I bring it. I launch myself over the bed, pointing my sword forward like a battering ram. Roc is forced to jump backwards, which allows me to land on my feet and go on the offensive. I feint hard to the left and Roc completely buys it. When I go right he’s left exposed. I connect sharply under his ribs and then whip a leg behind his knees, sweeping him off his feet. He smashes onto his back, losing his sword in the process. When he reaches for it, I step on the wooden blade.

He gives me a wry grin.

I give him my hand.

Big mistake.

He grabs my hand and pulls hard, throwing off my center of gravity and forcing me over the top of him. Although I’ve been trained to maintain a firm grip on my sword at all times, even to the detriment of the rest of my body, it’s difficult to do in real life when every instinct is telling you to release your sword and use your hand to break your fall.

I practically throw my sword across the room. By the time I stop my fall and start moving to recover my sword, Roc’s quickness gives him the advantage. He already has his own sword in one hand, and mine in the other.

“A little cheap, but a victory nonetheless,” I say.

“My first one, sir,” Roc says, laughing.

I hate losing, but I laugh, too. Roc knows I hate it when he calls me sir in private. It’s his way of getting even with me for my unwillingness to talk about my feelings.

“Thanks, Roc,” I say, feeling more love for him than I’ve felt for anyone in a long time. Without him I’m not sure where I would be. A wreck for sure. Well, at least more of a wreck than I already am.

For no reason at all, an image flashes through my mind: the black-haired girl sitting on the stone bench; her sad, green eyes; the eternal gulf between us bridged when our eyes meet. Then her fists are out to fight the ogre.

That’s when I pass out.

Chapter Three

Adele

A riot breaks out as I make my way back to my cell. That’s the way things work in the Pen. You’re minding your own business and then you’re in the middle of a brawl. Like the one I am in now.

A fist the size of a miner’s hammer bashes the side of my skull, forcing my eyes shut and sending stars dancing across my field of vision. When my sight returns, I see what hit me. Wielded by a tattooed mountain, the clenched fingers are like a wrecking ball, colliding with anything and everything in their destructive path. And I am in the way.

I can fight the guy, but he isn’t even fighting me. He’s just fighting in general, swinging at anything that moves.

Each time I try to push through the human net surrounding us, clawlike hands force me back into the center. Ducking under another arc of human flesh and bone, I fire back, aiming my own punch at his ribs. When I connect, tendrils of pain rip through my hand and explode up my forearm. For a moment I think I’ve punched the stone wall by mistake. The steroidal teenage mountain looms over me, finally focusing his violence on a single target: me. I am in way over my head.

His fist is the size of a basketball as it cuts toward my face. There’s no time to move. I close my eyes.

I hear a groan before I’m knocked to the floor by a big body, but my head doesn’t hurt. When I open my eyes I am surprised to see darkness on top of me. And then I’m pulled to my feet by Cole, who charges through the impenetrable human blockade, tossing surprised bodies to either side as he pulls me to safety.

We race down a hall and pass by guards who are striding in the other direction, their eyes sparkling with excitement, their knuckles white and gripping clubs and Tasers. They like when there are riots. It means they get to satisfy their lust for blood.

We turn a corner and nearly run into Tawni, who is galloping toward us. Her eyes start on me, but then flick to Cole and widen. “Are you okay?” she says, lifting a hand to his face.

I follow her gaze to Cole’s eye, which is already swollen. I realize that the reason my head isn’t hurting is because Cole’s is. He took the hit for me, and took it well. I’ve been protecting myself for so long that it feels weird to have someone else do something for me.

“I’m fine,” Cole says, pulling Tawni’s hand away from his face.

“Thanks, but—” I start to say.

“No problem.”

“I wasn’t finished. Thanks, but I could have handled him on my own. I know how to look after myself.” I’m being a brat, but I can’t seem to stop myself.

Cole half-grins, half-grimaces. “Sure,” he says.

“No, really, I was fine,” I say. “I know how to fight.”

“If you say so,” Cole replies. “It just looked like that dude was gonna make mincemeat out of your face, but next time I guess I won’t bother…”

I take a deep breath, try to stop being the cold, isolated person I’ve become. “Sorry…I mean…thanks. Yes, thank you—that’s what I meant to say.”

“No problem,” Cole repeats. “Now we better get into our cells before that riot spills out this way.”

I know he is right because I can hear the roar of chaos growing louder. I don’t know what else to say, so I leave them and head back to my lonely cell.

* * *

The sunlight retreats along the white windowsill. With each minute that passes, the shadows lengthen, until the light gives way to a troubled darkness, gray and soggy. The dark clouds challenge the omniscient sun, and the clouds prevail, like a black-armored army descending upon a shining and pure city of light. Skeins of rain beat upon the panes of glass. Moisture splutters under the base of the barely opened window, leaving the painted sill slick and wet. A few drops gather and push forward to the edge, slipping off and onto the plush brown carpet.

If only.

I wish that’s what I am seeing. Only I’ve never seen sunlight. Or sunshine, or sunbeams, or even a ray of sun. Those are just words in books—not real. Nor have I seen rain—or clouds, for that matter. Like sunlight, those are things of myth and legend. As told by my grandmother, who was told by her mother—a story passed down for generations. Not even my father has seen the sun. Or my father’s father. Or my father’s father’s father. You get the picture.

The image in my mind is from a story my grandmother once told me before putting me to bed, when I was really little, before she died at the ripe old age of fifty. She told me lots of stories about how things were before Year Zero, dozens of generations earlier. She made a point of telling me that things weren’t better then, just different. I don’t believe her. The sparkle in her eyes, the wistful way the words rolled from her tongue, the hidden grin behind her straight-lined lips: each of her subtle features gave away her lie.

My grandmother wasn’t a natural liar. She only lied to protect me. That much I know. If she conveyed her true feelings about how much better things were before, she clearly believed it would endanger me in some way. Like maybe I would grow so depressed I wouldn’t eat or sleep or go to school. Or I might talk boldly to my friends about what she had told me, making myself appear treasonous, which would surely put a government target on my back. Whatever her reasons for lying to me—or if not lying, holding something back—I know they were pure.

But no, I’m not seeing rain, or clouds, or much of anything. Just the inside of my pitiful gray cell inside the Pen. The walls are made of stone. And the ceiling. And the floors. Even the bed. Shocking, I know. It seems that everything in my world is made of stone.

I’ve heard stories about how the Sun Realm has buildings made of wood, a substance that comes from the trunks of trees. I’ve only seen pictures of trees. Old pictures saved from up above. Or pictures my grandmother drew for me based on what her mother told her. They have all kinds of plants up there, or so people say. It is almost like they are living aboveground, with a synthetic sun, fake rain, artificial stars that come out at night. Why they are so privileged, I may never know.