Page 41 of The Heart Trials

“I don’t want any.”

“You have to take at least one, Contestant Fifty-Four.”

“No, no, I won’t,” I tell her. I took the accessories. I have to put my foot down about this. Eating their food is one thing. But this I don’t need.

She scowls, then grabs two dresses off the rack. One is long and flowy in midnight blue, and the other is shorter, also blue, but a lighter shade, like the color of the ocean on a cloudy morning. “This will be yours. I’ll get it to your room. Now, get in line.”

Mae is weaving between stacks of clothes. Both her arms and her maid’s arms are overflowing with fabrics in pastel colors.

“We have to narrow this to three, Contestant Seventeen,” her maid says. But Mae staggers circles around her, still dazed from the stinger, pulling more off the racks, holding them up to herself.

Once everyone’s gathered at the door, Syra wishes me luck with eliminations. I’d be lucky if she left me alone. As we leave I spot Mae, holding her side where the stinger stung her but looking less dazed.

“Salt water and aloe,” I tell her.

“Yes, my maid’s gone to get some.”

We walk.

“I should have known better,” she says. “I just got excited. We’ll have them off soon enough.”

A horn blares, echoing through the steel walls.

The line stops.

“Gratitude to the Benevolent!” The Citadel official leading our line motions for us to chant. With our eyes to the ground, heads bowed in reverence, in practiced unison, our voices ring out “The Echo of the Allegiant”:

Gratitude to the Benevolent, Source of Order.

His strength is steel, his stance is sure.

He governs the heart, for love can betray;

Only the worthy may feel that way.

He grants it slow, and takes it fast—

For only true loyalty ever lasts.

Disruption fails; it never wins.

Revere our words,

so the rebels can hear,

the good, good cheer

of these fearsome patriots!

Once the line is moving again, the pledge replays in my head. It doesn’t stop until we are outside. And I wonder if that’s the point.

An arena looms in the distance like a metal coliseum, towering with brushed steel walls that gleam under the high sun. We enter, wedged together in a narrow corridor, struggling to maintain the distance we prefer. Wide eyes dart around in the darkness. We pass several holding rooms and stop at the steel gate to the arena floor, where a Citadel official waits for us. Roars of a crowd can be heard beyond it.

“One at a time, when you hear your contestant number, walk to the center of the arena and find a seat.” He winds a lever and the gate lifts. “You’re excited for the chance at love, but not too excited. We’re self-controlled!” He ushers us inside, and we crowd against an interior wall, waiting to hear our names.

When I step through the gate, a chill skitters down my spine.

The open-air arena is latticed with steel beams crisscrossed over it like ribs, supporting moveable cages hanging in the air. They’re empty. For now. The arena floor is scorched in some spots, grated and rusty in others.