Secondborn

Chapter 8

Exo and Ohs

I stand on the island platform in shocked exhaustion for several moments, until I realize that I’m no longer in a bubble of secrecy. Turning toward the gangway, I’m confronted by six curious faces. “The press conference is in the morning, before the first test of the Secondborn Trials,” I say numbly.

“You have to get some sleep. I can only do so much with your puffy eyes—I’m not a miracle worker!” Emmitt replies in a panic.

Hawthorne joins me in the center of the island. “We’ll take Roselle to our air-barracks and return her to you in the morning.”

Emmitt wags his finger at Hawthorne. “No, no, no. You’re not taking her from this building. I’m going to be up all night planning her hair and wardrobe as it is. She stays here. You can come back when we’re done.”

Emmitt bickers with Hawthorne. The Stone’s voice has a hollow sound. The hanging trees surrounding us wait like gallows as they fight over me. Hawthorne stops abruptly. “When was the last time you ate?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I reply. I don’t feel hunger, just terror.

“Right.” He turns to Emmitt. “Roselle needs to eat. Take us to our quarters and send for rations so that she doesn’t collapse, or you can explain why she’s not at the press conference in the morning.”

Emmitt takes a hard look at me, his gaze with the weight of a thousand eyes. He must agree with Hawthorne, because he lifts his hands for Clara to come forward. “Have you secured quarters?” Emmitt asks. “We need to accommodate”—he waves his hand in the Sword soldiers’ direction with a disdaining look—“them as well.”

“I have access to an apartment several levels up in the Treetop. A firstborn officer agreed to let us use his suite.” She glances at her wrist communicator. “Clifton Salloway. Apparently, he’s a fan of our Roselle.” She nods in my direction. “This way.” Clara leads us to the elevators.

The lift takes us up to the top floor. The doors open on another that leads to a suite. The drawing room has a multilayer air-billiards table in the center of it. A wet bar and lounge area intermingle, while five or more private rooms hide down side hallways. Gilad activates the wall-sized virtual screen with a voice command. Almost every channel is broadcasting commentary on the hunt for the Gates of Dawn rebels who perpetrated the act of violence against our fatedom, or live-streaming feeds of the Secondborn Trials Opening Ceremonies, or presenting reports about the participants in this year’s Trials.

Gilad settles on the champion profiles, as the Diamond-Fated commentators discuss our fifty or so Sword representatives, among them Tilo Sword, 61-924501. They rattle off his statistics, strengths, and attributes. Tilo, a veritable giant of a man on the screen, has an insolent smile, as if he fears nothing. I study his sword work, knowing that a fusionblade is the great equalizer between us. I wouldn’t need the kind of power he possesses to defeat him. He’s slow and my fusionblade is quick, but now, my weapon of choice can be rendered obsolete with a push of a button—the right kind of pulse—an FSP. If I had to fight someone like Tilo with a steel blade, mine would have to be small and light, giving him the advantage because he could wield a broadsword with ease.

I walk away as Gilad and Hammon debate the weaknesses of the next set of champions from the Fate of Seas. Edgerton uses an airstick to blast billiard balls around the obstacle-laden, air-powered table. Emmitt and Clara converge in front of a conference wall unit, haggling with the glass Tree staff about the rations we need to see us through until morning. Emmitt, as always, is winning the argument.

Slipping out onto the balcony, I find we’re not in one of the docked ships on the branches; rather we’re in the trunk, with balconies that jet out over the lake beneath us. This Treetop view of the stone-and-glass forest must only seem commonplace to avian and Firstborn Exo officers. The moon illuminates flat landing pads that cover some of the tops of the Trees along the canopy, but not ours. We’re so high up, nestling between the clouds.

The unfamiliarity of it all is almost as frightening as being in Census. Goose bumps rise on my skin, and I try not to think about the scorn on Mother’s face. What happens if the Gates of Dawn use the FSP again, and I fail to warn everyone? Will those deaths be on me? Tears prick my eyes and slide down my cheeks. My hair, long and loose, tangles in the breeze.

“I’ve never been in a Treetop apartment before,” Hawthorne says as he joins me at the railing. I quickly wipe the tears from my face with my sleeve. He pretends not to notice. “I’ve only ever seen this kind of luxury on the virtual screens.” I don’t comment because to me, this isn’t luxury. “I bet you’re used to this.”

I clear my throat, but my voice is still thick. “This is all new to me as well.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m used to a more lavish cage than this one.” I cross my arms and rub my hands over them. The breeze is cold, but I don’t want to go inside and watch the other soldiers debate the merits of champions who will almost certainly die in agonizing ways in the next couple of days. I glance at Hawthorne and see him frown. He has taken off his helmet. His hair is sandy blond, a little longer in the front than I’d expect from a soldier. It suits his roguish nature. “Forget I said anything,” I mumble.

“You always looked so focused.”

“When?” I ask. I’ve felt off-kilter since I’ve known him.

“When I watched you on-screen. You always seemed so grateful to be a secondborn and to serve our Fate.”

Another voyeur. “What makes you think I’m ungrateful?”

“I wouldn’t have expected you, of all people, to call your home a ‘lavish cage.’”

“It’s not my home any longer, and please, forget I said anything.”

Hawthorne moves away from my side. He descends a few stairs into a sunken seating area and lights a fire table in the center. Simulated flames rise up from its core, illuminating his face with a golden glow. I move to the fusion-made heat, stretching my hands out to it.

Hawthorne faces me across the table. “Did Agent Crow hurt you?” The simulated firelight reflects in his eyes. “You were there for days.”

“I only remember the last dozen hours. I don’t know. He tried to, but I wouldn’t let him. It would’ve been worse if you hadn’t—thank you.”

Hawthorne’s jaw tightens as he grits his teeth. “I wouldn’t leave a drone down there with him.” My heart sinks. A part of me was hoping he’d come to help me because it was me down there. “You seemed to be holding your own when we got there.”

“Agent Crow underestimated me. He won’t make that mistake again.”

“No, he won’t,” Hawthorne agrees with a frown. “Men like that don’t stop, Roselle.”

“Maybe, if I’m lucky, a city will fall on him.” I’m so tired that I’m forgetting to be cautious about what I’m saying—or maybe I trust Hawthorne, even though I hardly know him.

“We can hope,” Hawthorne replies. My eyes widen at his treasonous agreement.

Attempting to change the subject, I ask, “Are you okay?” His stare shifts away from the flames to me. “About Agnes. You said good-bye to her. It looked . . . permanent.”

He shrugs. “We had a date night once.”

“That was much more than a date night,” I reply. “That looked like a relationship.”

He scowls at me and gazes around to see if we’re being overheard. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” he growls. “You know it’s forbidden for us to have relationships—casual encounters only.”

“I would never tell,” I murmur. “Did you two meet in secret?”

“It’s over, Roselle! Whatever we had is finished now. We can’t be seen together, not with Agent Crow’s threats. I won’t risk her further.”

“I’m sorry,” I offer, and I mean it. He acknowledges me with a curt nod.

Clara opens the balcony doors and beckons us inside. “The rations are here. You’d better come in before everything is gone. Honestly, do they not feed you soldiers?”

I cross the balcony and enter the suite. The soldiers have shed their weapons and body armor, resting them against walls and sofas. Hawthorne follows suit and takes off his rifle and chest armor, depositing them in a neat pile in a corner. I thought his armor was the reason for the breadth of his chest, but I was wrong. The armor is thin and lightweight. All of the bulk is Hawthorne’s muscles. My face flushes, and I look away.

A servant has set us a table in the dining area, and a buffet has been laid out on the lavish side table. Large trays display selections of meats and cheeses, bread and pastries, vegetables and fruit. The soldiers load food onto their plates. Hawthorne hands me a porcelain dish and insists that I serve myself before he takes anything. He sits next to me at the long table. Emmitt sits on my other side.

Gilad, Hammon, Hawthorne, and Edgerton attack their food as if they’ve never tasted anything quite as good. I eat at a sedate pace, trying not to gag. It’s not that it’s entirely bad, but the meat is salty, the cheese isn’t very creamy, and the fruit isn’t as fresh as I’m used to. Emmitt pronounces his meal inedible and pushes it away. Gilad looks up from his plate and stabs Emmitt’s steak with his knife, confiscating it.

Emmitt scowls at him. “Must you?” he asks.

Gilad doesn’t answer, just keeps chewing while staring at Emmitt like he’s next to be stabbed. By the end of the meal, I can barely keep my eyes open. After stifling several yawns, I give up trying to be polite. “I wish everyone a good evening,” I say, pushing away from the table and standing. Hawthorne stands, too, but the other soldiers choke on laughter.

Gilad catches his breath for a second. “Good evening to you, too.” I can tell when someone is mocking me, I just don’t know why. Apparently, neither Clara nor Emmitt knows either, because they’re as baffled as I am.

“Don’t be savages,” Hawthorne says with a scowl at his team. “You could all use some manners.”

“What good are manners in a battle?” Gilad asks.

Not waiting to hear the answer, I walk away to the farthest door at the back of the suite, and Hawthorne follows. “Who is Walther Petes?” Hawthorne asks, his voice low enough not to be overheard.

Hesitating, I turn back from the doorway and stare at him blankly. How does he know that name? “I’m sorry, who?”

“Walther Sword—his last name was Petes until his secondborn processing—I don’t know his number.” He has an intense look, as if he sees right through me.

“I don’t know. Why?” I reach for the doorframe. My knees feel weak. Walther is a secret that I need to keep, no matter what.

Hawthorne seems not to notice my weakness. “He commands a unit at the secondborn Base near the border of the Fate of Stars—the Twilight Forest.”

I shrug and lean against the doorframe. “So?”

“So he’s a combat commander for Vector Company. What does a combat commander want with you?”

“I don’t know,” I lie. Dune must have gotten word to his older brother to find me—maybe Dune’s not leaving my placement to chance like everyone else has. “Why do you ask?”

Hawthorne leans against the other side of the doorframe. “I was under orders from my commanding officer to extract you from Census, but it was to be a covert mission. I had to work it out on my own—assemble my own team. They sent me because you’re familiar with me. I assured them that you’d trust me if I found you.”

“How did you know I’d trust you?” I ask.

“I just knew.” I turn away to retreat into the private room and evade any more of his questions, but Hawthorne holds my arm. “I caught the tail end of a briefing between Commander Aslanbek—he’s my CO—and Commander Walther.”

“What did they say?”

“They were arguing about you—about who ultimately keeps you.”

“I don’t know anything about it. I thought you were acting alone.” I don’t know why I’m crushed by disappointment, but I am. I thought Hawthorne came to help me because he’s my friend—my only friend. I should’ve known better. I’ve never had a real friend apart from Dune. I don’t even know how to be a friend, let alone make one.

Hawthorne squints at me, as if he notices my disappointment but not the reason for it. I straighten. “I’ll see you at first light,” he says. He lets go of my arm.

I can only nod. Entering the bedroom, I slump against the door to close it. I don’t even bother to wash my face before falling headfirst onto a pillow.

My neck is sore when I rouse from a nightmarish sleep. It’s still dark as I lie in bed, looking around at unfamiliar shadows as dark as the folds of Agent Crow’s leather coat. My heart slows, and I wish that I had thought to pour myself some water before bed.

In my dream, I’d been searching the wreckage of the airships for bodies. Coughing on rock dust, I couldn’t find anyone alive, only pieces of people—hands with red roses still clutched in their fists. Some of the mangled corpses had stumbled from beneath the rubble, their limbs crushed so that they lurched and jounced, dragging broken legs and feet. Some of the dead soldiers had twisted jaws hanging sideways and heads held at strange angles. They crowded around me, pawing my uniform, until I realized I had a silver-sphered Fusion Snuff Pulse in my hand. Pressing the button, it stole their power, rendering them dead once more.

Rising from the bed, I stumble to the bathroom. Undressing and kicking away the ugly blue clothing, I turn on the shower and step in. The heat of it soothes the kink in my neck. When I’m done, I wrap myself in a robe that I find in the cabinet. I leave the bathroom and venture into the drawing room. At the bar, I find a glass and pour myself some cold water from the tap. Sipping from it, I see Edgerton, alone and staring at me. He’s made a bed of the enormous sofa.

“Hello,” I whisper, not wanting to wake anyone else.

“Sun ain’t up yet. You shouldn’t be neither,” Edgerton whispers. He’s shirtless, his gun propped next to his hand. He’s skinnier than Hawthorne and Gilad, but he has the wiry muscles of someone who knows how to fight.

“I had a bad dream.” It’s such an awkward thing to say. I immediately regret it.

He doesn’t know what to make of me standing in front of him with wet hair, in a robe that’s four sizes too big, its hem dragging on the ground, sleeves hiding my hands. “Oh,” he replies. “I despise bad dreams.”

“I do, too.”

“You gotta close the door on ’em.”

“How do I do that?” I set the glass down. He has my full attention.

“You gotta tell your friends about ’em—talk it out—no matter how many times it takes, and then poof”—his closed hand opens and his fingers spread apart—“the monsters go away.”

“I don’t have any friends.”

“I’m your friend.”

“You are?”

He nods.

“Why?”

“Because when you look at me, you’re seein’ me, not some good-for-nothin’ cold-water hick from the mountains of Swords. You can tell me about your demons—I’ve experience with ’em.”

Sitting beside him on a fluffy chair, I tell him about the dismembered corpses, the hands that don’t match their arms, the heads on sideways. I leave out the part about the Fusion Snuff Pulse. I’m forbidden to tell him, and he’d be in danger from the authorities by knowing it. He listens, not making a sound until I finish.

“Erebody dies, Roselle. It were their time. This is war. Nobody gets to pick when they go or how. It just happens when it happens. Ain’t no sense worrying about it.”

“They were murdered, Edgerton.”

“Most of ’em Swords done some murderin’ of they own—it’s been going on longer than the few days you’ve been in it. We’re soldiers. We kill things. We get killed by things. That’s the job. You want a different job, you picked the wrong birth order and the wrong Fate to be born into.”

“What if I don’t want to kill things—what if I want to save things?”

“You mean, not be a secondborn Sword?”

“Yes.”

“If there were a choice, what Fate would you pick?” he asks.

I chew on my bottom lip, thinking. “I don’t know. They all have drawbacks because I’m secondborn. I have no voice in any Fate.”

“That’s never gonna change. You have to make peace with it or it’ll destroy you.” He reaches for the strap of his gun. Fishing through a compartment on it, he extracts a white stamp wrapped in cellophane. “I have a chet. I was savin’ it for something really bad. Here,” he says as he extends it out to me. “You can have it. It’ll relax you.”

“No, you keep it.” I rise to my feet, not taking his offer. “I have to be sharp for the press conference.” Edgerton nods and puts it back.

“She’s too strong for that, Edge,” Hawthorne says from the archway. He has his arms crossed, his back against the wall.

“How long have you been there?” I ask. My face burns with embarrassment.

“We all have night terrors,” Hawthorne replies sympathetically.

“Hammon has bad ones.” Edgerton sits up and reaches for his shirt, dragging it on. “Sometimes I have to hold her all night, which ain’t as easy as it sounds cuz neither of us is allowed in the other’s capsule.”

“You and Hammon are . . .”

“She’s my girl.”

“But that’s . . .”

“I know. That’s why we hide it. I’m telling you cuz you’ll find out anyway. You see erething. Are you gonna keep my secret?”

I nod. “You wouldn’t have told me if you thought I wouldn’t.”

“You’re right. You strike me as someone who has secrets of her own that are a lot bigger than mine. You’re no turner.”

“I thought Hammon and Gilad—”

“They’re best friends,” Edgerton interrupts, “but she and me has always been together.”

“Ham and Edge,” Hawthorne acknowledges.

A door opens down the hall, and a blurry-eyed Clara Diamond shuffles into the drawing room, almost running into Hawthorne. “Ugh, why are you people up when you don’t have to be?” she asks, combing a hand through her hair. She trudges to the bar and inputs a selection for coffee. It arrives piping hot in the instant-carousel unit. She takes a sip from the mug and looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. “Ah, good, you’re awake. We have to get started on your look. Follow me.” She walks toward my bedroom.

“You have to get started on your look,” Edgerton teases me softly. I reach for the pillow on the chair and toss it at him. He catches it, his laughter following me as I trail Clara.

I admire Clara’s lavender-colored hair as she spends the next couple of hours styling mine by hand, not leaving it to the bathroom unit’s automated groomer. She arranges it in long, loose curls, then applies cosmetics to my face, sighing over every scrape that she finds.

Emmitt breezes into the bathroom in a whirlwind with clothing draped over his arm. “I had seamstresses up all night creating this masterpiece for you, Roselle, even though I know you won’t appreciate it.”

He carefully unwraps a Tropo uniform unlike any I’ve ever seen. The top is made of two different fabrics, suede and silk. The suede corset squeezes me at the waist and fits so tightly, it makes it hard to breathe. I shrug into it, and Clara fastens the line of golden hooks and eyes along my spine. The beautiful beige suede creates an hourglass effect.

A beige silk panel, sewn into the bodice of the suede just above my breasts, creates the neckline and the sleeves. It’s so fine as to be transparent, showing off my collarbone and shoulders. The neckline at midthroat has a thicker panel of silk like a choker. Trousers of the same supple suede fit me like a second skin. Knee-high, matte-black leather boots finish the outfit.

The black bruise over my heart is a dark shadow. I touch it, and my fingers press into the beige silk. It still hurts, but not as badly as when I’d first awakened in Census. “What about this?” I ask. “You can see this bruise.”

“I have a solution for that.” Emmitt holds up a long leather jacket. “This should hide it.” I attempt to put my arms in the sleeves, but he stops me. “Uhht, uhht,” he says, pulling the black leather jacket back, “let me just drape it on your shoulders and see the effect.” We both gaze into the full-length mirror in front of us as he sets it on me. It marries the look of a cape and a coat. The jacket resembles Agent Crow’s coat, clearly a knockoff of Census uniforms, except that this one has a row of golden sword-shaped buttons on either side of its lapels.

Emmitt smiles. “The way you’re wearing this denotes a certain negligence, as if you’re unconcerned with the attack. Rebels don’t scare you.”

“It looks like a Census coat.”

“It does, but it’s different enough that people will automatically feel you have authority, though they won’t know why.”

I now see how brilliant he is. He lifts a kohl stick from among the cosmetics and pulls a thick line across my bottom lashes at a catlike angle. If Agent Crow were here, he’d probably accuse me of stealing his look. Emmitt reads my mind as he stares at my reflection. “You’ll be responsible for more kills than any agent can ever hope for. Here.” He reaches into his jacket pocket, and then slips a sharp-pointed ring onto three fingers of my left hand, like brass knuckles in the shape of jutting talons, but in gold.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“If you run into a question you didn’t anticipate, look down at this ring while you think, as if you’re too bored by the question to answer it.”

“Won’t people find that offensive?” I lift my hand, trying not to poke my eye out as I study it.

“No. They’re looking for someone to believe in. You, showing no fear, is what they need. Be infallible. Be fearless. We’ll hold the press conference on the balcony of this Treetop penthouse. Eat something now before your crude entourage consumes it all.”

I hope for rain as I follow Emmitt. I peek outside as we approach the windows to the terrace. Drone cameras are already arriving for the press conference. Floating platforms levitate like flat tarmacs, carrying high-profile celebrity commentators. I’d expect this caliber of on-air talent to focus on the Secondborn Trials rather than me. They embrace frivolity. Dune always said it’s because any serious journalism is subject to severe censorship. I’ve mostly avoided them until now because my virtual access had its own dedicated channel, mostly drone and stationary cameras that I rarely interacted with.

I follow the scent of breakfast into the dining area. Gilad and Hawthorne are already working through huge plates of food. They haven’t bothered to put all their armor back on yet. Edgerton and Hammon are at the sideboard, dishes in hand. Hammon leans closer to Edgerton, selecting a roll from a basket. Her torso brushes against his wrist. His hand rests lightly on her side, caressing the curve of her hip. His mouth lingers close to her ear. Her face flushes. She closes her eyes and turns so that her neck brushes his lips. The intimacy makes my face flush as well.

They notice me beside them and move apart from one another. I follow them to the table with my full plate and sit across from Gilad. I start eating, my fork and knife making soft sounds against the plate. As I chew, every eye is on me. “What?” I ask after swallowing.

“What are you wearing?” Gilad asks.

I look down at myself. My cleavage presses provocatively against the beige suede and silken fabric. “A uniform.”

“Whose uniform?” Gilad asks, his eyebrows arching up. “That’s not a Sword uniform.”

I smile and resume eating. “Don’t worry, Gilad. You’ll get one in the next requisition.”

“I’m not wearing anything that looks like that,” he growls.

“You wouldn’t fill it out half as well,” Hawthorne teases. His gorgeous storm-colored eyes linger on me. We eat in silence until I set my fork down. Hawthorne lifts his chin. “You ready for this?” He indicates the assembling crowd of reporters outside. I can just see them through the archway of the dining room.

“We’ll know in a few minutes,” I reply. “Please excuse me.” He stands as I do. I take my dish to the clearing tray near the sideboard. After depositing it, I join Clara at the glass doors that lead to the balcony. She doesn’t speak as we both gaze outside at the mass of reporters on mobile platforms, vying for airspace near the railing. As soon as I come into sight, the drone cameras perk up, flying nearer.

The screen in the main room is tuned to a channel covering this news conference. Desdemona Diamond, secondborn, narrates my appearance inside the Treetop apartment. “Roselle Sword, formerly St. Sismode, has just made her entrance to the lavish apartment of Clifton Salloway, firstborn Sword and heir to the Salloway Munitions Conglomerate. We have yet to see Clifton himself, but we know this inter-Fate pleasure seeker by his reputation for the lovelies.”

Desdemona details my lavish ensemble with fascination and a touch of envy. My eyelids narrow at the screen. She is making this all sound nefarious, treating me as if I’m an adulterous Diamond-Fated firstborn actress found in the hideaway of a clandestine lover.

Desdemona turns to her co-anchor, Secondborn Suki Diamond. “Where has Roselle been for the past four days since her ill-fated procession through the streets of Forge?”

“I don’t know for sure where she’s been,” Suki replies giddily, “but it’s all too curious that we find her here, in the Treetop love nest of Clifton Salloway.” She clasps her hands in her lap and leans closer to Desdemona, her long black hair hanging to her ankles in a shimmering cascade. “Maybe we should reach out to his ex-flame, Firstborn Celestial Bastille?” I don’t know who that is, but I hope with a rising panic that they don’t.

Hammon joins me at the glass doors, but her focus, like mine, is on the wall screen. “You’ve made it onto the Daily Diamond!” she breathes in awe.

Desdemona flips her long hair as she discusses Clifton Salloway and his string of broken hearts. Her hair is gorgeous, seven shades of blue, sewn to her head with the darkest of thread so that the seams form diamond patterns. Diamond sparkles glisten from her long eyelashes and over her dark cheekbones. Her blue lips are painted with a white diamond in the center, and so are her long blue fingernails.

“This is a delicious turn of events, Roselle,” Emmitt whispers in my ear, almost preening when Suki and Desdemona begin discussing my outfit again. They note its exquisite fit and speculate that designers might favor a military cut and style in their spring collections. “Use this to your advantage. Clifton Salloway is a dream come true, and he wants to meet you.”

“He’s here?” I ask. I couldn’t feel more awkward if I’d walked into the glass doors in front of me.

“He’s right over there.” Emmitt puts his hands on my shoulders, turning me in the direction of the bar. In the corner of it, a firstborn officer stands with a three-finger glass of light blue liquid. He’s leaning against the back counter, watching me. I’m startled that I didn’t notice him before. While Hawthorne is the rugged kind of handsome, Clifton is the film-star kind of gorgeous. Attired in a black Exo uniform similar to Gabriel’s, Clifton is the highest-ranking Sword outside of an admiral. Exo is the rank given to both exceptionally well-trained firstborn soldiers and a few aristocratic firstborns with very little military prowess. I don’t know where he falls.

As if my eyes on him are an invitation, he pushes away from the counter and prowls nearer. Stopping a foot away, he takes my left hand, bringing it to his lips. He kisses the crown of my birthmark, causing my silver sword moniker to shine on the bridge of his nose. My heartbeat hammers in my ears.

“Roselle,” he murmurs, “Clifton Salloway. It’s an honor to make your acquaintance.” Behind him, on the screen, the co-anchors of the Daily Diamond are in a frenzy, commentating on the “primal chemistry” between Clifton and me. Clifton gives a soft chuckle. “We’ve been found out, Roselle,” he teases.

My laugh is more nervous. “I hate when that happens, Patrøn. It ruins the fun.”

“Someone as lovely as you should never have her fun ruined. And I insist that you call me Clifton.” Clifton looks to be in his midtwenties, although his clean-shaven cheeks might be making him look younger than he is. Sultry green eyes, with flecks of gold that resemble the tails of shooting stars, stare back at me from beneath a whiplash of blond hair swept to the side. His eyes grow brighter as he releases my hand with some reluctance.

“So, this is your apartment, Clifton?” I ask as he straightens.

“One of them. It’s where I stay when I’m required to fulfill my active duty tours.”

“I see. Thank you for the use of your apartment. It was generous of you.”

“It was no trouble, I assure you. I am a fan of yours.”

My eyebrow lifts. “A fan of mine?”

“You have taught me a fair number of sword maneuvers. Tell me, would you consider giving me private lessons?”

“I—” I look away from his handsome face in utter bewilderment. Surely he must know that I’m not in charge of my own destiny. I’m told when I must rise and when I’m to sleep, when to eat and when to train, when to study and when to bathe. It’s all out of my control—everything about my life is out of my control.

Hawthorne joins me. “I believe they’re ready for you outside, Roselle.” His hand gently angles me toward the glass doors.

“Excuse me, Patrøn,” I murmur to Clifton.

“Of course,” Clifton replies with a wink.

As I turn away, Hawthorne growls low to Clifton. “She doesn’t give private lessons. Go find someone your own age to train with.”

I glance over my shoulder at them. Clifton stares at my backside. “I’m bored with my trainers. They lack the kind of ferociousness that I see in Roselle. She would give me quite a workout.”

“She’s only eighteen.” Hawthorne stands rigidly between us.

“So it’s okay to send her to war, but not to allow her to—”

“If it were up to me, she’d never see a battlefield.”

“Then tell her to consider training with me, and I’ll make sure she never sees combat.”

Hawthorne turns. “Gilad, this Exo wants private lessons. He’s looking for ferociousness. You up for a training session?”

Gilad looks like a malignant hobgoblin with his scarred face and his dead man’s stare. “Anytime,” Gilad replies.

“Are you her unit commander?” Clifton asks Hawthorne with a speculative look.

“No. I’m just someone who looks out for secondborns.”

Emmitt is positively gleeful beside me. He claps his hands and whirls me toward the drone cameras outside, whispering in my ear. “You are fast becoming my favorite person in the entire fatedom! Gah! Clifton Salloway and that gorgeous Sword are fighting over my little Roselle. What’s next?” He stops at the threshold, drunk on the testosterone in the room. “Now,” he says as he puts his hands on my shoulders and squeezes, “keep your wits about you, and you’ll survive this to live another day.”

Another day may be the best that I can hope for. The doors open, and he gives me a little shove out onto the balcony. The doors close behind me, and I’m alone with a wall of reporters. The sun rises slowly beside us. I squint a little as my eyes adjust. I pull the leather coat tighter around me. Squaring my shoulders, I walk a few more steps to meet the strobe flashes and jockeying reporters beyond the railing.

Questions are shouted from many angles. “Roselle, are you and Clifton Salloway lovers? Where have you been for the past four days? How did you and Clifton meet? Did Clifton rescue you from the Gates of Dawn soldiers? Does Clifton Salloway know that you’re secondborn? How long have you been keeping this affair a secret? What does your brother think of your affair with Firstborn Salloway? Does Gabriel feel threatened by this relationship?”

“Hello,” I greet them. I look at everyone, allowing the photographers and drones to get their pictures, pausing a few seconds in as many directions as I can.

“Roselle, Roselle.” Desdemona Diamond vies for my attention. I shift in her direction, and she asks, “Is Firstborn Clifton Salloway your lover?”

Instead of frowning or scowling as I’d like to do, I laugh softly. “I only just met Firstborn Salloway a few moments ago. He very charmingly introduced himself near the door there.” I point over my shoulder at the silhouette of Clifton in the glass. He waves to the reporters. “And I could no more have a relationship with him or any other man of my acquaintance without violating a hundred different laws. The last time I checked, that was forbidden.”

Suki Diamond shouts the loudest. “How do you explain your appearance in his apartment, then?” The reporters crowd toward her.

“Firstborn Salloway was gracious enough to offer his apartment to us last night to prepare for this press conference.”

“Who is the us you’re referring to?”

“The team of secondborn soldiers who have accompanied me to the press conference.”

“How come you need a team of soldiers to accompany you while in the Stone Forest Base? Do they fear for your safety? Are you a target for the Gates of Dawn?”

“I don’t have an answer for that question. You’ll have to address it to the company commander or the admiral of the Stone Forest Base.”

“Do you believe that the Gates of Dawn were specifically targeting you in the attack on the Sword capital of Forge?” asks a dark-haired secondborn man with a small scar through the center of his top lip. He doesn’t look at me but holds an audio dictator out, reading its screen as it takes notes for him.

“The enemy soldiers were along my route to the Stone Forest Base, so to a certain extent, I believe they targeted me for the media appeal of the event.”

“How did you know they were enemy soldiers?” he asks.

“They had visors and helmets that were different from Sword soldiers.”

“Why would they attack you, do you think?”

“I don’t see this as a personal attack. I believe they wanted to do as much damage as possible and scare as many people as they could. My Transition fit that profile.”

The man looks impressed by my interpretation. “Do you have any insight as to how they entered the Fate of Swords?”

“No.”

“But if you had to guess?” he presses.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

“Did you like the white flowers they brought you?”

I don’t answer right away. His question brings unbidden tears to my eyes. I swallow hard and look down at my ring, trying to look bored rather than shocked by his callousness. The platforms have grown quiet. The clicks of drone cameras are loud and rapid. When I’m certain my voice won’t betray me, I look up and give my best impersonation of my father’s fatal smirk. “I find calla lilies more appealing than roses. I’ll be sure to bring them some in return the next time we meet.”

The reporters swarm, understanding my meaning. Voices shout questions. “Will you deploy with the next wave of Swords to the battlefield?”

“I haven’t yet gotten my orders.”

“Did you witness the explosion that brought down the airships?”

I pause. “No. I didn’t witness an explosion. I saw one airship crash.” It’s a lie of omission, and it bothers me.

Most of the questions that follow I rehearsed with the panel of leaders last night. My answers are short on details and heavy on things I didn’t see. I drill through them quickly. Eventually Emmitt emerges from the apartment behind me, stops at my side, and says, “Roselle only has time for a few more questions.” Most of them are about my current uniform and whether I plan to set new style trends for secondborns and firstborns alike. I allow Emmitt to answer those, though he pretends that a secret Diamond-Fated designer had done the work.

The final question interrupts my thanking everyone for coming. “Do you have plans to see Clifton again?”

I groan inwardly. What is the fascination with my so-called love life? Do they really not get that if I were to have an affair with Clifton, I could be jailed or killed? I look over my shoulder at Clifton standing inside his apartment. He steeples his hands, as if he’s praying for me to say yes. This gets a chuckle from the men and sighs from the women. My eyes drift to Hawthorne’s. He looks worried. I face the reporters once more. “I don’t make plans. I follow orders.”

“Okay,” Emmitt says, waving to the reporters. “Thank you for coming today. You can pick up press packets from the Base Commander at the Warrior Gate. Have a pleasant journey back to your Fates.” Emmitt links arms with me, as if we’ve always been the best of friends, and we stroll to the glass doors. “Well done, Roselle! You were flawless!”

Hawthorne meets me just over the threshold. Re-dressed in his combat uniform, he has his rifle slung on his back and his helmet on his head, without his visor deployed. The downward slash of his eyebrows feels ominous. Angry-faced, he grasps my upper arms and growls, “We’re leaving. Now.” I let go of Emmitt’s arm as I hurry to keep up with Hawthorne. He marches me to the door.

I try to stop him. “I should say good-bye to our host and thank Emmitt and Clara for their help. It’s rude just to leave like this.”

“Move,” he barks. “That’s an order.” I stop resisting. My leather coat slips from one shoulder. We are at the door of the apartment in a couple of heartbeats. Emmitt blusters behind us, shocked by our lack of decorum. Gilad holds the door open for Hawthorne and me while Hammon holds the elevator doors and Edgerton points his rifle menacingly at some target over my shoulder.

From behind me, Clifton Salloway calls out, “Consider my offer, Roselle. I’d love to work with you.”

Hawthorne swears under his breath. He stomps right past Gilad, who slams the door behind us. We enter the elevator and face the glass that overlooks the immense drop to the ground. Gilad and Edgerton step into the lift as well. Hammon closes the door and selects the ground floor. As we descend, I try to ease my arm away from Hawthorne’s grip. He tightens it, and then realizes that he’s hurting me and lets go. I take off my coat, folding it over my arm to hide the bruises that Agent Crow left.

“Do you mind explaining what just happened back there?” I ask.

“Whoo!” Edgerton yells. I flinch from the surprise and sheer volume of it. It takes all my willpower not to throat-punch him. He slaps his thigh, and then doubles over, hands on top of his knees, laughing. “Damn, that was fun!” He wipes a tear from his eye. “Did you see the look on his face when we evac’ed to the elevator without giving him a chance to worship at the altar of Roselle?” Hammon snorts with laughter beside Edgerton, and even Gilad cracks a smile. “That ol’ boy can hunt!” he continues. “He wants Roselle somethin’ fierce!” He points at me. “And you! You got to be the coolest customer that I’ve ever set eyes on when it comes to handlin’ those Diamond-Fated douchebags!”

I rub my forehead, at a complete loss. “Who is ol’ boy?” I ask.

Hammon takes pity on me and explains. “We sometimes call a firstborn ol’ boy or ol’ man. He was talking about your boyfriend, Clifton, back there.”

“Don’t call him her boyfriend,” Hawthorne scolds. He’s really angry. “Talk like that could get her killed! That kind of relationship isn’t just flirting with danger, it is danger.” Hawthorne points at me. “You, stay away from him. He’s no good for you. He asks you again for private lessons, you tell him no, and then you tell your commanding officer that you’re not interested in training anyone. Do you understand me?”

“I take it private lessons have nothing to do with weapons training.” I lean my forehead against the glass of the elevator and watch the rapidly approaching ground. A part of me hopes to be splattered by it so that I don’t have to face the soldiers in this lift.

“Aw, he wants his weapon trained, all right,” Edgerton hoots, doubling over again.

“Thanks for the warning,” I reply. “I’ll stay away from him.”

We reach the ground floor and Gilad is first off the lift, followed by Hammon and Edgerton. Hawthorne holds the door open for me. I’m glad he doesn’t touch me. I’ve reached my limit for being manhandled today. The next person who tries will wind up hurting.