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A line of fire is burning around my neck. The necklace Rev has offered me is like a noose closing shut on my tender skin. I want to break the chain, tear it off, but I can’t. It might be the last reminder of who I am and where I come from, so I let it fall on my chest, the metal leaving a stinging trace.
Climbing to my feet, I lean heavily on the nightstand as my aching muscles struggle to support my weight. I stumble a few steps to the door, but the knob only rattles in place. Clutching the wall, I cross the few paces separating me from a faded brown armchair and fall into it with a sigh.
A soft breeze enters the room. The scorching heat it brings inside makes the dirty-white curtains dance around me and draw fading shapes in thin air. I reach for the glass of water and down it as slowly as I can, savoring each drop.
I wrack my brain, trying to figure out where I am, while every single breath feels like a burden. No matter where here is, this isn’t a household of a governor. Not when the water tastes of metal and dust, and the only thing I can see from my window are buildings half-claimed by the desert.
Another sting of fire in my shoulder flashes images of masked men before my eyes. The dreams I’ve had while battling for my life must be closer to reality than I’d like to imagine. This must be one of the countless hideouts rebels have across the desert, and I’m nothing but their newest prisoner.
11
Atickle on my skin wakes my brain from the swirling fog. I sit up, rubbing my eyes with a yawn. A drop falls on my head, another one slides down my cheek. Dense foliage of a forest shimmers with a soft drizzle. My heart stammering in my throat, I stand up, and my boots sink in mud.
“Impossible,” I mutter, but a slurp comes from below as I circle the clearing.
The Cataclysm has left no forests behind, no rains to batter the world. Unending sands were the only thing remaining of a world that has withered and died. Yet I can’t see a speck of it anywhere.
A path starts at a fallen trunk and guides me deeper into the woods.
The fabric of my clothes sticks to my skin when fog falls on the forest. It swallows the branches and soon hides even the closest trees from me.
I glance behind me. A figure clad in black emerges through the cloud of mist, marching in my direction. I can’t see his face, but when a snarl breaks out from his lips, I dash down the path.
The branches scrape my skin, fallen trunks bar my passage, but I keep running forward, putting as much distance as possible between the man and me.
A cabin of stone and wood peeks from behind thick branches, but as I make it past the last line of trees, my boot sinks into another puddle. I fall, and the mud swallows my hands down to my wrists.
I chance a glance over my shoulder. The man is but mere paces away.
My heart thundering in my ears, I yank my foot out, but the sludge of wet earth claims my boot as a prize.
I stumble toward the cabin, rain battering on my skin, howling wind pushing me through the door. No latch or lock hangs on it, but I wedge a chair under the knob just as the first bang echoes through the room.
“Neylan,” the man calls over howling wind and rain.
The knob rattles but refuses to grant passage. I search for anything to further block the door and spot an empty cupboard. My muddy palms slip off its polished surface, but I battle with the heavy furniture all the way toward the door. Shallow scratches on the wooden floor leave evidence of my efforts.
The next bang rattles the windows and shakes the walls, and I limp into the next room. A table with a moth-eaten tablecloth stands under a window speckled with raindrops. I crawl under the forgotten furniture, clutching my knees to my chest and pressing into the wall.
Seconds pass slowly marked by the rhythmic bangs on the door, and I have to smother a scream with my hands over my mouth when the cupboard flies across the room and shatters in splinters of wood and rusted nails. My heart is beating rapidly in my chest when the man walks into the cabin. He doesn’t waste time at the entrance but makes his way into what once was the kitchen. The green and golden trim on his trousers catches what little sunlight has made it past the thundering sky. Crouching, he tears the tablecloth away and looks underneath.
“There you are,” my father says, his green eyes meeting mine.
I sit up with a scream lodged in my throat. Alone in the middle of the desert and with nowhere to run, I’m more scared of my father finding me than of the rebels who hold me captive.
It was just a dream, I reassure myself, but it still takes a moment for my heart to calm down.
As the icy wind laps on my skin beaded with sweat, I retrieve the blanket crumpled on the floor. I have no recollection of getting into the bed, nor the faintest idea on how long I’ve slept, but the fatigue no longer chains me to the thin mattress thrown over a net of metal springs. It squeaks and groans as I scramble to my feet and even when I do nothing besides hold myself straight with the help of its metal railing. I wrap the blanket over my shoulders to ward away the morning cold and make my way to the door. It doesn’t open this time either.
With a sigh, I move to the window. The sun is but a silver line on the horizon and has not yet chased the stars from the sky, but the city is bustling with activity. Right on the edge of the desert, and all the way across the city of winking lights, a factory with tall chimneys spews dark smoke into the sky. The flow of people on the streets doesn’t stop for a moment, not even when a wagon covered with flapping canvas cuts through the mass and sails down the rails to the train station.
I try to shut the window, but it’s stuck. My wounded arm doesn’t help much.
I’m ready to return to my bed when a shuffle of feet on the other side of the door startles me. I drop the blanket and dash across the room just in time for the lock to turn and for the door to swing open.
A man walks into the room. His broad shoulders tug on the fabric of his shirt. He towers over me while I cower in the corner. He takes a few steps inside before he realizes I’m not in bed. A glance confirms I’m not in the armchair, either.
He drops the tray on the small table and turns around. Even with heavy stubble and dark circles under his brown eyes, his gaze is still sharp, and he spots me in a second.
