“Let’s go home,” Maselli said.

  His brother glanced at the empty forest, shrouded in dew. The silent corpses persuaded Franka to follow. It was impossible to tell the hour, but the fog would keep them hidden. If they stayed quiet, even the sharpest ears wouldn’t hear them.

  Block Seven stood like an ancient temple, lights dead in every home. The boys climbed to the highest floor. Franka lagged behind, stopping at Mari’s door. He knocked. Maselli came to stand beside him as the lock turned.

  Aron filled the doorway, thick and tall enough to cast a shadow over them both. Jeromy and Mari stood at his sides.

  “Get back to bed,” said Aron. Jeromy slipped away.

  Mari’s stare was icy enough to turn Maselli’s fingers blue. From the moment she saw Franka, the hairs on her arms lifted. Franka tucked his tail between his legs, eyes down.

  “Maselli,” Mari called. “Come in.”

  “Mari,” said Franka.

  “Leave,” she told him. “You’re not invited here.”

  “Please…”

  “Leave.”

  Franka didn’t move.

  Aron pulled Mari aside. The two spoke in hushed tones, though Mari kept glancing back at Franka.

  “Come in,” Aron said at last.

  “Both of us?” Maselli asked.

  “Yes.” Aron’s molars ground tight. “Come in and tell us what happened.”

  Three hours until sunrise. No lights. The television muted.

  “We did nothing wrong,” Franka said. He told them about the Sodenite, the pharmacy, the shooting. But he left out the soldiers in the forest.

  A muffled cough broke the silence. Ezra. Louder, again. Everyone heard, everyone ignored it. Maselli wanted nothing more than to run to her side. Instead, he clung to restraint.

  “Take a shower,” Mari said to Franka. “Then go through your father’s things for something to wear. Use our bedroom.”

  Franka leapt from the sofa, realising too late he’d smeared grime across it. Maselli cringed—he had done the same. Boot prints scarred the carpet.

  Maselli slipped outside, staring down at the trail. His boots left marks, faint but clear.

  “We’ll take care of the tracks,” Aron said. “Get back inside before someone sees you.”

  Maselli pulled off his boots, tied the laces, and hurled them into the distance. Franka’s followed. Mari dropped to her knees with a wet rag, scrubbing the trail to their door. Caution might mean nothing by morning, but better too careful than not enough. Aron dried the carpet with a towel, then asked Mari to check on Franka. Instead, she switched tasks with him.

  “Mari, a moment,” Aron said, poking his head from the bedroom. To Maselli, he mouthed: Ezra. Then he shut the door.

  Mari puffed, tossed the rag down, and stomped to the bedroom.

  Jeromy hovered near Maselli, desperate for answers. Maselli brushed him off and moved to the bed. Ezra still slept, trembling to the bone. The black lines crept closer to her ears. Soldiers would come to Blackwood today. Ezra had to hide.

  “You know what we ought to do,” Maselli told Jeromy.

  They stripped the bedsheets and coverlets from their mattresses and carried them to the kitchen. Jeromy returned with two pillows, then a blanket.

  Maselli slid an arm beneath Ezra’s head, the other under her knees, and lifted her. Jeromy held the door open, careful her head didn’t knock the frame. She coughed once, squirmed, then coughed again with a whimper. On their way to the kitchen, her coloured eyes pried open for a moment. She didn’t smile at him.

  Jeromy opened the cabinet under the counter. Blankets and coverlets lined the walls, pillows stacked inside. Maselli crouched and eased Ezra in. At times like these, he wished they were still small enough to hide together. Ezra, lean and frail, fit without trouble. What if she coughs and the soldiers hear? Leave it to God.

  The house grew too quiet. Maselli went to check on Franka and their parents, reaching the door just as it opened. Mari stepped out.

  “How is Franka?” Maselli asked.

  “Take a bath and get rid of your shirt,” she said. “I’ll be making breakfast…” She paused. “Though I suppose it’s too early to eat.”

  Inside, Franka and Aron stood beside a jute bag. Their father scratched his hair. “What do you think, Maselli? Franka could fit in here for an hour or more, couldn’t he? Your mother thinks it’s a silly idea, but I want a third opinion.”

  “He must fit,” Maselli said. A grunt of agreement followed.

  “It’s settled,” said Aron. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

  “I’m not hungry,” Franka muttered. “I’d rather rest before sunrise. Haven’t slept in a while.” More likely, he was avoiding another clash with Mari. Aron didn’t push, and nudged Maselli out with him.

  The next hour flew by. Maselli put on fresh clothes and buried the dirty ones deep in the laundry basket. Mari prepared porridge for Ezra, leaning into the cabinet to spoon-feed her.

  On the TV, the headlines read: Sexton Attacks the Third Farm.

  Fires had broken out in various factories; government staff were being evacuated in numbers. Was this the same riot Maselli had accidentally started last night? It was bound to happen after so many years of low wages. He wouldn’t claim himself to be responsible. Neither he nor Franka.

  The feed cut to a press conference room at the House of Sentry. A lectern faced the camera. The Green Chief, a man by the name of Ren Talon, was about to address the nation. Talon had put on his—what the Henrikian would say—venetto. The air of authority that intimidated lesser men.

  “I cannot express how disappointed I am in the earthen community, who have so selfishly taken advantage of our nation’s vulnerability to throw tantrums like children. These are trying times, for rhen and earthen alike. Yet the earthen community blames the wrong people for its frustration.” Talon looked straight into the camera and switched to English. “Sexton is the enemy. Sexton is the reason for our hardship. If you want the war to end, stop fighting against your own. Work harder to instil discipline in your people. Now more than ever, Henrikia needs a united front.

  “Sexton aims to ruin Henrikia from the inside. They have planted agents of chaos among the earthens, instigating violence, damaging property… murdering officers. Traitors, we know who you are, we know where you are, and we are coming for you.”

  Talon’s gaze locked with Maselli’s through the screen.

  “The UCL is under full lockdown. I have suspended work on all Farms until we execute the culprits. Earthens at home, stay at home. Earthens on the farms, stay put. You will return soon. That will be all. For God and the Motherland. Henrikia.”

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  When no further announcements followed, the family turned off the TV.

  “We have nothing to worry about,” Aron said.

  “Then why are we hiding Franka?” Maselli asked.

  Mari arched her brow at Aron, wondering the same.

  “Because we don’t know what he’s done in the past,” Aron said. “I’d rather he were elsewhere, but he came to us. We have a responsibility to keep him safe.”

  “No, we don’t,” Mari muttered—stumbling when Aron asked her to repeat herself.

  “Calm down,” Aron said. “Talon’s men may not even come to Blackwood. Look at it from the Green Guard’s perspective. Why would they choose Blackwood out of all the villages to hunt traitors?”

  Seven officers had entered Blackwood and never returned to their posts. That alone could be reason enough to suspect the village. Aron and Mari didn’t know that part. Maselli wasn’t sure how to tell them.

  By 5:00 a.m., the morning lights cracked through dawn. Green and purple streaked the sky in soft patterns. The mist thinned, revealing more of the forest.

  Hundreds of Blackens leaned over the balustrades of the hallways, peering outside—faces pale, lips cracked, eyes raw from sleeplessness. Arms draped around waists. Heads rested on shoulders. You didn’t need to ask if they’d heard the news. They had. And no one dared ask about the two fugitives who had fled to Blackwood last night, or the soldiers chasing them.

  A distant voice rose through the mist. Behind the giant stone pillars of the Ring stood the priest, wrapped in velvet robes. He held a staff in one hand and a holy book in the other. The wind carried his voice as the pages fluttered.

  At six in the morning, the triangles on the pillars glowed, and the Ring hummed. Neighbours stumbled over each other, rushing back indoors. Those who had written off the inspection had been at the drying lines, doing their laundry. Hearing the portal open, they abandoned their pantries and raced for their homes. Doors slammed. Windows closed.

  Jeromy’s head pressed against Maselli’s, and Maselli’s against Mari’s, which was against Aron’s, as they watched. The priest did not stop chanting, unmoved by the heat radiating from the humming machine.

  “Maselli, look,” Jeromy whispered, eyes wide. Maselli gaped alongside him.

  The Henrikian Armed Forces had several divisions. Most common was the Green Corps, policing the country. There was also the Red Corps, formed to claim the Midder-Lands. The men who stepped in through the portal wore neither green nor red, but black. The Humility Force.

  Each trooper stood head and shoulders above the priest—and Father Ken was the tallest man in town. Their armour devoured the haze’s thin light. Maselli couldn’t describe their faces because they had none. Each mask bore an identity: a skull, a crucifix, a spiked tongue. Multiple rifles hung at their sides. Utility belts stacked with devices. On the plates at their upper arms was an inscription: Sevad San Demis—a Kirisi phrase meaning Some May Die.

  Maselli counted eight.

  A medical team followed through, escorted by Green Officers. Behind them came a man no Blacken wanted to see: Commissioner Victor.

  The HF soldiers parted as Victor walked with hands clasped behind his back, his gaze unfocused. He pulled Father Ken aside, speaking in low tones, while Green Officers traced motorcycle tracks into the forest. Soon voices rang out—they had found the bodies.

  Stretchers went in. Fifteen minutes later they returned, carrying corpses wrapped in white sheets. Maselli waited for his parents to demand answers. They never did.

  The Commissioner and his HF unit stood in silence as the last stretcher vanished into the Ring. Then Victor raised two fingers. One HF trooper stepped forward, unclipped a canister, and sprayed a glaring red ‘X’ into the dirt.

  Father Ken pointed toward Block Six. The soldiers thundered in that direction, rifles raised. One smashed through Franka’s apartment. The rest stormed in behind him.

  “We can’t hide him,” Mari wheezed. “Kick him out!”

  “Calm down,” Aron said.

  “I’ll tell on him before he kills us all!”

  Aron pinned her against his chest, holding her still. Then he flicked his chin at Maselli and Jeromy. The boys understood.

  They burst into their parents’ room.

  “What!” Franka yelped, leaping out of bed.

  “Hurry, get in!” Maselli hissed, grabbing the jute bag by the bed.

  “Who’s coming?” Franka demanded.

  “The bloody HF!” Maselli shouted. “Get in!”

  “Keep your voices down,” Aron warned from the living room.

  Franka froze, rigid for a minute, until Aron added, “They’re coming here.” Franka snapped back into motion.

  A coughing fit erupted from the kitchen. Maselli darted out of the room. “Get Franka in the bag!” he barked to Jeromy.

  He skidded across the living room, colliding with Mari at the kitchen entrance. She already had a glass of water in hand. Maselli dropped to his knees, yanking open the cabinet.

  THUMP, THUMP, THUMP!

  “Coming, coming,” Conrad called from the other side of the wall.

  Ezra pressed the cup to her lips

  “… no, they’re next door. Not here. Next! Door!”

  She drank, choked, and coughed. Maselli thumped her chest—harder than he meant to.

  Boots scraped across the floor. A shadow slid under the door.

  THUMP, THUMP, THUMP!

  Mari scrambled toward the living room, calling for Maselli to follow. He hurried after her, striking his toe against the kitchen frame. He seethed, hobbling straight into his mother’s arms.

  HF men crowded the entrance, Commissioner Victor in their midst. His hands clasped behind his back, his venomous green eyes reflected all their fears. The soldiers marched around him, each step making the living room smaller, the ceiling lower, the air heavier.

  Every second of silence was a second of mercy.

  Doors opened and shut. Floorboards groaned. Beds croaked as they were shoved aside. Utensils clinked together. Cabinet doors creaked open and slammed shut again.

  Ezra, don’t dare cough.

  What were the chances they’d find her crammed into a cabinet? Jeromy’s eyes locked on the kitchen. Maselli longed to tell him to look elsewhere. Mari wasn’t doing better. Her gaze fixed on the bedroom where Franka was hiding.

  Aron and Commissioner Victor stood shoulder to shoulder. Neither spoke. Maselli hated the way Victor’s stare bored into him. The commissioner wasn’t frowning, wasn’t smirking—just staring.

  The soldiers returned to the living room. Empty-handed. It didn’t feel possible. The Shepherds had hidden not one, but two secrets from the HF—and survived.

  “Maselli Shepherd,” Commissioner Victor said at last. “You were not home last night. When the riots began, you slipped through the portal with your brother. Where is he?”

  “I—”

  “Your neighbours told me everything. They saw you with him in the forest, chased by the officers your brother murdered. Lie to protect him, and I’ll sentence you in his place.”

  “He’s not here,” Mari cut in. “I would never let that monster near my family.”

  “I wasn’t asking you,” said Victor. “Your son can speak for himself.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Maselli. “I didn’t leave home last night.”

  No neighbour had said a word. Victor had fabricated it all—bait to make him slip.

  “Are you implying Franka wasn’t involved in the deaths of the officers on the Third Farm?”

  “I don’t know,” Maselli snapped. “We don’t talk anymore.”

  Silence. Fingers clenched tighter around rifles. Victor’s brow creased, doubt flickering across his face. Maselli’s gamble had worked. If Ezra stayed silent a little longer, they might live.

  The commissioner lingered, then turned and walked outside. The HF filed out with him.

  Victor stopped before Father Ken, who stood near the door. “Who is the most problematic youth in Blackwood?”

  “That would be Franka, sir.”

  “I can’t find Franka,” said Victor. “And I need someone dead.”

  “I don’t know who to mention, sir. They’re all good people.”

  “Check the Book of Deviants,” said the commissioner. “Whose name carries the most strikes?”

  “Sir?”

  “Don’t waste my time.”

  Blackens flowed like a muddy stream, pouring down the stairwells and out of the blocks. The mud pooled metres behind the red ‘X’. Veined hands pressed over mouths. Mothers and daughters bit their tongues. Men folded fists. The elderly bowed their heads.

  “Look away,” Mari whispered, pressing her sons’ faces into her collar. She wasn’t strong enough to hold them for long.

  HF soldiers stood in an arc behind the Ring. Commissioner Victor faced them, hands at his sides. A young man knelt over the ‘X’, a bag over his head, muffling his screams. One soldier pressed a pistol to the back of his skull. The priest stood before him, back to the crowd, lifting a holy book to the sky as he chanted.

  The Book of Deviants kept record of those who broke the rules—fighting, stealing, and worse. The more misconduct, the more strikes. In Franka’s absence, the Book offered up Jude Potter for atonement. Jude—the same boy Maselli and Jeromy had once got into trouble with his mother. Jude, who would never grow into someone his parents could be proud of.

  “It wasn’t me! I swear to God, it wasn’t me! I don’t fight soldiers! Please—help me! Ask my mother! Ask anyone! Please, don’t kill me. Please, please—I’ll help you find Franka!”

  “May the angels of the good God guide you home, our dear son, our dear brother, our dear friend,” chanted the priest. “Rest your heart as you breathe for the last time. Feel the sun on your face—for where you are heading is a cold and silent place.”

  “It wasn’t me!” Jude screamed. “It’s Franka! Franka, you’d watch me die? Damn your soul, you son of a whore!”

  “Pray to the Six and not the Seven!” the priest roared. “Six keep us!”

  “Six keep us!”

  The pistol fired. Blood sprayed.

  What day was today? Did it matter anymore?

  Day one: Ezra got the disease.

  Day two: Franka stole the money Maselli cheated from neighbours.

  Day three: Franka stole the money Maselli had made gambling at the café.

  Day four: he trusted his parents, and they let him down.

  Day five: he survived a shooting, sparked a revolution, deceived the government—and let another boy take the bullet meant for him.

  All for Ezra. You murderer.

  He walked out into the dawn. The cold taunted him, but he didn’t mind. Halfway through the forest, he realised he had no shoes.

  You deserve to die. You don’t get to move on as if nothing happened. Come back. Beg Shados to take you. You escaped once. Now it’s time to come home.

  Among the tall trees, he followed his bare feet, drifting deeper. Someone was there. Behind him. The lanky figure froze when Maselli turned. Franka. He hadn’t been home when the village returned from the graveyard. Neither brother spoke. If only they could both die at dawn, so nothing would matter come morning.