It was dark. Cold. But Silas didn't mind. He was small—so tiny the ground above him quaked when larger creatures stepped down. At first, Silas didn't know where he was. Looking around, all he saw was dry, sandy soil. The ground pressed in from every direction. Silas peered up at the single hole allowing in light. The pressure eased. His breathing slowed. Here, at least, nothing could reach him. He was protected from the predators so long as he stayed right where he was. So he didn't move.

  He bunched himself into a ball, wrapping his tail around his body for warmth. Hunger settled with a deep ache in his abdomen, but he ignored it. Eating could wait until the predators above were gone. They were waiting for him to emerge so they could pounce. Silas shuddered, imagining their sharp claws and teeth stabbing into his flesh. He wouldn't give them what they wanted.

  A sudden sound made him jump. An involuntary squeak escaped him as a resounding creak shattered the silence. The noise was so loud it boomed through the ground and walls. It vibrated Silas's bones and set his two pairs of front teeth grinding.

  Silas listened to the predator pad about above him. It spun around in circles, honing in on his hiding spot. There was another sound—a metallic clink—followed by a sharp release of breath. The predator bent low, and Silas finally saw its face.

  It stared at him through the hole, a strange, alien mask covering its nose and mouth. The creature was a cat—impossibly large and hungry, if its growling stomach was anything to go by. Or maybe that was Silas's stomach. He sniffed, his nose twitching. A tantalizing aroma wafted into his underground shelter. Silas's stomach cramped, begging him to investigate the smell. But he knew it was a trap. The masked cat had placed it as a lure to force him from his safe burrow. No matter how hungry he was, he had to resist. He'd lose his life if he didn't.

  "Silas." The masked cat said his name with a sigh. She sounded exasperated. Silas wondered how she knew his name.

  "What are you doing under there, Silas?" She swiped a paw over the opening, reaching down. Silas cowered, scurrying back until the wall impeded his progress.

  "I brought you food. Come out so you can eat it."

  Silas shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't need to see anyway. If he had to run, his nose and whiskers would guide his way.

  The cat mumbled something. Now she sounded angry. Silas kept his eyes closed, so he didn't see her reach a paw through the hole. When her claws raked against his skin, he shrieked and flailed. The cat hesitated, her paw wavering in the air.

  "What has gotten into you?" she hissed, retracting her paw. "Why are you acting this way?" She sighed again, huffing air through her mask. Her frustration deepened Silas's fear.

  In a softer tone, she said, "I'm sorry. I can't imagine…" She trailed off, shaking her head. "I know you're hurting, Silas, but you can't stay under the bed forever. You haven't eaten in days. Please come out and eat, even a bite would do."

  Silas didn't respond. It was a trick, after all. He wouldn't buy into this cat's schemes. There probably wasn't even any food there. All of it was a ruse: the smell, the promise of safety.

  "Alright then. You leave me no choice."

  The hole widened when the cat shoved both her forepaws through the opening. Dust and dirt rained down, irritating Silas's eyes. There was no time to worry about that. The cat was fast approaching. Then, she caught him. Her paws clamped around his shoulders, claws digging into his fur. She hauled him upward, into the sky—toward her mouth, still hidden behind the mask. Silas squealed and thrashed, but she wouldn't let go. Terror struck him dumb, and he went limp in her grasp.

  Pressure detonated behind his eyes. Searing power erupted from Silas's head, burning as it shot toward the masked cat. Silas screamed. She screamed too and let go. He dropped back into the hole. Silas whimpered. His head hurt. He pressed it to the cool ground. That made it feel better.

  The cat was still. A few moments went by. When she roused, she cursed and wobbled upright. Still cursing, she left. That terrible, loud creak marked her departure. Relief washed away the adrenaline and with it Silas's energy. Exhaustion dragged his eyelids down.

  He stirred at a pair of voices somewhere nearby. One voice belonged to the masked cat. The other was new. Masculine. He stuttered often, and spoke so quickly Silas had to strain to catch his words.

  "What's wrong, Elsbeth?" said the masculine voice. "I'm sure the lad's fine. There's no need for all this precaution."

  "You don't understand, Dr. Veyl," said the masked cat in a low, hushed tone. "The Archarbiter told him Vera and Elias were executed."

  The names sparked something in Silas's memory. A flicker, then nothing.

  The masculine voice gasped, the sound muffled like he'd covered his mouth with his paw. Still muffled, he said, "But that's—"

  He was cut off. No more words were exchanged. The creaking sound happened for the third time. Two cats loomed over the hole. Beside the masked cat was an old, scruffy white one. His face wasn't obscured, so Silas could see his deep frown. When he moved, his joints popped and crackled. This morphed his frown into a grimace of pain.

  "Come on out, lad," the white cat said. He didn't try reaching into the hole. "Your food's getting cold."

  Again with the food lure. The cats were cruel. They knew how hungry Silas was and were taunting him with it. But he wouldn't be swayed so easily. He bared his teeth, showing off his long, pointy incisors. The next time a cat tried to grab him, they'd feel his needlelike bite.

  Gentler than the masked cat, the white one attempted to coax Silas out. His technique was different than hers: more words, less physical. This was easier for Silas to fend off. All he had to do was ignore the white cat.

  After a while of this, both cats retracted their heads, stepping away from the opening. "Elsbeth, help me lift the bed," the white cat said.

  Silas's eyes went round. They were going to destroy his burrow! Frantically, he scurried back and forth in the small space, desperate to find a route to escape.

  "On the count of three," said the masked cat. The white one grunted in agreement.

  "One."

  Silas spotted a side tunnel.

  "Two."

  It branched from his burrow, leading somewhere unknown. Silas didn't care where it went. Anywhere was better than here.

  "Three!"

  The burrow collapsed. Silas was momentarily blinded by the light, the sky so bright it pained his eyes. Squinting, he leapt toward the tunnel.

  The masked cat swore, her voice snapping—sharp and panicked. "We forgot to close the door!" she shouted.

  "Grab him, Elsbeth!" the white cat cried.

  Silas wouldn't let her. His paws bounded across the ground, flying to the tunnel, to freedom. If he could just make it a few more strides—!

  Strong claws caught in his fur. They pulled down, and he slammed to the ground, landing hard on his back. The two cats stared at him. The masked one leaned in, ready to take a bite.

  Silas wailed. An uncontrollable wave of power struck the cats. They stumbled back. The wave didn't stop, even though Silas wanted it to. It hurt. He clutched his head, trying to contain the energy that was shredding his brain. Hot liquid poured down his face. He smelled iron before he tasted it, the liquid spilling from his nose into his mouth. A dark cloud passed by overhead, blocking out the light. The darkness took the pain away.

  Silas became aware of an irritating sensation when the cloud moved on. Something was stuck to his head in multiple places. His skin itched underneath the stickiness. He tried lifting his arm to scratch, but it wouldn't move. His wrists and ankles were immobilized by unyielding bindings. When he struggled, the restraints held firm. Thrashing for a short time made him tired. He stopped, listening to the quiet conversation around him.

  "The frequency of this wave has never been so low," said a new, feminine voice. “Normally, this one is a gamma wave. Now it looks more like a delta.”

  "It happened once before," said the white cat. "When the Unspoken family almost killed him."

  Silas opened his eyes. He didn't realize they were closed until he turned his head in the direction of the voices and couldn't see. The masked and white cats faced each other in a huddle. The new cat stood between them. She was young and lithe with big hazel eyes that were studying a strange device. It was boxy and shiny, and jagged lines zipped across its surface. Something about the box was familiar to Silas. Seeing it made his heart beat faster. He thrashed again, but couldn't get free. Defeated, he began to cry.

  Why were the cats doing this? They should just eat him and get it over with. Instead, they were toying with him. If they didn't intend to eat him, what were they going to do to him? What had the white cat said? Something about Unspoken? That word made Silas cry harder; he didn't know why.

  The cats turned at the sound of Silas's sorrow. They shared a knowing look between themselves. The masked cat approached. Silas shied away from her, wishing he could crawl into a burrow and hide.

  "It's alright, Silas," she said, crouching onto her haunches. "Everything's going to be okay." Surprisingly gentle, she rested a paw on Silas's shoulder.

  He froze—then screamed, trying to throw off her touch. His mind didn't surge this time. There was nothing left in it. The emptiness scared Silas more than the cats.

  The masked cat withdrew, straightening. Shaking her head, she returned to the others, who watched Silas with concern.

  "They'll be here tomorrow," the masked cat whispered. "What are we going to do?"

  "It'll be difficult to move him like this," the white cat said. He started mumbling to himself, fiddling with the long fur around his neck. "I have an idea." The white cat left, leaving Silas alone with the two females.

  They conversed in low, hushed tones so Silas couldn't hear. Every so often, they'd glance at him, looking away when he stared back. Silas lifted his head. The cats were at a strange angle above him. That's when he realized he was lying on his back. The ground beneath him felt strange—too soft to be sand, yet uncomfortably firm. When he clenched his paws into fists, the ground bunched up inside of them but didn't spill through his fingers. He couldn't see what the restraints were tied to. They seemed to melt into the ground. The only way Silas could get free was if one of the cats let him go.

  The white cat returned, his long fur billowing behind him. He held a glass between his paws. A milky white liquid filled the glass to the top. The sight of it caused Silas's mouth to fill with saliva.

  "What is that?" asked the hazel-eyed cat.

  "Powder of Neuroleptic," the white cat responded, angling a metal straw at Silas's lips.

  Silas sealed them shut, clenching his teeth behind them. Now they wanted him to drink poison? Why?

  A memory surfaced. Silas did something bad, very bad. He poisoned people. Silas pressed his cheek to the ground, putting as much distance between the drinking glass and his mouth as the restraints would allow. They wanted revenge for what he'd done. Silas understood now. The food wasn't a lure—it was a trap. He'd refused the poisoned food, seen through their deception. They weren't pretending anymore. They'd force feed him the poison directly. Calling it Powder of Neuroleptic couldn't hide its true purpose. Silas would die if he drank that white liquid. He wouldn't do it.

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  "Please, lad." The white cat sounded sad. And exhausted. Pressing the straw to Silas's lips, he said, "It'll make you feel better. I promise."

  Silas whipped his head, smacking away the glass with his cheek. The white cat startled, sloshing some white liquid onto Silas's skin. The poison had touched him. Now he was going to die. Silas couldn't catch his breath. Air refused to enter his lungs. He breathed faster, fighting to suck air in. This only made the burning in his lungs worse.

  "Alright, alright." Setting the glass on the ground, the white cat raised his paws placatingly. "We'll take a break and try again in a bit, okay lad?"

  No! was the only word Silas knew. It floated around in his head, filling his brain with a buzzing, tingling energy that demanded to be released.

  The boxy machine started making strange grinding noises. It spat out a piece of parchment. The hazel-eyed cat read it. Her hands shook. "This isn't good," she whispered, looking up from the page. "We should get out of—"

  Silas tried to keep the energy inside. He wanted—needed—to capture it. The longer it remained within, the better he felt. It cleared his head, wiped the exhaustion away. But the harder he fought to gather it, the faster it gushed out.

  When it hit the cats, they staggered. The glass got knocked over, spilling its contents. A bitter medicinal scent permeated the air. Silas held his breath, unwilling to inhale the toxic fumes. The cats were afraid of it too. They bolted away, swaying on their feet, holding their heads. The energy continued to pour from Silas after they were gone. It drained and drained, and when it was finally depleted there was nothing of him left.

  Unblinking, Silas stared at the sky. It was night now—dark and cold. He didn't know if he was still tied to the ground. He also didn't care. Numb apathy stilled his limbs and thoughts. Escape no longer felt possible. Silas gave up, accepting his fate. Or maybe he was already dead.

  A bird hopped into view. Wire-rimmed spectacles were perched atop his long, pointed beak. They slid down his bill as he scrutinized Silas with a piercing gaze.

  "He's useless like this," the bird said, pushing his spectacles up with a heavily plumed wing. "What happened to put him in such a state?"

  A dilated pause ensued. The masked cat cleared her throat and said, "Archarbiter Sorne…"

  Apparently that name was self explanatory. The cats and bird considered each other. Someone laughed. Everyone turned to address the source of the sound. Silas found his current plight hilarious. Somewhere deep within himself a thought emerged, telling him how absurd it was that cats and a bird were conversing in a little flock. His giggles soon ceased. Fatigue clamped his throat shut. Everything was heavy, even his eyelids. Silas closed them. The conversation resumed.

  "We can't continue experimentation with him like this," the bird said. "Nor can he venture to the Western Quadrant. Either way, General Curne and her troops are in no condition to return there anytime soon."

  Silas's eyes snapped open at the mention of General Curne. For whatever reason, that name sent fear creeping down his spine. Archarbiter Sorne, General Curne, the poison. What was the connection between these points? Silas gasped. General Curne was someone he hurt. She was poisoned because of him. But it sounded like she was still alive. This news made Silas more frantic.

  The white cat approached Silas, who tugged desperately at his restraints. Silas's mind swirled with confusion. It didn't make any sense. If the cats and bird wanted revenge for what he'd done, why were they lingering around, talking like he wasn't there? Was it just to prolong his suffering? Silas calmed, fixing the white cat with a glassy eyed stare. Perhaps he deserved this treatment after all.

  "I've been trying to give him Powder of Neuroleptic," the white cat said, still watching Silas. "But he's refusing food and drink. What do you propose we do, Dr. Korrel?"

  A triumphant smile twisted the bird's beak. "Someone fetch Archarbiter Sorne," he said and glanced at the masked cat.

  And suddenly he was there. Silas couldn't see him. His gaze refused to move from the ceiling. But this new voice was loud and clear. It brought tears to Silas's eyes. They fell silently, streaming down his cheeks. Silas wished to blink them away, but his eyelids were rigid like stone, refusing to move.

  "What's all this then?" the new voice asked.

  Archarbiter Sorne, Silas thought. That's Archarbiter Sorne.

  "What did you do to him?" This voice belonged to the bird.

  Dr. Korrel?

  "I did nothing to him," replied Sorne. "I simply told him the truth. Anything that came after he did to himself."

  Several voices grumbled in dissent but said nothing discernable. "Well, he's currently useless. I think it's time to map his cerebral anatomy," said Dr. Korrel.

  "B-but that—"

  Silas listened hard, struggling to pay attention. When he couldn't see who the voices belonged to, it was easier to remember the names of those who spoke. Just now, that was the white cat—Dr. Veyl.

  "I don't care what you do with him anymore," said Sorne, irritation clipping his words short. A slow thudding noise carried his voice farther away. "If you wish to cut into his brain, go right ahead. Just try not to make him any more of a vegetable than he already is."

  Vegetable? Silas tried lifting his head to look down at himself, but his muscles refused to obey his commands. I'm not a vegetable… I'm a—

  What was he again? Silas thought hard, his unfocused eyes trained on the ceiling. Someone had once called him a mouse. He couldn't remember who. A mouse sounded right. It made sense. He lived in an underground burrow. Cats and birds wanted to eat him. He scurried on four paws and had two pairs of sharp incisors. Yes, a mouse was what he was, not a vegetable.

  The voices were arguing. Loud, angry. Silas wanted them to stop so he could go to sleep. Instead, they became louder, each one shouting to be heard above the other.

  "Dr. Korrel, please wait," said Dr. Veyl hurriedly. "If I can just get him to drink the Powder, he'll be able to continue with the usual experiments. There's no need to jump to this so soon."

  "'So soon?'" Dr. Korrel echoed mockingly. "You mean so late. If you recall, this procedure was the first thing I wanted performed when he arrived at the facility, but you convinced the General and Archarbiter it would be best to wait. I'm done waiting. The Empire is done waiting. How can we be expected to make more soldiers like him if we don't have a basic understanding of his neuroanatomy?"

  "B-but the genome analysis—"

  "Is meaningless without the information we can glean from this procedure."

  Before the white cat or bird could say anything else, a weak, breathless voice sounded from far away.

  "I'm” —cough— "against it."

  Someone inhaled sharply. "Lieutenant Cyr, you shouldn't be out of bed!" Dr. Veyl's pitch increased an octave. "You also shouldn't be out of isolation. We've yet to validate the duration of the infectious period."

  "I'm here… on behalf of the General," gasped Lieutenant Cyr. "She also didn't want… the procedure to happen yet. Not until—"

  Lieutenant Cyr fell into a coughing fit. A wet sound bubbled up from his throat with each hack and sputter. Something splashed to the ground. Bootsteps rushed around, shuffling and sliding across the floor.

  Bootsteps…? Silas didn't think cats and birds wore boots.

  It was quiet again. Dr. Korrel said one last thing before he left. "It has been decided. The procedure will begin tomorrow at dawn. He is to take nothing by mouth after midnight. Not that I expect that to be a problem right now."

  When he was gone, Dr. Veyl and the two female cats burst into a whispered frenzy. They no longer cared if Silas heard them. Or perhaps they didn't believe he could.

  "Dawn is so early," said the hazel-eyed cat. Silas still hadn't caught her name. "I doubt they'll be here in time."

  "Then we must stall," said the masked cat. What had Dr. Veyl called her? Elsbeth? "Kessara, did you look over that communication I forwarded to you? The one from—"

  "Ah! Of course!" Kessara interrupted. So the hazel-eyed cat was named Kessara. "His blueprints were rather… abstruse, but I managed to build the devices. I'll plant them right away. They should buy us some time." Her departure was marked by a harsh creak, followed by a metallic click.

  Dr. Veyl and Elsbeth moved closer to Silas. He watched them through his peripheral vision. They no longer looked like cats. They were tall, bipedal mammals with five-fingered hands and long, strong legs. The only fur they had was on their heads. Elsbeth's fur was much longer and darker than Dr. Veyl's, and she wore it in tightly woven braids. The way their forms undulated and pulsed made Silas think they were ghosts. Scared, he cried out. At least, he did in his mind. His throat produced a choked sound partway between a hiccup and a gurgle. Dr. Veyl shook his head at this.

  "Stay with him," he told Elsbeth. "I want to give Powder of Neuroleptic another go." Before disappearing from Silas's line of sight, he stopped, his gaze downcast. "I'll bring some broth to try too. Would you be willing to wheedle that into him?"

  Elsbeth nodded. Dr. Veyl flashed her a weary smile and exited in a flourish of white.

  White coat. Not white fur. Silas's mouth twitched. Physicks and logisters wear white coats. He didn't know what a physick or logister was, only what they wore. Why did they both wear white? How confusing.

  The rest of the day passed in irregular intervals. Different animals—people—stopped by, but Silas remembered Elsbeth the most. She offered a drink of milky white poison—

  No, Powder of Neuroleptic.

  Silas wanted to drink it. His parched mouth felt like it was filled with sand. But he couldn't move. When Elsbeth spoon fed him broth, it trickled from the corner of his mouth, his lips slightly parted. Tasting it without being able to swallow was torturous. Silas's stomach was so empty it was gnawing on him from the inside. He had never experienced hunger like this, not even when he—

  When I—

  When he… couldn't remember. Why couldn't he remember?

  Eventually Elsbeth gave up, setting the Powder and broth aside. She held Silas’s hand. The warmth of her skin was the only thing he could feel. Soon, his thoughts froze along with his body. Elsbeth's fingers squeezed his palm, the gentle pressure reminding him that he was alive. She fell asleep at some point. Silas must have too, only with his eyes open.

  They were jolted awake by Dr. Veyl. Elsbeth had been snoozing with her chin bobbing against her chest. She was sitting on something that Silas couldn't see. There were books stacked around her. Perhaps she was resting on a tower of tomes.

  Dr. Veyl entered abruptly, huffing and puffing with exertion. Elsbeth shot upright, swiveling her head, eyes wide.

  "They're ready for him in the operating theater," Dr. Veyl panted, stepping closer. He shone something bright into Silas's eyes, frowning as he shifted the light side to side. "No change?"

  Elsbeth shook her head.

  "Alright, lad. Today's a big day" Dr. Veyl knelt, wincing. "Elsbeth, help me remove these."

  Together, they fiddled with Silas's wrists and ankles, untying his restraints. The electrodes on his head were also peeled away. Once free, Dr. Veyl slid a palm under Silas's head and lifted the boy into a seated posture. From there, he pulled him to his feet. Elsbeth stepped back, her eyebrows raised.

  "I'm surprised," she said, tilting her head. "I figured he wouldn't be able to sit, let alone stand."

  Dr. Veyl pinched his lips tight. "I feared this would happen."

  "What?" Elsbeth blinked. "Isn't this a good thing?"

  Dr. Veyl shook his head. He wrapped his fingers around Silas's wrist, pulling the boy's arm out straight. Then, he bent Silas's arm at the elbow. Finally, he curled his fingers into varying shapes, each finger bent at a different angle. When Dr. Veyl let go, Silas's arm held the awkward position.

  Elsbeth stared. "What is this?"

  "Catatonia," Dr. Veyl responded after a pause.

  Elsbeth looked at him. "What does that mean?"

  Dr. Veyl didn't answer. He pushed Silas's arm down so it lay flush against his torso. Then, he draped an arm over Silas's shoulders and took a step forward. Slowly, reluctantly, Silas mirrored him. His foot lifted, dragged forward, and planted on the ground in front of him. In the time it took Silas to take one step, Elsbeth had already bounded into the corridor.

  "You go on ahead," Dr. Veyl said, waving her on. "We'll be there, slowly but surely."

  Elsbeth hesitated, shifting back and forth on her feet. Then, she rushed back to Silas and Dr. Veyl. She pressed a hand to Silas's back, gently urging him forward.

  Together, they trudged down brightly lit corridors, guiding Silas through branching intersections and passageways guarded by locked doors.

  "How long do we have?" Elsbeth whispered. "Have you heard anything from Kessara?"

  Dr. Veyl's grip tightened around Silas's shoulder. "Kessara is ready. We're just waiting for them to arrive."

  An exasperated Dr. Korrel emerged from a room at the end of the hall. He rushed toward Silas and his escorts, stomping his feet and scowling. "We've no time for this!" Dr. Korrel spat, shoving Elsbeth and Dr. Veyl away from Silas. Looping an arm under Silas's knees and another behind Silas's back, he hoisted the boy into the air.

  Silas was carried into a glaringly bright room and placed on a firm black table. People swarmed the room, murmuring to each other excitedly. They all wore matching garb: willowy gowns, cloth caps that secured their hair, and thin strips of fabric covering the bottom half of their faces. Gloved hands prodded at Silas. Something sharp pinched his hand. A clear bag of fluid was strung from a metal hook, dripping into a tube. Silas couldn't see where the tube ended.

  Dr. Veyl and Dr. Korrel were among the swarm, now also wearing the matching garments. Elsbeth was nowhere to be seen.

  "Time?" Dr. Veyl asked.

  "Seven thirty-eight ante meridiem," someone responded.

  A cart was rolled beside Silas's table. Metallic objects glistened. They were sharp and pointy and looked like they could slice through flesh with ease.

  "Administering anesthetic," Dr. Veyl said. Silas felt a tug on his hand as Dr. Veyl adjusted the tube.

  The ground rumbled. The metallic objects on the cart rattled; the bag of fluid wobbled on its hook. Dr. Veyl looked up, his eyes on something Silas couldn't see. He let out a breath.

  "What in the frozen hells was that?" Dr. Korrel demanded. "Continue on," he spat. "I'll investigate."

  Elsbeth's muffled voice could be heard from the other side of the wall. It sounded like she shouted, "Wait!"

  Whoever she was talking to did not wait.

  The door was kicked in. Everybody froze. Dr. Korrel backpedaled, his hands raised, his eyes narrowed in shock and fear.

  A feminine voice hummed. "This is quite the splendid mess you've gotten yourself into, little mouse."