My father reaches into the opening and tugs on a heavy, brass ring, lifting a hinged section of the floor that reveals a second, deeper entrance. The wood is stained dark and fitted with metal brackets, ensuring invisibility when closed while being sturdy enough to support weight from above. The craftsmanship is impressive. Father spent months perfecting this hideout, ensuring the seams disappear completely when closed, as if the double protection would keep the Enforcers out if they ever raided our house.
It’s the thought that counts, I suppose. It makes all of us feel just a little less anxious about it.
I groan as my eyes study the narrow steps descending into pitch black. The space was originally a root cellar dug beneath the house, but my father repurposed it when I was seven, knowing the days would come that I would need to be hidden in a better place than the small area under his and mother’s bed. He reinforced the walls, added ventilation through a disguised pipe, and furnished it with a small stool and shelf that barely fit, but they’re enough for me.
My prison. My sanctuary. The reason I still exist.
“It shouldn’t be long today,” he remarks, his voice softened with the guilt he always carries about this necessity. “Hardan mentioned a meeting later in the evening, so I hope he’ll insist on leaving quickly.”
“It’s fine, dad.” My attempt at sounding nonchalant is weak, but he doesn’t comment on it. “I have my book.”
My feet begin the plunge into the hatch, not pausing at the creaks caused by my weight. The air shifts as I move deeper—more cool and damp, carrying the stagnant scent of soil and stone. At the bottom, I crane my neck to peer at my father, whose face is now mostly a silhouette framed by the square opening.
“I love you, dove,” he says, a comforting exchange of words we never skip.
We never know if this will be the last time we’re together. The Enforcers could be walking toward our house at this very moment, as far as any of us are aware.
“Love you, too.” My throat sinks. I hate goodbyes; and even though he’s not going anywhere, it still chokes me up.
He blows me a kiss and slowly lowers the inner hatch. The brass hinges, which he oils religiously to prevent squeaking, mutter only the softest sound as the heavy lid closes. The final click of the latch engaging feels like a period at the end of a sentence. One written in pen.
Darkness envelops me completely.
Blowing air through pursed lips, I count to ten in my head while my eyes adjust to the blackness before switching on my reading light. Its glow is meager, illuminating only a small circle around me, but it’s far better than imagining the strange shapes that somehow always form in the dark.
This space is as familiar to me as my and Lachlan’s bedroom. Roughly four feet square, with a height that allows me to stand if I hunch a bit. The walls are packed earth, the floor bare dirt covered by the world’s thinnest rug. The shelf contains emergency supplies like water, canned food, a chamber pot—as if I wouldeveruse that—and a set of matches.
The hatch is neither comfortable nor truly uncomfortable. Just simply…necessary.
The price of my existence.
I settle onto the stool, arranging the blanket over my shoulders against the chill. Clipping the reading light to the back cover of my book, I position it to illuminate the pages without wasting its limited battery. Given how dim it is, it will need new ones soon.
My gaze snaps up when muffled voices indicate the sounds of life continuing without me. Footsteps scraping across the floor mask the faint murmur of my parents’ voices as they prepare for their guests. Ordinary domestic sounds that emphasize the normalcy I will never get to experience.
Time passes strangely in the hatch. Minutes stretch into what feel like hours, then collapse when I emerge to discover barely any time has passed at all. I concentrate on losing myself in the book, soaking in words about crop rotation and soil management in civilizations long dead, but after just a few pages, the sound of the front door grabs my attention. The grating noise as it opens reverberates through the structure of the house. It’s only a moment before the heavy tread ofunfamiliar boots sounds, followed by the lighter steps of someone who’s not my mother. My lip curls at the boisterous laugh of Hardan Lesson, too loud and forced, like everything must be about him.
Sometimes I’m thankful I do not have to meet the guests that visit our home.
I’ve never seen the man, but I detest him with a clarity that surprises me. I loathe how he treats my father, how he speaks about women as if they’re possessions and not people sitting directly next to him. How he embodies everything corrupt about the Syndicate’s rule without having the self-awareness to recognize it.
Maybe he does, though, and just cannot be bothered to care. Why would he? Our world was made to cater to his kind…of course he wouldn’t fight it, or at the bare minimum, speak on its faults.
And I despise how he treats his wife with my whole being; how he speaks over her, cuts her off, belittles her with casual cruelty disguised as the humor of men. I know this not from observation, but from the silence that follows his barbed comments. I imagine Eliana is a bird with clipped wings, kept in a rotting cage and told she should be grateful for the bars that imprison her as the only other option is surely much worse.
That’s the life of a woman in Dascenia: bad or worse.
If I had been born to his household instead of my father’s, I would have been sent to a facility before my first breath cooled on my lips. Men like Hardan don’t risk their standing by harboring illegal daughters.
I’m lucky. I know this. But luck is an artificial comfort when you’re buried alive.
I close my book, knowing I won’t be able to focus any longer. Instead, I listen. My brain tracks the movements above by the brief thuds of footsteps and voices. I count the steps—one, two, three, four—and map them against my mental floor plan. They’re in the main room now, likely standing near the fireplace where my father keeps his collection of approved books prominently displayed.
Five, six, seven. They’re moving to the dining table, and I’m proven correct a moment later when chairs scrape against the floor.
When they settle into dinner conversation, I attempt to read the book again, finding my place with difficulty. The words blur before my eyes, meaningless shapes that refuse to resolve into sense. It’s frustrating.
Then a phrase cuts through my distraction. “...new Enforcer group…”
