The Season Trials

C H A P T E R N I N E

I'm behind on all my updates, I know. I'll be playing catch-up this week. So they're coming. It'll just be a wait.

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C H A P T E R       N I N E

"Call in Renee."

The Generals voice is sharp. So much so I can practically feel the blades digging into my skin. I haven't moved, not since Sergeant Holmes left some time ago. I've been standing here, frozen with fear and dread, just watching the General go through paperwork on his desk.

He's just bought me—and yet he's acting as if I'm not in the room. But that what being a Gift means. You're little more than a piece of furniture. They can break you. Hurt you. But you're nothing to whoever owns you.

As the door opens behind me, I don't look that way. Instead I keep my gaze on the ground, looking up at the armed soldiers. The sight of the guns burn like an itch—a promise of what can happen should the General choose it to.

The pain in my ankle is forgotten—overwhelmed by the fear and panic that grips me like a vice.

"You called Sir?" The voice is quiet and timid; shaking like the leaves that fall off the trees.

The General looks up, dark eyes alight with anger. "I did, didn't I?" he bites out. "And who gave you permission to speak?"

There's a whimper from behind me, so quiet I barely hear it.

"Take my latest Gift. Do what you have to—I need her capable to fight. Tomorrow her time will be up. Pity that." The words are clipped and short; the hand that drums on the desk as loud as a scream.

"Yes sir," comes the timid response.

Other words are spoken, but I'm unable to track them. Instead, I can only hear the thumping thrum of my own racing heart in my ear. Tomorrow . . .

Tomorrow her time will be up.

It can only mean one thing. Tomorrow I'm going to die. They're going to kill me.

It's tempting to beg for the General to spare me, but it won't do anything. His mind is made up—that's the end of it. No questions are going to be asked.

I'm going to die. Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, I'm going . . . to die.

That means I'll never go home. Never see Jaylee again.

I want nothing more than to curl and cry; wallow in despair and self-pity.

I'm going to die—

A hand taps my shoulder and I flinch, feeling heavy and terrified. But it's only the girl who'd spoken. She looks sad and shrunken, thin as a twig. The expanse of skin uncovered in the grey shirt she wears is covered in ugly bruises—raw and purple. Old, bruised and weathered is the only way to describe her, though she's anything but elderly.

As she leads me out of the room, I'm too numb with fear to rebel.

We don't walk long. Renee weaves through dark tunnel ways, a limp in her gait.