The Season Trials

C h a p t e r t w e n t y

C h a p t e r        t w e n t y

While he sits, controlling the wheel, I hunt through my bag, trying to find the weapons I brought. I don't trust Kyell to keep control, but we have no other choice but to make the best of the situation. Besides, he seems to know what to do, even if it's scary to be next to him.

So, while he gets us around, I dig for weapons so we can defend ourselves if need be.

"I bet Max found one of these and stole it."

"Probably," I agree, dragging out on of the knives and laying it across my lap. "We need to figure out where we're going. Aimlessly going around isn't going to help us."

"I need your help for that. Anything you remember?"

"No." Dismally, I shake my head. "I was running for my life. I didn't think—just ran. It's a miracle I didn't walk into a trap. And it was at night."

"Well, regardless, we have to think fast. We're losing the advantage of darkness."

I'm aware of it—too aware. So aware my nerves are fraught. The paranoia is becoming stifling, so much so finding air is difficult. The weapons on my lap—the knives which really will make no difference—don't give me any confidence either.

"You know," I whisper, nervously running my hand over one of the blades, "the chance of us surviving this is slim to none."

"I know."

"We're going to die."

"No." He sounds so sure of himself, but I don't mistake the white-knuckled grip on the wheel. "We're not. Someone out there is rooting for us to win this—eventually someone who isn't heartless with learn to know what victory feels like."

"Victory? There's no victory in this." The blade is cool beneath my shaking fingers. "If we succeed—what next?"

"When we succeed," he corrects. "And when that happens, we'll be able to say we gained some power back—took some of it back from the General. Even if we never find Madeline, even if only one of us survives... even then, we win, not him. To him and anyone else we might just be laughable but one person who doesn't fear consequences can change everything. Give others hope."

He doesn't seem to realise how inconsequential what we're doing is, nor the hundreds who have no doubt tried—and failed—it before. "This won't cause an uprising. We're nothing but bugs to them—tiny pests. If you're hoping this will spark some sort of chance, you're wrong."

He's silent.

I stare down at my lap, tempted to say something—stopping because I know I've said something to upset him.

Whether he likes it or not, it's the truth.

*

As we weave through the street, everything starts blurring with opulence. As of yet, no one has been walking around, despite the sun rising a little over an hour ago. I'm in no way ignorant—the mere fact we haven't been caught is a miracle. I can only hope out luck isn't going to run out soon.

Nothing about the scenery is familiar—not even vaguely so. The homes are made of stained glass, marble or crystal. Nothing is just plain concrete; nothing decrepit and rotting. The wealth is so plaintive I'm almost choking on it.