The Network ( Book One of the Grounders Series )

5

Dedicated to SarahPerlmutter

The Detention is basically a prison for minors, based in Verro, deep within the recesses of the clan, where you only company is darkness.

I am stuck in the topmost levels of the Detention, where people are sent for minor offenses such as sneaking out of school during lunch.

Outside the small wooden door locking my into my cell I can her the obese guard snoring.

I sit up, my wrought-iron shackles rubbing into my flesh. My head still aches but not as badly as it did in class.

Something is wrong in my head. I can't see through my mind's eye, all I can think is blackness, dark smoke clouds my mind so thickly I can't process anything else.

It's been like that for six hours, ever since Alexia sent me into the Detention. I have no idea but pretty soon it'll drive me crazy. Is this what prison does to people?

I recline against the stone wall, letting the cool air of the cell caress my feverish skin. I don't know what's wrong with me. Everyday of my life I take risks that can get my put on trial before the Council, and I get sent to prison for sneaking out of school? Most likely the crack has been sealed.

I rest on my side, feeling restless, and rest my head in my hands to cushion the hard stone floor. Maybe I took it too far this time. It was the first time I'd done more than flee from Carter when he threatened me.

My mind is still blank, but I feel something shift behind the black blockade. Something strange. Chills run up my spine and a shine of cold sweat collects on my brow. Strange, alien adrenaline pumps through my blood.

You have to blood of the great ambrosial prophet.

At first I'm not sure whether the voice came from inside my head or somewhere else. I settle on the fact that I am indeed hearing voices and that I'm losing my marbles.

Your veins run gold with ichor.

The voice is masculine, gruff and scratchy like the throat of the speaker is stuffed with sandpaper.

You deserve more than this. I can make you a king. I can make you the god you truly are.

The wall up around my mind crumbles and I see myself. I am standing amongst the Hearth, fire surrounding my but doing me no harm.

Slaughtered corpses and blood cover the stone floor of the Artery. Fire blaze all down the length of the tunnel. Across from me is the entrance to Nevex and Lithana. Within the clans only darkness is visible.

You are the heir of Alvus Constantine himself, you deserve more that swollen bruises and scars. You deserve all the gold in the grown, a throne, people serving your every whim...

The scene shifts to my sitting in what looks like the training field of Verro. I am sitting on a throne made from solid gold, adorned with angelic carvings. There is a lyre carved into the seat of the chair.

The balconies tower above my head. People stand against the railing, cheering my name and tossing rose pedals down to me.

The seven Councilmen kneel at my feet, holding out platters of fresh berries, fruit, meat, like offerings.

The next part shocks me the most. I stand on the foot of the dais beneath the throne and draw and jewel studded sword from my belt.

"For your crimes against the people of the Network," I say, "for taking the role of a god and ruling the Grounders. You lead the Vonicans as frauds, and your that, Alvus Constantine shall damn your souls."

I touch each of the Councilmen with my blade and they all scream, scratching at their faces. Golden ichor pours from their ears and dribbles from the scratches on their cheeks as they shred the flesh.

I stare down in horror at my leaders, knowing that this is just an illusion. How does it feel so real.

You could have complete control of everything. You could punish those who've wronged you. All you must do is free me from this hell.

The training field rumbles beneath my illusions feet.

I am in the depths of Verro, waiting to escape, and if you help me I will make you ruler when I am free.

You were born with the blood and flesh of the prophet, you were born to rule as Constantine. You have prophet in you, all you need to do is rewrite what your ancestor wrote hundreds of years ago.

Finally I am released from the illusion. I am back in my prison cell.

Red words blazed in the wall near the door. Fiery and and so hot that I start to drip with sweat.

The words are written in large, loopy writing, considered fancy next to my stiff, neutral penmanship.

The wall reads:

Dreams of Darkness shall consume.

Three men and three women shall presume.

The Drangon shall rise, unless the unseen sees.

Or life will become a swarm of bees.

Don't be too hasty,
For the time is set.

But don't run too slow,
Because Darkness is a threat.

I'm skeptical to decide, but now I feel that I'm not crazy after all.