The Phoenix Thief

NINETEEN

KILTER WOKE TO the same shadowy hardness of the barred room he'd been thrown into three months previously, facedown on the dirty stone, alone, and in pain once again. But this time it was worse. He knew why he was there, why it was bad that he was, and that it was his fault. The Phoenix's warmth around his heart was dying, and when he cried out at the cold darkness only his echo answered.

After everything he'd done, he'd fixed nothing. Dmal was still in danger, he'd hurt Catrío, shot Shev, and given the Chancellor exactly what he wanted.

Kilter didn't curl under the bench and try to hide this time, though. He grabbed the bars of the door and shook them, shouting at himself, at the cage, at the Chancellor, until his gasping breaths rasped his throat raw. A Watchman came, the light of his lantern stinging Kilter's eyes.

"I'd shut it if I were you, boy." The man shoved him back from the bars. "If you disturb the Chancellor upstairs at all now, when the Tanks are about to be launched, you'll regret it."

The man left, and the darkness pressed in on Kilter again as the desire to scream built inside him. But he didn't dare make any sound. He knew the Chancellor would not forgive him if he kept interfering. Alishek did not forgive.

Instead, he flung himself against the solid wall opposite the door, pummeling his right hand against it again and again, each cold shock of pain a punishing relief for the silent agony in his chest. He'd done this all to himself, and he couldn't bear it.

Scum.

Stupid.

Worthless.

He was everything the Watchmen had ever called him.

Finally, when his bleeding knuckles could no longer feel the stone he smashed them against, the ache in his chest was approachable in comparison and he slumped down on the ground and cried. He cradled his bloodied hand against his chest and let the tears slide down his face, every last trace of the Phoenix's warmth leaking out of him with them.

How long he stayed like this he didn't know.

Faint light streamed through the narrow windows like watered-down milk. It woke him from the thoughtless stillness he'd frozen into, aware of nothing but his heartbeat. He lifted his head. The churning of the machines overhead was louder now, and the air was warm. Sweat formed droplets on Kilter's skin, glowing in the pale light. They stung when they rolled into the cuts on his hand where it lay on the floor beside his head.

He flexed the fingers slowly. The swollen, bruised skin split at the knuckles and turned red with slices of pain, worse than the ache of his bruised jaw.

I did this to myself.

The Chancellor and the Watchmen started it all, but the worst I really did to myself.

He had acted just like the mice the street cats batted around so much they no longer knew what they were doing, and ran directly into their tormentor's paws instead of away from them. He'd fallen right into the Chancellor's grip instead of fighting against him. He'd allowed his fear and pain to control him and inflicted even more on himself by doing so.

I can't let this keep happening.

Aletsavar and Vilsha, they didn't let things happen to them. They happened. They didn't let Alishek do what he wanted. I must do the same.

I am not nobody. I am not worthless. I am theirs, and I must live to find them. I must tell them they are good and brave, and I must be the same so that what they did will not be a waste.