At the top of the hill sat a large, circular stadium capable of seating the entire population of Belgate. Most days of the year, it served as a training ground for soldiers, but today the city would be working hard to prep the grounds for the morning's festivities.

I hurried toward the flat-roofed building adjacent to the stadium and slipped through the door. Inside, swords and shields and other training equipment bejeweled the mortared stone walls. The room had that old gymnasium smell, like the sweat had simply seeped into the floor and festered in the deep crevices of the building.

Using the mounted shields and helmets as grips, I climbed up the wall to my left and pushed myself through the hatch in the wooden ceiling. Closing the access door behind me, I wriggled through the narrow attic space on my hands and knees. The air reeked familiarly of rat droppings and mildew, and I wondered if any new vermin had claimed my territory since my last visit.

In the dark, I located the loose ceiling plank and moved it aside, peering through the lath-shaped hole as the trainees entered the room below.

"My father bought it in Holly. The 'smith said it was one of a kind, first class! Paid two whole decks for it," Mason revealed, thriving off the startled gasps of his companions. The boy's pale eyes were permanently fixed in the shape of disdain, and his golden hair ran in tangled rivulets toward the back of his head. He sort of looked like a deranged eagle that way. "Worth it though. I can already tell the difference."

He swung around his new rapier like a doofus, the others admiring the object in awe, sinking with envy.

I tutted quietly. Typical Mason, parading around with his new toy, flashing his family's wallet in our faces. Like all weeds, he descended from the families who'd monopolized essential resources while the world was burning.  They thought their inheritance bought them the right to become a public nuisance.

Easy to pick out.  Easy to offend.

He leered at the boy in the corner—the only boy who'd yet to acknowledge his existence. "Jealous, Tooms?"

Will blinked back at him slowly, very much uninterested. He wore his usual black pants and gray, threadbare shirt, his boots almost as decrepit as mine. 

His silence failed to deter Mason.  "See, my old man recognized my skills. Thought I deserved the best equipment. Top of the line for a proper soldier." He arched a golden eyebrow. "I guess your fire iron speaks for itself."

"I guess."

The blond bristled at Will's docility. He didn't want the outcast to indulge him; he wanted to pick a fight, like always.  "Is that all you have to say, welt?"

Will dragged his tired gaze to Mason once more, lips parting to deliver a witty insult, but then his eyes flicked to the boy's wrist, and he frowned. "You're holding it wrong."

"...What?"

"Your sword. Your grip is wrong. Hook your finger around the ring. It'll keep you from overextending. Won't mess up your hand if you ever manage to kill a Rhean."

Titters spilled through the room, and Mason flushed, dropping his provocation.

Will drew his eyes away in a lazy, unimpressed motion.

William Tooms was all sharp edges. Messy black hair fell over his forehead, the bulk of it tied back in a short, scraggly ponytail. His eyes were dark as well, darker than brown, but not completely black. In the four years I'd known him, he'd only worn two distinct facial expressions—exhausted disinterest and what I could only describe as back off, I bite.

The others included those I had nicknamed over the years. Potato and Potahto, the twins. Chinger. Rex, Breath, and Boy, among others.

Despite our single-sex educational system, I'd grown up with these idiots.  Through years of training and sporting events, I'd watched them develop their skills, make and lose friends. I'd watched Mason pick a thousand fights and lose twice as many. And in many ways, it felt as if I were part of their cohort.

Part of the team.

The room quieted as the instructor strode through the door, hands folded behind his back. The man's pointed face contained several distinct wrinkles, so it was difficult to decipher his actual age. He could have been sixty or forty, though he acted about eighty-five.

Frost, a retired army officer, volunteered to teach the boys in our district how to fight at an early age, mainly to prepare them for the Tournament—a series of contests to determine which young men could enlist.

See, they didn't want to send just anybody to war; humanity was only a few paces ahead of extinction. The contest would help rule out the boys who didn't stand a chance on the battlefield, help pinpoint only the most devoted, the strongest, the best of the best. Like a military colander.

I always thought it strange to send the most skilled and able-bodied men to their deaths if they cared so much about preserving humanity. But above all ludicrous customs was the exclusion of women from the system.

According to the history books, there came a time when humans had consumed and depleted their limited resources, and a warming climate had brewed a starving, desperate people. A rebellion formed in the aftermath—and with it, a war over water.   In the rampage that followed, entire cities were leveled, poisoned, and abandoned.  Epidemics swept through towns to kill off survivors. Forests burned to ashes, and hurricanes swept away the remains.

We called this the Crash, and it had left our species on the threshold of oblivion.

Due to the population bottleneck, women surpassed water as a scarcity, and like any limited resource, they'd appreciated in value. As a result, the new nation of Ells passed the Propagation Decree, which mandated that every woman bear at least one boy and one girl within a lifetime, or three children of any sex, in order to "repopulate" our species. Primarily, to build an army.

If a woman refused, she was hunted down and persuaded, and if she wasn't capable of childbirth, she was ostracized. Like Nova.

I hated the decree as much as its sister: a law that prohibited women from joining the very army we so desperately needed. We were banned from the war. Stuck as an inferior class falsely portrayed as something fragile, a demographic too valuable to have value. Princesses locked in their towers for their own protection.

And because women weren't allowed to fight or train or even breathe violence, I got my lessons here. Covertly.

Illegally, if we're being technical about it.

Frost cleared his throat the way old people do—like you weren't quite sure if they were choking or not. "Class, the Tournament is upon us. Tomorrow is the day you've been waiting for since you were short, scrawny, and incompetent schoolboys." He looked them over critically, as if nothing had truly changed on that front. "Tomorrow, you shall compete with the young men in Belgate who have turned of age. You'll fight trainees who believe they each have what it takes to defend this nation. And, should you place within the top rankings, you'll be enlisted in the Ellsian army."

"And we'll send those Rhean rats back to the gutters," Mason concluded, a few boys murmuring their agreement.

"Did I ask for your charming insight, Price?" Frost demanded, and Mason's expression soured. "You'll learn to hold your tongue if you hope to serve your country one day."

Mason appeared to do just that, face twitching as he refrained from talking back. The smallest of boys gave Mason a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, pressing his lips together to hide his smile. Fudge was his name—his last name, technically. His classmates had decided early on they liked the surname better than Nicholas, and somewhere along the way, Fudge had given up correcting them.

Frost walked down the line of boys with his head held high—an admirable feat considering the massive ego it contained. "For your last session, I wish to review the values you will uphold as Ellsian federates. The principles you must embody, should you prevail tomorrow."

As one, the group deflated.

Frost always stressed the severity of war, the struggle, the sacrifice, finding any and every opportunity to remind us of the leg he'd lost in battle, as if the 100-skit prosthetic didn't get the point across. The rest of the time, he spoke of Ellsian core principles, transforming the army's mission statement into poetry.

Basically, he liked to hear himself talk.

"Tell me, why are we fighting Rhea?"

Mason opened his mouth to respond, but he caught himself and lazily flicked his wrist in lieu of raising his hand. He didn't wait for Frost to call on him. "Godric Sterling is a ruthless king set on conquering the continent's arable land and stealing our water. We resisted, and now he's pledged to annihilate and enslave any Ellsians who get in his way."

He seemed rather proud of his textbook answer, but Frost wasn't impressed.  "You're merely scratching the surface, Price."

Fudge raised his freckled hand, and the officer gestured for him to take the floor. "It's not just the threat of invasion that has us taking up arms. Or the loss of our resources. It's the threat of Rhean ideology," he said, contemplating his next words. "After the Crash, Rheans rejected democracy for autocracy. Now, the king is all powerful, and his people have no voice, no personal freedom. So not only are we defending our borders from violent dictators...we're attempting to contain an authoritarian regime."

"Indeed," Frost said, granting Fudge a 'well put' nod. "As federates, we become the stewards of our nation. We become the new enforcers of the pillars of Ells: liberty, unity, and personal responsibility. Ideals birthed from the Crash. Ideals that formed the very roots of this land and provided us with the nutrients to prosper." He halted in front of Will and gazed upon his students. "These are the values I want you to remember when you're sent to the Rim, and when doubt and fear have had enough time to fester in your brittle bones."

He drew curious gazes now. Open, impressionable gazes.

"The day you're looking out over the edge of the world, remember that you're fighting for so much more than mere survival," he said. "You're fighting for the preservation of humanity."

Once the boys started sparring, I snatched my pencil and notebook from the dusty attic space beside me.  As annoying as Frost could be, he did have a firm grasp on technique, and I'd made a habit of jotting down any helpful advice he spouted. 

Blades had emerged as the military's primary choice of weaponry after the Crash eradicated most of the artillery and the facilities capable of manufacturing firearms. Training was rigorous, always changing, advancing. It was hard to keep up.

"Is that the best you can do, Tooms?" Mason taunted.

I watched the blond hastily swipe at Will, who sidestepped casually. The sound of steel and footsteps reverberated within the room.

Will lifted his hand in earnest. "You're being too loud with your movements, Mason."

"Don't lecture me!"

I rolled my eyes. Mason was always competing with Will, mocking him for his poor upbringing, his father's vocation, and their life in the slums. He'd realized early on the legitimate threat Will posed to his triumph in the Tournament, and he'd hated him ever since.

Will usually ignored him, which only fueled the weed's wrath. But I had to give Mason credit for taunting the least approachable boy in Belgate.

Propping myself on my elbow, I tried to move crosswise to the next loose ceiling board, but the Fates decided my day was going too well, and the foundation splintered below me like ice on a riverbed.

My hand fell through the rotting wood, and I sank into the ceiling laths up to my shoulder.

Mason swore loudly from below.

I hadn't lurked in the attic since last winter. Frost usually held class outside in the stadium, where I could watch from behind the bleachers. Perhaps I'd placed too much trust in the old building. Or maybe I'd just put on weight eating Nova's beans.

The room fell silent as everyone stared at my lanky arm dangling out of the ceiling. I removed my appendage and sat there in the dark, wondering if maybe I could pretend nothing had happened.

"Kingsley!"

Gritz.

Didn't think so.

Sighing, I crawled back to the attic hatch and pulled it aside. Then I jumped through the open space to the gym floor, landing on my feet with my beans and book in tow.

"Alex?" Fudge marveled, his blue eyes bugging out of his head.  The other boys gaped at me as I untangled the cobwebs from my hair, the dust from my clothes. "You were hiding up there this whole time?"

I didn't answer. I just stood there, wincing against the nasty glare of the limelight.

"Aren't there rats up there?" someone muttered.

For a split second, I thought Frost might be having a stroke, but then I realized it was just fury that caused his face to spasm like that.

"Miss Kingsley. Have you made it your life's mission to pester an elderly man to no end? How many times have I caught you in here now?"

"This would be thirteen, sir," I said.

His wide, livid eyes told me it had been a rhetorical question. "Doesn't the concept of a law mean anything to you?"

He didn't give me the chance to answer.

Scoffing, he grabbed me by the elbow and dragged me toward the exit. "This is unacceptable behavior."

"I was just watching."

"Just watching is not permitted." He paused, facing the others. "The rest of you run through the drill set one more time. You can go home once you best Tooms."

There were groans all around, and Will looked like he wanted to crawl up into the attic and die. In other words, no one was going home. Not until Will was too tired to put up a good fight or gave up altogether.

My face crumpled. "Captain—"

"Not a word out of you. I'm taking you home."

I wrenched my arm away. "I don't need an escort!" I rolled back on my heels, biting the inside of my cheek as I met his frigid gaze.  "Please just...let me stay." 

"Stay?" Mason sneered, astounded by my gall. "A breeder?" He propped his sword on his shoulder and shook his head. "Face it, Kingsley. You don't belong here."

My glower faltered. The words cut deeper than they should have.

I glanced around the room at the passive faces, the smirks, the glares.  No one willing to argue on my behalf.  No one even willing to try. 

"You're right," I decided, pivoting for the door, "I don't."