“I’ll help you,” I find myself saying.

He glances back. “I’d like that.”

The tingling in my body, which I’ve started to get used to, increases suddenly, like a surge of electricity, and I find myself giddy with excitement. I have the urge to rush to his side and grab his hand, walk with him. I restrain myself.

Roc says, “Sorry to interrupt, but we’re approaching the boundary to the camp.”

I look around—all I can see are buildings. For a second I think Roc might’ve gotten confused, but when we turn the next corner, the buildings suddenly disappear and are replaced by a high stone wall. The wall is gray and sheer and would’ve appeared ominous, an impossible barrier between me and my dad, except there is a gaping hole in it.

Scorch marks are burned along the edges of the hole, the result of a force so powerful it could’ve only been from an incendiary. Three times, I think. Three times we’ve been effectively saved by the star dweller bombs. At some point I am really going to have to write the star dweller leaders a letter thanking them.

I chuckle under my breath at my own joke.

“What?” Tristan says.

“Nothing. Just thinking how strange it is that I’d still be stuck in the Pen if not for the star dweller bombs. Or worse, I might be dead. They always seem to explode when and where I need them the most, like a guardian angel is helping me.”

“You think there’s something to it?”

“I don’t know. Probably not. More likely it’s just a coincidence. They seem to be bombing everything,” I say. Despite my nonchalant response, something tells me there is more to it. But it doesn’t make sense—can’t make sense. Why would the star dwellers be trying to help me do anything? They don’t even know who I am. They have much bigger problems to deal with now. Like how to win a war. I shrug off my thoughts and try to focus on our present situation.

We have a way in now, but I’m afraid to take it, afraid that the entire camp is destroyed, the prisoners left to die while the guards evacuated.

“It’ll be okay,” Tristan says, as if reading my mind.

“I know,” I lie.

The first bomb hits just as we are creeping through the hole. Another day of bombing has begun. If we weren’t so used the sound of distant bombs, we might have mistaken it for something else, a piece of machinery firing up maybe, but by now we can identify the roar of thunder as not a fluke underground storm, but as the mirthful cry of pointless destruction.

Elsey cries out, but I manage to quickly slap a hand over her mouth, silencing her. We huddle together, hoping there isn’t a guard just inside the wall, close enough to hear the noise. Warmth flows into my skin as my arm brushes against Tristan’s.

He looks at me, his eyes serious. He leans in and I think he might kiss me, although clearly it isn’t the time or the place.

“Wait here,” he says.

I start to object, but he is already gone, slipping inside the wall and around the corner. I see the hilt of his drawn sword flash before he moves out of sight. He moves remarkably fast considering his wounds. He’s still not moving normally, but his limp has lessened.

Roc must see the concern on my face, because he says, “Don’t worry, he’ll be fine. I taught him everything he knows.”

I laugh. It is high pitched and nervous, but a laugh nonetheless. It helps to calm my nerves.

We hear a quick yell and then a groan, followed by a thud. I’ve had enough of waiting and rush through the wall, expecting violence of some sort.

Instead, there is only Tristan, grinning, standing over his fallen adversary.

I approach him, feeling my heart beat faster as the distance between us lessens. “Is he…dead?” I ask.

“Just unconscious,” Tristan says. His grin fades and he raises a finger in the air. “We have to hurry.”

I can hear a dull commotion further into the camp. Something is happening. Something big. Inside the wall we can see all the way to the main buildings, where the prisoners are probably kept. But the sound arises from further south, past a cluster of massive stone blocks stacked in a pyramidal structure.

I don’t know how I know, but I do: my father is here. Admittedly, being this close after not seeing him for so long makes me go a bit crazy. Okay, really crazy. I take off, leaving my friends behind, envisioning a joyous reunion with him, jumping into his arms, holding him to me.

It’s a long run, and my initial burst of speed wanes, forcing me to drop into well-measured, paced strides. Tristan catches up halfway to the pyramids, pulling alongside me, galloping along in a strange limp-run, his breathing heavy, but not as heavy as mine. To his credit, he doesn’t try to stop me, to reason with me, like so many other guys would do. He seems to understand that I have to do what I’m about to do.

Whatever that is.

“What’s the plan?” he says as we run together.

Plan? Huh? The word sounds as meaningless to me as a phrase uttered in an ancient language by someone who forms words by clicking their tongue against the roof of their mouth. “I…uh…well…” I stammer. Finally, I say, “Get my dad?” What a plan! I even say it like a question, as if I’m not sure that’s why we’re sprinting across a barren prison camp. Good one, Adele.

Tristan deserves a medal for patience. “So go and kick some butt then?” He tries to grin, but the pain of running with his injuries turns it into a grimace.

“Exactly.” His assured tone gives me strength, and I feel like we have a plan, even though we don’t. “Are you okay?” I ask.

“Never felt better,” he says.

“Liar.”

The pyramids loom closer. They are a lot bigger now that we are close to them, rising hundreds of feet into the air. I veer right, heading for the outer edge of the first one in the line of three. Tristan follows, keeping pace and sticking close to my side. As we pass the corner, my eyes widen at the sight before me.

Dozens of other giant, gray pyramids dot the landscape, rising majestically above us.

The commotion we heard from a distance is getting louder and soon we can make out individuals yells. It sounds like a battle.

I continue to steer us in the direction of the sound, but we still can’t see anything except the pyramids, which are staggered in such a way that they block the view in every direction once you are in their midst.

“We’re close,” Tristan says. “Get ready.”

Ready for what? I have no idea, but I nod anyway. We pass a final pyramid and abruptly our vision opens to a wide open rock slab plane. A half-constructed pyramid stands a ways off. In front of the pyramid: chaos—the source of the noise.

A mob of prisoners are fighting the guards, who are using long whips and Tasers to hold them off. None of them have guns. Clearly the intention is to hurt, not to kill.

But the guards aren’t doing so well. We pull to a stop, and as we watch, one of the guards is bashed over the head by a shirtless guy wielding a rock. A prisoner. His body is covered in scars, some dark and ancient, and others fresh—some even ooze bright red blood.

There are hundreds of prisoners, all of whom are in a similar condition. None of the men wear shirts and they all have various injuries, likely caused by the sting of the guards’ whips. The women wear ratty tank tops and sport similar welts and gashes. But they’ve had enough.

The revolt is ultraviolent and for a few minutes we watch in awe as the prisoners start to gain an advantage. Although the inmates are taking a beating, the guards are dropping fast, being pelted with stones or bludgeoned by bare fists, a result of the overwhelming force that is gathered to defy them.

The camp name suddenly makes sense. The Stones: the massive stone blocks used to construct the pyramids—they were likely constructed off the backs of the prisoners, a pointless exercise that appears to have no purpose other than to inflict pain. The Blood: the prisoners provide that when abused by the guards.