Page 93 of Interion

I smiled and drummed my fingers on the ground, still warm from the sun. There were so many questions, but I knew he wouldn't answer any of the most important ones, so I started with something simple.

“What's your level?”

He laughed and looked at me, amused.

“Seriously? That was your big question?”

“If you want, I can change it—I have endless personal questions, but I didn't want you running home to hide,” I joked, and he laughed harder.

“Shit. Looks like you've already figured out that I hide under the bed.”

We smiled at each other, enjoying one of the few peaceful moments between us.

“All right, let's get to the answer then,” he said, still upbeat. “My level is 2,900.”

I stared at him. Yes, I just stared at him, motionless against the blue sky and all the clouds watching us. I couldn't say a word—I was shocked.

“How?” I managed to ask, still shaken. “How is that possible? Your level is way beyond normal—actually, it's beyond even what would be considered abnormal.”

“I have some theories about my bloodline, but I've already answered one question. Now it's your turn to share.”

I sighed, nodding. My brain was still trying to process that number, but I forced myself to find my voice.

It was my turn.

Chapter 24

“I was born in Drutes and became a slave at eight,” I began, while he watched my every move. “My parents were both secondaries, and I was eight when they were caught passing information to Interion about the location of the camps.”

I couldn’t suppress the sadness in my voice—I was terrible at hiding my feelings. But Zion was even worse than me, staring at me with an astonished expression.

“You’re the daughter of Lagherta and Ross Vidana?” he asked, stunned. I stared back at him, even more shocked, feeling a pain too sharp to ignore after hearing the surname I’d buried along with my parents.

“Yes, how do you know their names?” I immediately saw discomfort spread across his face, his lips pressing into a tight line. I sighed, unable to believe what I was discovering. I vaguely remembered my parents talking about an allied general a few days before everything went wrong. “You were the one they were passing information to, weren’t you?”

Zion looked up at the sky, his chest rising and falling faster. Even the shadows seemed to draw closer to him.

“Let me guess—you can’t talk about it either,” I grumbled, shaking my head in disbelief.

We continued in silence, and that terrified me more than any loud argument would have.

“I can’t talk about it,” Zion whispered. A chill ran up my spine, and I immediately knew something was wrong. Two possibilities came to mind: either he could be severely punished for telling me and put others at risk, or he was a complete idiot. “Please, Kay. Trust me and save this for another time.”

His eyes pleaded, as if this caused him pain too. I looked up at the endless sky, trying to understand the situation. Why shouldn’t I know? Why all the mystery surrounding him? I cleared my mind and continued my story before I started asking questions he obviously wouldn’t answer.

“When they were executed, I barely understood what was happening. I don’t clearly remember how it all unfolded, but I know there was no goodbye. Since I was so young, I was sent to an organization for slaves considered traitors to the nation. There, they classified me as low value because my gift was relatively weak and they discovered a debilitating lung disease. Still, they kept me working in the kitchens until my gift manifested and they could decide what to do with me.”

I looked at Zion, who was hanging on every word. His voice was gentle when he asked:

“Were you with them the day they died?”

“I was, and that’s the worst part—because I don’t remember. There were days I fought to remember, but I couldn’t. I told Ambrose about it, and he said maybe it’s my own brain protecting me from the pain. Either way, after a while I gave up trying. Some nights I dream about them—fragments of my past that appear out of nowhere. They’re the only memories I have.”

Zion sighed, his irritation visible. I didn’t know why I was telling him all this, but now I’d opened the box of memories and it was impossible to stop.

“When I turned ten, my healing gift manifested, but my lungs were getting worse fast. They decided to send me to a Drutes squadron to be used for the rest of my life healing soldiers in battle. I remember the slave mark was made that night, and I hated my gift for bringing this on me.”

I ran my hand over my ear, where they’d mutilated the tips and cauterized them with hot iron. It had been restored after Ambrose did several reconstruction sessions, but sometimes, when I woke from a nightmare, I still felt the spot throbbing. I felt Zion staring at me openly, but I didn’t have the courage to meet his gaze and see pity in his eyes.