’t belong to me and must return undamaged.
Well, time has damaged it enough. But wear from hands is far different than that of darkness and gravity.
The pages reveal more wonders from the past: structures called movie theaters, where people gathered to watch stories projected on walls larger than our entire house. My head tilts as I try to imagine it—sitting in darkness with strangers, all facing the same enormous image, sharing laughter or tears of fear. Our small television, one of my father’s prized finds, seems pitiful in comparison.
“Remember that,” I whisper to myself, employing the technique I discovered as a child.
When I concentrate on a piece of information and instruct myself to remember it, it dwells in my mind with perfect clarity. Not just the information itself, but the context—where I was sitting, what the page looked like, how the light fell across each word. It’s as if my mind takes a photograph and files it away where I can access it whenever it’s needed.
