Now the guards’ blood is mixed with the prisoners.

Our timing is remarkable. That we arrive during such an event is incredible, to say the least.

“Do you see him?” Tristan asks.

“Who?” I say, watching the brutality with morbid curiosity.

“I don’t know, your dad maybe?”

Duh. The whole purpose of our being here. I scan the mob, hoping to see his dark mop of hair and neatly trimmed mustache amongst the prisoners. I don’t think about what it might mean if he’s not amongst the fighters.

I think my eyes sweep past him three or four times before I recognize him. Subconsciously, I know it is him, because my gaze keeps returning to one spot, but my mind fails to believe it’s him. His black hair is long and disheveled, down to his shoulders. His mustache is accompanied by a thick, black beard, covering the better half of his face. His uncovered body, always strong from his work in the mines, glistens with sweat and blood and is as hard as the stones he is forced to work with.

But there is no mistaking his eyes. Emerald green and piercing, like mine. Exactly like mine. Looking into them has always been like looking into a mirror for me.

When he happens to turn toward me, searching for a guard to fight, he spots me and our eyes lock. I don’t know if he thinks I am a mirage, a misfire of one of the thousands of synapses in his brain, but he just stands there staring at me. His shoulders slump as if even seeing a mirage of me is too painful for him to bear.

I wave at him.

His head perks up and his head cocks to the side. I guess maybe he doesn’t think a mirage can wave. Whatever the case, he takes off running to me. I charge toward him, wild with excitement. My legs feel as light as air. I am giddy, gleefully childlike. A few of the guards see him break away and race after him, one of them snapping a whip at his heels.

Ignoring the crackle of the whip, my dad thunders toward me with reckless abandon. The gap between us disappears. Forty feet. Thirty. Twenty.

Crack! The guard slings the whip with practiced precision and this time it connects, wrapping around my father’s legs and tripping him up. He manages to brace his fall with his arms and skids to a stop ten feet from me, his arms immediately sheening with fresh blood from new scrapes.

We go for the guards. One for me; one for Tristan.

I choose the one with the whip. I’m not sure where this sudden need for revenge comes from, but I can’t seem to control it. First Rivet, because of Cole. Now the whip-carrying guard, because of my father.

The guard pulls the strap back and snaps it at me. I see it coming, ducking so low I am forced into a roll, clunky and painful on the stone. I emerge from the roll on my feet and still moving at full force. I’m not sure a train could stop me at this point. It is like I’m possessed by a demon, only observing my crazed self from afar.

When the guard sees the look on my face, his own face flashes fear, cheeks turning white and mouth contorting. I lead with an elbow, spearing him in the mouth with it and likely jarring a few teeth loose. Maintaining my momentum, I follow through with a shoulder to his sternum, flattening him onto his back and trampling overtop his chest.

I screech to a stop and look back. Tristan has the other guard at sword point, but then switches the blade to his left hand and punches the guy hard in the head twice. His head lolls to the side like he’s unconscious.

The guard I battered is groaning and writhing in pain. I don’t think he’s going to be a threat anytime soon, so I leave him and run to my dad, who is pulling himself to his feet. Despite his aches and pains, he is smiling, his arms outstretched.

Although it isn’t exactly as I planned in my mind, I jump on him, wrap my arms and legs around him, hugging him harder than I ever have before, not caring that he is covered in a mixture of dirt and blood. “Dad…oh, Dad,” I murmur into his chest.

“My precious daughter,” he says, rubbing my back.

I hear Tristan say, “Not trying to spoil the reunion here, but we’ve got to go.” Reluctantly, I release my dad and turn to Tristan, who is watching us with one black eye; the other is trained on the continuing battle between the guards and prisoners. I see what he is worried about. A few of the guards have broken away from the fray and are gesturing at us wildly.

“C’mon,” I say, grabbing my dad’s hand and pulling him toward the closest pyramid. “I’ll take you to Elsey.”

“El’s here?” my dad says, following me.

“Yeah, I figured I’d pick her up on the way over. You know, right after we broke out of prison.”

“What!?”

“It’s a long story.”

Tristan limp-runs past us. I can tell he is fighting through the pain.

“Follow me,” he says.

I’m not sure why I do it. I guess because I want to show my dad that I am tough, that I’ve survived, that I am the strong girl he raised. In any case, it is probably just childish. “No, follow me!” I exclaim. I take off, sprinting past Tristan and around the first pyramid.

I glance back and see Tristan half-grinning, half-cringing, trying to catch up. How I love that smile of his, even when it’s not at full strength. It is natural and genuine, just enough lip on both the top and bottom, a slight dimple in his right cheek. Beautiful. I have the sudden urge to kiss him. What is the matter with me! I’ve barely made it to first base—first base being holding hands; I’m not sure what the real first base is—and already I am ready to take the next step. Who is this girl? And what has she done with me?

My dad isn’t far behind him, looking lean and fast. Further back still is the group of guards, who have started chasing us. Great. Can’t they just leave us alone? Haven’t we been through enough?

To make it more difficult for the guards to follow us, I weave through the pyramids, cutting a random path toward the open flats that lead to the outer wall. I emerge from between two pyramids and into the open. Adrenaline is rushing through my veins, pushing me to fly, fly! I don’t sprout wings and take off, but I do run pretty fast—so fast that Tristan doesn’t catch me until we are halfway across the empty space.

I look back to see where my dad is. He’s fallen behind a bit, unable to keep up with our younger legs. Or it might not be age that hinders him. It might be the weight of the abuse he’s been subjected to in the camp, rendering his body tired and weakened. Whatever the case, the guards are gaining on him—five of them, closing in like a net.

“My dad,” I say, pulling to a stop. Tristan stops, too, and we reverse our course. My dad sees us coming and slows up. He isn’t about to let us do all the fighting for him.

He turns just as we reach him. The guards are upon us. Five on three. Tasers and whips again fists and feet and spirit—oh, and Tristan’s sword, too. So who has the advantage? I’ll give you a hint: it isn’t the guards.

A Taser lances out toward my father’s legs, but is blocked by a quick thrust of Tristan’s sword. A whip snaps at my head, but I duck and charge. I’m not full of rage anymore, but I do feel confident. Next to my father I feel invincible. He is my teacher. The best fighter I’ve ever known. Although I’ve never seen him fight anyone for real, I’ve always believed he is unbeatable.

I leap at the guard who missed me with the whip, kick him in the head, knock him over. Glance to my right.

My dad clotheslines two of the other guards, his heavy arms catching them in the neck and forcing them to the stone. Flopping on the ground, they gasp for air. Tristan has another one at sword point. Rather than finishing him off, he uses his forearm to send a shiver through the guy’s skull, knocking him senseless.

There is only one guard on his feet. The new odds: three on one. He runs, dropping his whip and Taser and pride in a heap on the stone.