I keep telling myself she’s not really going to die. That this is just another Union display. But my hands won’t stop shaking. And the train keeps moving.

Rain lashes the glass, smearing the world into shifting streaks, like the storm itself is trying to shield me from what’s coming. I tighten my grip on the aluminum frame just to prove that I’m still here. That this is indeed real. Behind my eyes, the pressure sharpens. She used to say tears were a form of truth and that holding them in only made the lie grow louder. But I’ve been pretending I’m fine for so long, I don’t think I could fall apart even if I wanted to.

I think that’s what scares me most about today—that I might already be gone.

My throat tightens as we cut free from the mountains and skim the coastline. I tug at my black tie and snap open two buttons on my red-collared dress shirt. Just trying to breathe. Sweat slides down my cheeks and gathers in the cuts along my neck. When I wipe at them, my skin tingles from the leftover gel I used to slick back dirty blond strands that fall over my eyes anyway.

The wounds are still fresh—from a few nights back, actually—etched from one ear to the other with a knife. The Sovereign didn’t sympathize with my reaction after he led me into his quarters and revealed the purpose behind today’s gathering. I mean, what the hell did he expect? No warning. No explanation. Just the facts.

And somehow, he expects me to stand beneath the lights, speak the sacred lines, and . . . and . . . I can’t even say it.

The wall beside me projects a broadcast that’s been foreshadowing her death on a nonstop loop since departing the station on the other side of the island. The Sovereign’s voice—polished, cold, rehearsed—slithers through the compartment like an airborne toxin.

“. . . and on this day, history will bear witness to the price of preservation,” the Sovereign intones. “In accordance with the Directive of Continuity, the heirs of the Union will fulfill their obligation at 1600 hours Union Time. Through their sacrifice, the blood of the Ancestors will remain unbroken. Through their obedience, the stability of the Union will endure. Let the condemnation of Echo Calvane remind us: Our survival was not gifted. It was earned . . . and it must be earned again.”

The remote doesn’t seem to want to work for shit because no matter how many times I try to turn off the broadcast, an error code appears in bright red lettering, almost like the Sovereign is testing to see if he can sufficate me before we even arrive.

I slam my fist into the panel. It doesn’t crack. Doesn’t even flicker. The nanotech swallows the energy and fires it straight back into my chest. I stumble backward into the marble table and fall flat on my face. The cool glass meets my cheek. I can see straight through to the magnetic rails that glow beneath the train, cutting a bright line through the storm as water crashes on either side of the cabin.

When I was little, I’d press my forehead to the glass and beg Father to tell me how fast we were going. He’d settle me on his lap while the world rushed beneath us and say the Ancestors drew the lines so the future could outrun the past—that speed itself was freedom—and that one day, I might guide others across them. Back then, when the weight of humanity didn’t press on my shoulders, they looked like a path. A promise.

Mother never agreed. She said the rails didn’t carry you forward. They only carried you where you were most useful.

Now, I see the trap.

The clouds continue to darken as our approach wanes. With time running low, I close my eyes and plead with any god that will listen. Please . . . please don’t let this happen. I don’t care what it takes or who it harms. Don’t let her fall. Don’t let the Union . . . win.

I repeat the prayer until every other thought dissolves. My knees hit the floor. Fingers interlock. Nails drag across my palms as if clawing for the heavens. I don’t even know why. I’ve never believed in this—not really. Not because it isn’t real. Maybe there is a god, or some cosmic being listening. But no one alive can say for sure. Everyone knows the Sovereign steals prayers before they ever reach the stars. So I’m not surprised when mine goes unanswered. The current from the rails still hums through me, unimpeded—pulling me forward. Not just along the track. Toward acceptance. Toward the truth I’ve been trying to outrun.

I promised I’d protect her, no matter how thin the rope she walked became. I’ll never forget the look she gave when I said it—half-proud, half-sad—like she knew I’d try. And that it would never be enough.

Well . . . she was right. And some part of me knows I have something to do with it. For the life of me, I just can’t remember how or why.

Somewhere behind the door, someone is baking sourdough bread. Her favorite. It smells like it’s burning.

“What did she do to deserve this? What did she do that was so bad?”

I asked the Sovereign the same questions that night. Asked them a dozen different ways. His only reply: If you would stop severing your mind from discomfort, you would not be so surprised to find that she has become a liability to the Union.

Translation: There isn’t time for clarity. Her fate has been a long time coming. If the Union doesn’t act swiftly, she could complicate the systems and structures the Ancestors poured their blood into during the Restoration.

And, of course, Mav didn’t say a word through it all. He just stood there like the Sovereign’s shadow. Same posture. Same silence. It was nearly impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

The cabin door slides open. My spine stiffens before I even see him, like my nervous system already knows.

“You ready for this, Easton?” he asks, emphasizing my God-given name instead of the nickname he had previously called me for the last ten years.

Back then, he’d slam my nickname through the door like we were breaking decorum on purpose, daring anyone to silence him. There was this one time he interrupted a Dominion Review Tribunal just to bring me a lemon tart I’d missed at lunch. He told the presiding strategist that my blood sugar was a global priority. Everyone laughed. Somehow, even the Sovereign.

Now he walks in like we’re strangers performing roles we never auditioned for. Maybe I’m the one who stopped showing up first. Or maybe he just got tired of waiting. Whatever this version is, I don’t know if I hate him or miss him more.

“Are you?” My voice shakes, still pressed low to the floor. For a moment, the only sound is the uneven thud of my heartbeat against my ribs.

Mav’s tall and sharp-edged in his white suit. His damp blond hair is slicked back, revealing angular cheekbones and a jaw clenched tight enough to crack. There’s a practiced elegance to the way he moves, every gesture efficient, every detail controlled, down to the pristine fold of his collar. One hand is stuffed into his pocket, the other holds a piece of burnt bread glazed with jelly. It’s an absurd relic of a routine in a moment that is anything but. “The weight of preservation is getting to you, isn’t it?”

“Only someone deeply psychotic wouldn’t be affected by what’s waiting for us.” The gold cufflinks bite into my palms as I clench a fist. It’s a nervous habit I can’t seem to break. “This shouldn’t be happening. He doesn’t understand the impact—”

“Just stop already,” Mav says before tossing down the remaining bites of toast. “You think you’re trapped. But maybe you’re just afraid of what happens when the cage opens . . . if you have the courage to step out of it.”

“What are you talking about?” I stand and level my jacket so it doesn’t read like I’ve slipped back from a sanctioned pairing—the kind they cheer by sixteen. “What cage?”

His dark green eyes are steady, unreadable. “I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”

The train begins to slow. It’s not abrupt, but rather with that shifting pull that sinks beneath your ribs—like the stories I’ve heard of ancient thrill machines people used to ride for fun. None of them work anymore; they’re all rusted and half-swallowed by creeping veins of metal and moss. But if they felt anything like this, I understand the thrill. And the dread.

As if he’s been summoned, Mav crosses to the far side of the cabin and fixates on the surrounding skyline. I follow, drawn by instinct more than curiosity, wishing nothing more than for it to bring me the same sense of calm. After all, this is home. But nothing inside me settles. Because no matter how clean the view projects, I’m still the one being walked to a weapon I didn’t ask to carry.

To the west, ocean waves crash against jagged cliffs. To the east, black-ribbed mountains crouch beneath veils of mist. And between them, etched into the island like a scar across skin, lies the island’s central metropolis. It unfurls in concentric precincts, each one a reminder of who belongs where.

The outer ring coughs up smoke from coal and waste processing plants, choking the people forced to keep the rest alive. The middle is rigid with crop grids, energy conduits, and infrastructure laid down to keep order more than sustain it. The inner precinct gleams too bright, sharpened into glass and symmetry, towers polished until they erase anything human. Rails thread the precincts together—not for unity, but to keep them tethered to the center. Even the greenery feels staged, climbing facades and terraces in rehearsed patterns, as if decoration could disguise control. At the core, the Palace rises above it all: black crystal and stone stacked into staggered spires, each one reaching higher than the last to paint hierarchy into the sky.

The Ancestors refer to their creation as the Union.

It’s supposed to be the last true achievement of mankind. Carved from the bones of a dead world and raised into something that flourishes at all hours, proof that order could rise from ash. However, most people will never see it. The grandeur. The illusion. Leisure travel has been forbidden under the Beck reign, and beyond its metropolis, the twenty surviving Enclaves that make up the Union continue to claw their way out of collapse. None of them has what we have. They never did. Not since the world blew to shit.

Funny how the entire world collapsed, and still, somehow, the surviving families let one among them play god. Now they pass the throne like it’s a family heirloom.

The train bends east, breaking from the orbit of the metropolis. The concentric rings fade into the storm until only the Palace spears the horizon. Out here, the mountains hold the structures and territories the Union prefers to keep outside its walls. Places they don’t want polluting its pristine core. The Institute, where children from every Dominion are drilled in hierarchy, their lives rehearsed in controlled simulation so the city beyond can appear perfect. The training grounds reserved for the Sovereign’s Road. And the Colosseum—largest of them all—rising from the stone like an altar for judgment, built to remind the world what survival costs.

As we glide into the adjoining central station, the arched roof shimmers like liquid mercury under the storm. Beneath it, polished tiles catch flickers of black-clad figures gathering in rigid rows just beyond the platform. Their presence feels inescapable, a silent force pressing closer with every breath.

Mav pulls away from the window and heads for the exit. I want to say something, ask if he remembers the last time the three of us stood together without the threat of war between us. Or maybe I just want him to look at me, to say something that proves he still loves her. Loves me. But he doesn’t. He stares forward, jaw tight, like he’s memorized every last word in his eulogy.

And I’m the one still searching for syllables.

A rush of humid air hits me square in the face as the train doors hiss open. The hum of the engine fades into the storm, which sounds muffled here, like even the weather knows to stay quiet. Ahead, a stone pathway glistens with rain. It cuts through the tropical park and leads toward the stadium’s main concourse.

“Don’t get cold feet now, Easton.” The silver pistol attached to Mav’s hip gleams in the low light. “You only get one shot at this.”

I try to speak, but the words die before they can escape. Mav doesn’t wait around for me to resuscitate them. He straightens the knot of his silver tie, a deliberate gesture that feels like a warning more than a fix, and steps off the train. I move to follow, but my eyes catch on the stone letters rising from a water feature that marks the official start of the Colosseum’s public square.

FOR THE GOOD OF THE UNION.

Water cascades around them, distorting their reflection in the rippling surface. I used to say those words like a prayer. Whispered them before meals. Spoke them softly to my parents before starting the day. I thought they meant I was safe. That we all were. Now, they just feel like a noose we thank the Union for placing around our necks, walking willingly toward silence as they thanks us for our service.

The black-armored Envoys flanking the train adjust their grip on their rifles. One slams his boot against the platform as he steps forward. “Move!” The voice behind the helmet is distorted, mechanical, weighted with unspoken consequence. No doubt they’re under the Sovereign’s orders to drag me inside the stadium by any means necessary.

I take a breath and trail after Mav along the rain-slicked pathway. The tropical park unfolds around us, hushed and overgrown. Mav’s polished shoes strike the stone with deliberate precision, like he’s performing a role he’s long rehearsed. I hate how easy he makes this look. And I hate how much I wish he’d look back.

A wall of black raincoats shifts in response to our presence. The crowd, drawn from all four Dominions, moves as one solemn tide, parting just enough to let us through. The last time I walked this path, their distinctions were impossible to miss. Crestlings stood in bone-white uniforms, their collars high, their movements effortless, cloaked in the kind of polished confidence that makes others fall silent. Forgelings lined up with precision, their navy jackets crested with silver emblems of duty, backs held so straight they looked carved. Groundlings wore layered linen, earth-stained and practical, marked with swatches of regional dye that spoke to the fields and factories they served. Even the Shadowlings stood taller then, their mismatched clothes rolled or stretched, hands clutching banners they’d sewn themselves.

Now their true distinctions are buried beneath layers of regulation. Only the fabric’s quality and the precision of its stitching hint at where they belong within the hierarchy. Their stillness feels less like mourning and more like instruction. None of them will meet my eyes, yet I feel the weight of their judgment all the same. I’ve never been just a person to them. A bloodline. A future they either fear or expect. Today, that weight feels heavier than ever.

Mav stops beneath the sweeping translucent canopy that stretches over the pedestrian plaza and the stadium proper. Colossal support beams web across the ceiling like the ribs of some great beast. He stares into the storm as if searching for something hidden in the clouds. Odd. Since the Ancestors didn’t exactly pass down the gift to the two of us. For a moment, I think he might say nothing at all, but then his voice cuts through the rain.

“After all these years, I can’t believe her moment is finally here.” He gestures toward the massive video screens mounted on sleek, angular towers that protrude from the stadium proper. They flicker with the image of the world’s First Lady. Echo Calvane. Her serene expression looms over the crowd.

The last time her face loomed this large, it was Restoration Day. The Union lined the plaza with flags, streamed her image across every screen, and called her the spirit of post-collapse progress. They praised her Dominion stability reforms, said she’d uplifted entire Enclaves through newly-created loyalty programs. She stood on the platform with her hand on my shoulder, smiling like she believed every word of the speech they gave her. Mav stood at her other side, nodding as if everything she said was legacy.

“To think her fate would come down to the two of us,” Mav says, smirking. “The final task.” Something shifts behind Mav’s eyes. Though, it’s too fast to name. He doesn’t answer, and before I can demand one, the Envoys close in and usher us into the stadium.

The arena floor stretches wide below, built to shift and adapt beneath holographic projections. Spiral staircases rise to towering platforms shaped like ship prows, each positioned for an unobstructed view of the unfolding spectacle. The walls pulse with changing video displays—snapshots of the Union’s carefully curated history. General Corvin Beck locking arms with Executive Officer Mireya Solari after the Restoration Treaty. Director Setar overseeing the first Dominion Evaluations. The first Sovereign, Elias Beck, hands still blackened from ash, promising unity at the edge of a mass grave. And the current Sovereign standing before the Global Assembly as if stability were something he forged with his bare hands.

And then her. The current First Lady. Her image flickers between theirs like she belongs among them. The irony cuts deeper than expected.

“This place always gave me the creeps,” Mav mutters, fingers brushing the silver pistol at his hip.

“It’s the Union’s pride,” I say, but the words feel hollow. “The Union wanted to ensure its history was never forgotten. Never questioned.”

“Yeah,” he begins as he grabs the gold railing of the staircase, “that’s the problem. Today will be a day they never forget. The impact could swing one way or the other.”

We descend into the Colosseum’s lower corridors where the grandeur only tightens. The walls are lined with smooth white stone, threaded with veins of silver that catch the cold overhead lights. The air hums with the low thrum of unseen machinery and the faint, ghostlike echo of orchestral music piped through hidden speakers.

I hate how beautiful it is.

“Is this it?” Mav stops before a sleek, opaque glass door. His fingers hover over the handle. The faintest sign of tension slips beneath his practiced calm.

“Yes,” responds Darius, the senior Envoy. His voice is clipped, mechanical. The door hisses open. “You’ll have fifteen minutes to say goodbye to your mother when she arrives.”

The word hits harder than it should. Not First Lady. Not public figure. Not Echo.

Just . . . Mother.

And for the first time, I realize what I’ve done. For days, or maybe it’s been weeks now, I’ve kept them separate, split her down the middle so I could keep breathing. The woman who held my hand during the Ascension Dive and the traitor they dragged away. I told myself they weren’t the same. That Mother was simply off on another one of her retreats.

The day they took her, we were on the Ledge, a sacred platform two thousand feet above the Union coast, reserved only for the ruling family. The Ascension Dive isn’t something that’s taught. It’s passed down, breath by breath, from one Sovereign’s family to the next. It’s where we’re told to go when clarity fails. Where the Ancestors are said to speak. She brought me there to calm my mind, to help me listen, to open my eyes to a new path after I flushed everything I’d worked my entire life for down the crapper. She said the Ancestors wouldn’t grant enlightenment until I surrendered every part of myself—even the pieces I’d hidden to survive.

She was guiding me through my final breath, her voice low, her palm steady on my chest. The sea churned below. The clouds had cleared just enough for light to break through.

And then . . . shouting. Footsteps. Hands.

Mother fought to hold them off; her robe snapping behind her as she twisted and dodged. But an Envoy drove a blow into her spine, buckling her to the platform. Before I could even breathe, they had her around the neck. One blink later, she was gone. Cast from the ledge like a warning.

If it weren’t for the suspension harness—not to mention the fact that they needed her alive long enough to turn her treason into a spectacle—she would have splattered into the dark blue sea. Never to be seen again. Yet, even as she dangled below the clouds, I didn’t move from my meditation position.

Because in that moment, she wasn’t my mother. She was a break in the sequence. A flaw in the system. I was too deep in the ritual, in the whispers of the Ancestors, to let her be real.

Now the word . . . Mother . . . echoes all around me and the illusion’s gone.

The silence presses in as I step inside the room, my footsteps muted by the thick carpet beneath me. Mav brushes rain from his suit and follows. The door seals shut behind us.

For a second, I swear I smell lemon balm, the kind she used to keep tucked into the folds of her sleeves. Sharp. Clean. Alive.

Next Chapter: Chapter Two