❝ 𝘞𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘴,
𝘐 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 ❞
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What if, in some other tragic
reality, Flare was the
Commission...
❝ The inward fire eats the soft marrow away, And the internal wound bleeds on in silence. ❞ —The Aeneid
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FLARE CAN RECALL THAT FATEFUL day as if it were laced into her memory with thread spun by the fates.
The sky was a dull gray. The monotonous thrum of footsteps echoed through her office from the halls, accompanied by a repetitive ticking of the clock on the wall. Flare sat back in her chair, her legs swung onto the desk just beside a mug of hot coffee.
She was supposed to be writing a progress report about her mission in Egypt, but, for whatever reason, decided to procrastinate, and in doing so, she discovered a handful of unbearable lovey-dovey playwrights written by some dramatic fellow named Shakespeare. Flare yawned throughout the entire read—which lasted about two pages—and then switched to Roman Blood by Steven Saylor.
Everything had a dim aura to it. Nothing interesting was going on that day.
Then the news came.
Herb, beet-red and panting in all of his frantic little glory, scurried into Flare's office and slammed his hands on her desk, rattling her mug of coffee and nearly spilling the warm liquid inside. Her weapons, scattered about in a disorganized fashion, shook. She looked up.
"What's up?"
"The Handler! She— She . . . " he croaked out between labored breaths. "She got him."
Flare's eyes widened.
"When?"
"Around a week ago."
Her eyebrows knit together. "And why are we just hearing about this now?"
"Not sure. I think she wanted to keep it under wraps. They put him through orientation and . . . the other stuff. Apparently, he's been working here right under our noses!"
"What? Really?" Flare sprang to her feet excitedly. "Lemme see him!"
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He was an easily irritable thing.
The boy, who looked no older than eighteen or nineteen—Flare's age—sat at his desk, brows drawn together in a focused scowl as he toiled away at the typewriter. A neat swath of dark hair hung over his eyes. It matched his jet-black suit perfectly.
Flare couldn't decide what she liked most about his appearance. The hair was a given. She always had a thing for dark locks.
His eyes were a bright, striking green, and even without having them pierce her directly, she could tell just how intense they were—like shattered emeralds with edges sharp enough to cut throats. Dangerous.
