Lucky is the man who finds himself in the right place at the right time. Not many were as fortunate as Regilon, stationed on an island neither too close to the Midder-Lands nor too near the capital. The Gold and Crimson Corps had yet to converge and reorganize. Solving the logistical nightmare of defending Henrik City required leadership that did not exist. Their High Commander was far away, along with their best fighter.

  Even so, the soldiers kept the war machine running. Hundreds formed a line from the depository to an open field, passing along crates of astaphite. Occasionally, a firefly would descend, and they would fill it with crates. They moved at a brisk pace. Regilon wondered why.

  Fren Rheina was the last descendant of Lord Rheina to have lived in Henrik City. She was the High Priestess of the Church of Rheina, a diviner who communicated directly with the Six. She wielded more power than the Assembly, the Chancellor, or any High Commander. Accepting her as human was difficult, especially since she delivered questionable laws to the legislative government.

  Her infallibility was challenged by Ashel Sorel when she ordered six earthen civilians executed for tax fraud. In the early days, she pushed for laws that backed earthens into corners to ensure rhen prosperity. Earthens were culled to keep their population in check, and tuition for higher education rose every year, weeding out those who could not keep up. Henrikian culture did not question authority—they found ways to justify Fren Rheina.

  The breaking point came when she visited the Blackwood Research Facility and uncovered a conspiracy. Fren Rheina claimed earthen scientists were secretly producing artificial ascenders in a war to erase the rhen. She attacked and destroyed their work, turning a thousand men into sentient trees.

  Having had enough, the Black Alliance was formed. They captured Frennie and strangled her with the branches of the trees she had created. Frennie died. The land was cursed. Thus began the Great Oppression.

  This culture of obedience had cost them many allies. Solvaria hated Henrikia. Arden hated Henrikia. The Grem hated Henrikia. Sexton hated Henrikia. Soden hated Henrikia. Yuna hated Henrikia. Jamerson loved Henrikia. A war at a time like this could spark the end of a civilization. Regilon felt torn, at war with himself.

  Should he break the culture or die for it? The principles he had upheld until now were not because they benefited him, but because they were customs laid down by his god: Do not drink alcohol. Do not commit adultery. Astaphite was meant for the weak. He was weak, and he was tired. Today, he would stray from the rules that had kept him ‘safe’ and act according to his own will. He would find Hanna and apologize for his cowardice.

  Regilon approached the men loading crates and demanded they open a box for him. Gleaming stones reached out from their containers. He knew there was no turning back. He picked out three gems, which turned red upon contact, and pocketed them. Already, he felt dirty. Pride in the law had stopped him from using astaphite before, leading to his defeat at Blackwood. The law was flawed, and he would no longer obey it.

  “Is the Ring unavailable?” Regilon asked. “I heard about a power outage.”

  “No, our Ring is working fine,” said one man at the dashboard.

  His counterpart added, “All the Rings are powered by their own underground generators. Most were not affected by the shockwaves.”

  “That’s helpful,” said Regilon. “Open a portal to the Third, please.”

  A portal to the Third opened, revealing a scene he had not expected. Sirens blared. All other Rings except his were active. The blackouts seemed limited to the northern side of the country. Files of earthen men and women streamed from the portals, guarded by Green Officers on motorcycles. Like colonies of ants, they moved through the streets toward the largest, darkest building that towered over the rest: the I.A.A.

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  Gunfire shattered glass as three officers chased an earthen man through a narrow alley. They cornered him, pinning him to the ground, and fired a device that clamped a collar onto his neck. Volts of electricity surged through the earthen, frying his brain in an instant. “Move it!” a commanding officer barked from the balcony of a nearby factory. Commissioners and their deputies drove past in cars, scanning the villagers as they shuffled through the fenced compound.

  Regilon could have asked anyone what was happening, but he resisted for two reasons. First, he was here for Hanna and nothing else. Second, the officers were already angry; he wanted no questions about his presence. Instead, he walked the part of a regular officer, aided by the green coat he wore.

  Passing through the fence, he entered the vast compound. White tents were arranged in neat rows, with soldiers on benches beside them, herding the earthen folk and making them wait their turn. A quick glance into one tent gave him a grim understanding: a plump, middle-aged earthen woman lay on a bed, reaching for a doctor who injected her with a clear liquid from a syringe.

  Regilon moved faster, weaving past tent after tent, unsure where to begin his search. It had been a day since Hanna was brought to the Farm. Perhaps he should start by finding Leonard himself.

  At the far end of the compound, a large ramp led into a massive building. Two workers in navy-blue jumpsuits pushed a dumpster through it. He stopped as they passed, watching them tip its contents into a roaring fire pit before returning inside. Another set of staff brought an empty dumpster to a red-marked spot on the ground.

  Looking up, Regilon noticed a hatch in the ceiling directly above the opened container. Throughout the wards and offices, doctors and nurses moved purposefully, paying no attention to him. Most would have assumed he was just another officer. He ambled down the hallway, peering through windows as he passed, trying to track Hanna’s location without drawing notice.

  One doctor held a small ball and asked an earthen girl on the bed to move it with her mind. Regilon paused, watching, his brow furrowed. Of course, it wasn’t possible. The doctor scribbled notes and asked her assistant to give the girl another dose of whatever substance they were experimenting with. Who funded this? It wasn’t the government; that much was certain.

  At the end of the hallway, Regilon let out a long, heavy sigh. The scale of this operation was far larger than he’d imagined. Finding Hanna now seemed as unlikely as producing a second earthen ascender. He turned and saw the hatch above the dumpster still open. Bodies poured out, tumbling endlessly into the bin below. The staff in blue jumpsuits prodded the pile with long sticks, spacing them as more fell in. When it filled, one pushed a button on the wall, and the hatch slammed shut.

  Regilon stopped the workers from moving the dumpster right away. He trotted to it, wincing at the stench more than the horror before him. The pile was a grotesque mix of broken bodies, slicked with some kind of lubricant to help them slide down the chute. The staff stepped back, wary of interference. But Regilon felt no anger. His gaze locked on a hand sticking out from the pile, as if the person beneath it was still reaching for him.

  1 3 2 29—those were the digits tattooed on the back of the small, battered hand. Regilon’s teeth clenched; his breath grew hot. He closed his hands over the child’s hand, feeling its frail pulse. He had not come for Hanna. He had come for the earthens he had once banished to the UCL. He had come to witness the consequences of his compliance, to see the fruits of his labour as a soldier of the Law. Nothing could redeem his past, but he vowed that he would spend the rest of his short life doing what was good.

  The Labour Commission Headquarters was only a short walk from the I.A.A. Staff here were always under pressure from superiors—answering calls, shuffling files, rushing through rooms. Regilon navigated the winding hallways, asking anyone who might point him to Commissioner Victor. Secretaries shooed him away, snapping at him in irritation. Pulling a rubber band from a stack of pencils, he tied up his hair, his bony cheeks and protruding ears suddenly helping him blend in. Had he not done so, no one would have recognized him.

  A secretary led Regilon down the polished hallway, her heels clicking against the floor. She stopped at a large oak door and rapped sharply. “Commissioner Victor,” she called.

  The door swung open. Victor, the old Gaverian, snapped to attention, saluting. “At ease,” Regilon said, his tone firm but calm. “I don’t begrudge you for abandoning me.”

  Victor hesitated, remaining rigid. “Are we flying to Blackwood again?” he asked before Regilon could speak.

  “Yes,” Regilon answered. “Though this time… you may die.”