I was finally on the Command's radar, and while no one had come to drag me to the gallows yet, I could tell Tom was walking a fine line. He was the only thing standing between me and prison, I was sure of it. For now, he had ordered me to lie low, give the weeds some breathing room.

This time, I did as I was told.

As the weeks passed, the space on the cafeteria bench slowly decreased, and more men began to accept Will and me into the group. In fact, I'd become rather popular within camp. I was no longer the schoolgirl riding on her brother's success. My tale had transcended into songs and campfire stories blown way out of proportion. And those less inclined to trust us had at least admitted that Will was probably not a back-stabbing traitor.

Beckett told me he'd never seen a new recruit fight the way Will had in that mountain. His swordsmanship and bravery had overwritten his name. He'd become the boy who turned against his Rhean heritage. The rebel. The wayward son.

Still, if anyone gave him a dangerous look, I returned it with even more menace, and given my name and supposed superpowers, it was pretty effective.

Gradually, the boys and I began learning the ropes. The Command had put a hold on boot camp given the stress on our current resources and staff, so none of us were officially enrolled in training, but we were brought up to speed on military operations, strategies, and protocol. I absorbed it all like a dehydrated sponge, taking in the vocabulary, the geography, the configuration of a breathing army.

I'd never felt so accomplished.

So...needed.

On the side of these sessions, Will and I practiced sparring, fashioning me an entirely new fighting style. I was getting better, quicker, and stronger. 

Even if he wouldn't admit it.

After hours, Jaden tutored me on the various types of liquor and how quickly they could destroy a liver. She told me what to order if I was trying to impress, and what I should order if I actually wanted to enjoy myself. She also taught me to keep an eye on my beverage at all times, and to never accept a drink unless I watched the bartender pour it myself. 

I'd ended up moving in with the woman permanently, and we quickly found solace in one another. There was something indescribably refreshing about female companionship. At the end of the day, talking to her was like a warm bath and a good book—a kind of release. It was easy, the way she understood my emotions, my irritation that stemmed from the flood of testosterone outside our window. She could sympathize with every one of my grievances, could put what I couldn't express into words, and I had to wonder if all women shared a kind of universal experience in life that allowed them to do so.

It wasn't really something I'd ever experienced before, that bond. But it had been something I'd desperately needed, even if I didn't understand her love for lace and jewelry and hair clips.

When I wasn't training or losing to Beckett at backgammon, I sought more information about the war and its roots. And Rover, with his loose tongue and easygoing attitude, was my go-to source.

He explained how we'd nearly eradicated Sterling's kingdom when he threatened to invade years ago. And then, seeking revenge, the king had unleashed a demon army, and the roles had flipped.  We'd suddenly needed the best soldiers the districts had to offer.

For the past ten years, the enemy had circled the Ellsian perimeter, squeezing us like a grape until we ruptured. The pressure finally fractured our defenses, and now our scattered Rim troops had to reconvene here in the Interior. 

I sat on one of the tables in the armory, my legs dangling over the edge. "So if the demons made it past the Rim, does that mean all the men fighting there are...gone?"

Rover looked at Sol, who had spent the most time on the borders of Ells. The young man swiveled in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck and the base of his wing tattoo. "It's not looking good for any of the Rim troops, especially those near Belgate. I know Holly has requested the men abandon their posts and retreat to defend the Interior, but I don't know how many will come to our aid at this point."

"What was it like? The Rim?"

Shadows pooled in Sol's eyes, and he breathed a mournful sigh. "Horrible. There were bombs going off all day and night. Ash in your eyes and your teeth. Black snow. Bonfires to keep the Pans away. But mainly, the turnings..." He shivered, and his hand fumbled for his silver necklace. The pendant resembled some kind of cross—a token I hadn't seen in years. "It's the hive. That's where you'll find the Pots."

"The raw demon energy," I recalled.

He nodded. "Evil spirits circled the portals, like fish in a pond. Only the fish were fishing us, and every so often, they'd drop down from the sky and take another."

I didn't ask for any more details; I didn't want to know.

Instead, I peered closer at the cross dangling among his dog tags, fascinated. "I didn't know people still believed in God." At least, not an omnipotent and omnibenevolent god. Not after the Crash.

"Most didn't before this war," Rover said, sitting down on the floor across from me. "Sol was raised with his faith, but other soldiers...they'd never seen a Bible verse in their lives. Then it became sort of hard to deny the afterlife when an army of demons fell from the sky. Now everything's up in the air. No one knows what to believe."

Claus scowled from his work bench, speaking around a mouthful of sunflower seeds. "Yeah, well, your extremists would beg to differ." When I sent him a confused look, he harrumphed and spit out a few shells to make room for his tongue. "That's right. Some boots think this war is the Rapture. They think God's responsible for all this supernatural crap, and he's wiping out all the nonbelievers or something. We've had some deserters take to the streets, trying to warn people about the end of the world.

"On the other end of the spectrum, we have those idiots who refuse to see what's standing right in front of 'em. They refuse to believe in magic, in portals, demons, angels. They think the Pans are suffering from the plague, or just psychological torture and manipulation. They're nonbelievers right up until their gruesome deaths."

"People are divided," Rover agreed. "They're questioning God, consciousness, and death, and no one has any real answers." He frowned at the stone pavers between his legs. "This entire war has forced us to reevaluate everything we know. It's part of the reason we've kept the truth from the public. They've got enough to worry about with the agricultural crisis. Last thing they need is a spiritual reformation."

Honestly, I hadn't given it much thought. I didn't exactly have time to sit back and analyze my religious ideologies.

"If you ask me, it's all irrelevant," Claus muttered. "Don't slap names on it. Just give me a Pan to throttle."

"You mean like the ones you throttled when you came running out of that mine, pissing yourself?" Rover teased.

Claus threw his saliva-soaked sunflower hulls at the blond, and Rover swore, kicking his leg out to fend him off.

"What about the Seventh Order?" I asked. "Will said they helped Godric create the portal. Can't we talk to them and figure out how to shut it down remotely? Figure out how to exorcise demon possession?"

"If you can find a member that's still alive," said Rover, irritably flicking the seeds off his shirt.

"There was a mass suicide," Sol elaborated. "Those involved in the scheme took their lives after Godric forced them to help him."

I felt the blood drain from my cheeks. "How did he force them?"

"Prohibited them from reversing their magic. Threatened to kill them and their families," Rover said. "They couldn't live with themselves."

"Cowards," Claus muttered. "They let the world fall to hell..."

"They brought hell to the world," Sol corrected.

Rover rolled onto his back with his legs in the air, propping his feet against the cabinets and  folding his arms beneath his head. "After that, the rest of the Order dissociated. We've no clue if they're alive or where they've gone. But if they haven't tried to end this chaos a decade later, they're no ally of mine."

"Couldn't someone else like, replicate the magic? Reverse it?" I asked. "There has to be some sort of spell book or reference material, right?" 

Spells, magic. What was I even saying? How was this real life?

Sol shook his head. "They were a secretive bunch. Only passed down their knowledge verbally, from generation to generation. But even if we came across the ritual capable of returning balance to the world, it might not be enough." My brow furrowed, and he grinned, sensing the question on the tip of my tongue. "The Order believed a gene was required to perform magic—a gene found in mediums and psychics and witch doctors and the like, passed on from child to grandchild, and consequently, member to member."

Rover closed his seawater eyes. "And the last generation to inherit the gene is dead."

"As far as we know," Sol added, ever the optimist. 

The four of us ruminated on humanity's unfavorable predicament for a while, and then Claus said something about inventory, and the conversation evolved into vanadium concerns and weaponry advancements. 

But as the men exchanged fresh ideas and witty insults, my thoughts lingered on the Seventh Order and the genetic mutations they claimed to possess. Claims we'd once perceived as laughable and impossible. 

And I couldn't help thinking about a little old woman in the woods.

I walked along the tree line with Richard, throwing him a pinecone every now and again. The dog was living his best life here in the open space. The men all spoiled him silly—namely, Fudge and Grismond—and he was never without company. Or scraps.

But it made me wonder. If Richard had made it out of Belgate, someone must have opened the gates. And that meant people must have escaped too. So where were they?

Where had thousands of citizens fled to?

Had they all gone south? Because according to Rover, the Southern Ridge no longer promised safe passage, and everything west of Belgate was demon territory. Tom had already sent scouts into the Range to search for survivors, but it had been weeks since the invasion, and there was still nothing.

What did that mean for our father and the countless others we'd left behind?

Quiet laughter tumbled through the trees, and I froze, snapping my head around to the source of the delightful sound. Intrigued, I crept into the aspen grove, moving closer to the cadence of low voices and the rush of a gentle-sloping river.

I spotted Fudge first. He crouched at the river's edge, washing his clothes and training gear. Will sat on a boulder a few feet away, pulling at the stitches on his shoulder with his knife.

It surprised me to see him so casually shirtless, but I suppose he'd had to adapt to the lack of privacy the barracks offered. Hopefully no one had given him a hard time about the scars — not only was it a deeply personal subject for Will, but I also suspected he'd kill anyone who so much as looked at his chest the wrong way.

"Will...do you think you could teach me to fight, like you've been teaching Alex?"

Will stiffened, and he slowly turned to look at his freckled companion.

"I mean. I know we were both in the same training cohort, but I've never really taken the whole thing seriously until now. I want to jump ahead in physical training, and you seem to know what you're doing. So..."

Will frowned, and he didn't answer for a while. He removed the last of his stitches—improperly, of course—and he snatched his black shirt off the rock. "Fudge, do you really want to fight?"

Fudge stared back. "No. But I have to."

"Why?"

"Same reason as you. I can't just stand by and watch everything burn."

Will hesitated, but Fudge wasn't stupid. He could detect the reluctance in Will's eyes. The concern.

 "...You don't want to teach me, do you? Is it because I'm not strong enough? Like Alex?"

"Strength has nothing to do with it," Will said. "Alex is just...violent." I gaped at him, and it was like Will could sense my indignation because he tried again. "She's a fighter. Even if she doesn't know how to fight yet, it's in her blood. You're different. You can fight, but I'm not sure you were meant to."

The younger boy looked down at the water, biting his cheek.

"It's not a bad thing, Fudge. If there were more people like you, there wouldn't be a war in the first place." Will tugged his shirt over his head, wincing. "Besides. There are other avenues. Different ways you can help. You don't have to wield a sword to win a war."

Fudge sighed, wringing out his clothes and throwing them in his basket. "It's okay. I'll just wait for boot camp. Thanks anyway."

He started to walk away, and I could see the conflict on Will's face. 

"I'll help you," the prince conceded, and Fudge glanced back at him in surprise. "But you need to recognize that you're not going to survive out there with a sword and shield."

Fudge's face fell, and I think Will and I both felt like we'd been punched.

"What I mean is, everyone has a different skillset. We need to find a fighting style that suits you first. Maybe something with less brute force." Will wet his lips, then squinted at the golden canopy above us. "Have you tried archery?"

Fudge shook his head, and Will nodded to himself, joining the other boy at the fork in the river. He gripped his shoulder and steered him back toward camp.

 "Let's find you a bow."

A joyous smile blossomed on Fudge's face, and I pressed myself against the tree as they wandered back to camp. A few weeks ago, Will might have told Fudge to piss off, or glare at him until he left him alone. But things had changed, and I could see the big brother in him now. A glimpse of the boy he used to be.

"Are you stalking your boyfriends?"

I jumped. Tom stood behind me, smiling evilly.

"I'm not—they're not—what do you want?"

He arched his brow. "Sol's finished. It's ready."

"And school?" Tom asked.

"What about it?"

"Have you been going?"

"Of course I've been going! I'm not a drop out."

"It was just a question."

"Can I see it now?" I begged.

He tsked at my impatience, and then he reappeared at the door of the armory, balancing a brand new weapon on his fingertips. 

It was a steel blade embellished with accents of bluish silver along its surface, like swan feathers floating on stale, gray water. Black leather encased the grip, and a polished, disc-shaped pommel sealed off the hilt.

"It's beautiful," I whispered, taking the weapon in my hands. It was thin, balanced, and perfectly weighted for someone my size.  It would flex enough to absorb the shock from a bigger opponent, but it was the furthest thing from flimsy. 

I'd have to thank Sol later in person; this was a work of art.

I admired the shaft, observing my own reflection on its surface—curious hazel eyes, parted lips, and a narrow face curtained by a mop of messy hair.

My smile slipped, just a fraction. But Tom was too perceptive for his own good. 

 "What is it, Al?"

My gaze flicked to his and then back down to the tool he'd gifted me. "I just...I don't know if I can use this against them," I admitted. "Not now that I know they could be human. I feel like it's a waste of a gorgeous weapon."

Tom nodded as if he'd predicted my response. "That's why it's a double-edged sword. Only half vanadium. For a quick getaway." He traced his finger over the silver design that crested near the spine of the blade. "Lethal, if you need it to be."

...A double-edged sword?

Amazed, I tilted the sword vertically to inspect its dual nature, my fingers curling around the hilt like they belonged there. Then I held it level to my torso, admiring the way it protruded from my wrist like an extension of myself, before lowering it to my side.

I looked up at Tom, completely blown away by his thoughtfulness. He'd done so much for me these past few weeks. With his reputation on the line, he'd given me my dream. And now, he'd given me a choice.

"Just make sure you protect yourself, alright, Al? Don't be stupid—"

I crashed against his chest, instantly killing his motherly rant. "Thank you," I mumbled into his shirt, wrapping my free hand around his torso. "Thanks for being here. Thanks for believing in me."

He cradled my head with his right arm, pulling me in close, and the tight embrace stirred up emotions I hadn't felt in years—emotions I wasn't even sure existed anymore.

He sighed into my hair. "Man...do you have to be a soldier? Can't you become a nurse? Or like...a teacher?"

"Can't you?"

His chest rumbled with laughter.

"Sir!"

We broke apart, startled by the urgency in the man's voice. 

A young soldier stood at the garage's entrance. His eyes were wide and haunted, his complexion flushed, as if he'd just run a mile to get here.

"The Pans were spotted three miles west of here," he said, breathless. "They're coming for the Interior."