Caspian struggles to get his feet under him. His face is pale, lined with pain or exhaustion or both. I reach over and grab his arm, helping him stand before the guards notice.
“Thanks,” he says.
We shuffle toward the back of the truck together, chains clinking with every step. We’re herded out onto hard-packed earth that’s still warm from the day’s heat. Dust rises around our feet, coating my throat with grit.
The first thing that hits me is how enormous everything is.
The city walls stretch across the horizon. Even from this distance, they loom massive against the night sky, blocking out stars. Torches flicker along the top—tiny points of light that must be huge up close.
I’ve seen nothing so big. So impossible.
My breathing quickens as I stare at those walls. Whatever happens next, whatever they plan to do with us, it’s going to happen in the shadow of that place. Under the eyes of people who live behind walls like that, who think walls like that are normal.
People who can take families from their homes and execute them on rocks just because they feel like it.
A second truck pulls up behind ours, and we’re joined by ten more prisoners. All men. I scan their faces, searching for Antonio and Tobias, anyone really, but my heart sinks as quickly as it had lifted. Nobody I recognize. Why did I have to be separated from every other Atrean after the ship? Another cruel twist of fate kicking me while I’m down.
The guards shove us all into a long line, chains dragging in the dust. The hollow-cheeked man next to me sways on his feet. His breathing comes too fast, too shallow.
Another vehicle approaches from the direction of the city. Smaller than our transport. Sleek white paint that gleams like it’s never seen dust or blood.
It purrs to a stop twenty feet away.
The driver steps out. Black uniform, pressed sharp. He opens the back door and steps aside.
Three figures emerge. Two older men in crisp white shirts. Clean-shaven. Soft in the way that comes from never missing a meal, never sleeping on stone, never wondering if tomorrow will bring enough water to survive.
Behind them, a third man. Younger.
My breath catches.
He’s nothing like the others. Where they’re pale and soft, he’s all bronze skin and lean muscle. So much muscle, oiled and glistening head to toe. His loose black sleeveless shirt barely covers his bulging chest, the rise of his enormous pecs pronounced at the center of the deep neckline. Dark hair falls almost to his shoulders, catching the light. He’s tall enough that he has to look down at the older men when they speak to him.
He looks like a warrior.
He looks like a god.
Beautiful in a way that doesn’t belong here. In this wasteland. Among these people.
But his posture tells a different story. Ramrod straight, like a soldier at attention. Like someone who’s learned to hold himself ready for orders. Ready for violence. I recognize something of myself in that posture.
The two older men start at the far end of our line, talking quietly to each other. Their voices don’t carry, but I can see their mouths moving. Discussing something. Deciding something. The younger man trails behind them, silent.
Everyone in the line has gone still. Too still. Like we’re all holding our breath, waiting for something terrible to happen.
The silence stretches until it feels like a physical weight pressing down on my chest. Even the guards have stopped their casual chatter. Whatever’s about to happen, they know what it is.
Caspian shifts beside me, leaning close enough that his shoulder brushes mine. When he speaks, it’s barely a whisper—so quiet I almost miss it.
“You know, it wouldn’t be hard to make them shoot you. If that’s what you wanted.”
My heart stops. Suddenly I understand the silence. The stillness. The way everyone’s trying not to draw attention.
They’re choosing. The men in white shirts are moving down the line, choosing what happens to us. They study each face, exchange a few words, then glance back at the younger man. He nods once—sharp, decisive.
They say something to the guards. Two soldiers step forward and drag the first three men away from the line, back toward the truck. Relief floods their faces and I almost laugh—how do they know what their fate entails? They could be on their way to a butcher, to be chopped up for meat, for all they know.
The men in white shirts move on.
