Forty-one graduates stood before the altar, the grace of God upon them—heads held high, backs straight, shoulders square. Pride swelled in their chests as they prepared to fulfil their life’s purpose: to serve the rhen.

  Hands folded behind them, they didn’t flinch as Father Ken walked the aisle, sprinkling holy water over them. Some grinned; a few closed their eyes, whispering thanks to Rheina for carrying them this far.

  Someone should tell these fools not to be too excited about the life that awaited them. Maselli remembered his time graduating; he didn’t remember being this happy. Whatever had been running through his head that day, his little brother Jeromy was struggling with the same.

  Jeromy had insisted Aron and Mari not show up at all, leaving Maselli and Hanna to attend the ceremony in their stead.

  “May the good God bless you,” said Father Ken. He dipped his horsetail brush into the bowl and swept it over Jeromy’s face. Jeromy bowed his head and whispered a soft prayer. “In your coming and going, may Rheina give you strength, and the resolve to whole-heartedly serve the Assembly, and to serve your motherland. Henrikia.”

  “Henrikia,” the congregation responded.

  Parents moved out from behind the pews, crowding the space between benches, congratulating their children. The congestion flowed out into the courtyard until Jeromy was the only one left, standing neutral-faced with a wet forehead.

  “Better get home quick,” said Maselli. “Everyone’s waiting for you.”

  “Aren’t you coming with me?” asked Jeromy.

  “Hanna and I have a thing we’ve got to do today.” Jeromy switched from confusion to instant clarity and didn’t ask further questions, taking the lead home.

  Hanna and Maselli were not far behind, although taking a walk through Blackwood that morning without getting crossed was impossible. Parents took their toddlers towards white tents set up in front of the apartment blocks. Pregnant women joined them there along with the sick and injured.

  There was one tent in particular Maselli and Hanna needed to find. Neither the dust nor the rows of identical canvas made the search easy. They barged into a tent filled with morbid toddlers, a tattoo artist and his machine. A two-year-old was strapped in the hot seat, whimpering as the artist drilled dye into the back of his hand. “No crying,” the boy’s father said. The others waiting in line clung to their parents.

  The next tent they barged into was filled with their elderly. Now sixty-five, they lay side by side in beds, hooked to drugs that would usher them into a peaceful retirement in heaven.

  All his mates were gathered under another tent, sitting stiffly on benches, jaws locked tight. The set-up was simple: a desk at the far end, a welfare administrator seated behind it with a sheet of paper, and beside her stood Blackwood’s Commissioner.

  Victor.

  A soldier with unholy green eyes. Like all inland troopers, he wore the green uniform and matching cap, and his mere presence turned the air heavy and unbreathable. Commissioner Victor had no business being here.

  Maselli nudged Antonica, the boy sitting beside him, asking, “Has the administrator mentioned any names yet?”

  “One, one, seven, sixty-four,” the administrator called. “One, three, seven, twenty-three.”

  A boy and a girl—Danica and Samellie—rose and shuffled to the desk. The administrator gestured for them to sit, then set a pen and paper between them.

  “There’s no need to be nervous,” she said in English. “You both knew this day was coming.”

  “Yes, Renna,” Danica and Samellie said together.

  That pen was the bridge between childhood and adulthood. The moment they signed the paper, they would be bound as husband and wife, after being engaged for about thirty seconds now.

  Samellie grabbed the pen and signed. Danica took a lot longer. As if to say the system would not control her. Her small brain concluded that there was no beating the system. She took the pen and signed against her index number. Her eyes turned sore, but she dared not cry. The administrator showed them the way out of the tent.

  A hand crept into Maselli’s. Of course, he knew the feel of Hanna’s hand. She shouldn’t be scared, though. Father Ken had been the one to prepare the lists, pairing them under “God’s counsel.” She already knew who her match would be.

  One by one, friends they had grown up with were leaving as couples. No one left happy, making this the saddest wedding ever.

  “One, three, seven, forty-three,” the administrator called. “One, three, seven, forty-seven.”

  Hanna and Maselli approached the desk.

  “You two seem content,” the administrator said. “It makes me glad.”

  They forced a smile for the lady.

  “Block Six, room forty-one. Clear the belongings of the previous resident and move in. I will be here on this date next year to inspect your first child.”

  “May I ask something?” Hanna said.

  “You may.”

  “Please, Renna,” she mumbled. “What if we aren’t ready?”

  The administrator leaned closer, repeating Hanna’s words under her breath to the Commissioner. Victor snorted, then translated for her in Kirisi.

  “You don’t want to have children?” the administrator asked.

  “No, no,” Hanna retorted. “We don’t want children right now, that’s all.”

  The administrator turned to the Commissioner again. She and the big man conversed lightly in their home language. Maselli took the time to find Hanna’s foot, squashing her toes. Her knee jerked, bumping the table. Their glares met. “Will you shut up?” hissed Maselli.

  “It is not a problem as long as you’re willing to pay the fee,” the administrator said to them. “We will take a forty-three percent cut from your combined wages and give it to a complete family as benefits. Do you have any more questions?”

  They answered by signing the contract.

  Problems. There always seemed to be one around the corner. Thoughts spun like wheels in his mind. Some of which he had pushed so far back they had now hit a wall called “time.” The elephant in the room needed addressing. Now that he and Hanna were life partners, it was the best time to let her in on his family’s not-so-little secret. Aron and Mari wouldn’t live forever. Ezra would have to move in with him soon.

  “I don’t know who you were hoping to get married to, but I hoped you might at least pretend that you’re fine with me,” said Hanna, taking his hand. “Who would you have liked?”

  “What does it matter?”

  “I’m your wife now, and we aren’t meant to keep secrets from each other.” Hanna was about to add something more, but stopped herself. The tease wasn’t worth risking their friendship, she knew. She tried to steer the talk to lighter ground, but he wasn’t in the mood.

  Too disturbed, he did the one thing he knew he would pay for later. He ignored her. By the time his senses returned, he’d wound his way to the apartment blocks, heading home. No. Not his home. His parent’s home. It was just him and Hanna now. For life.

  Franka’s broken laughter echoed down the stairwell. A makeshift barricade of outcasts blocked the landing, keeping Jeromy from climbing higher. Franka’s fingers dug deep into Jeromy’s pocket. Was it not sad to see a grown man searching a child’s pocket for money?

  “And I thought you couldn’t dig deeper than rock bottom,” said Maselli. “Leave him alone. Some of us have a family and a home to return to.”

  “The sheep returns,” said Franka. “How tightly did they squeeze your balls today? Oh, I forgot, you don’t have any.” Franka’s friends laughed.

  “Say what you want about us, but sheep don’t sleep hungry at night,” said Maselli. He took Jeromy by the wrist and cut through their barrier. “It’s the wolf who starves.”

  Once they’d put distance between themselves and the jeers, Maselli asked, “What did he take?”

  “I don’t have any money,” Jeromy said. “I told him Aron would give me gifts after the ceremony, but he didn’t believe me.”

  “Stop trying to reason with Franka. He’s mental. Next time you see him, turn the other way. Don’t think of him as family.”

  “It doesn’t feel right.”

  “Don’t try to understand everything.”

  They reached home, and Maselli couldn’t help but smile at his baby brother. All grown now, ready for work. He hated to admit it, but the graduation did feel good.

  “Congratulations!” the horde of guests roared. Aunties and uncles crowded the room, laughing, clinking glasses, showering Jeromy with wishes.

  “I can’t believe it,” Patrica squealed, squeezing the life out of Jeromy. “You’re not this old. You should be in kindergarten, stuffing sand in your nose.”

  “Auntie…” Jeromy murmured, looking down.

  “Jerry,” Mari said. “You make us proud today.”

  “You’ve never told me about the times I made you proud,” Maselli put in.

  “Always the attention-seeker, Maselli,” said Conrad, in a wheelchair now.

  “Have you seen my girl, Maselli?” Rita asked, handing him a glass of wine. “It’s not like her to miss out.”

  “Aren’t the two of you married now?” Conrad asked Maselli. Mari and Rita swooped in, scolding him not to sour Jeromy’s moment.

  Aron raised his glass. “A toast. To my son—my sons—for crossing such an important milestone in their lives. Praise God.”

  Maselli pulled a trick by disappearing from the living room. Paying close attention to prying eyes, he mumbled behind his bedroom door, “Let me in.” The lock turned. Maselli cracked the door open and slid into the room.

  There was one saucer on the bed with a slice of cake and a glass half full of wine. Nothing more. Ezra lingered by the crack in the door, watching the guests. Just when he was about to tell her it was enough, she pushed it close.

  “I’m seeing people I’ve never met before,” said Ezra. “Who is the one whose belly has bent his spine.”

  “Uncle Jeremy?” asked Maselli.

  “I always imagined he’d look a bit like Jeromy.” Ezra clicked the door shut and leaned against it, hands hidden behind her back. She slouched like a wilting plant, lips dry. The colours in her eyes had dulled to shades of grey.

  She crossed to the bed and sat, cupping her glass before taking a sip. Maselli declined when she offered him some cake. She nibbled a piece herself and asked, “Who did you get married to?”

  “Who do you expect? We already had our first fight.”

  “Hanna,” Ezra guessed.

  “You’re going to have to learn to live on your own now,” Maselli said. “Jeromy won’t be home after school anymore—he’ll be on the Farm. We won’t be back till five, sometimes ten. Is that something you think you can handle?”

  Ezra stared into her empty glass, as if searching for her reflection. Maselli opened his arms and pulled her close. Good days were coming, he told himself. They were just too human to see them yet. She clutched his coat, creasing his shirt.

  “My father will come for me soon,” she whispered. “Don’t worry about me.”

  “He’s forgotten about you,” said Maselli. “Either that or he’s dead.”

  No protests. No pillow fight to prove who was right. No obnoxious screams. Through pain, he said the one thing she didn’t need to hear now. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Don’t go,” she groaned, throwing her arms around his neck.

  “Ezra—” He gagged, helpless to her supernatural agility. She slipped behind him and they both fell backwards, landing on the bed. He squealed, pushing up.

  They’d been through this phase before—her hiding the door keys so he’d miss work, or spilling porridge “by accident” on his trousers. Maselli braced to heave himself free, but stopped cold when he noticed something on her leg.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  Ezra’s grip loosened. She was whiter than paper, making it impossible to miss any kind of blemish.

  “There’s something on your leg,” he said.

  They both crawled off the bed and her skirt flopped down to cover the mark. When he showed her where to look, she pulled the skirt up her thigh. He saw it. She saw it. And a million ants crawled up his spine.

  Black vines intertwined and branched into tendrils, spreading across her leg. The longer he stared at it, the more it seemed to breathe. She blanched. Any more and she would become transparent.

  Thump, thump, thump. “Maselli! Is this how you treat visitors? Come out!”

  “Uncle Percy, I’m counting money,” Maselli said. “I’ll come out when I’m done.”

  “Children these days,” laughed Uncle Percy.

  Maselli turned back, whispering, “Ezra, we can’t keep this to ourselves. I’m telling Aron.”

  “No, don’t,” she snapped. “I’m the one who did it. It’s a tattoo. I was too embarrassed to show you.”

  “That’s the worst lie I’ve ever heard!”

  “I saw it this morning, but it’s getting smaller. I promise it will be gone by the weekend.”

  “What is it?”

  “Maselli!” Uncle Percy bellowed.

  “Nothing,” mouthed Ezra. “Go, before he gets suspicious.”

  Uncle Percy snorted above Maselli’s head. Easily the largest man in the room. Maselli was grateful his uncle hadn’t broken down the door when he’d taken too long to come out. Percy clasped hands with Mari and Aron, congratulating them one last time before heading out.

  Aron shut the front door and asked Mari to check for lingering guests. Finding none, she leaned against Maselli’s bedroom door and called for Ezra. The girl emerged, concealing both her infection and the truth of it.

  “I hate to leave you like this, Ezra, but we’re running late,” Mari said. “And I’m sure you don’t want your baby brother in trouble on his first day.”

  Jeromy had already stripped out of his graduation uniform for plain clothes. One by one, the family said their goodbyes to Ezra.

  Under the shadows of two massive stone pillars, workers huddled in four groups. The mighty Ring warmed, ready to do what it had done for as long as Maselli could remember. The new recruits—Jeromy among them—gazed wide-eyed, tears threatening. This would be their first crossing.

  The air lightened. The humming began. Heat waves rippled through the dust, drawing the first beads of sweat—many more to come.

  The portal tore open onto a war-torn desert. Rubble buried rubble. Lightning split the sky; thunder clapped over the chaos. Henrikian officers on the other side sprinted toward the gate.

  “What are you waiting for? Get in!”

  As one, the Midder-Land workers jogged forward, climbing through the Ring and straight into the warzone. When the portal snapped shut, Jeromy sighed in relief.

  “You wouldn’t be glad if it was your father heading in there,” muttered the brooding man in front of them.

  Maselli put a steady hand on Jeromy’s shoulder. “We’re not assigned to the Midder-Lands. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

  The Ring then opened a portal to rolling green hills under a clear blue sky. Birds soared through the clean wind and perched on tall trees. Workers assigned to the First Farm spent the day cultivating fruits. The officers in charge of the plantations lay under shades, fanning themselves with their hats.

  The portal sealed, and another opened: the Second Farm. A vast harbour stretched before them, ships docked in rows. Metal containers stacked higher than Maselli could see. Trains waited in sunlit tunnels, ready to haul their loads.

  The hum rose once more, and the Third Farm appeared.

  Where the First Farm was all green, the Third was an amalgamation of lifeless grey buildings. Colossal spouts puffed out endless streams of black smoke into the grey sky, tainting factory windows black. Every metallic railing was red with corrosion from the acidic air. Sirens blasted the Henrikian anthem.

  Hundreds of pickup trucks waited for them on the other end, engines revving. Maselli tugged Jeromy towards one, and they scrambled into the back with a few others. Tires screeched over sharp stones as smoke poured from the exhaust.

  “Wait!” a girl cried, running for their pickup truck. Hanna.

  Maselli rolled up his sleeve and thrust out his hand. She grabbed it, hauling herself in just as the truck picked up speed.

  “FOR THE MOTHERLAND! FOR THE MOTHERLAND!” the sirens roared.

  “FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!”

  Jeromy clutched the side of the truck, shouting over the din: “Is it like this every single day?”

  “Every day,” Hanna said. The rest could only agree.

  Most of the other boys in the truck were from Trenchwood, Maplewood, and Forswood. Maselli only knew them from work on the Third Farm. The tall one was Tall Boy. The small one was Magpie. A Magpie who had folded his arms tight and was shifting his feet about.

  “What’s with the mood?” Maselli asked.

  “Magpie married Anne this morning,” Tall Boy said. “He hasn’t spoken since.”

  “Anne? What’s wrong with her?” Maselli asked.

  “I think I’ve met her,” Hanna said. “She’s a cleaner, right? But she’s kind of cute, Magpie.”

  “Anne stammers,” Tall Boy said. “Magpie hates that.”

  “Never thought you were this petty,” said Maselli, turning to Tall Boy. “And you? You seem content with your partner.”

  “I never had preferences.”

  “I’m happy for you,” Antonica muttered, pouting.

  What was Antonica’s problem? He was married to Zerah—the most attractive girl in their year. Then it hit him. Zerah had a baby.

  “She just assumed the baby’s mine now,” Antonica grumbled. “I’d rather pay the fine than waste my wages raising her kid.”

  “So, you’ll leave her on her own?” asked Maselli.

  “She can stop being lazy and come to work like the rest of us.”

  “Who do you suppose should take care of the baby when she’s out here?”

  Antonica never got a chance to answer. Their vehicles had brought them to their workplace. A war factory with tainted windows and grey walls. Green officers stood on elevated posts, monitoring the earthens shovel astaphite ore into a furnace.

  Maselli rolled up his sleeves and popped a nearby trunk open. He pulled out two shovels. One for himself and one for Jeromy.

  “More fire, more flame,” an officer commanded. “Do it for Henrikia.”

  The furnace roared, making his skin scrunch up and tighten against his skull. His eyes burned, but he willed them open, then shovelled, and shovelled, and shovelled.

  Jeromy gasped, tapping Maselli on the shoulder. Maselli had been here for far too long to be excited about what Jeromy had seen. The furnace spat out purple, orange, green, and yellow stones, like popcorn. Highly cataclysmic popcorn. Astaphite in its purest form. The precious gems shot from the furnace, clinking on the ground.

  A broad-shouldered man with a thick moustache whistled. A girl hurried over with a crate, scooping up the gems. That haul might be all they saw today. Most ore held nothing, but still they shovelled, because one never knew.

  Women from other stations passed with full crates.

  “Wow,” Jeromy whispered. “Are they sending all of it to the Midder-Lands?”

  “Mhm,” Maselli said. “Valuable to some people. Gaverians. You’ve heard of them?”

  “This is crazy,” Jeromy wheezed, mouth open. “Seeing it in real life—”

  “Boy!” a voice thundered from above. “Virsio!”

  The hairs on Jeromy’s neck stood. He ducked his head and shovelled harder.

  Jeromy didn’t lose momentum. Jeromy was still throwing more iron into the furnace than anyone else after the hour. The following hour sucked the energy out of Jeromy, as the young earthman realized that break wasn’t until noon. The hour after that, and the one after that, and the one after that, snatched his spirit away completely, as it had done to many before him. It had finally hit Jeromy. This wasn’t something he was doing for just one morning. The graduate would shovel for the rest of his life. Every single day. The same old way.

  As the horns blew, they broke. Hands slammed on the red buttons. The furnace cooled down. The workers made their way from their workstations and headed for the canteen. Workers struck their fingers against their foreheads and wiped the sweat away.

  “Is this all there is to it?” asked Jeromy.

  “You get to wear a red hat at Christmas,” said Maselli.

  As always, the canteen was crowded with angry, hungry workers who took any excuse to curse at the matrons. They had to squeeze and shove through tight spaces around others, stepping over feet and heels alike. A young boy, probably a fresh graduate, sat behind a table with a few others, opening up their lunch packs. They tried to dig their spoons into the food. Some tried harder and ended up with bent metalware.

  “I can’t smell anything,” said Jeromy. “What are we eating?”

  The matron slapped the food packs in front of the brothers, and they chipped at the counter. Maselli weighed the pack in one hand, cracking a smile. “This is the only thing that can get you through the day.”

  Jeromy popped the lid open, sniffing it. “Beans,” he said.

  “Concrete,” corrected Maselli. “Come on, we don’t eat here.”

  He and Hanna met for lunch in an abandoned watch tower. No one came up here to bother them. Hanna was hanging out her head from the tower window, her back drenched with sweat. She’d already finished her beans with the empty pack against the wall. Tall Boy lay flat on an old bench, beating his shirt over his bare, glossy back.

  “You’re red, Jeromy. Was it that bad?” Hanna said, guiding him to sit. “Eat before you faint.”

  “Why’d you make him work so hard?” she scolded Maselli. “You should’ve snuck him up here hours ago.”

  BOOM!

  A shockwave rolled from the north. The brothers ignored it, tearing open their packs.

  “The sooner Jeromy gets used to full shifts, the better,” Maselli said.

  “If I hadn’t snuck you out your first weeks, you’d never have lasted,” Tall Boy said. “You’re being too hard on him.”

  BOOM!

  “I skipped work because I didn’t value ethics then. I do now and so does Jeromy.” Maselli spat out a mouthful of beans. “In my family, we hit the ground running.”

  “You’re no different from Franka,” Hanna snapped. “Bullying your brother for fun.”

  BOOM!

  Jeromy threw his weight in. “I don’t mind working full time—” BOOM! “I just wish I was born a girl though!”

  “Why is that?” Hanna yelled back.

  “You guys do nothing but pick up astaphite off the floor all day, while we’re stuck shovelling ore into the furnace. You have the easiest job in the world.”

  Tall Boy seethed. Hanna glared at Maselli and said, “Is that what you told him?”

  Maselli opened his mouth, but the air ripped open—BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

  The tower walls rattled.

  “Hell,” Maselli gasped, rushing to the window with the others.

  Surrounding the Third Farm lay the Ossen Sea. Two colossal pillars rose from the water, holding up a Ring. Tracks stretched from the island across the waves, feeding directly into it. Trains carried astaphite through the Ring.

  At the moment, the Ring had activated the portal to the Midder-Lands. On the other side were flashes of violet, blue, yellow, and silver. Gaverians. So fast that the normal mind perceives them to be electromotive forces. A train came rushing by, rumbling over the still ocean and into the portal.

  “I don’t know how long wars usually last,” Jeromy said, “but ten years feels pretty long. Why hasn’t anyone won yet?”

  “Our High Commander is holding back,” Maselli said. “Renna Sorel could end it, but the casualties would be too high.”

  Hanna and Tall Boy broke into laughter.

  “Oh, Maselli,” Hanna wheezed.

  “What? It’s true.”

  “You’ve got this spark in your eyes whenever you talk about Renna Sorel.”

  “She does everything for this country. Is it wrong to admire my heroes?”

  “You’re missing the point. Admiring her is fine. But sometimes it seems like you lock yourself in your room, put on a blonde wig and pink lipstick, and pretend to be her.”

  Jeromy’s lips twitched into a smile. Tall Boy and Hanna weren’t as kind—they laughed until they wheezed. Maselli gripped the windowsill so tight he thought he might snap it. “You’re too small-minded to appreciate what she does for Henrikia,” he said.

  “If you love her so much—”

  “Yes, yes, I would sell the devil my soul to marry her, and I would add my father’s, if needed.” Maselli put his hands together and stared at the ceiling. “God, give me a chance with a Sorel—any Sorel.”

  “So, you would give me up to be with a woman who doesn’t know you exist?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Hanna snorted with a shrug. “Your loss.”

  Ugh. “My loss? My loss? You. A loss? If Schemel is a ten, you’re a fraction of zero! And I doubt anyone has to take a second look at her before they realise she has a—”

  “Alright, let’s go,” Tall Boy cut in. He put an arm around Maselli, turning him away from Hanna.

  On their return to work, it was Maselli who shoved with the intensity of a madman. His brother hadn’t mentioned a word about the tower incident, because Jeromy understood Maselli regretted it already. Nobody appreciated an unneeded lecture.

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The siren for closing blew, and every man dropped their shovel in a unifying sigh. The day shift was done and the night shift workers were already making their way into the factory. God bless their souls. Maselli took Jeromy to join a queue to the Wage Mistress, who ripped out a receipt from a ledger and passed it on to the boys. From there, they made their way on foot, following the masses to Folk Bank, where they had to join another queue to trade their receipts for wages.

  A large clock stood in the banking hall. It read 4:35 PM. The portals to take them back home would open at 5:00 PM.

  “You’re going home without me,” said Maselli. “There’s something I need to do.”

  “But the portals don’t open again until ten.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “Why?”

  “It doesn’t concern you. And no—you’re not coming with me. I don’t want Aron on my neck after your first day.”

  “You know I’m not going home alone,” said Jeromy. “Something is bothering you, and it’s got nothing to do with Hanna.”

  “It’s Ezra,” Maselli said, and a weight on his chest lifted. He told his brother everything. “I need to know what she’s up against. If we understand it, we can find a way to get rid of it.”

  Maselli’s pay came to twenty kliqs, plus five in bonuses for working over two hundred days straight. Jeromy earned ten kliqs for his first day—not bad. After taxes, though, Maselli took home twelve, and Jeromy only four kliqs and eight kuts.

  “So, where are we going?” Jeromy asked as they stepped out.

  The internet café was the only real source of information besides Father Ken. It held twelve computers, each surrounded by nests of boys. One officer guarded the door, two more monitored from inside.

  Maselli pushed through, ignoring the crowd pressed against the screens watching war clips from the Midder-Lands. A bigger audience gathered around one computer with two controllers, playing Dominus.

  At the counter, Maselli placed a kliq note down.

  “The place is full,” the officer said, leaning back in his chair.

  Maselli laid another note. The officer dragged his chair back and led him to the last machine, shooing the boys off it.

  He closed the browser, keyed in codes, and said, “Your session has begun.” A timer ticked down from forty-seven minutes in the corner. Jeromy hovered behind, breathing on Maselli’s head.

  When Maselli logged on, purple scalene triangles etched around the monitor glowed. Like the Rings, computers tapped into the ripper stream via ascension—though unlike Gaverians, they didn’t burn astaphite as quickly.

  “Black patches on the skin,” Maselli murmured, typing into the search bar. He glanced over his shoulder, then at the windows. “Tell me if anyone’s watching us.”

  Information wasn’t scarce. Ezra’s condition had a scientific name he couldn’t pronounce. Its common name was Black Vein.

  “After Frennie cursed the southern lands, every rhen who stayed here contracted Black Vein,” Maselli explained. “Ezra’s been down here eight years. She’s lucky it didn’t strike sooner. Most rhens get it within months.”

  “I thought Henrikians never stayed in the UCL because it was beneath them,” Jeromy said.

  “Not unless you want your organs wrapped in cursed vines,” Maselli muttered, typing again. How long does it take Black Vein to kill?

  Seven.

  Not months. Not weeks. Days!

  “God,” both brothers gasped.

  “Search for cures,” said Jeromy, shaking Maselli.

  “There is no cure. Once you’re out of the cursed regions, the Black Vein disappears.”

  “Ezra can’t leave the house.”

  “You think I don’t know that?”

  “Search for alternative medicines,” said Jeromy, reaching over to type it in. “There must be some way we can get rid of it.”

  A moment passed, and pins grew under the seat, pinching his bottom. They searched one shady site after another. Just when it felt like they were making progress, the browser cut off and 00:00 flashed on the timer.

  The officer came by, palm open. Maselli cursed under his breath and slapped another kliq into the man’s hand. A quarter of his day’s wage gone. And he was supposed to raise a family like this.

  Back at it, they landed on a site claiming to have a cure: Black Syrup.

  Take it regularly and never suffer from Black Vein.

  Jeromy frowned. “I don’t know about this, Maselli. Maybe we should go home and tell Aron.”

  “That’s a day wasted. While we’re here, we do everything we can.” Maselli dug deeper, finding an address: Trade-All Market. Far, but not impossible.

  It stung that he still had thirty minutes left on the counter but with nothing else to do.

  Workers in brown coats drifted toward the Rings, heads down, hands in pockets. Not all went home. Some lingered at pubs to catch the news. Today, the crowds were thicker than usual. Something was up.

  They crossed into a street with few workers. Open garages flanked them, each with broken-down vehicles. Earthens in blue jumpsuits clutched their pliers and screwdrivers, but none were working. Instead, they huddled around radios. Supervisors did the same at stairwells.

  Up ahead, Green Officers stood around another radio. “Good evening, sirs,” Jeromy mumbled with a shy salute. The officers glanced their way, then turned back to the broadcast.

  One rusted bridge remained, stretched over black ruin. Burnt buildings, shattered glass, and a deep crater below. Jeromy whistled, but kept his questions to himself.

  Trade-All stood at the end of the street, a colourless two-story block buzzing with trade. Second-hand phones, cheap grains, questionable meats, back-alley medicines—anything you didn’t want to buy in a pharmacy.

  The drug vendor’s stall glowed under a low-hanging onion bulb that brushed his scalp. A pot-bellied man with a patchy beard squinted pink eyes at the boys.

  “You must be Franka’s brothers,” the man said. “Tell him the Green Boys are looking for him—unless you’re here to pay his debts.”

  “No,” Maselli said. “Sir—”

  “Don’t deny it. He mentioned you plenty.”

  “We know Franka, but we’re not brothers.”

  “Well, what do you want?”

  “We heard you sell Black Syrup. Do you have any?”

  “And why would two earthen boys need that? Kidnapped one of ours, and now they’re dying? Is it an officer?”

  “You’re running a business. Why do you care where the money comes from?”

  “I could call those Green Officers right now, have you both arrested for kidnapping.”

  “You won’t,” Maselli said. “What honest man trades with Franka? Call the officers and you’ll have more to explain than we do.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t like you.”

  “We’re not here to be liked. Do you have the syrup?”

  The ugly vendor didn’t answer right away. His big nose had flared, sniffing the desperation in the air. “I’ve been meaning to pay for something,” he said at last. “Now you’ll help me.”

  “Pay for what?”

  “My daughter’s piano lessons.” He let a rotten tooth slip out. “Fifty kliqs.” Maselli sagged with relief. “Multiplied by ten.”

  Five hundred kliqs? Maselli barked a laugh. “You can’t be serious.”

  “The extra two-fifty is for your brother’s debts. Non-negotiable.”

  “…we will not negotiate with the Sexites…” a voice interrupted. The High Commander, speaking from the radio. “…we must recuperate our losses and strike harder. Taxation is the only way. I now give way to the Minister of Finance…”

  The entire country cringed, from the poorest southerner to the richest Henrikian.

  The vendor turned off his radio. “Whenever you come by, ask for Fortune, in case I’m not here.”

  Maselli leaned in. “You just heard the High Commander. Things are about to get worse. We need this drug.”

  “I’m not lowering the price.”

  “Yes, I know,” Maselli said, “but can we make an arrangement?”

  “I’m sorry. You’re not the only ones suffering.”

  Maselli’s jaw clenched. “You’re paying for piano lessons, and we don’t even know if we’ll eat tomorrow.”

  “To me, you’re the last people I should trust with credit. Earthens never pay back what they owe.”

  “You can’t use Franka as proof against us,” Jeromy said. “We’re nothing like him.”

  “That’s what they all say.”

  Maselli pressed his palms together. “Listen. Give me a week, and I’ll bring you two-fifty. No one else could make that kind of money in that time. If I can, sell me the syrup on credit. I’ll pay everything back with interest in three days. If I don’t, report me to the authorities. Look—” He showed Fortune his tattoo. “My third digit is seven. We are Blackens, from Blackwood. Now you know where to find us.”

  Fortune’s narrowed eyes widened. He lobbed his tongue in his mouth, sizing up Maselli until he chuckled. “I’m too curious to turn you down.”

  Maselli and Jeromy sprinted for the nearest Ring. He didn’t know the exact time, but better early than a minute late. If the portal to Blackwood opened and they missed it, they’d be stuck until two in the morning. With every step, Maselli’s chest grew heavier. It didn’t matter what Ezra wanted—their parents had to know.

  Aron and Mari had been doing so well that they bought cake and wine for Jeromy’s graduation. With taxes going up again, he wondered if that cake tasted like sand in their mouths now.

  Bitter as it was, the country needed the money. Renna Sorel needed it to win the war. If he’d been in a better position, Maselli would’ve given every coin for her cause.

  The church bells tolled in Blackwood, calling for evening service. No one stirred. Tonight, people were too tired—or too weighed down—to give Rheina his due.

  Aron and Mari stood in the living room; eyes fixed on the television. Aron’s arm wrapped Mari tight as if her warmth could shield them from the Minister of Finance’s words. Neither noticed Maselli and Jeromy slip past.

  Ezra sat right where he’d left her. She had one foot up on the bedframe, with a magazine resting on her raised knee.

  “Ezra,” Jeromy said, and couldn’t say anything else. From his trembling knees and quivering lips, she figured out Jeromy knew her secret. Before she could say anything, Jeromy embraced her. “I’m so sorry.” Ezra shot Maselli a look.

  “He’s not the only one I’m telling,” Maselli said. “First thing tomorrow, I’m telling Aron and Mari. We’ll spend everything we have to get you better.”

  “I already told them,” Ezra replied. “Aron says he’ll get anti-curse pills from the pharmacy tomorrow. He says they’ll help.”

  They wouldn’t. Aron wasn’t looking for proper solutions, only ones on budget. Pills would buy time at best, nothing more.

  Six days. Twelve kliqs a day in wages. Twelve times six makes seventy-two. Jeromy earns four kliqs. Four times six is twenty-four. Seventy-two plus twenty-four ninety-six. Hanna’s wage is another seventy-two. Overall, that should be one sixty-eight. Two-fifty minus one sixty-eight. Eighty-two. I need eighty-two kliqs.

  “Jeromy,” Maselli said, “Convince Aron and Mari to give you eighty kliqs.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because they won’t listen to me.”

  He brushed past his parents a second time—still rooted in front of the screen—and stepped into Aunt Rita’s home.

  “Maselli Shepherd,” Rita greeted.

  “Is Hanna home?”

  “She’s locked herself in her room,” Rita said, crumpling her napkin. “Missed your brother’s party too. I don’t know what’s wrong with her.”

  “What has she done again?” asked Maselli.

  “She came home and locked herself in her bedroom. She won’t talk to us…”

  “I thought she was fond of you,” said Conrad, from the sofa. “What happened between you two?”

  Something stirred in the kitchen, spreading a spicy aroma into the living room. Maselli’s belly grumbled. It helped push the demeanour he was striving for.

  “Well?” asked Conrad. “Why is my daughter upset?”

  “Uncle, she is asking for things I can’t say yes to.”

  “She wants to have children?”

  “No, sir, not that. The administrator assigned us House Six, room forty-three. I don’t know if you know, sir, but that room used to be Aunt Audrey’s apartment.”

  “Used to be?” Conrad asked.

  “She retired this morning, sir.”

  “I see.”

  “Hanna doesn’t want to move in yet. She says we should replace Audrey’s bedsheets first. I told her it’s wasteful. Who cares whose sheets they were? She called me cheap and hasn’t spoken to me since.”

  Conrad chuckled, then hacked into a cough. Rita rushed in with water.

  “Has the issue been resolved?” she asked.

  “From the sound of it, Hanna’s being silly,” Conrad said, thumping his chest. “These children—all silly.”

  “I’m glad it’s nothing serious.”

  “Rita,” Conrad said, “bring me my bag.”

  “No, sir,” said Maselli. “I can’t take your money.”

  “Nonsense. Newlyweds can’t manage on their own. Our fathers passed down their fortunes from the north to us. It’s the parent’s duty to support his children.”

  Rita returned with his bag. Conrad licked his finger and counted notes. “Here. Fifty kliqs. Buy all the decorations you can afford.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Maselli. He stuffed the bills into his coat pocket. “Please—keep this a secret until I’ve fixed the place. I want it to be a surprise.”

  “You’d better give us a grandson before we retire,” Conrad said.

  “We’ll try, sir.” Maselli thanked them again and left.

  Down the hallway he strolled, numbers ticking in his head.

  Twelve times six—seventy-two. Four times six—twenty-four. Seventy-two plus twenty-four—ninety-six. Add Hanna’s seventy-two. One sixty-eight. Plus fifty. Two eighteen. Damn.

  He knocked on Zerah’s door.

  “Come in,” a strangled voice said. And strangled she was.

  The place smelled like his future: diapers and desperation. He’d heard stories about Zerah’s struggles, but seeing it was different. The apartment was dark—she couldn’t afford new levithium blades for her lights. Most of her furniture was gone. What remained was a table like the ones in the school canteen, a chair, and a box pretending to be a chair.

  A mattress lay under the window. On it, the baby gripped Zerah’s finger with both hands. She sat against the wall, knees raised, lips cracked, dark circles under her eyes.

  “Maselli,” she said. “How are you?”

  “I should be the one asking. I never came to visit when we found out about, um…”

  “Will,” she said, looking down at her baby.

  “Will,” said Maselli. “He’s a lovely boy.”

  “Can you hold him for me? I need the bathroom.”

  The baby didn’t squirm when she left. Maselli wondered if he was awake or asleep. Questions pressed on his tongue, but most felt too personal. He and Zerah weren’t close—never had been—so he’d have to start small.

  He followed the path she’d taken through the dark, moving slowly until his shoulder clipped something unseen. “Zerah,” he called, “don’t you find the dark inconvenient?”

  “I have a lantern,” she answered somewhere ahead. “But I don’t light it anymore. I know my way around.”

  “Is this okay for Will’s eyes? You could at least keep the light on until he falls asleep.”

  “As long as you’re paying for the kerosene, I have no problem.”

  “Moonlight’s free. You could take him outside in the evening.”

  A toilet flushed. The building’s water was shared, so even without paying, Zerah still had access. Electricity and gas were different matters entirely.

  “I don’t go out anymore,” she said. “You know how those women look at me.”

  He didn’t know, not exactly, but he wasn’t stupid.

  Maselli jerked back when she appeared in front of him. Zerah reached for Will but hesitated. “Do you mind holding him a little longer? I think he likes you.”

  “Do you have something to do?”

  “I was thinking of making something for myself,” she said. “He cries when I leave him alone. I can’t do anything until he falls asleep.”

  He followed her into the kitchen. Like the rest of the house, there wasn’t much to see. A small gas cylinder sat beside the stove with one box of oats in the cabinet.

  Maselli’s stomach growled without his permission, and she froze. “I’m sorry, Maselli, but this is just for me. You can go home if you’re hungry.”

  After cooking, she sat on the box by the table. Maselli took the lone chair.

  “Can I ask you something?” he said. “Why are you so poor?”

  “It’s complicated.” Zerah kept her eyes on her food. “When the administrator found out I was pregnant without permission, they called me and my parents to the ministry. They gave me two options. Either Will was born and they indexed him with four zeroes, or I aborted him.”

  “Four zeroes?” Maselli frowned. “What does that mean?”

  “The government can do whatever they want with Will. They could shoot him in the head for fun. They called him a Free Subject.”

  “And you agreed to that?”

  “No. That’s horrible.” Her voice cracked. “I didn’t want a baby, but my parents said it was better if I kept him. It wasn’t Will’s fault I was irresponsible. They threw me out when I gave birth, though. Said God had given me a new chance with my husband. I moved here to wait for him. Somehow, I thought Antonica would overlook my situation and come stay with me.”

  Maselli shifted Will in his arms. “How do you get by day to day? Who buys your food? I doubt you’ve been going to the Farm alone, not with Will.”

  “Serica used to run errands for me. But she’s been avoiding me lately. I think someone persuaded her to stop.”

  “Good thing I showed up. I can run errands every day until you’re free enough to work again.”

  “Maselli… you don’t have to.”

  “We’re all living through hard times. I can only imagine how hard it is for you. If this is the least I can do, then let me.”

  She stirred her oats with a small but growing smile. “Antonica could learn a lot from you. He’s not half the man you are.”

  “Tell me.”

  “You’re a big, strong man who isn’t shy about buying tampons for me.”

  “You know what? Make a list.”

  Zerah fetched a lantern. Its firelight touched her face for the first time since he’d arrived. She was fair-skinned, with black hair, lean brows, curling lashes, a small nose, and big brown eyes. Compared to Zerah, Hanna was a left-handed sketch. Antonica had to be mad to abandon her.

  She sat at the table, writing her list: oats, kerosene, diapers, milk.

  “A single diaper costs three kliqs, and milk is five,” Maselli said. “Why don’t you buy in bulk? It’s cheaper in the long run, and you wouldn’t need errands so often.”

  “I’ve considered it, but I don’t want to be a burden.”

  “We don’t have to get everything at once. A gallon of oil today, rice tomorrow.”

  She pressed her hands into her back. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Of course.”

  She wrote another list, with brand names this time. The total came to three hundred and fifty kliqs. Zerah gave him a hundred. She didn’t trust him with more.

  The money fell into his hands. She didn’t know Maselli was a thief.

  “I’ll see myself out,” he said.

  Once outside, he pressed his head to her door. God had a special place in hell for sinners like Maselli.

  “Maselli.” Jeromy. His brother came down the hallway. Maselli stepped away from the door and led him off.

  Most apartments still glowed with light, families arguing about the tax hikes. On the stairs, Maselli asked, “How did it go with Aron?”

  “Aron says it’s nothing serious. I told them everything we learned, but he wouldn’t listen. They insist on using anti-curse drugs.”

  “How much?”

  “The blister pack is one-eighty kliqs,” said Jeromy. “And that’s not the worst part.”

  Maselli looked over. “There’s more?”

  “I told them about Fortune. Apparently, he’s a scammer.”

  Jeromy longed for a response. His eyes begged for one. Maselli turned to the third floor, walking on until they’d reached Aunt Gertrude’s door.

  “Maselli, what do we do?”

  He struck Jeromy on the nose and his brother yelped.

  “HEY!” Maselli yelled at no one. “What is wrong with you?”

  Doors flung open. Neighbours demanded to know what was going on. Aunt Gertrude waddled out, cloth tied at her waist, and saw Jeromy clutching his bleeding nose.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “Jude, you better keep running!” Maselli shouted. “Auntie, your son’s gone too far.”

  Gertrude’s head swung side to side, searching for Jude. She peered over the railing. “What did you do to him?” she asked Jeromy.

  “You’re asking the wrong questions, Aunt. It’s not about what my brother did to him—it’s about what your bully of a son does to these children. He’s always picking on Jeromy. He knew I was going to report him today, and look what he just did.”

  “Jeromy, I’m sorry. I’ll talk to him when he returns,” said Gertrude. “Do you want to wait inside?”

  “Wait for what?” Maselli spat. He hauled his brother away.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the priest.”

  “No, Maselli, you can’t do that.”

  “He deserves what’s coming,” Uncle Pete barked from behind his door. “That boy’s a nuisance.”

  “No, please don’t listen to him,” Gertrude begged. “You don’t understand.”

  “What’s not to understand? Look at my brother’s nose.”

  “I know,” she said quickly, “but Jude already has two strikes. This would be his third. The commissioner will send him to Axenfurt. You wouldn’t do that to your own brother, would you?”

  “I don’t know, Ma. This has been going on too long.”

  Gertrude forced a laugh and slapped Maselli’s shoulder. “How about I serve you two a steaming bowl of rice and beef sauce instead?”

  Without another word, she rushed inside, counted out some bills, and shoved ten kliqs into Maselli’s hand before slamming the door.

  Maselli bolted down the stairs, Jeromy following. “Does Uncle Jeremy still sneak to Matrica’s place at night?” Maselli asked. “Let’s head to block six—maybe we can catch them.”

  But Jeromy stopped, hand still pressed to his nose.

  “What?” Maselli barked. “You’re still upset about the punch? I said sorry, now come on.”

  “It’s not my nose. You scammed Aunt Gertrude.”

  “Those who lose money don’t deserve it. That’s capitalism.”

  “It doesn’t make it right,” Jeromy shot back. “We’re not thieves.”

  “You’re good with a shovel now, eh?” said Maselli. “Why don’t you start digging Ezra’s grave?”

  “She never asked for this. You’re doing this for yourself—because you’re scared. And not just that, you’re hurting the wrong people.”

  There wasn’t a thing Jeromy could do to stop him, but his baby brother was right. Ezra was his family, but these people were, too. They had time to solve their problems the right way.

  On their way back up the stairs, Maselli told Jeromy everything he’d done. “I’m still not giving Zerah back her money,” said Maselli.

  “Why not?”

  “Her grocery list is with me,” he said, checking his pocket. “It would be too awkward to give it back.”

  “Sounds like excuses,” Jeromy said. “You like her, don’t you? Bet you want to buy her groceries.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t like her. It’s guilt.”

  “I don’t believe—” Maselli put a hand over Jeromy’s mouth.

  “They’re lying, Ma!” Jude cried, trying to dodge. He was large, the scary kind of big, but Gertrude wasn’t intimidated. She dug her nails into his wrist.

  “Better find somewhere else to sleep!” she yelled back. “That money they took is your dinner for the week.” She shoved him aside and slammed the door.

  From the stairs, Maselli and Jeromy watched unseen. Jude hadn’t spotted them yet. Maselli turned to leave. Jeromy yanked him back.

  “Don’t run,” said Jeromy. “We have to do the right thing.”

  “Are you crazy? Do you know what he’ll do if he sees us?”

  Jeromy did the stupidest thing ever. “Jude! We’re sorry! Um, we’re here with your mom’s money. It’s with my brother. He wants to apologise.”

  Maselli grabbed Jeromy, and they bolted.

  A roar shook the stairwell. Jude barrelled after them. The boys slammed against the wall, stumbled, and kept running.

  “HELP! HE’S GOING TO KILL US!”

  Maselli and Jeromy burst out onto the ground floor. A metal bucket smashed against the wall where Maselli had just turned. He looked back—Jude, wild-eyed, brandished a blade.

  Some boys raced toward Maselli. Among them was Franka. Heart pounding, Maselli rushed into his brother’s arms.

  “Jude…” he coughed. “He’s gone mad.”

  Lights flicked on down the block. Neighbours spilled into corridors. Franka’s crew surrounded Jude. Maselli had seen this scene in movies: the lone Gaverian in the middle of a mob, knocking each thug down. He prayed real life worked differently.

  “Can’t say I’m surprised,” Jude scoffed. “Of course you’re behind this.”

  Franka spread his arms. “You got me.”

  “Whatever.” Jude lowered his blade. “Give me the money. My ma’s not part of your games.”

  Franka slipped a hand into Maselli’s coat, pulling out a wad of notes. He dug through the other pocket, grabbed the rest, and tossed aside the crumpled grocery list.

  “How much do we owe you?” Franka asked, flipping bills between his fingers.

  “Twenty kliqs,” Jude said.

  “Liar,” Maselli snapped. “It was five.”

  “I’ll give you ten,” Franka offered.

  Jude nodded. One of Franka’s stooges passed him a note. Jude gave the brothers one last glare and headed back home.

  “Franka,” Maselli said.

  “Baby boy,” Franka replied, still counting. “This is payment for my services.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “That’s capitalism for you.”

  Maselli caught Franka’s arm and pulled him aside. “Listen, please.”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Mari,” Maselli blurted. “She’s sick. We need money.”

  “I almost care. Honestly, I’d rather swoop in at the last minute, when she’s about to die, and play the hero.”

  “Franka, you can’t—”

  “Mari’s not sick. You’d claw my eyes out if she were. Go home.”

  All he’d wanted the next morning was to find Hanna and apologise. But she skipped morning prayers and never showed at the factory or in their tower, where he’d last spoken to her.

  The Ring over the Ossen Sea was quiet, the ocean calm. No battle raged on the Midder-Lands today. Tall Boy lay stretched on a bench in their tower. A radio spoke at his feet. The Shepherd brothers sat by some crates to eat.

  Renna Sorel’s voice spoke from the radio.

  “Tall Boy, turn that up,” Maselli said.

  “… I’d like to thank the Assembly, citizens of Henrikia, and our loyalists in the UCL for agreeing to the revised taxation reforms. Every kliq taken from your pockets brings us closer to securing the Midder-Lands. But there are some things money can’t buy. Ascenders, for example. I need volunteers to receive the ascension injection. I won’t lie: you may die. But you may survive and become an ascender. It has happened before. It can happen again. You sitting at home are Henrikia’s next Gaverian…”

  Jeromy elbowed Maselli. “You could be that special someone she’s looking for.”

  Maselli shoved his greasy hand in his brother’s face.

  “We’ve set up testing centres all over the city and on the Farms,” Renna continued. “For ten thousand kliqs, take a shot at ascension. Henrikia!”

  Maselli’s spoon hovered in front of his open mouth.

  “Jeromy,” he said. “I have an idea.”

  He grabbed his brother’s spoon and bolted out of the tower. Jeromy caught up as he explained, doubling his stride back toward the factory.

  “Remember that bridge to Trade-All? Where the explosion happened?”

  “You never said it was an explosion,” Jeromy said. “But I remember.”

  “Well, it was astaphite that caused it.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  Maselli tightened his grip on the spoons. His idea was brilliant. He wondered how far necessity had pushed people’s imagination before him. Once he pulled this off, Ezra would have her cure tonight.

  The break was over, with workers returning to their respective furnaces. Maselli checked to see if any guards were watching before he snuck his way as close to the furnace as possible. He dropped both spoons right under it, where the heat would be at its highest. For the rest of the day, he could dwell on nothing but the warming spoons and the plans he had for them.

  Soon enough, the sirens signalled the end of their shift. The workers walked in one direction while Maselli took the other way, closer to the furnace to retrieve his spoons. His fingers curled upon contact with the waves.

  “Jeromy, give me your coat,” he said. Maselli wrapped the fabric around his fingers and tucked the two spoons in the coat’s pocket.

  “Can you please tell me what you’re doing?” asked Jeromy.

  “There’s something you need to see.” He headed out of the factory and his baby brother followed. “Remember yesterday when you asked Hanna why they get paid the same as us for ‘doing less work’?”

  “Maselli, people are lining up for their receipts.”

  “Listen to me. Hanna would’ve set you straight because our women do something much more dangerous than shovel all day. They carry astaphite to the trains.”

  Women lined up alongside the train ahead. They carried their metal crates into the train carriages, picking out the colourful stones and setting them in black boxes. They got closer for Jeromy to realise the black boxes carried astaphite gems that had been set in water.

  Anna-Lisa, from their village, shot them a weary glance before sealing one box and opening another.

  Maselli hopped into the carriage. “I don’t want any trouble,” Anna-Lisa warned.

  Ignoring her, Maselli slipped the cloth-wrapped spoons near the submerged gems.

  “See it?” he asked.

  Jeromy frowned. “What?”

  “The stones are cracking,” Anna-Lisa groaned. “They’ll explode and kill us all.”

  Maselli leapt out of the carriage, admiring his brother’s ignorance. “The spoons are hot enough to mess with the computers at the café.”

  His brother’s face rounded with realisation. “Heat excites ascension,” concluded Jeromy. “The factory that exploded. What caused it?”

  “The furnaces in the factories were way too hot. Astaphite explodes in hot temperatures.”

  “Good thing our conditions have changed,” said Jeromy.

  “Oh, we still get explosions,” said Maselli. “We might be lucky and get caught in one soon.”

  Two guards lounged at the internet café entrance. Neither checked Maselli’s pockets. Inside, a pack of boys crowded behind one monitor, controllers in hand. The officer from yesterday snoozed behind the counter, boots on the desk, magazine over his face.

  Onscreen, two characters fought: Ren Regal against Renna Sorel.

  He drifted to the side of the monitor. When the glowing triangles flared, no one noticed. Ren Regal’s inputs lagged, leaving Renna Sorel to land free hits. Maselli grinned at Jeromy’s worried face.

  By the final round, Regal glitched hard. Renna won. Maselli had proof—his spoons worked.

  Time to make money.

  “It’s your turn,” he said, slapping Jeromy toward the chair. “My brother’s new on the Farm. Give him a shot.”

  The boys sized Jeromy up. One shoved him a controller.

  Jeromy recoiled. “No, thanks. I’ll just watch.”

  “You’ll never get good by watching,” one insisted.

  “Try,” another urged.

  “No,” Jeromy snapped, pushing back.

  Maselli caught him, shoved the coat with the spoons into his chest, then dropped into the seat himself.

  “You sure you’ve played before?” his opponent asked. “You’re not even holding it right.”

  “Start the match,” Maselli said. “There’s a queue.”

  The fight started. Within seconds, Maselli’s health hit zero.

  Groans rose. A boy yanked at his controller.

  Maselli clung to the chair. “I wasn’t taking it seriously,” he insisted. “Come on—you’re all kids. I underestimated you. My mistake.”

  Hands rattled him from the chair. He held firm.

  “Get up,” a voice barked. A kick struck his leg. Hands tugged at his arms, but Maselli clung to the chair.

  “Alright, listen,” he said through his teeth. “Put your money on it. Beat me, and you walk away with ten kliqs. How’s that sound?”

  The noise cut. No one made bets that bold.

  “We’re not allowed to gamble,” Ralph—the boy who’d just humiliated him—said.

  Maselli snorted. “You waste all your time here and can’t stomach making something from it? Is your mother proud of you?”

  The crowd howled till Ralph was no longer grinning.

  “Ralph,” someone said from behind. “Here.” Money passed over Maselli’s head. A hand slapped a ten-note kliq on top of the monitor. “Beat him for me.”

  “Where’s your money, Maselli?” another voice asked.

  “Jeromy,” called Maselli. His brother stepped closer with the coat still pressed against his chest. “Do you have any cash on you?”

  Jeromy pulled out his wage from the day before. They scraped together ten kliqs and slapped them onto the pile.

  “Maselli, the spoons are getting cold,” Jeromy whispered. “Will they still work?”

  “Get them close to Ralph’s side of the monitor. Don’t draw attention.”

  “Will they work?”

  “Maybe. Yes. Just do it!”

  Both boys moved their joysticks, scrolling through the fighters available. Ralph selected Old Stojan. A veteran of the Sunset War. Stojan was a gaunt man with ashen skin who could cast mist spells with ascension. Maselli picked Eden Nyte, a Gaverian with the power to halt and manipulate time.

  The load screen came up. Twenty percent complete, then forty-seven, then sixty, it stalled at ninety. Ready.

  The battle arena displayed. Eden and Stojan clashed. Blood and numbers shot out of the two characters. Fingers mashed on buttons. Boys cheered. Sweat dripped. Stojan slammed a mist bomb on the ground. Where was he? He grabbed Eden, drove her down, and delivered swift, sick punches to her face.

  Maselli growled, hopping away. Stojan disappeared, then reappeared behind Eden, breaking through her spine with a series of combos. Eden dropped to the ground and didn’t rise again.

  Ralph exploded out of his seat with a roar. “My friend, we’re not done,” said Maselli. “Round two. Come on.”

  The spoons weren’t working. He paused the game and checked the move list. Eager boys rocked him back and forth to get the game underway. Time Halt Spell. Down, down, forward, back, up, down, forward. Force Field is up, forward, down, down, forward, forward.

  Round two began.

  Down, down, forward, crap! God, help me. My money! He mashed all the buttons at once. Eden clasped her hands together. Stojan froze. Smashing button after button, Eden trapped Stojan at the edge of the screen and gave him a good trashing until Stojan’s health bar blinked red, then emptied.

  Third Round.

  Stojan blocked the Time Halt spell Eden tried to cast. Ralph cackled as he tapped away at the buttons, performing combo after combo. But then, for no reason, Stojan stopped kicking Eden. Ralph grunted, glowering at his controller. Eden sprung for Stojan, grabbed him, and snapped his neck. Roundhouse kick after roundhouse kick, Stojan beat around the arena like a broken chopper, then crashed on the floor.

  The boys behind him roared.

  Maselli grabbed the twenty kliqs and lifted both arms in the air, and then he thumped his chest.

  “Come at me! Twenty, twenty! Winner takes all.”

  The boys poured over each other, battling for who got hold of the controller first.

  Fat Yohannes broke through. He pulled out a wallet from his pocket and the boys hissed as he slipped out a fresh twenty-kliq note. Yohannes narrowed his eyes at Maselli and said, “How can I be sure that you won’t run away with my money?” The boys booed him. Yohannes, more stubborn than expected, did not budge.

  “I’ll hold on to it for you,” an accented voice said in English.

  The room got quiet.

  The internet café supervisor stood behind Yohannes and Maselli. “You need someone to referee, don’t you?” he said.

  The boys held their breaths, looking at each other for their next move. They could run. They could deny they were gambling. Yet there was a glimmer in the officer’s grin. The soldier was enjoying himself.

  Maselli dropped his notes and coins into the officer’s hand and so did Yohannes. Jeromy clenched Maselli’s coat to his chest. He wasn’t close enough to Yohannes’ side of the monitor. This was more money than he made in a week. They needed all the advantage they could get.

  Yohannes took his sweet time picking the right fighter. He settled on Jacqolin, the lightning crafter, arguably Henrikia’s greatest Gaverian. Maselli selected Jacqolin as well. The mirror match started, and it took Maselli half a minute to trash Yohannes.

  No one made a sound.

  The second round began, and Maselli showed no mercy. He wasn’t sure if it was his skill or the spoons working the magic. Yohannes was still tapping buttons, unaware that he’d lost the fight. The boys carried him out of the chair.

  Just like that.

  “Double or nothing!” one boy yelled from the back, and the officer holding onto their money laughed.

  “What’s your name?” the officer asked.

  “Maselli, sir.”

  “Maselli,” some boys said, and it became a soft chant.

  “It’s been a long time since I faced a real challenge,” said the officer. “Maybe you’re the special someone I’ve been waiting for.” Maselli met Jeromy’s eyes, who shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t play for free,” said Maselli.

  The officer nodded in understanding. He turned around and whistled at the two guards sitting behind the entrance. The men in green followed one another in. The three officers conversed in their native tongue.

  All eyes bulged at two fifty-kliq notes slipped over one another. “We wager a hundred kliqs,” said the officer.

  “But I don’t have that kind of money,” said Maselli.

  The two other officers walked over to the exit and locked the door. “Empty your pockets,” one of the Green Officers said.

  One officer took off his hat and went around the room until everyone had dropped a note inside. They sat the money hat on top of the computer monitor. The officer got into the hot seat, taking hold of one controller. This felt so weird. All these soldiers had once been boys, just like them. They must’ve played video games as well.

  Walking out of here with two hundred kliqs was no joke. He could stop and walk away with what he’d won so far. They could come back tomorrow with a hotter spoon. “No,” said Maselli.

  “No?” said the officer. “You’re chickening out?”

  “No,” repeated Maselli. “One hundred kliqs is too small to stake.”

  “Too small or too much?”

  “Too small,” said Maselli. “One fifty, one fifty. The winner takes three hundred. That’s my offer.”

  The officer stared at Maselli. They agreed, and once again, the money hat circled around the room. The boys took out the hidden notes they kept in their shoes and socks. One officer patted Jeromy’s pockets and asked why he was so quiet. When Jeromy jerked away, the officer did the same and didn’t bother Jeromy again.

  It was time for a miracle.

  Maselli’s fingers went numb. He couldn’t move the joystick about anymore. It took some ushering from a few helpful supporters until it had landed on Jacqolin. The officer chose Jay, Jacqolin’s bitch.

  The system unit hummed. The officer rubbed his dry palms together. “Are you ready?” he asked. How could Maselli ever be? He turned to Jeromy for some inspiration.

  When their eyes met, Jeromy mouthed, “For Ezra,” and Maselli ceased breathing.

  With a boom, Jacqolin and Jay clashed amid the screams of a thousand digital spectators and a hundred real ones. Lightning blades clashed against each other as father and son gritted their teeth, growling at one another. Jay spun faster, closing in the gaps to keep the pressure on Jacqolin.

  Maselli relaxed his nerves and kept his grip on the block button. Jay threw a punch and glitched. It was more than enough for Maselli’s character to beat the living daylights out of the officer’s character.

  “Maselli, Maselli, Maselli!” the boys chanted.

  The officer grinned as he wiped sweat off his eyebrows. His friends came by and whispered some advice to him. The officer wasn’t all that competent. Just because he was rhen didn’t make him better. Maselli turned to his brother. “Step away,” he mouthed. “I can do this without the spoons.” Jeromy shook his head. It was wise that Jeromy didn’t do everything Maselli asked because the officer came back stronger. Maselli gaped, dazzled by the fury of attacks.

  Hell, this must not enter the third round.

  With everyone witnessing Maselli’s impending demise, Jeromy snuck out the spoons from the coat and slapped it against the monitor. Jay glitched on the screen and Maselli smashed every button available. Striking with one maddening punch after the other, Jay’s health bar drained to the last drop. With a finishing uppercut, Maselli stole the win.

  “MASELLI, MASELLI, MASELLI!”

  The celebrations ended when officers opened the door, asking everyone to leave. The boys paraded into the night, celebrating the victory as though it had been theirs. Jeromy slipped out with the rest, leaving Maselli, the reward, and the three officers behind.

  One officer walked around the room, shutting down the computers. Another closed the windows, turning off the lights. The last counted the prize money and held it over Maselli’s hand.

  “You cheated,” said the officer, and a bullet shot through Maselli’s chest. The officer didn’t follow up by tackling Maselli to the ground. “This money is not yours yet, not until you tell us how you won.”

  The fact that the officer was still so casual about the whole thing relaxed Maselli a bit. Maselli told him everything with the officers listening in silence. This night would end in disaster. They would kick him out and ban him from coming here tomorrow. Except they did nothing of the sort. Rather than arrest Maselli, they patted him on the head and thanked him for helping them expose flaws in their system. They gave Maselli his three hundred kliqs.

  “Do we go home or go over to Fortune right now?” Jeromy asked once they had met outside.

  “We don’t know what tomorrow will bring,” said Maselli. “It’s better we pay Fortune tonight.”

  “I still can’t believe you did it,” said Jeromy. “You’re insane.” Maselli wrapped his arms around his brother’s neck, boasting about why he was the smartest boy in the UCL.

  Maselli’s stomach sank when he picked up on footsteps tracing theirs. It had taken him far too long to realise they were being followed. He’d taken many decisions throughout the day and the last was about to be fatal. He should have returned home. Maselli looked left, then right, and turned Jeromy around. He grabbed his brother by the wrist and shot down the alley. “Someone’s on the bridge,” said Maselli.

  “Who?”

  “Franka.”

  They would cut through here and head back up to the main street. He scanned his surroundings for any kind of weapon. “Maselli,” Franka called from behind them. “Where are you passing?”

  “Keep walking. He can’t hurt us. We don’t have to stop.” But they stopped, cut off at the exit by figures he recognised, some he’d seen at the café.

  Turning around, they met Franka, advancing on them with three boys behind. Bigger. Stronger. And armed. The only one Maselli was confident in taking was Franka, but even that he wouldn’t dare try. Franka stopped, and the breaths of the ones behind them touched their necks.

  Taunted until their backs pressed against the alley’s wall, Franka put one arm against Maselli’s ear and flashed a smile. “I need the money, Maselli. On Gemma’s grave, we need it for something much bigger than you, bigger than me, bigger than Blackwood.” His fingers dug into Maselli’s pockets and he pulled out the stash. “I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

  Maselli’s fingers curled, his nails scraping against the wall. A weight fell on Maselli’s head as he slid further down until his butt pressed into the ground. He shut his eyes, hanging his head back. For a moment, he doubted God loved him. When a long time had passed, he stood and said, “Come on, let’s go home.”