Chapter Two

B riony

I wait for everyone else to shuffle off the train, then stand and swing my rucksack up onto my shoulder. The action makes my bruised ribs ache and I wince against the pain, my head still pounding from the two punches I took to the skull.

It’s fine. Sure, my reflection confirms my left eye’s all puffed up and slowly turning blue, a cut striping across my cheek bone where Stanley caught me with his ring. But it will heal. It always does.

I lift my chin, walk to the train door and descend the metal steps out onto another platform.

This one’s not covered in snow, but it’s as cold and bleak as home, a frigid wind whipping around all the kids already lined up for some kind of inspection, the sun hanging low in the sky and shadows already descending.

I join the line, standing beside some girl who used to be in my woodwork class back at school. I lower my bag to the ground, positioning it between my feet, and wait.

There must be several hundred of us at least and we’re the last ones to join. Not surprising. We had the furthest to travel because, of course, they’d build the academy closest to Onyx Quarter – can’t have all those spoiled bastards traveling too far, can we? Plus, I suspect our train was the oldest and most decrepit. In fact, I bet most of the shadow weavers were driven in fancy cars by goddamn chauffeurs.

It’s easy to spot who they are and an extreme sensation of disgust, hatred and fear spirals in my empty stomach.

They’re furthest down the line from us and dressed in clothes that weren’t handed down or retrieved from thrift stores. They’re made from bright, expensive-looking materials and they actually fit them. Although, that isn’t the only giveaway. There’s something about the kids – an air of self confidence and arrogance that’s discernible even over the distance.

Then there’s the actual shadow magic – some of the kids tossing balls of it up into the air or at each other, making it clear to all of us losers just how special they are.

I run my gaze over the other soon-to-be students lined up along the platform – kids from the white-collar workers in Granite Quarter or the soldiers and athletes in Iron Quarter. They aren’t as extravagantly dressed as the shadow weaver kids, but they still look a hell of a lot better than us.

It’s why any one of the kids I traveled up with in the train would give their right arm to come out of the academy and all its trials and testing and be designated one of the other quarters, escaping a lifetime of hard labor in the factories, fields and mines of Slate Quarter. A better life for them and their family – if they choose to take them. Not all do. Some want an entirely clean break. I can totally relate.

These Granite and Iron kids are ordinary, though, not a lot different from me and the others from Slate Quarter, and as a consequence, and to my utter shame, my gaze is pulled back to the shadow weavers.

To the magic. To the bright clothes. To the sense of power.

They are beautiful, all of them. And well fed and healthy.

It makes me hate them all the more.

They have so much — everything anyone could ever dream of — and yet they took the only thing I ever cared about.

Suddenly, my eyes meet the gaze of a boy peering along the line in our direction. For the briefest of seconds, we simply stare at each other – both stunned to be caught gaping.

Everything about him screams strength – from the way his shirt tugs across his muscular chest, to his square jaw and sharp cheekbones. He looks like he could crush me with his bare hands. Even his eyes are intimidating – an unusually pale color I can’t make out over the distance, that contrast – startling so – with his dark brows and the dark hair that hangs to his shoulders.

For a moment, it’s like everyone else around us melts away – all the noise, all the commotion – and it’s just me and him staring at each other across the distance. A strange sensation shivers down my spine and I wonder if we know each other, if I recognize him from somewhere. Is that what this is? Or is it his magic? I’ve never met a shadow weaver in real life before – although I’ve heard a fuck-load about them.

But then the spell is broken.

He frowns like I’ve displeased him and turns his head away.

I shake my own head, annoyed that some guy could make me feel so disoriented, and concentrate instead on the set of guards marching towards us.

I wonder why they’re needed. We’re all here, aren’t we? If we were going to run, we’d already have done it.

It seems no one’s getting shot today, though, because the troop of guards halts in front of us, moves aside and the Empress herself steps forward.

She is a tall, willowy woman, with pale skin and pale eyes. A crimson gown drapes across her delicate shoulders, a pink thread woven through it that makes it glow in the dusk. It reaches the ground, her feet not visible and her arms, gloved in red leather, are clasped in front of her. On top of her head, woven into her golden locks, sits the steel crown of the realm.

All my life, I’ve seen pictures of her – on posters, in frames, in books. She is beautiful in an ethereal way. Delicate, fragile-looking, like the shell of an egg. Yet, this is the woman that controls the realm and all of us in it.

To see her in real life has me just as disoriented as a moment ago.

Or maybe that’s just the two hits to the head. I’m not usually so awed. I don’t intend to be. That isn’t how my time at the academy is going to go. I know who these people are. I know how they treat people like me. I won’t be bowing and scraping at their feet.

“Welcome, offspring of the realm.” She smiles at us serenely, like we are her very own children. “One thousand years ago, this realm and its people were lost to the darkness and at the mercy of demons. It was only with the discovery of firestones, the taming of dragons and the emergence of those among us able to wield strong magic that we drove the danger away. From the ashes, our new realm was formed where each has their place, every one their role. However, I do not need to tell you that the threat still remains. The darkness encroaches us from all sides, the demons are an ever-present and deadly threat. It is only through the continued efforts and sacrifice of those able to wield shadow magic that we are protected from harm.”

The soldiers stamp their feet and knock their fists against their chests.

“Today you become students of the Firestone Academy. Today you join the thousands of others before you in undergoing the year-long learnings and trials that will determine your future.” She casts her eyes over us, seeming to take each one of us in. “All of you have talents – whether it be your intellect, your brute strength, the ability of your hands – or the unique and powerful wielding of magic.” She points to the shadow weavers, who smirk with self-satisfaction. “You all have something to offer the realm. You all have your place in ensuring the safety of its people and our collective prosperity. Whether that be by providing the food from Slate Quarter needed to feed our realm, or inventing new technology in Granite Technology to aid our fighters. Whether you will become a foot soldier from Iron Quarter supporting our more elite fighters or you are a shadow weaver protecting our realm with your magic.” She lifts her hands into the air, sparks of magic exploding from her palms. “By trial and truth, your Quarter calls!”

The guards around her clap and, taking their cue, so do those lined up on the platform.

Not me though. I keep my hands by my side. This is all bullshit. My fate’s already written – was from the moment I slithered from between my dying mother’s legs and into Slate Quarter.

Stanley is right. I won’t be going anywhere but home, where the ‘ability of my hands’ will be exploited, where there’s nothing worth living for, where I’ll be worked to the bone until I’m a broken wretch like my dad – unable to make it through the day without a bottle or two of spirits by my side.

Maybe once upon a time I trusted the system. I believed, like everyone else, if we gave our best, we’d be assigned a Quarter that would most suit our talents. Then I learned better.

My insolence goes unnoticed and finally the Empress lifts her hand for silence.

“I will not pretend that your year at the Firestone Academy will be an easy one. You will be pushed to your boundaries, stretched to your limits, driven to your breaking points. We intend to find the best among you – the most talented, the most powerful. And only the trials of the utmost rigor and hardship will reveal your true capabilities, your true selves.” She pauses again, although this time there is no clapping. This time I’d say the realization has finally hit. There’s a reason one or two students return home in a coffin each year. The Firestone Academy is a dangerous and forbidding place.

I know that better than anyone else.

“And so,” the Empress continues, “there will be no delay. Your first trial begins this evening. In fact, it will start right now. You may leave your bags here – they will be transported up to the academy for you.” She points off into the distance. Right there on the horizon, just visible above what looks like the dense tree line of a forest, tall castle turrets climb into the darkening sky. “You will make your own way to the academy. Points will be rewarded and, as you know, points will determine to which of the four Quarters you are assigned. Good luck.” She smiles again and then, with a whisk of her cloak, she vanishes from sight, along with the guards that surrounded her, all of them melting into air.

What follows is confusion and chaos.

People swing their heads around in panic, others crowd around with their friends murmuring to one another, some call to each other.

Above the commotion, one of the shadow weavers jumps up onto a pile of bags – or did he fly up there?

“Yeah, good luck, you cock-sucking commoners. This is where you learn what real strength is. This is where you learn why we are the ones chosen to protect the realm. This is where you learn your place. None of you are getting any points. Because we’re coming for you.” He rubs his hands together with such glee it makes my blood run cold.

The powerful always prey on the weak. And tonight the powerful are going to show us just how weak we are.

The voices become more frantic. One girl is already crying. Another boy shaking.

Me, I’m not hanging about. I’ve heard what happens the night new students arrive at the academy. I’ve already taken one beating today. I’m not about to take another.

I swing my bag back up onto my shoulder, wincing again with the pain, and jump down from the platform.

“Hey, Slate scum, you’re meant to leave your bag behind,” some jerk calls out from above me.

I ignore him. There is no way I’m leaving my bag unattended. No way on earth I’m being parted from it.

Instead, I scan the landscape quickly as the sun dips behind the horizon and plunges us all into a black so thick it sucks away all the light. The temperature drops several degrees with it and cold caresses my body. Around us lie open fields and the distant forest. And perhaps the gurgle of a stream or a river. Already there are people running out across the fields – people, I bet, who aren’t prepared to wait around and find out what’s coming.

I peer up at the academy and then I start to run. Not towards it, away from it. I’m not following the crowd. I’m getting as far away from everyone else as I can. It’s the tactic I’ve always used and nine times out of ten it’s worked. Run and hide. Don’t let them catch you.

Okay, it’ll mean I’m one of the last to arrive at the academy. But so what? It’s not like I’m going to ace any of these trials anyway. And if I’m punished? It’s nothing I haven’t handled before.

I run as hard as I can, although the pain in my ribs slows me down and makes every panted-breath agony.

At least I’m running in the wrong direction, though. At least no one is going to follow me this way. At least I’ll escape the sadistic mayhem.

Yeah, so much for that plan.

Turns out, I’m wrong.

Behind me comes the pounding of feet on hard earth.

Loud, fast, determined.

Peering over my shoulder and through the darkness, I discover a figure racing towards me. Moving at a colossal speed.

I can’t make them out, can’t see their face, or determine their identity. But I’m pretty sure they’re coming for me.

“Shit,” I mutter, driving my arms and legs faster, even though it makes the pain spike in my body.

I scramble up a bank, then skid down the other side, losing my balance for a second, before I find my feet again. A cloud of thick fog curls around me, drifts of silvery cobwebs swim past my face.

I keep running.

Maybe they’ll get bored. Maybe I’ll lose them in this mist. There must be easier prey than me out there. That crying girl for starters. I doubt she’s going to last this first night at the academy. And they were all so freaking excited about coming here.

I tut, then berate myself for my smugness. I’m not exactly doing so great myself. The pain in my ribs is excruciating, and the shadow is gaining on me. I can hear them – their panted breath, their solid footfall. Shit, I can feel them.

I have no idea where I am. My head aches, my ribs sting and my legs are tiring.

I grit my teeth and keep driving forward through the swirling mist.

But it’s no use.

My body lets me down, weakened by that goddamn beating.

Fucking Stanley!

I blink away tears of frustration. I try to keep moving.

My feet slow.

And a silvery shadow hooks around my middle, sliding around me, tightening its grip, and slamming me to the earth.

I land flat on my stomach and the air knocks straight from my lungs as my pursuer lands down on top of me, pinning me to the ground with their immense weight.

I close my eyes and try to breathe.

My lungs don’t work, no matter how hard I suck at the air, no matter how much my aching ribs pull. Nothing. No air. No breath. Nothing.

The dark shadows of the world encroach across my vision.

Fuck it, Briony. I thought you were made of harder stuff than this.

I jolt myself back from the abyss.

I am made of harder stuff than this. I fucking am.

I suck more desperately at the air, screaming as my injured ribs expand, pain striking through my body.

Whoever has me pinned to the ground doesn’t react. Their mouth hovers by my right ear, and their moist breath whistles over my skin.

They’re much, much bigger than me, their scent woody and masculine, like the forest at night. Menacing, dark, enticing.

I attempt to shuffle from underneath them, but they hold me locked to the ground with their sizable frame.

“What’s your name?”

A man. His voice is deep and polished, and if I hadn’t guessed before, I know it now.

A shadow weaver.

“None of your fucking business,” I spit, struggling against him. “Get the fuck off me.”

“You think wriggling your ass against my cock is going to encourage me to get off you?” he says, with a hint of amusement.

I freeze.

Don’t provoke the monsters. Don’t give them what they want.

He curls a loose strand of hair around my ear. “Come on now, tell me your name.”

I stare down at the hard earth, drops of moisture clinging to the brittle grass. I can feel the beat of his rapid heart pounding against me.

I say nothing.

He huffs a little, shifts his weight, and flips me right over so I’m lying on my back and staring right up at him, my hands pinned to the earth, his body caged over mine.

I jolt.

It’s the boy from the platform.

Up close, his eyes are such a soft, pale blue they’re almost translucent, almost silver, like the moon on a cool, clear evening. His skin is pale too and the lines of his face so sharp, so defined, they look as if they were carved from marble.

Around him the air crackles with electricity. His magic.

I wonder what power he possesses. I wonder what he can do.

I wonder what the hell he’s going to do to me.

The thought has me struggling under him, attempting to break loose. But speed has always been my asset, not strength. I’m a tiny, pathetic weed compared to him. He pins my hands above my head and leans into me, his face mere millimeters from mine, his breath warm as it dances across my face.

He doesn’t ask me my name again, instead he stares right into my eyes, like he did before, like he’s trying to read my soul. It’s so intense, my cheeks run warm, and I’m forced to turn my head away from him.

“How did you get that?” he asks, his voice less playful than before.

“Wh-wh-what?” I say, unable to help but peer back up at him.

“The black eye,” he snarls, “the cut on your cheek.”

I nearly add the bruised ribs to his list, but I hold my tongue. It’s clear I disgust him. Weak, pathetic, easy prey. He probably saw that on the platform and that’s why he chased me. Although, it seems dumb to me. It’s a done-deal which quarter he’ll be assigned. Only shadow weavers make it to Onyx Quarter. Yet, he’s chosen to scupper his chance of securing easy points by following me in the wrong direction. Why?

“Who did this to you?” he asks.

Again, I don’t reply. What’s he going to do with the name? Congratulate the dude? Ask him to be his best friend? Yeah, Stanley’s brute strength and large fists already give him enough advantages in this place. I’m not about to gift him a powerful new friend.

I stare over the dude’s shoulder, letting my passive expression swamp my face.

He’s going to do what the fuck he wants to me. But I won’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

“Fine,” he says. “I’m going to find out anyway. Your name and the name of the piece of shit that did this to you.”

I blink. Confused by his words. Still waiting for the first blow.

Or worse …

But then he’s rolling off me and stumbling up to his feet.

His pale eyes glimmer in the darkness, flickering over my form, lingering on my face.

“Don’t hang about, sweetheart. There are monsters out here,” he whispers, and then he turns away and disappears into the swirling mist.