I grimace and quickly turn away from the gruesome scene only to get a mouthful of starchy, crumpled uniform when I slam into the lowlife wearing it.
The Imperial stares down at me, amusement flickering in his eyes surrounded by that white mask. Though he looks to be at least ten years my senior, blond hair sticking up at odd angles, he takes his time lazily trailing his gaze over my body. I bite my tongue before I can say something he’ll likely make me regret.
Imperials aren’t known to be gentlemen when it comes to young girls—or to anyone for that matter—and I don’t intend to find out if he is the exception. “So sorry, sir. I seem to be madly clumsy today,” I say, planning my escape into the crowd.
A clammy hand wraps around my wrist and spins me back around. I summon every bit of strength I have to suppress the fighting instinct that screams at me to knee him in the groin and bash his head into the stones beneath our feet.
“Why in such a hurry?” His toothy grin and black eyes send a shiver down my spine, and the foul stench of alcohol on his breath only adds to my unease.
I smile and force myself to be polite as I shake out of his grasp. “Just trying to run some errands before the market gets too crowded, that’s all.”
“Hmm,” he grunts, eyeing me skeptically. “Say, what’s your power, girl?” I fight the urge to stiffen as he continues with a grin, “By decree of the king, I’m to question anyone I feel … should be questioned.”
He loves being in control. Having power.
“I’m a Mundane,” I say simply, stating my tier on the Elite’s food chain to prove that I am of little threat and importance to him. “A Psychic.” I look him right in his black eyes as I say it, willing his black heart to believe me.
“Is that right? I’ve never met a Psychic before.” He chuckles darkly and takes a step towards me, bending his head close to mine so I get another whiff of the alcohol clinging to him. “Prove it then.”
I’m growing quite tired of that demand.
I meet the Imperial’s eyes, refusing to give him the satisfaction of thinking I’m concerned, though my pounding pulse proves otherwise. “I’m sensing anger and … regret from you. You’ve … You’ve just split up with your wife. Well, actually, she left you.” The look of utter shock on his face brings a small smile to my lips. “And if you really want me to be specific, because, well, you told me to prove it, it’s because you …” I stop mid-sentence, squeezing my eyes shut while pressing fingers to my temple, putting on a convincing show. “… You cheated on her? Wait, I’m getting something else …” I peek up at his face, now red with rage, as I continue rubbing my temple. “You … you want her back. But she doesn’t want you—”
I’m prepared for the backhand before I feel the sting of it across my face.
Blood flies from my mouth, and I keep my head turned away from him as he growls close to my face, “Bloody witch is what you are. Get out of my sight, Mundane.”
I spin on my heel and smile, blood pooling in my mouth and dribbling down my chin. I force myself to stumble back into a cart, snatching some fabric hanging off the edge from behind my back. I turn around quickly, clutching the bundle to my chest as I tear off a corner with my teeth to wipe up my bloody mouth and chin. I’ll use part of the fabric as a napkin, and the rest can go to Adena. Two birds with one stone.
Shoving the remaining cloth in my pack, now stuffed full of food, coins, and other stolen goods, I head back towards the Fort all while replaying the last five minutes over in my head.
It wasn’t hard to get under the Imperial’s skin, and I knew once I had, he’d slap me silly and let me scurry away. This wouldn’t have been the first time I’ve let that happen. And proving my Psychic abilities was hardly difficult considering that the evidence was written all over him.
The thin tan line on his now empty ring finger was my first clue that he was formally married. Then, there’s the fact that he moved his wedding band to his other hand rather than pawning it off for money, telling me that he still cares for his ex-wife and is probably still pining over her. The disheveled hair, crumpled uniform, and smell of whiskey on his breath further prove that he is obviously a single man who no longer has a wife to make him look presentable.
Men would likely go extinct without women to coddle them.
As for the part where he cheated on his wife, well, that was more so an educated guess based off the way he looked at me along with the stellar reputation the Imperials have made for themselves. Clearly, the assumption hit a nerve before he hit me.
The midday sun beats down on me as I make my way back to the Fort to meet Adena for lunch just like always. I take my time meandering down Loot, gnawing on an apple while hunger gnaws at me.
The salty smell of fish basting in the sun atop merchant carts hangs in the air. Children scuttle in front of my path, laughing as they chase each other down the street. The sound of voices haggling and cursing is like a chorus to me, a tune I’m all too familiar with.
A large, colored banner catches my eye as it begins to rise above the crowded alley, strung between two shops by a Crawler. He scurries up the wall as though there’s glue on his palms and feet, allowing him to climb up the smooth shop with ease. As he secures the rope connecting the banner to the wall, I turn my attention to the words scrawled on the green tapestry in large, black lettering:
The sixth Purging Trials is about to begin
Remember the purging. Thank the plague.
Honor to your kingdom, your family, and yourself.
You could be the next victorious elite.
I snort loudly, nearly choking on a chunk of my apple. Although the Purging Trials are nothing to laugh about, I can’t help but find it comical that they are meant to be a celebration. In honor of the Great Purging over three decades ago, the Trials were created to showcase the peoples’ supernatural abilities and bring honor to the only Elite kingdom.
I wouldn’t say murdering innocent people brings honor to me, my kingdom, or my family—not that I have any left to bring honor to. And yet, every five years, young Elites are chosen to compete in these games for both the glory and enough shillings to build your own comfy castle while you try to escape the trauma the Trials caused you.
But the part that has me shaking with both laughter and rage is that the lesser Elites, those with Defensive and Mundane abilities, are made to believe that they have a chance of winning these twisted Trials. I feel suddenly numb as I look at the excited faces surrounding me, all crowding under the sign, grinning and pointing.
We are the first to die.
The Elites who compete aren’t chosen, but rather, born into their fate. It’s always those of royal blood or of higher status on the Elite’s tier of power. I scan the crowd, eyes skipping over the smiling faces of Mundanes who are only thrown into the Trials for entertainment after the king allows us to pick who we wish to represent us.
Despite the king insisting that the killing of fellow Elites in the arena is frowned upon, it’s no secret that Death itself is a contestant in the Trials. Dying teenagers apparently make things exceptionally more entertaining, and if the Elites won’t do the killing, the king will pull the strings in the arena.