PROLOGUE
Four months ago…
A'Vanti
Iknow every crack in this wall.
Every faded stain. Every hairline fracture in the pale gray stone. There's a pattern in the upper left corner that almost looks like the twin moons of home if I squint hard enough. I've traced those two overlapping circles of darker pigment with my eyes so many times I could probably draw them from memory. Not that I have the strength to hold a stylus anymore.
Below the not-moons, rows of hash marks score the surface. I carved those not long after I first arrived here, back when I still believed the days were worth counting.
That was a long time ago.
Now I just lie on my sleeping pad and stare at those scratches until they blur out of focus. They're the only mark I've left on this place. The only proof I exist at all.
"A'Vanti." Premier Sator's voice is soft and careful. He treats me as if I'm a wounded animal that might bolt. "You need to eat something."
I don't turn. I don't answer.
The tray he brought sits untouched beside my pad. Some kind of lumpy, flavorless Ostium porridge and a few slices of pale root vegetable. A cup of water that tastes faintly of minerals. My people's food is bold: spiced stews, charred meats dripping with savory sauces, vegetables pickled until they make your eyes water. I'd give anything for a bowl of chariom right now. I often dream of the spiced noodles, waking up with phantom tingles still on my tongue. The food here tastes like nothing. I know Sator prepared it himself, I'm certain he snuck in extra portions when the guards weren't watching. I know he risks punishment every time he shows me kindness.
I can't seem to make myself care anymore.
"A'Vanti. Please." His footsteps draw closer. The rustle of his uniform as he crouches beside me.
Something in his voice makes me roll over. I almost wish I hadn't. The gray fabric hangs looser on his frame than it did when I first arrived. The collar is gaping, and the shoulders droop where they used to fit. I'm not the only one wasting away in this facility. That realization stirs a flicker of concern I thought I'd lost the capacity to feel. "I'm worried about you. I can see it in your scales, the way your hair is thinning. If you stop eating entirely?—"
"Then it'll be over." My voice comes out like a rasp. I barely recognize it as my own. "Isn't that what we all want?"
The silence that follows is heavy. I roll back over, facing the wall, not wanting to see any more pity from Sator.
Sator settles onto the cold floor beside my pad. Of all the Ostium scientists who've poked and prodded and taken samplesfrom my body, he's the only one who's ever looked at me like I'm still a person.
"I don't want that," he whispers. "And neither does my daughter."
Princess Ameela. The name sends a complicated twist through my chest. Hope and despair tangled up so tight I can't separate them anymore. I've never met the princess, but Sator talks about her all the time, always in hushed tones when the guards and other scientists are out of earshot. She's brave, he tells me. Clever. He believes she is working in secret to undermine her mother's reign, to end the experiments, to free us all.
Pretty words. Pretty dreams.
I've been here long enough to stop believing in dreams.
"She'll find a way," Sator continues. "One of my contacts in the queen's castle told me that your people are forming alliances with other species. I've heard whispers the queen is worried. Truly worried. There's reason to hope, A'Vanti."
I finally turn my head just enough to see him from the corner of my eye.
His lavender-gray skin looks more gray than usual under the harsh lights. The silver of his eyes is dimmed with exhaustion. His luxen, the grooves along his temples and jaw that betray every emotion, pulse with deep, mournful indigo. He believes what he's saying. I can see it in every line of his weathered face.
"No one's coming." I turn back to my wall again, to those familiar scratches, to the twin moons that aren't really moons at all. "No one even knows we're here."
I hear his breath stutter. I don't need to look to know he's wringing his hands; he always does when he's trying to convince himself as much as me. "Ameela will figure out a way. She has resources, allies?—"
"Premier." My voice is flat and final. "I'm tired."
For a long moment, he doesn't respond. Then I feel the lightest touch against my shoulder. His fingers trembling slightly.
"Then rest," he says. "But don't give up. Promise me that."
I can't promise. I can't give him that small comfort when I've got nothing left inside me but this hollow, aching emptiness. So I close my eyes and let the silence stretch between us. Let my breaths slow until maybe he'll think I've fallen asleep and leave me in peace.
