The Healers' Tent.

Third Corps, Vayelle.

I turned eighteen six days after we arrived in Third Corps, a small rebel camp to the south of the Suri Gap. I had expected to feel relieved. I'd survived—by Erydian standards, I was now legally an adult. Now I could buy land, own a business. If I were a regular girl, and not marked, I might have seen this age as a door. It should have felt like the world was opening up to me fully. But, honestly, eighteen felt a lot like seventeen had.

The number attached to my existence didn't seem to matter very much anyway. I was so many other things now—a goddess-touched girl, a rebel spy, a traitor, a daughter, a murderer, a liar, a sister, a friend, an heir to the Erydian throne.

Eighteen seemed trivial compared to all of those things.

Still, I felt the weight of the number.

I'd never imagined I'd live to be eighteen. Even when I'd been trying to run away from the Culling, I'd always assumed that I'd die before I got the chance to be a legal adult. Then I'd joined the fight for the throne and it had seemed like surviving the trials and making it to this milestone was impossible.

And yet there I was, eighteen and hidden away inside a tent in the middle of a rebel base. As if my very existence was a crime. As if I'd chosen to be marked. As if I wanted to be different from everyone else.

My mother was across the Demarti Mountains from me. I wondered if she knew about what I'd done—what Ambrose had done. She wouldn't go into the market to see any of the broadcasts. Instead, she would hear about my betrayal through the words of others.

One of her patients would mention the recent rebel attack on the palace, how the prince had killed the queen. They would tell her a goddess-touched girl had turned spy for the enemy. My mama would hold her breath and ask what the girl's name was—and maybe, just maybe, they wouldn't know. But eventually, someone would know who that girl was.

Monroe Benson, they would say.

The goddess-touched girl blessed with the gift of fire.

And then she would know the truth.

Mama wouldn't be surprised. After all, my entire life had revolved around avoiding the Culling. Even when I was there, fighting to be queen against nine other girls, I'd looked for ways to get out. I hadn't wanted that crown, not at the cost of my life. She might be disappointed in the road I'd chosen, but she wouldn't be surprised. Mama would understand.

All I'd wanted was my life.

Ambrose had offered me a way out and I'd taken it—despite the hurt I would cause and the damage my choices would do to the people I'd grown to care about. Even though the prince had stabbed the queen himself, I felt like I'd forced him to do it.

I felt responsible for so many of our current problems.

I hadn't seen Cohen since he'd boarded the transport to Vayelle. He'd kissed me and given me back the rabbit head necklace that had marked me as a rebel spy. It was the symbol of the Culled. And even though I didn't know what my place in this resistance was, I still wore it.

I didn't even know if I was actually a part of the Culled.

Our arrival at the rebel base was a well-kept secret. Which I thought was pretty damn impressive, since we were in a camp full of traitors and spies. But it was true. Only the most important officials and the rebels who had been on the palace raid knew we'd survived the attack.

And although no one had explicitly said it, it seemed that the survival of the goddess-touched girls had not been a part of the initial plan. They definitely hadn't planned on saving the crown prince, the youngest princess, or a palace guard.

This was also my fault.

We were all supposed to be dead, along with Queen Viera and the king. Now that we were here, not dead, no one seemed in a hurry to figure out what to do with us. Heidi, Nadia, and I had been unceremoniously dumped in the healers' tent where we would be hidden from sight.

The arrangement, although cramped, wasn't terrible. The healers were all around our age, with the oldest girl being only twenty-five. They'd accepted us into their makeshift home with little complaint. They shared their clothes, their extra blankets, and the camp gossip with us. None of them knew we were marked. We'd been told that as long as we were careful with our abilities, things would be fine.

Or as fine as they could be when you were more or less locked inside a tent.

The healers' quasi friendship with us was a sharp contrast to the quiet plotting relationship I'd had with the other goddess-touched girls within the palace. We didn't really know how to be friends with them. They were kind, but when you weren't used to genuine female friendship, it was difficult to adjust to.

Thankfully, most of the time, we had the tent to ourselves. The healers worked in shifts throughout the day and night, leaving the three of us mostly alone together. While that was nice and meant we didn't have to worry about accidentally showing our marks or letting sensitive information slip, it meant we very bored.

We each handled the boredom differently.

I paced, constantly.

It had been two days since the last time Ambrose had come to check on us. That meant I had no new information about Cohen and Uri. The last I'd been told, Dellacov was being tended to in the infirmary—and that news had come from Ruthie, one of the youngest healers who was unusually talkative and very bad at keeping secrets. Aside from that, I knew nothing.

I worried and so I paced, constantly.

Heidi watched me; her expression irked.

The only relationship the three of us had ever had revolved heavily upon the understanding that we would eventually have to kill each other. While Nadia and I were now friends, Heidi had no real desire to talk to either of us.  As far as she was concerned, my stupid stunt had ruined her chance at being queen.

She slept most of the time, but when she wasn't sleeping, she just stared at me. I'd seen what her ability could do—it was horrific. Without so much as lifting a finger, she had caused a grown man to lose his mind and strangle himself to death. With that image in mind, the weight of her eyes on my back was unnerving. The intensity of that gaze said that she wanted to do something similar to me.

Nadia's ability was probably the easiest to use without anyone noticing. She'd taken to playing with it when the healers weren't around. She would search the tent for dying things like bugs or stray dry plants, and she would sit on the floor and slowly coax the thing back to life. The cycle was never-ending. She would heal the grass then let it begin to die before she'd fix it once more.

This was what she was doing when the soldiers arrived at our tent. Three of them, all dressed in the tan and green uniforms of the rebel army. Two of them stayed outside, while the third pushed his way into the tent.

"Miss Benson?" He glanced around at the three of us, unsure which of us that was.

I stepped forward. "Yes?"

The soldier jerked his head towards the partially opened tent flap. "You need to come with me. General's orders."

I didn't look at either of the goddess-touched girls as I shrugged on the jacket Ambrose had given me and followed the solider from the tent. I tugged the hood up and shoved my hands in the pockets, careful to keep my face down as we walked.

It was cold enough in Vayelle to warrant the jacket and hood. The soldiers and refugees bustling by barely glanced in my direction. With the dress borrowed from the healers and my brother's jacket, I blended in. I was little more than a new recruit.

But one glance at my hand would change that perception. Most of the people here were Erydians like me. They'd grown up knowing how to recognize goddess-given marks. The ignorant acceptance I'd found, the curt nods and pleasant calls of "good morning" might disappear if they knew who I was—what I was.

The soldiers walked quickly and I almost had to jog to keep in step with them. "Where are we going?"

None of them answered me and I didn't ask again.

They took me to a different part of camp, away from the sounds I'd grown used to hearing—the almost constant pounding of drilling boots, the chatter of people as they ate their meals in the nearby mess hall, and the laughter of soldiers walking by. This section of camp was quieter, filled with smaller residential tents made of sturdier canvas, and large lean-to structures built of wood and large sheets of metal. It was quieter and there were fewer people here, as if this area was somehow more policed than the rest of Third Corps.

Our steps slowed as we neared a tent on the outer edge of camp. I relaxed as I caught sight of my brother standing next to the door. His hands were shoved in his pockets and his jacket collar was turned up to ward against the cold wind. He smiled as I approached.

"Monroe." He tucked me under his arm and pulled me close to his side. I tugged the hood off and leaned into his warmth.

"Where have you been?"

"Busy. I'm sorry for staying gone so long."

I just nodded in response. I didn't know how to explain the anxiety his absence had caused me. And there didn't seem to be any point to scolding him for it—he wasn't just my brother here. In camp, he was a solider—someone these people trusted and looked up to. He had bigger responsibilities than looking out for my feelings.

Ambrose offered me an apologetic smile as he said, "Happy birthday." The words were so quiet they were almost lost to the wind. "Do you feel older?"

"Tired, mostly."

He laughed. "Oh, little sister, the exhaustion only gets worse from here." He pressed a kiss to the top of my head before ushering me through the canvas flap and into the dimly lit tent.

For there to be so many people crammed inside, it was oddly quiet. Three long folding tables created three sides of an open-ended square. There was an empty wooden chair in the center of that square, facing the line of seated officers and soldiers.

The eyes of the room watched as Ambrose lead me towards that lone empty chair in the middle of the tent. There were more people than just those seated at the tables. Other rebels, faces I vaguely recognized from the night of raid, moved to outer edges of the tent to make a pathway for us.

For a second, I was somewhere else—The wooden chair was hard against my back. The hand on my shoulder was heavy, like Cohen's had been. The woman who stood up from the table, held herself with the same sort of threatening presence as Viera. And the people there might as well have been palace guards and goddess-touched girls.

I was once again alone.

But the dark-skinned woman before me was not Queen Viera and the fingers digging into my flesh were not the prince's. I was not handcuffed. I held no key. The poisoner queen was dead and I was alive—alive and here in Vayelle.

With people I should be able to call friends, allies at the very least.

One of the uniformed officers at the table lifted a hand and the tent fell silent.

"Miss Benson," the woman said, "I am Mazarine Oliver, commanding general of Third Corps. I'm sure you're curious as to why you're here, but, first, I want to thank you for the service you did in retrieving the palace blueprints and guard schedules. Without your assistance, we would not have been able to infiltrate their defenses."

She paused as if waiting for me to speak, but I didn't know what to say. Over the past few days, talking had become difficult. I had so many things on my heart, but getting any of them past my teeth was a challenge. Now, sitting before all of these people, her gratitude felt false, the beginning of something more—a preparation of sorts.

When I said nothing, the general continued, "While our mission was not as successful as we would have hoped, Viera is no longer on the throne. That much is certainly something to celebrate. With any luck, the new queen will be easier to deal with—"

"Larkin Warwick is goddess-touched."  The words sprang from me before I could stop them.

I hated the sudden doubt that snaked into my heart at the sound of my own voice—as if the things I'd felt, the things I'd witnessed, were somehow untrue. The idea of an eleventh goddess-touched girl went against everything I'd been raised to believe. The truth felt like a lie.

General Oliver's brow furrowed and she glanced to her left. After a second, an older man braced his hands on the table and pushed himself into a trembling stand. He said, "Many of our men did report seeing what appeared to be the princess poisoning the prince."

"Are you saying that she has the same ability as the dead queen?" Someone called.

I nodded.

One of the soldiers in the back of the room spoke up. "We have no way of knowing that it wasn't Viera who was doing the poisoning. It was cramped in there and there was so much happening—"

The general lifted a hand to silence him. Her brown eyes turned on me again. "Miss Benson, what makes you believe that Princess Larkin has an ability?"

I hesitated and Ambrose's hand tightened on my shoulder. "Because she poisoned me the night before, while I was locked in a cell below the palace. The queen wasn't there. It was only Larkin. She said..."

"Go on." General Oliver said.

I took a deep breath, willing myself to speak evenly. "She talked as if she'd been using her ability for a while. She claimed to have poisoned at least one of the goddess-touched girls. She also said that she'd been poisoning Cohen—Prince Cohen."

One of the officers said, "How is it possible for her to be goddess-touched? All ten girls were accounted for at the beginning of the Culling."

I didn't have the answer. I had no idea how Larkin had managed to do any of the things she had. But I'd felt her poison me, and I'd watched as she'd hurt Cohen. So as much as I wanted to believe it wasn't possible, I knew that it was.

I lifted my chin and looked directly at the general.  "Maybe she isn't goddess-touched, maybe she's something else—I don't know. But she has her mother's ability and it would be a mistake to underestimate her."

The soldiers lining the outer edges of the tent were shifting on their feet. There were quiet whispers, hesitant calls of agreement. Someone said, "She dropped Jennis and Lennox dead, but they hadn't ate no poison."

Ambrose said, "Monroe says everything in the palace is laced with the stuff. And—And a few of my group stopped in the kitchen on our way through the palace, before the fighting had started. I think someone may have tasted the wine."

A redheaded boy who I recognized from the palace attack said, "There was also freshly baked pastries. A few of the soldiers took 'em and—"

Again, General Oliver lifted a hand. "So," she said as the room fell silent, "our men stole food and drink from the palace kitchens, unwittingly ate poison, and the princess, who no one knew was goddess-touched, killed them?"

"Yes," Ambrose said. "That appears to be what happened."

"I want our eyes and ears looking into that. If it's true, it hasn't been made public." She turned to a dark-haired woman who only nodded before quickly scribbling notes into a leather-bound journal. The general sighed and ran her palms down the front of her faded white shirt. For a second she just looked out at the small sea of soldiers around us.

Mazarine Oliver seemed young, maybe in her mid-thirties, but the weight of her job, the responsibilities it held, had aged her. Her face was creased with lines of worry and her black hair was streaked with strands of white, but her brown eyes still had a sharpness to them. I wondered, as I did with every person in Third Corps, how she had ended up here—leading this camp and working as a leader within a fledgling rebellion.

She frowned before turning her attention back to me. "Miss Benson, there are three goddess-touched girls, a prince, a princess, and a royal guard in my camp. When I first agreed to take you on as our spy, I didn't realize that you came with...baggage."

I opened my mouth to say something but Ambrose squeezed my shoulder and I stopped. General Oliver glanced up at my brother and then back down to me. She chewed her bottom lip between her teeth and exhaled loudly.

"Now that you're here, I'm afraid I don't know what to do with all of you. When your brother asked for your help, he did so with my express permission—and only my permission. None of the other council members were in favor of involving goddess-touched girls, but I felt that we'd been given a unique opportunity. So, I went against their orders and allowed Benson to contact you."

The old man from earlier spoke again, his voice dry and cracking. "It was the right decision. Without it, Viera would still be queen. As things are, we have a new young monarch and an unstable rule. The risk has paid off tenfold. For that, I would say that we are in your debt, Miss Benson.."

General Oliver offered him a gracious smile. "I agree, but I still went against orders and now we are left with a lot of necessary clean up. The real problem is that many people within Third Corps, and the other camps, are uneasy with the idea of working with people like you."

People like you. I balled my hand into a fist, as if that could make the mark on my palm disappear. With everything that had happened, the choices I'd made, the people I'd hurt—it had never occurred to me that the Culled might not actually want me.

I'd joined them for selfish reasons. I'd lied to Cohen and sabotaged his family in an effort to somehow save myself from my fate. But somewhere along the way, between when I'd be taken from the Varos train station and when I'd killed Tessa in the Culling arena, I'd changed. I'd decided that I believed in what they were trying to do. I wanted a place within their rebellion.

I inhaled a deep breath that rattled my lungs and made my eyes burn. I didn't want to cry in front of these people. I'd worked so hard not to cry over the last few days and I wasn't about to cave now—not with everyone watching.

As if she sensed I was on the verge of tears, General Oliver pushed forward. "Certainly, I can understand how people may be wary of your presence. We don't know you. And, although your actions have proven your willingness to help our cause, as a marked girl, you are as linked to the throne as the queen. You could easily be using us to suit your own agenda. Why should we believe that you would choose to be a rebel when you could easily be queen?"

I shook my head. I felt like I was slipping, the tight hold I'd kept on my ability was fraying and I couldn't keep control of my emotions and the flames—I couldn't douse both. This was suffocating—I was suffocating.

"Miss Benson, you must understand that I do not personally feel this way. But some do, and those concerns are valid and should be addressed. As Graves has said, we are in your debt. You have already worked to help us and, you have put yourself in danger in the process. I don't take that lightly. That's why I wanted to bring you here, so we could discuss what should happen now."

The elderly man, Graves, nodded. "Miss Benson, what do you suggest we do?"

Everyone was looking at me and the tent was so small, so oppressively hot, that I couldn't seem to think. I couldn't breathe. For a second, I was back in the arena surrounded by flames. Hands were wrapped tight around my throat and no air—no air—existed.

The flames of the oil lamps flickered, a shudder that matched the one that raced down my spine. My grasp on that invisible tether, the one that held my ability and me intact, seemed to fray a little. I wanted out. I wanted out of my body, out of this tent, out of this life, out of—

"Monroe." Ambrose's voice was soft, a gentle warning.

I pulled away from his touch and gripped the bottom of the chair in my hands. Someone whispered something and there was a low hum of nervous laughter. My mouth was sandpaper, each tooth a closed gate to keep my scream at bay.

I thought of Cohen, locked away somewhere. I'd done that. I'd hurt him and I'd done it believing that things here would be different—that I might find some semblance of acceptance. And it had all been a lie.

When I said nothing, Graves glanced to the far end of the table to where young man sat. He wore dark clothes, the material stark in comparison to the topes and greens of the other soldiers. The sleeves of his long sleeve shirt were rolled up to reveal arms corded with muscle and covered in intricate dark tattoos.

Everyone in the room was looking at me—everyone except this man. His eyes were planted firmly on my boots. General Oliver shifted uncomfortably and exchanged a glance with Graves.

"Callahan," the old man said, "What do you suggest we do about Miss Benson and the others?"

Callahan's eyes shot up from the dirt floor of the tent. His gaze darted first to me, then to Graves. The man waited, eyebrows raised, for a response. Callahan straightened and rubbed at the dark stubble on his jaw.

He paused for a second, considering. His voice was deep and tinged with just the slightest hint of an accent as he said, "Assign guards to the goddess-touched girls. Give them menial tasks and keep tabs on their actions. If people are concerned, you can tell them that the girls are under close watch and they are here on strict probation. Which would be true, since they are."

"And the rest? The prince and princess?" Graves prompted.

"Same goes for them, I guess. Just give them small jobs and treat them the same as everyone else. I mean, how many people really know what they look like anyway? I see no reason to tell anyone who they really are. The goddess-touched girls may have abilities we could utilize. The royals, unless they are magically gifted like their sister, do not. Call them by their first names and give them a fake last name. People will only question it if you make it something worth questioning."

"So, you're suggesting we should just let them go and let them do whatever the hell they want?" One of the soldiers asked.

Callahan shrugged. "We can't keep them locked up forever. If you take away the titles, they're nobody special." He leaned forward in his chair and shot the man who'd spoken a pointed looked. "Now, I don't know about you, Kulikov, but I'm not afraid of a bunch of spoiled palace brats."

Graves rested his forearms on the table and settled his eyes on me. "What are the gifts of the other two girls?"

"Healing and..." I hesitated. I'd only ever heard Heidi's gift described as a nightmare, but that wasn't exactly what you wanted to say when you were trying to convince a room full of people that you weren't dangerous.

Before I could say anything, a redheaded guy to my right said, "The other one tortures people with her mind or some crazy shit. I saw her do it at the palace. That girl is scary."

Someone laughed loudly and said, "Fritz, you think all girls are scary."

His face heated and he shook his head. "You shut your mouth or I'll shut it for ya."

General Oliver sighed and clasped her hands together. The tent fell silent once more as all eyes turned to her. "Does anyone find issue with Callahan's idea?"

Graves nodded. "I think it is a very wise move."

"Then it's settled," she said. "I'll speak to Deirdre about placing the royals within camp and finding them jobs to do. For now, Kulikov, Finchum and Callahan can watch over the marked girls."

Kulikov and the redhead, Fritz, both spoke up at the same time.

Kulikov said, "I've got a job to do. I don't have time to—"

"Uh, I'm not taking care of the scary one." Fritz shook his head. "I ain't got a death wish."

"I don't care who does it," General Oliver said, silencing both of them. "But, for the time being, they should be monitored. I want to know when they're using their abilities. I want to be certain they have full control and can be trusted before they are set loose on our camp. Work your schedules out amongst yourselves. You have your orders."

***

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