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1
There were onlythree rules in the world I lived in: be quick, be quiet, and be careful.
I meditated on these truths daily, allowing them to become my life's mantra, my creed, and my religion. To an outsider, they were simple rules, but to the runners of West Mirth, they were what kept us alive.
Carefully constructing their fundamentals into the framework of my soul, I let these ideals fashion a mold I hid easily inside, forgetting any personal desire I once entertained. The dreams of my youth faded into something more rational, more attainable. Hopes of a family, a future, anything unrelated to the mountain I was sold to at birth was blotted out like a blazing wick between two wet fingers.
I sat blindfolded, as I have done hundreds of times in the past ten years of my training, willing away the fleeting thoughts of the life I was rescued from and discouraging any somber distraction tearing my focus away from the task at hand. The thick fabric in front of my eyes left nothing to the imagination, merely a searing blackness heightening the only senses that mattered—sound, smell, and fear. Because out there, outside the granite walls of the mountains veiling us from the night, our sight was the enemy.
"Focus, Arya, center yourself. Let me know when you're ready." The steady voice of my instructor echoed against the stone walls of the training room. The stillness of the air spoke to me; the gaps in my running leathers provided space for my skin to sense any slight change in the atmosphere. I took a breath, silent and slow, grounding myself in my seat on the floor and numbing any emotion still vibrant inside me. Rising in stealthy quiet, I shifted my weight into my toes because this next part required me to be light on my feet.
"Ready," I whispered and waited for the test to begin.
There was nothing for several minutes, causing doubt to strip away at my focus. But just when I was about to call out once more, the air stirred ever so slightly to my right. The tiny hairs in my ear caught a movement, but I remained still to study it further. My fingers spread wide to increase the surface area of my touch in reaction. Judging by the ever-so-quiet sound of a string stretching against tension, I had only one guess as to what was coming my way.
An instant later, my hand flew to the right side of my face, grasping the tail end of a very real, very lethal arrow. The hum had given it away. I dropped it leisurely at my side. Footsteps approached my left, slowly at first, before breaking into a charge. I crouched into a shallow squat, then leaped, letting the air from an unsheathed blade guide each reaction to avoid being sliced open by the double-edged sword. The blade swung away from under my feet, and in the same jump, I thrust my kick to the left and let my heel connect with the wielder.
His body gave against the weight of my blow, striking him firmly in the chest, and his footsteps stumbled away with an echo of sharp surprise. Landing lightly on my toes, I twisted the length of my body to close the distance created between us. My other leg carved high in the air and met his skull. The sickening sound of a jaw knocking teeth was like music to my ears, the rush of breath leaving his chest added reprise to the melody. His weapon crashed to the floor along with the heavy thud of his body, but I did not go for a final blow, nor did I reach for his weapon. He was down, surrendered to the fight, which meant I had no need to pursue him any further. I was not an assassin—I was a runner.
The test consisted of more of the same, attacks in the darkness only anticipated with the practiced trust of my senses. After a lifetime of sharpening them, I relied more on my hearing, perception, and intuition than I did on my eyes. The darkness could conceal a multitude of threats in its obscureness, but actions could never hide. Not from the queen’s most skilled runners—definitely not from me.
The world beyond the blindfold grew quiet as the Pit stilled. Nothing made a sound beyond the pounding of my blood in my ears before a soft voice interrupted the steady beat. "Your test is over. Congratulations, Arya, you have passed."
A wave of reprieve washed over me, unsurprised yet relieved nonetheless, and I untied the blindfold I had been wearing for the past few hours. I blinked, letting my eyes adjust to the well-lit training room and the sudden brightness that ambushed them. At my feet were four men, currently unconscious at the expense of my training. Here in the pit, we learned to fight and defend ourselves against the immortal night demons, the vampyres, existing just outside our mountain solitude. Nearly impossible to kill, the only chance to survive an encounter with one was to fight like hell and pray the heavens would take us if we failed.
I shook out the tightness straining my muscles and immobilizing them in their deprived state. My trial had followed one of my weekly, long runs, and I pushed myself far too hard knowing I had a trial later that day. But I had to get better. There was a desperate need in my heart to feel the outside world with each one of my developed senses. Passing this test had brought me closer to my goal, but not close enough. There would be more to train, more to work on, and more hurdles to jump before I would feel fresh air against my face.
Instructor Mallo entered the room from one of the arena entryways, a hidden area where she orchestrated my trial like a divine. If Mallo was the god of this Pit, then I was her most devoted patron, desiring nothing but her approval and blessed favor. Her short frame only came into sight after passing dozens of pillars designed for the concealment of turrets and brutes meant to harm me. One of these brutes roused, groaning at my feet, and I smiled down on him victoriously as he clutched his bleeding temple.
"Don't get overconfident,” she snapped, noticing the obvious satisfaction in my smirk. “You did well, but this is only the first of many trials. Each test will be more difficult than the last but will display your skillset in a way that will give us a complete picture over your abilities." Words left her tongue as sharp as the arrows littered at my feet. I nodded in submission, wiping the grin off my face as quickly as it had appeared.
"When will the next test be?" I asked.
She shook her head and ran an eye down my arm to the growing shake in my fingers, raising a curious brow at the nervous tic I’d started to develop over the last few weeks. I balled my hands into fists to cease their trembling, coercing her attention back to the conversation. "That is for us to know and you to find out, so you should be ready at all times."
I nodded again and took a deep breath, audibly revealing my frustration. Mallo's pointed features softened, noticing my displeasure. "Patience, Arya. You are one of the finest runners we have. Stay on this track, and you will no doubt be called up soon if skill has anything to do with it."
I bit back the retort building in my throat and gave a tight smile. Chosen. I trained like I had a chance. No woman had been chosen since…well, no one could recall exactly. Our queen had a type, and it didn't include the delicateness of the finer sex. But Mallo dismissed me, and I gratefully left the pit to find the dressing rooms, feeling further than ever from my goal. My time was quickly running out here under the mountain—only one year left to prove I had what it took to face the darkness beyond our obsidian walls. One more year, and I’d age out of the system and get sent to a lower kingdom to find other work. One last birthday before I was transferred to another prison, trapped behind more walls, and forced once more into an unflattering mold.
I wouldn’t let it happen. There was no way I was going to live the rest of my wasted existence in a lower kingdom learning a new trade, tending to the Last Livestock, or weaving fabric to clothe the rapidly declining population. I knew I was good enough, and I had put in the work to become one of the fastest, leanest, and most agile runners in my class. While other girls my age seduced the runner royalty and rose through the social ranks here at West Mirth, I trained. I buried every hunger created in my young heart for love or affection, for attention or popularity.
I didn't care if I received any notice from those lean-bodied, brooding, unnervingly handsome male runners. I could care less if one of them was currently tracing my body with his almond-shaped eyes as I changed out of sweaty leather and damp clothes and into something more comfortable. Nor did I notice the water dripping from his wet, auburn hair and down his contoured cheek as a playful smirk danced across it. There was absolutely no heat in my cheeks or my hips as I slammed my locker door harshly and left the dressing rooms.
Nope. I didn't care about them at all. I’d buried those needs years ago, along with all the other adolescent urges naturally arising from youthful bliss.
The day stretched late, and although time was more of a concept than a reality determined by the eternal night, the exhaustion in my bones demanded rest. The tunnel leading back to my sleeping quarters was now nearly deserted. A few other runners were returning to their classes and retiring for the night as I wandered alone in the stone hallway. I tried—and failed—to ignore the message board as I passed it, the latest post the face of yet another Chosen who had fallen victim to the wastelands.
His name was Grisham, and he had occupied the bunkhouse across from mine. He was called up just last week, receiving his note during our regular tempo run, and hadn’t bothered saying goodbye to anyone before he left. His death followed two other runners just this month—an alarming statistic even by our standards. Running was dangerous, a truth well known. But what kind of mission was so dangerous it claimed the lives of not one but three runners? And why in the blight were we continuing to send runners out so quickly after the last one had fallen? Perhaps being kept in training was a good thing—for now. I may have longed to leave the confining granite walls I’d lived behind my entire life, but I didn't have a death wish. I only wanted to have a purpose, to know the past twenty years weren't a complete waste. My time in this cursed realm would be more than just chasing after men or working a meaningless job in the lower kingdoms. As a Chosen, I would be essential, necessary to the survival of my people.
I would matter.
I neared the tunnel leading to the Darrow Class, the highest-ranking unit named after one of the original runners nearly a hundred years ago. Passing the other bunkhouses, quiet conversations spilled from the archways leading to their cots, their hushed voices silenced completely as I passed. Something was off about the way they hid their voices from my approach. The steps of my leather boots lightened as I quickened my pace, eager to leave the attention of their whispers.
I rounded the corner to my own bunkhouse and found Loren sitting on his bed, hovering just above my own, his long feet dangling over the side. His cot had been made up and folded at the end of the bed, sheets pressed in a thin stack forming a shallow pile at his side. In his hands was a note, and he didn't tear his eyes away from the words even as I entered.
"Loren?" I asked, hesitant. "Is everything okay?"
He slowly lowered the note and finally met my gaze.
