“Exactly,” she says. “I don’t know why he would do this.”
I do. Warrick is using Mercy against me. He wants to reward her with my dreams because she obeys him. But this isn’t my sister’s idea of a fun time; she despises violence.
“He’s punishing me,” I say. “By giving you everything I want.”
“Maybe he knowswhyyou want it,” she replies softly. “He doesn’t trust you.”
“I owe it to our mother to destroy him and the Supreme Director,” I say.
I still remember the speech the Supreme Director delivered. I watched it so many times that I memorized it. He had stood at the podium on the Grand Forum, the capital’s performance ground, where the elite gathered in their pressed suits and elegant gowns, hanging onto his every word.
The screens rose behind him like towering mirrors, carrying his image into every family home and personal tablet. His dark hair had been combed to perfection. Behind him stood his wife, her pale hair wound upwards in a delicate twist, and grasping her hand was a young boy with ice-blue eyes.
The Supreme Director’s voice carried, smooth and precise.
“Astrid Mallory,” he began, pausing for dramatic effect, “is a reminder.”
The wind stirred the banners above him. The emblem of the regime floated high like a ghost. A white sun that lay on a black background with eight rays surrounding its circular head was meant to symbolize the establishment of the divisions.
“There will be an amendment to Article IV of the Code.”
A murmur rippled among the crowd.
The camera shifted slightly lower, angling him toward the sky, giving him a God-like presence.
“From this day forward, any kin descended from a traitor will share in their sentence,” he said. “We will not allow the seeds of rebellion to be raised in the name of false martyrdom. We will not permit children to be shaped by the poison of their parents.”
His gaze swept across the crowd.
“The Children of Treason, Mercy and Haven Warrick, will be the last of their kind. Betrayal does not end with the individual. It ends with the bloodline.”
It makes my stomach turn to remember his vile words and the extent of his cruelty. He was going to start killing children whose parents joined the Resistance.
Mercy swallows. “What do we do? I don’t want to go.”
“I’ll talk to him,” I say, squeezing her shoulders, “and convince him to let me come along.”
She nods, relief flooding her eyes as she squeezes my hand.
Mercy learned to survive the hand we’ve been dealt, while I’ve chosen revenge. I know it worries her how single-minded I can be. She doesn’t want me to walk down this path.
They took my mother from me, and I swore that I would takeeverythingfrom them.
I wear my armor that night, by way of a dress. It belongs to Mercy, a dusky pink thing, the color of faded rose petals. The collar is trimmed with lace, and the waistline is uncomfortably tight. I clip my bangs back with a pearl-encrusted pin and try not to feel like I’m wearing a costume. I fold my hands in a fist to hide my chipped, onyx-painted nails.
“You look pretty,” Mercy says as we descend the stairs.
“I’m trying to get on his good side,” I reply.
If I have any hope of convincing Warrick to let me go with Mercy to the Forge, I have to act like I am following his rules. And there is nothing he cares more about than appearances.
Sullivan waits by the door. His eyebrows shoot to his hairline when he sees me. “Hardly recognized you.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s just a dress.”
The dining room is small and dim. Warrick prefers practicality to extravagance. The polished wood floors are covered by an outdated scarlet rug. A single chandelier hangs from the ceiling, twinkling golden light across the room. There is a portrait of Malric Vale, the Supreme Director, hanging on the wall as a token of respect. Most well-off families do it in case he visits them. The worst part is that Warrick doesn’t particularlylike the Supreme Director. Not that he would ever voice his opinion.
I reckon it’s because he hates taking orders and not because Malric Vale is a serpent.
