“What you want can wait.”

  “You’ve got some nerve saying that to my face, after what you did,” Maselli muttered. “Look, I’m not here to threaten you. I’ve got no way of forcing my money out of your hands, but I swear to God, Franka, I need the four hundred you took from me. I wouldn’t have bothered to show up if it wasn’t true—and you know it.”

  “What do you need it for?”

  “It’s a secret.”

  A bed creaked upstairs. Antonica groaned, crying out to God, his voice interlaced with Hanna’s—begging him to slow down, because he was hurting her. Both brothers looked up at the ceiling as though they could see through it.

  “Antonica’s doing your wife,” said Franka. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Nothing,” said Maselli. “What can I do?”

  “The strong take, and the weak grow bitter. No one is going to fight for you, Maselli. I’m disappointed you’ve taken after that pathetic excuse of a mother. I haven’t paid you back because I don’t think you deserve it. Not until you can prove me wrong.”

  “How?”

  “By growing a spine and heading out to the Farm with me. Tonight.”

  “I’m not committing any crimes.”

  “Your desperation has standards.”

  “What good is helping someone if all I’m doing is hurting another?”

  “Cowards and philosophy,” Franka chuckled. “Go home.”

  “Franka.”

  “Gemma knows I’m not a criminal.”

  “You could tell me what I’m getting myself into.”

  “Are you telling me what you need your money for?”

  “That’s different! It’s my money.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Franka!”

  “Piss off!”

  Church bells rang in the distance, calling townspeople once more to evening service. No one had told Father Ken that workers hadn’t been paid today. God was only worth worshipping when times were good; otherwise, no one had the patience.

  Maselli followed his brother, harassing him without restraint. Their back-and-forth carried them to the pillars in the village centre. The portal to the Third opened, and not a single soul stepped out. Anyone who needed to be in Blackwood was already in Blackwood. Franka hopped through the portal, landing on the flat cobblestones of the Third. Maselli readied to jump, then dragged himself to a halt, taking one last look at his home.

  Nights on the Third had a different weight than the day. Soldiers barked more. Night-shift workers kept their mouths shut. As day-shift workers, they were free to roam the Farm without question, but walking around with idle hands still felt illegal. To be safe, Maselli stayed closer to Franka than he would’ve liked. His brother knew him too well. When it came down to it, Maselli was terrified of violence. He’d make any excuse to avoid a fight, and he prayed Franka wasn’t walking them into one. So far, they stuck to open streets with plenty of witnesses. Even better, none of Franka’s usual henchmen were around. Green Officers lifted their lavender eyes as they passed but said nothing.

  Franka led them toward the internet café, then slipped around the building into a dark space behind it.

  “Good evening,” he said to a figure leaning against the wall.

  An officer. Young enough to be Franka’s age, dressed in green, with a pistol at his belt.

  “I’m glad you came with company,” said the officer. “Hello, Maselli.”

  Wait—that voice. Where had Maselli heard it before? Of course. The café itself. This was the same supervisor who’d played a Dominus match with him.

  The officer pushed open the back door and slipped inside. Franka followed, winking at Maselli to come along. After a long moment alone in the alley, Maselli stepped inside.

  The room stank of detergent. The lights were off. Franka and the officer hunched over a computer, talking as it booted. Maselli stayed back, edging toward a chair near the back door. At least it wasn’t locked.

  “You’re still in shock,” said the officer.

  “You can drop the accent,” Maselli said. “I know you’re faking.”

  The officer studied him, then pulled up a chair as close as Maselli would allow. Folding his arms, he said, “My name is Colin Sellers—but under Henrikian jurisdiction, I’m Officer Gains.”

  “That’s an unusual name for a rhen.”

  “That’s an unusual name for a Henrikian rhen. Not all rhens are Henrikians.”

  “I know that.”

  “You’re Henrikian too, no matter how much the rhens hate it.”

  “You’re not rhen,” Maselli said. “I doubt Franka would be friends with an actual rhen.” He glanced at his brother, still glued to the screen. “You’re from Soden, aren’t you?”

  Father Ken had warned them plenty about Soden. Earthens who defied God’s will to serve the rhens had migrated south to form their city. A land without rhen rule, where men slept with men and women with women. The only place on the continent where earthens had no indexes. No wonder Colin blended in so easily. With contact lenses hiding his true eyes, no one suspected.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  “I wish you hadn’t figured that out,” Colin said. “Now you’ll never listen to me.”

  “I’m reporting you to the authorities tomorrow.”

  “I’m sure you will. And I won’t stop you. Just give me one hour—just to talk. Then you’ll never see me again.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “Your brother’s watching clips of the Great Oppression—”

  “The rhens did nothing wrong during the Great Oppression!” Maselli yelled.

  “Is that what you think, or what your priests told you? You don’t deserve this life. Soden can set you free. There’s more than shoving astaphite in a furnace all day. You could be a pilot, a chemist, a programmer, a musician! Don’t you want to find out what your true potential is?”

  “Rheina and the Motherland. God and my country. Rheina and the Motherland. God and my country.”

  Once, years ago, a man came to their school selling strange books. Father Ken had burned them and reported the man—another Sodenite. Maselli clenched his teeth. “Franka, we’re leaving.”

  “He’s not done,” Colin said.

  Maselli buried himself in the corner, reciting the forty-seven attributes of Rheina. This was God’s test—the ultimate test of faith. He had been steadfast. His reward would come.

  With a sigh, Franka hit the spacebar. He stared at the screen another minute, lips pressed tight, then stood and stretched. “Maselli, you’re still here.”

  “I am. And I still want my money.”

  Franka and Colin exchanged looks.

  “Truth is, we don’t have any money,” Franka said. “We’ve got things going on. All you need to know is your money’s doing good work.”

  “I’m reporting him tomorrow,” said Maselli. “And I’ll add your name if you don’t settle me.”

  “You want Black Syrup,” Franka said. “Don’t act clean. You’ve been talking to Fortune.”

  “It doesn’t mean—”

  “You’re harbouring a rhen,” Franka cut in. “Take me down and we all go down.”

  Don’t back away. You have nowhere to turn. The worst gift to give Ezra is empty hands.

  “Get me Black Syrup,” Maselli said. “And I forget everything.”

  “You won’t forget everything,” said Colin. “We don’t want you to forget. Do the opposite. Tell your friends about me. Let them come by and learn a thing or two about their history.”

  The filthy Southerner.

  On a quiet road, Maselli walked alongside Franka and Colin toward the nearest pharmacy. They didn’t say how they’d get him Black Syrup. Frankly, he didn’t care. After compromising with a Sodenite, he was already entrenched in filth. He’d sold his soul—why reject the reward?

  The pharmacy stood in the middle of a busy district, hemmed in by grey buildings. Maselli and Franka waited outside while Colin swaggered in. He shook hands with customers and staff, moved down the aisles, picked up bottles, read labels. Every step made Maselli’s chest tighter. He wanted to close his eyes and open them only when the bottle was in his hands.

  Franka nudged him. Colin was holding a small glass bottle of black liquid. He mouthed something Maselli couldn’t catch.

  “Fifty kliqs,” said Franka. “What did Fortune ask?”

  “Seventy-five.”

  “Fortune is such a cheat,” Franka muttered. “This should be the last time you deal with him.”

  At the counter, Colin set the bottle down. The saleswoman examined it, asking a question. Colin answered. She laughed. She reached for a plastic bag under the counter.

  And Colin drew his pistol. One. Two. Three. Four shots cracked. Blood sprayed across the white wall.

  The world ended.

  Chaos erupted. People trampled one another, stalls toppling in the crush for the door. Colin fired again, bullets tearing through shelves, bottles, bodies. Blood smeared across the glass.

  Franka yanked Maselli’s arm and bolted.

  Run. Faster. Don’t stop.

  BANG!

  Get up. Follow Franka.

  Headlights flared—motorcycles, plasma rifles loaded. Frequencies rose. Beams cut the air, smashing into concrete walls. Smoke, lights, sirens. They tore down a stairwell, bolts sparking off the railings, ringing in Maselli’s ears.

  Franka dragged him along, a deadweight stumbling. They pressed into shadow, smothered by it, as a motorcycle screamed past. Then four more followed, chasing Colin.

  The officers’ plasma beams shattered his back wheel. Colin spun out, crashing hard.

  The officers dismounted, pistols raised, moving in formation.

  Then from a creak above, windows opened, muzzles glinting.

  Gunfire rained down. Officers’ skulls burst open. One man clutched his stomach, fingers twitching toward his communicator—Bang. Another dragged himself back with a broken ankle, screaming at the windows—Bang, jaw torn apart. The last survivor crawled for his pistol—Bang. Bang. Bang. Silence.

  How had Maselli survived? Where could he go? Would they be arrested?

  “We did nothing wrong,” Franka said, his voice thin, his knees shaking. He slid his back up the wall. “It’s two in the morning. The portals should be opening soon. Let’s go home.”

  At the Ring Station, hundreds of workers had gathered. But no one was passing through. Panic had taken hold. News of the gunfight had spread. Thousands of night-shift workers shouted at the officers barring the Rings. Soldiers stood in pairs by every portal, rifles loaded, ready to fire.

  A lockdown had begun. Maselli and Franka were trapped on the wrong side of Blackwood’s portal.

  Maselli could just push through Blackwood’s Ring, go home, crawl under a coverlet. Tomorrow he’d yawn, stretch, wash his face—and the nightmare would be gone. A tug held him back. “Where are you going?” a tight voice demanded.

  Tonight, he would show some spine. Maselli yanked his arm free and pushed through the crowd. He didn’t care what anyone said. He had done nothing wrong. Ezra needed him home. For her last days, he had to be there.

  He stepped up to the front lines. One step more. The guards by Blackwood’s Ring noticed. What could they do? Those sticks couldn’t kill him. He took another step.

  “Kelsi leclias!” the officer barked. Then in English: “Don’t die for this.”

  He would die for this.

  Eyes fixed on the closing portal, Maselli pressed forward—until a thump on his chest sent him flying. Hands caught him, pushed him upright.

  “You won’t pay us, you won’t let us go home!” a hardened voice shouted.

  “Stay back,” the officer snarled. “Final warning.”

  Hungry eyes locked on bright ones. Maselli found Franka in the press. With one nod, his brother said everything.

  “Freedom!” Franka roared.

  The floodgates burst. Warning shots cracked overhead. They no longer frightened Maselli. He crushed his boot on someone’s face, muffling the man’s scream. The portal. The portal. Get through the portal.

  Guns blasted. The mob surged. An elbow slammed under Maselli’s eye. He clawed forward, shoving bodies aside. Officers lay on the ground, bleeding, twitching. Men poured through the portals, fleeing back to their villages. Franka and Maselli leapt through Blackwood’s Ring, scattering across the black dirt.

  Plasma bolts scorched the ground beside Maselli. Franka yanked him clear and dragged him toward the forest. Motorcycles skidded behind, headlights slicing through the trees.

  Franka shoved him flat and pinned him down.

  “Stay still. Don’t move.” His breath came ragged. “Maselli, stop whimpering. I swear to Gemma, I’ll kill you myself if you don’t stop sobbing.”

  They lay for ages, ears straining for pursuit. No twigs snapped, no voices called, no lights pierced the trees. The soldiers had lost them. But more would come. The city would hunt them until everyone involved in the massacre was dead. Dying now might be better.

  Maselli jerked awake. His back was against a tree, boots stiff, nails caked with dirt. Not a dream. Dawn. He was still in the forest. Everything from last night crashed back. Shouldn’t a hundred thousand troops already be combing these woods? Where were the drones that could track them in minutes?

  Franka.

  The last thing he remembered was his brother’s warmth against his head. For the first time, he’d been grateful to have Franka beside him. Franka wouldn’t abandon him. He couldn’t.

  “Franka,” Maselli whispered. He stumbled through the trees. “Franka.”

  Every step sent pain up his knees. His eyes burned. His back ached. He smelled of urine. None of it mattered until he found his brother.

  “Franka…” His body eased when he saw him—standing with his back turned, the same jacket from last night. He hadn’t moved.

  “Franka,” Maselli called again. No response. What froze him like that? Maselli inched closer.

  Then he saw it.

  A motorcycle on its side. Three more jammed against a tree. In the dim light, he counted seven in all. Where were the soldiers?

  He found them.

  Seven figures slumped against the trunks, pistols still in hand. Black veins crawled up their necks, burrowed into their faces, blackened their eyes. Their skin had gone pale, the life drained from them.

  Why did this feel so familiar?