I breathe out a long bout of air, stirring little particles of dust in the muted light.
What am I thinking? This is pure insanity. I’ve spent twenty-six years hiding in this house, never once setting foot even in our garden. I know nothing of the outside world beyond what I’ve read in books and glimpsed through windows.
And yet…
What am I doinghere? Hiding in a hole, testing failed ointments, reading about worlds and culture long lost. Protecting myself while women are captured and imprisoned, their bodies used as breeding stock, their children taken from them, their lives controlled in every aspect.
I have a unique opportunity. I am invisible to the Syndicate. Undocumented. Identical to my brother, possessed of powers that shouldn’t be mine. If I could slip into this Enforcer group, what might I discover? What information could I gather?
What small sabotages might I undertake?
Could I make a difference, even a small one?
The Provincial Hall in Pyrem is not too far from my house, and the Enforcer Training Center is located in this province near the perimeter, if I remember correctly. Hardan said anyone interested in joining this new unit is to report to the Hall before dawn, and I assume they will transport them to the Center. It would be a relatively quick journey for me, though I imagine the recruits from other provinces left days ago.
But they’d surely check backgrounds? Perhaps identification, proof of citizenship, or documentation of previous employment.
I pause. What would they care for physical identification if masks are not permitted to be removed?
My brother’s uniform is exactly as I’ve seen on other Enforcers, so if I appeared already wearing it, looking the part, and display a little of my power, they would have to let me through.
I shake my head as if I could physically dislodge these dangerous thoughts. It’s madness. Inevitable suicide. I’d be caught within days, if not hours. And then what would happen to my family? They’d be executed for harboring me and deceiving the Syndicate.
But if I succeeded—if I could blend in, collect information, perhaps even help justoneperson…
The voices above grow louder, more animated. Dinner must be finished and they’ve shifted to the more social portionof the evening. Hardan’s laugh blares through the floorboards, making me flinch.
I return to my book out of habit, but it all swims before my eyes, a puzzle of my own making. My mind is caught in a loop, sifting through possibilities and probabilities, weighing risks against potential rewards.
Twenty-six years of safety versus one chance tofinallydo something of importance.
Twenty-six years of watching from windows versus stepping into the world for the first time.
Twenty-six years of being no one versus becoming someone who matters.
The next hour passes in this tormented contemplation. Eventually, the front door clicks and I stretch my neck as heavy footsteps retreat down the porch. The hatch opens a few minutes later, flooding the space with warm light. My father’s face appears, concern etched around his eyes.
“All clear, dove,” he says, extending a hand. “You okay? You look a little pale.”
“Just cold.” I spin to gather my blanket and book to hide the lie written across my face. I’ve never been very good at hiding my physical emotions. “And a little stiff.”
He pulls me up easily, his grip firm and reassuring. When I’m standing beside him, he tugs me into a quick hug and my tense muscles relax.
“I’m sorry about tonight—all of this.”
“It’s not your fault.” The words come automatically, my usual response to his traditional apology after these visits.
He rewards me with a warm smile, one I try to reciprocate, but inside, something has shifted. A decision forming—not yet fully acknowledged but taking shape nonetheless.
After cleaning with my mother and bidding my parentsgoodnight, I find myself in the bathroom, staring at my reflection in the small mirror above the sink.
I study my face with new intensity, cataloging the features I share with my twin and those that differ. My jaw is softer, lips a smidge fuller. But our eyes are identical—the same deep violet. My hair falls past my waist , neverending it seems, though Lachlan’s is cut a bit shorter and usually tied back.
Could I truly pass as my brother? As aman?
The differences seem suddenly surmountable. A slimmer face could be explained away as recent illness. A softer voice as a throat condition. The only real challenge would be my eyes—not their appearance, but what they might reveal. They would need to project confidence. Authority and familiarity when I’ve never known either.
But Lachlan wouldn’t know their world either…not really.
