Victora.
A rush of dizziness shoots through me. Whatever waits for us, whatever they plan to do with us—we’re almost there.
The lights grow brighter. Closer. My chest tightens with each passing mile, each turn of the wheels dragging me toward whatever hell lives in that city.
The thought hits me sudden and sharp: this stranger beside me… I’ll probably never see him again after this. Once we reach those lights, they’ll likely scatter us like seeds to the wind. He’ll become just another face I remember from the worst days of my life.
“What’s your name?”
He turns to look at me, eyebrows raised slightly. Like he’s surprised I bothered to ask. “Caspian.”
I nod. “Robin.”
The truck hits another pothole, throwing us against each other for a moment before we settle back into our cramped positions. Silence falls between us after that. Nothing else to say, really. What do you talk about when you’re heading toward slavery? The weather? How comfortable the shackles are?
But the quiet gets under my skin and the words tumble out before I can stop them. “What do you think’s going to happen to us?”
Shut up.I must sound like a scared kid asking his mother about the monster under the bed. Heat flushes up my neck.
Caspian’s lips twitch in amusement. He studies me carefully, taking in my face, my shoulders, the way I hold myself very still under his gaze.
“Well, with a face like that, I reckon they’ll find better use for you than scrubbing the shit off their toilets.”
My stomach drops. I turn away, staring hard at the floor. The lightness in his voice makes it worse somehow.
The truck shudders as we slow, then turns sharply left. The lights outside are close enough now that I can make out the tips of individual buildings beyond the wall. Tall ones. Structures that reach up into the night sky like fingers clawing at the stars.
Someone near the front of the truck starts praying under his breath. The desperate, whispered kind of prayer that comes when you’re out of options.
Caspian shifts beside me, the chains around his wrists clinking softly. When I glance back at him, that amused expression is gone.
The truck slams to a violent stop, throwing us all forward in a tangle of limbs and chains. Someone’s elbow drives into my ribs, and the water canister flies from my hand and clatters against the metal floor.
“What’s going on?” The hollow-cheeked man pushes himself upright, blinking in confusion. “We’re not at the wall yet.”
All my life, I’ve heard stories about Victora. How the walls stretch higher than trees, thick enough for twenty men to walk side by side along the top. How the buildings inside reach toward the sky like mountains made of stone and glass. How the people live in luxury while the rest of us scrape by in the dust, how they feast while the wastelanders starve, how they take what they want from whoever’s too weak to stop them.
But no one on Atrea knew exactly where the city was. Just somewhere across the ocean, somewhere in the wasteland. A nightmare place that existed more in whispers than reality.
Now I’m about to see it with my own eyes.
The other captives are shifting and muttering around me, and confusion ripples through our cramped space. Maybe we’re not going to the city at all. Maybe they’re taking us somewhere else—the mines, or one of the farms that feed Victora from outside the walls.
The thought sends a spike of hope through me. I can farm. I’m young, fit and healthy, perfect for slaving in fields all day. And outside the city walls would mean escape routes. Fewer guards. Open ground to run across when the moment comes.
I could get home. I could get back to Esme.
The canvas at the back of the truck rips open with a sharp tearing sound.
“On your feet!”
The soldier’s voice cuts through our murmurs. Harsh light floods the truck bed—brighter than any I’ve ever seen, white and piercing, no flame.Electric. I squeeze my eyes shut against the glare, then force them open again.
We all start to move, but slowly. Too slowly. My legs feel wobbly after days of being cramped in the same position.
“Move it!” Another guard’s voice, sharper than the first. “Now!”
Then they’re inside the truck, grabbing whoever’s closest. One of them yanks the hollow-cheeked man up by his hair, dragging him toward theopening. Another grabs the chains around someone’s wrists and hauls them forward like a dog on a leash.
