Knox gives me a small nod. “Everything you need is here. Let’s get you settled in.”
I look back at the other recruits. Some glance at us openly, but most look down, resigned. They are curious about Knox, whose uniform marks him as one ofthem. The Gifted. They don’t understand why he is bothering to help me out.
Knox leads me to an angular building that hosts the Common dormitories. He explains that the Gifted dormitory is on the opposite side.
Inside, the hallways are long and slender, the walls painted a stone-blue.
Knox cracks open the door at the end of the corridor, revealing a row of six metal-frame bunks, each identical and covered with a thin, scraggy mattress. A coarse wool blanket is folded at the base, and a locker is planted at the foot.
“Pick one,” Knox murmurs.
I chose a bunk in the middle. It gives me a good view of the door, and it’s near enough that I can dash out if any issue arises.
“I’ll have your belongings brought in shortly. Let me know if you need anything,” Knox says. “Good luck, Mercy.”
“Thanks, Knox.”
He retreats, leaving me alone with my thoughts. It takes a few minutes for an enforcer to climb up with my travel case. Once it’s settled on the ground, I begin arranging my uniform and gear in the locker. Footsteps sound, and I glance up to see a girl around my age. Her mousy-brown hair is braided into two pigtails, and she clutches a small black tablet.
“You’re new,” she says, studying me with curious eyes.
A few of the beds have jackets draped on the rail. The second batch of conscripts was signing up at the Intake Hall today. This girl and a few of the others must have been part of the first batch.
“I just got here,” I say.
“You look like you’ve been here longer,” she says. “Most people are trembling or gagging over the thought of what training holds.”
I can’t help but laugh. “I’m too cool to tremble or gag.”
“That is obvious,” she says, sitting up on her bunk. “My name’s Sora. What division are you from?”
“Division Eight.”
I don’t want to be known as the High General’s daughter or reveal that, unlike all the other conscripts, I grew up in Division One. In these halls, it will sow resentment rather than admiration. And, besides, I am more than just that monster’s spawn. I am my mother’s daughter.
“I’m from Division Five,” she says. “The Flatlands.”
Division Five is nothing but mines and back-breaking labor. They dug deep shafts into the earth and dragged coal from it,much like squeezing water from a rag. Prisoners are sent there often to serve a few years of hard labor.
Everyone from those parts has a dull, lifeless sheen to their eyes. I can tell from Sora’s hard, bony face and thick brows that she didn’t come from a pampered life.
Her nails are caked with dirt, which most likely can’t be scrubbed clean no matter how hard she tries, and her stringy hair is lank and thin. A wheezing sound escapes her crooked teeth every few minutes. Bad lungs, I assume.
Most of the Continent struggles to stay afloat except for Divisions One through Three.
Division One is a glittering sanctuary, where the rich lounge in comfort, oblivious to the consequences that keep the rest of the Continent in line. Division Two forms the military backbone, home to the Forge and the regime’s elite forces, while Division Three acts as the center of knowledge. Its streets are lined with research labs, libraries, and universities.
The remaining areas are dedicated to production and labor.
“My name is Mercy,” I say.
It feels strange to claim my sister’s name.
“Well, Mercy, let’s make a pact,” Sora says, offering her hand. “Let’s keep our heads down, help each other, and not trust the others too fast. The Forge chews people up.”
I glance around the room. Recruits are moving in. Some avoid eye contact, while others whisper in corners.
“Deal,” I say, shaking her hand quickly.
