Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 76857 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76857 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Some of the older girls began to act in strange ways. They started to wander in the night. Headed for our male counterparts.
To be caught out in the halls unchaperoned was unthinkable.
The older the student, the more severe the reprimand.
A young man caught fornicating with one of the older female classmates led to immediate public execution.
I had witnessed frightened boys dangling from a rope more times than I cared to remember. Had to live with the terrified girls in the barracks. The brokenhearted, the lonely, and the very, very sad.
The women who participated in sexual escapades and got caught were never seen again. Their fate, I feared, was far worse than a noose.
At twelve, I had little more than a passing interest in boys, but I understood the older girls' sorrow. They had already taken our parents, then they had segregated us from our brothers, and finally stolen their sweethearts.
And I was one last meeting and six final weeks of training away from freedom.
Assuming the general was unaware of the contraband hidden in my dorm room: a tube of lipstick, three women's magazines, and a dress I had sewn myself from old uniform scraps collected over the years. A very pretty dress, considering what I’d had to work with.
Pretty, but not beautiful like the space he had chosen for his office. Thousands of books in exquisitely carved cases outlined the room. White millwork and glowing walls. Bits of art, pottery, even artifacts from old Earth.
General Cyderial’s office looked nothing like the rooms I trained in, ate in, or lived in.
Shelves of glittering stones, a few well-tended, native toxic plants. Pretty things that bloomed and made the air sweet. Polished wood floors, soft rugs, well-crafted furnishings that led to the impression the general was an avid reader in his spare time. The terror of an immaculate white couch. Creamy tufted softness, a beacon of comfort. A lie.
Only once in my life had I been ordered to sit there—those following moments something I didn’t want to think about, nor would I.
That horrible memory aside, had the room not housed a particularly insane and very dangerous tenant, I would have risked serious punishment in my younger years to sneak in and touch all the things.
I liked pretty. I liked soft.
So, I mentally reminded myself to perform perfectly. To let him stare, to keep my answers short and impersonal, and that I would graduate and be free to seek out my own collection in the wilds.
Only ten steps remained between myself and his desk. Five breaths more and I would come to attention.
One lifetime of freedom was so close I could taste it.
All would be fine, and I would no longer be under General Cyderial’s thumb. He would sit there, call me unremarkable, pass me, ordain my new position as surveyor, order me away, and I would sleep the sleep of the soon-to-be free.
Except, once I stood before his desk, the man began to stand from his chair.
My alarm at his unexpected movement was quickly concealed. Yet I could not fail to notice the looming largeness of him, an internal warning telling me it would be wise to take a step back.
Yet, I remained at attention, determined not to ruin my chance.
Uniform immaculate. Brass buttons perfect. Not a wrinkle or a stain upon the cloth of his station. His various insignias and rankings sparkled, on display, winking with his movement as he grew taller. Fully upright, he could have been a portrait. Beautiful, deadly, horrible, unkind.
And I’d made a grave mistake. Broke my one precious rule of survival in this hell.
I’d stupidly met his unblinking stare.
2
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
Entering General Cyderial’s space was already an anxiety-inducing endeavor, but I felt an overpowering sense of danger standing in his shadow at that moment.
Attention on high alert, I calculated why he might be looking at me that way. What I might have done to offend him.
And fought with all I had to suppress a desire to rumble a warning drum from my chest.
No one was safe when this man did unusual things.
Not only had he stood upon my arrival, towering over me, his massive desk between us, but something in his usually bleak demeanor, something I could not put my finger on, had altered.
But what?
Blond hair was styled in his customary method, long in front, hanging in his eyes. His uniform had no new adornment, nor was it missing anything I recognized.
He looked exactly the same as he always did. Leveling me with a menacing and acutely focused glare—as he always would when I was forced to endure his presence.
His jaw did not appear to be ticking, and his eyes were not narrowed. The room did not smell of anger or aggression.
But I was unsafe.
Locked in his gaze, I tried my best to read what I found there, and came up at a loss.