After a week of assessments and training, the hundred of us are given a chance to experience the luxuries of the Spires before our deployment to Blackwake. According to the officials, it's a gesture of goodwill––a way for the Triumvirate to welcome us into the city and give us something to remember before the Red Hunt begins. But I have a feeling they expect us to be grateful.
On the morning of our first excursion, we're divided into groups and escorted by the Spires' tourism department. Our guides wear immaculate uniforms and carry themselves with the type of confidence that comes from knowing every door in the city will open for them. They talk about the Spires to us as though they've personally built every tower, planted every tree, and invented every convenience we encounter.
Our first stop is a public exhibition center showcasing the city's technological advancements. Glass displays house miniature models of transportation systems, agricultural facilities, and automated infrastructure. One of the guides that they refer as Wayfarer explains how the Spires produces enough food to sustain its population through vertical farms and climate-controlled greenhouses. Behind her, a wall-sized screen shows rows of crops growing beneath artificial sunlight.
The wayfarer moves on before I can dwell on it. Next, we're taken to a medical complex whose entrance resembles the lobby of an expensive hotel. The facility has automated diagnostic stations, robotic surgical equipment, and recovery rooms with panoramic views of the surrounding gardens. A physician gives a presentation about treatments that can supposedly reverse conditions once considered incurable. I listen more closely than I mean to.
Cancer, among the conditions mentioned, is no longer the death sentence it once was for those who can afford the latest treatments. For a moment, I imagine Aunt Evelyn in one of those rooms. I imagine her receiving the care she needs, her memory no longer slipping away from her, and her body no longer weakened by a disease we can't afford to fight properly.
The rest of the tour continues through public gardens, cultural galleries, and a shopping district where storefronts display clothes and accessories behind spotless panes of glass. At one point, we pass a restaurant with a transparent kitchen. Chefs work beneath suspended lights while diners sit at tables overlooking an artificial lake. Weaver slows to stare at the menu displayed outside.
"I'm beginning to understand why people here never leave," he says.
Clay agrees, and I find myself nodding along with them. It's easy to forget, for a moment, that we're here because we're about to be sent into a game that could cost us our safety.
The wayfarers keep us moving, filling the hours with facts about architecture, public services, and the city's cultural history. They show us how the elevated transit lines connect distant districts, how the suspended gardens collect rainwater, and how the buildings regulate their own temperatures to conserve energy. Everything seems to have been designed to make life easier.
By the time the tour reaches its final stop, I've seen enough to understand why the Spires inspire such fascination in the Sinks. I've also seen enough to know that this world wasn't built for people like us.
As we gather outside the last exhibition hall, officials begin distributing invitations. Each envelope is thick, cream-colored, and sealed with the insignia of the Triumvirate. Mine bears my name in gold lettering. Elowen Bradshaw. And I open it.
THE SOVEREIGN MASQUERADE.
For a second, I think there must be some mistake. Because I've heard of the Sovereign Masquerade since I was a child. It was this kind of event the news always mentioned when the elite gathered behind gilded doors, dressed in extravagant dresses and blazers and concealed beneath masks. Politicians, heirs, and high-ranking officials attended to celebrate their wealth, status, and influence. Every detail, from the theme to the guest list, was carefully chosen. An invitation was considered one of the highest marks of prestige in the Spires.
In the Sinks, the masquerade existed only in fragments. We saw glimpses of it through distorted broadcasts and flickering television screens. People spoke of impossible gowns, halls lined with gold, and performances so extravagant they sounded invented. But none ever witnessed it in front of their eyes. Now, the Triumvirate has invited a hundred Hunters to attend. Ninety-eight of which are citizens from the Sinks.
I turn the card over, searching for some indication of what we're expected to do. But there is none. Only the date, the venue, and a formal note welcoming us to the occasion.
"Fancy," Weaver says, peering over my shoulder.
"That's one word for it," Gevan replies.
Clay studies his own invitation. "I guess we should be grateful."
"Are you?" I ask.
He looks at me, then at the card.
I slip the invitation into my pocket.
I know what the Triumvirate wants us to see. A city of opportunity. A government generous enough to reward us before the Hunt. A world where wealth and progress seem to go hand in hand. What I don't know is whether they expect us to forget everything we've seen beyond these streets.
The Sovereign Masquerade is held that evening inside a ballroom in the Prism. And the first thing I learn about Spires fashion designers is that they take personal offense when someone touches their hair. The second is that apparently, I am not allowed to have an opinion about mine.
"Keep your head still, darling," says a designer.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror. A woman stands behind me, armed with enough pins to hold together a collapsing building. She has spent the last twenty minutes twisting my hair into a bun at the back of my head, pulling every strand so tightly that my scalp feels as though it's being stretched over my skull. Two other workers hover nearby, one holding a tray of accessories and the other examining the shape of my head as if I'm some architectural problem they're being paid to solve.
My hair has never been particularly cooperative. It's stubborn and usually falls wherever it pleases. Back home, I tie it up when it gets in my way and leave it alone when it doesn't. The red streaks are the only thing I've ever bothered to maintain, and even those serve a purpose beyond looking pretty. Here, apparently, my hair is a national emergency.
"Could we loosen the sides a little?" I ask.
The woman doesn't even look at me. "No."
"Then could we loosen the entire thing?" I say.
"No, darling," says another woman.
I clench my jaw. Wonderful. I've survived the Sinks, endured hunger, and nearly been crushed by a pillar one time when I was six, only to be defeated by a woman with a hairpin.
She steps back to inspect her work, tilting her head from one side to the other. "Beautiful."
I look at the towering arrangement of black hair in the mirror.
It looks like something a person might wear to a royal wedding or a funeral for someone exceptionally wealthy. The bun sits high on my head, secured with silver pins that resemble tiny branches. Several strands have been deliberately pulled loose around my temples, though not enough to make the hairstyle look accidental. A few decorative pieces glint beneath the overhead lights.
I look less like myself and more like someone who has been kidnapped and prepared for an expensive dinner.
"Can I ask why?" I say.
The woman finally meets my eyes through the mirror. "Why what?"
"Why my hair needs its own architecture," I say.
One of the workers coughs into her hand. The woman ignores her.
"Your features are striking, but they need structure. The bun elongates your silhouette and creates a more commanding profile," she says.
"I thought the point was to make me look presentable," I say.
"And you will," she replies.
"I'm already present."
Her lips press together. I almost smile. Then she turns away to discuss accessories with another designer, leaving me alone with my reflection for approximately three seconds.
Three seconds is enough.
I lift both hands and reach behind my head. One careful tug loosens a pin. Another pulls a strand free. I shake my head slightly, hoping gravity will do the rest. The bun shifts. Then a hand closes around my wrist.
"Absolutely not."
I turn.
The woman standing before me is dressed in what I can only describe as an argument between a peacock and a chandelier. Her jacket has exaggerated shoulders, and her earrings are large enough to qualify as defensive equipment, with several metallic ornaments arranged across her collar like the remains of an expensive machine. One of her sleeves is a different color from the other. Her hair is swept into a sculptural shape that appears to defy both gravity and common sense.
I decide immediately that she is the most dangerous person in the room. Not because she looks intimidating. Because she looks like someone who would have a strong opinion about my bun.
"Do you have any idea how long that took?" she asks.
"Long enough for me to lose feeling in my scalp."
"It's supposed to feel secure," the weird-looking lady says.
"I'm beginning to think it's supposed to survive a natural disaster." I smile.
I then look back at the mirror. Beneath the carefully arranged hair, my red streaks are still visible, though the workers have tried to blend them into the rest of the style. They haven't managed it completely. A narrow strip of red catches the light whenever I turn my head. At least they haven't taken that away from me.
The moment I step into the ballroom, I understand why people in the Sinks never seem to shut up about this event. The place is ridiculous. Enormous chandeliers hang from the ceiling, throwing light across the polished marble floors until everything seems to glitter. Gold columns stretch toward the ceiling, and a group of musicians plays from a raised platform while masked guests wander between tables piled with food and drinks.
Plus, there is so much food. I hate that this is the first thing I notice, but I can't help it. There are trays of things I've never seen before, little pastries arranged like they're too pretty to eat, glasses filled with drinks in colors I can't even name. Back home, a table like this could feed an entire street. Here, nobody seems to think twice about it.
And the gowns are just as absurd. Some women wear dresses covered in tiny crystals that catch the light whenever they move. Others have skirts that trail across the floor like liquid silk, probably worth more than everything I've ever owned combined. Even the masks look expensive. Gold edges, delicate feathers, little stones set around the eyes.
Everyone looks as though they've stepped out of a broadcast, polished and perfect and completely at ease. They laugh behind their masks, sip their white wines, and move around the room like they've been doing this their entire lives. Maybe they have.
I try to imagine what it would be like to grow up in a place where a ballroom like this is ordinary. I can't decide whether I'm impressed or annoyed. Probably both. The room is beautiful. I'll give them that.
I straighten my shoulders and step farther inside.
The men wear tailored suits and masks of silver, black, and gold. Everything is beautiful. Everything is expensive. And everyone seems perfectly comfortable with both facts.
I find Clay near one of the pillars. He looks stiff in his formal clothes, while Weaver appears delighted by the entire affair. Gevan has already started talking to a group of guests, apparently determined to learn everything he can about the people who live here.
"You look like you're waiting for someone to arrest you," I tell Clay.
He glances down at his jacket. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do with my hands."
"Put them in your pockets."
"Then I'll look like I'm waiting for someone to arrest me," Clay says.
I laugh, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders.
Weaver approaches with a small plate of food. "I have decided that the Triumvirate isn't entirely terrible."
"Because they invited us to a party?" Gevan asks, joining us.
"Because they invited us to a party with food."
"You're impossible," Gevan whispers.
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. For a little while, we manage to enjoy the evening. We eat, watch the dancers, and try not to look too out of place among people who seem to have been born knowing which fork to use.
Eventually, a masked man approaches and offers me his hand.
"Would you care to dance?"
I glance toward my friends. Gevan gives me an encouraging nod, while Weaver looks as though he's already preparing a joke for when I return. I then take the stranger's hand.
He guides me onto the dance floor just as the orchestra starts another song. He moves easily, one hand resting on my waist as we weave between the other couples. I follow his steps, trying to keep up with the rhythm without making a fool of myself by stepping on his shoes.
For the first few moments, neither of us speaks. Then I notice the narrow slit in his left eyebrow, visible above the edge of his elegant mask. My steps falter. I've seen that mark before.
A year ago, on the hillside at Brumefall Heights, I watched a boy with the same scar dig something into the earth before leaving on his motorcycle. I didn't know his name then. I didn't know why he'd been there or what he'd buried. Now I do.
"You're staring," he murmurs.
"I'm trying to figure out what you're doing here."
"Dancing," he simply says.
"You know that's not what I mean."
His hand shifts slightly at my waist as he guides me through a turn. "Then perhaps you should stop asking questions in a room full of people."
His voice is quiet, almost amused, but I remember his warnings about surveillance. I remember the note he left me in the library.
They are watching. Keep your pretty mouth shut.
I look away, forcing myself to follow the music.
"You could've warned me you were coming," I say.
"And spoil the surprise?" he asks.
"You seem to enjoy making things difficult."
"Not always." Kenryu says it so casually that I can't tell whether he's messing with me or simply doesn't care enough to explain himself.
We had a few small interactions, but everything felt like a blur after that one sway. And before I can press him, the song comes to an end. He releases my hand, straightens his cuff, and gives me a brief nod.
"Enjoy the evening, Elowen."
Then he turns and disappears into the crowd, leaving me wondering what he's really doing here.
I remain at the edge of the dance floor, watching the masks drift past one another. The guests continue talking and laughing, oblivious to the fact that the man who just danced with me is the same person who warned me not to trust the people running the Hunt.
I wonder how much he knows. More importantly, I wonder how much he intends to tell me.
***
The next morning, the tourism department gathers all one hundred Hunters for a tour of the Spires' residential and commercial districts. Our wayfarers lead us down spotless streets lined with glass towers, floating gardens, and lights that still glow even during the day. Walkways connect buildings high above us, while automated transports move overhead. The public parks look almost unreal, with trees surrounding reflecting pools and flower beds that look way too perfect to be real. Rooftop cafés overlook the city, filled with people wearing clothes that probably cost more than everything I own.
The Hunters seem to be having a great time. Some stop to stare at the buildings, while others point at shops and landmarks along the way. For a lot of them, this is the first time they've ever seen the Spires this close. Mine included. Seeing its skyline from the Sinks is one thing, but actually walking beneath those towers is completely different. It's hard not to notice just how different life is up here compared to the poverty we're used to back home.
My quadrangle stays together as we move through the boulevards.
Weaver keeps commenting on the things he'd buy if he lived here. Gevan corrects him whenever he gets a detail wrong, and Clay seems content to let them argue. I listen, but my attention keeps wandering.
Everything here appears carefully planned. Even the smallest details––the placement of benches, the lighting along the pathways, the water running through narrow channels beside the streets––seem designed to make the city feel effortless.
After five minutes of break, we pass through a broad plaza where a marble fountain stands at its center. Water spills over carved stone into a shallow basin, catching the sunlight in silver flashes.
That's when I notice the old man numbered 050 stands alone beside the fountain, watching the water. His younger teammates have wandered farther down the street, laughing among themselves. But he doesn't follow them. He simply remains where he is, his hands clasped loosely in front of him.
There's something sad about the way he stares at the fountain, like he's already made peace with an ending the rest of us haven't even thought about. I can't help wondering what he thinks of the Spires. If he sees the same things I do, or if the city feels different to someone who's been around much longer than the rest of us.
Before I can decide whether to approach him, the group moves on. "Don't let the scenery distract you." Linus's voice comes from beside us.
He has joined our quadrangle without much fanfare, his hands tucked into his pockets. Unlike the guides, he doesn't sound particularly impressed by the city.
"It's a little late for that," Weaver says. "Have you seen the restaurants?"
"You're seriously thinking about food right now?"
Weaver's smile fades slightly.
Linus speaks a little quieter, reminding us that the island won't be anything like what we're seeing now. The terrain could be rough, the wildlife dangerous, and the weather could change at any moment. Whatever supplies we get, we'll have to make them last.
"If you want to survive the days ahead, ration your food carefully," Linus warns us. "Don't assume you'll find more whenever you need it."
Weaver turns to Gevan with a grin. "Well, we're doomed."
Gevan raises an eyebrow. "Huh?"
"You eat enough for two people," Weaver replies.
"I do not," Gevan argues.
"You finished your breakfast before the rest of us even sat down," Weaver points out.
"That's because you spent ten minutes talking," Gevan shoots back.
"Someone has to keep the conversation alive," Weaver says, shrugging.
Gevan scoffs and shoves him lightly. Weaver laughs, stumbling a step to the side. I laugh, too. For a moment, the tension eases, and we're simply four friends walking through an unfamiliar city.
Then Linus looks at me.
"When the time comes," he says softly, "do whatever it takes to win."
The words catch me off guard. I study his face, waiting for him to explain what he means, but he offers nothing more than a brief nod before turning his attention to the street ahead.
I assume he's wishing us well. Still, something about his tone stays with me.
Do whatever it takes.
I wonder what that will mean when we're finally on Blackwake.
As the tour continues, we're taken through more districts, past rooftop cafés and public gardens, and along streets filled with people who seem to have nothing to worry about. Their next meal, for example, is probably the last thing on their minds.
It's strange seeing how different life is here compared to the Sinks. The people seem so far removed from everything happening beyond the walls, as if our struggles have nothing to do with them. Maybe they know what's happening out there and simply choose to ignore it. Or maybe they've never had to think about it at all.
The Triumvirate join us for part of the tour, accompanied by officials and guards. Viper Cruz and June DeVille speak with the guides and occasionally address the Hunters, while Lucien Bolverkr walks at the center of the group. Watching them move through the city they rule, I find myself wondering if living like this has made it easier for them to forget what life is like beyond the walls.
The Spires is breathtaking. I won't pretend otherwise. But they were built on something.
Taxes. Labor. Silence.
Back in the Sinks, people struggle to afford food, medicine, and even a place to sleep, despite being the ones who help keep this world running. My father spent years writing about officials who stole money meant to protect our neighborhoods. He believed that if people knew where their money was going, they might finally do something about it. But the Triumvirate never bothered to answer his questions.
Now I'm standing in the very city he criticized, surrounded by the kind of wealth he believed had been taken from people like us. Maybe that's just how things work here. Or maybe someone made sure they would always work this way.
I glance at Lucien, but he's busy listening to an official beside him, his expression giving nothing away.
I say nothing and keep walking.
***
By evening, the tour has ended, and the Hunters gather inside the Prism, the official residence of the Triumvirate.
The building rises above the surrounding skyline like a crystalline monument, its glass walls reflecting the city lights. From the upper floors, the Spires seem to stretch endlessly toward the horizon, every tower illuminated, every district shining beneath the darkening sky.
I slip away from the others and step onto one of the high balconies.
It's cooler outside. I lean against the railing and look out over the city. From up here, everything looks perfect. The towers stand in neat rows, their windows catching the light in perfect patterns. Roads wind between buildings, with vehicles moving beneath the elevated walkways. Farther out, artificial lakes reflect the gardens around them.
It's beautiful enough to make me forget, for a moment, that there is a world beyond the walls.
But I couldn't help but think of Aunt Evelyn. She's lying in a hospital bed, too weak to do much for herself. Some days she remembers me immediately. Other days, I have to remind her who I am. The cancer is taking its toll, and the dementia is slowly erasing the memories we've spent years building together.
I remember sitting beside her bed, listening to the machines and staring at the bills in my hands. I remember trying to calculate how long I could keep paying for her treatment before I ran out of money. There was never enough.
That's why I signed the contract. Not for the attention or the promise of a better life. Not because I believe the Triumvirate's speeches about opportunity.
I signed because Aunt Evelyn needs help, and the prize money is the only chance I have of giving her the treatment she deserves.
Everything waiting for me on Blackwake––the risks and the uncertainty––comes down to that.
I press my fingers against the railing.
After a while, I step away from the railing and turn toward the doorway. But someone is standing there.
For a moment, I freeze. I hadn't heard him approach, and the sight of him makes me feel as though I've wandered somewhere I shouldn't be.
"I'm sorry," I say quickly. "I didn't realize anyone else was out here."
"You haven't interrupted anything." Lucien's voice is calm. "Stay, if you like."
I hesitate before returning to the railing.
Lucien joins me, resting his hands against the polished stone as he looks out across the city. For a while, neither of us speaks.
I've wanted to ask him questions since the banquet, but standing beside him now makes me reconsider whether I should.
I ask anyway.
"What's the real purpose of the Red Hunt?"
Lucien keeps his eyes on the city below. "What makes you think the purpose we've given you isn't the real one?"
"Sending a hundred people to an island to compete for a fortune seems like an unusual way to prove their worth," I say.
"Does it?" Lucien asks.
"Most people shouldn't have to risk their lives to earn a better future," I tell him.
Lucien turns his head slightly toward me. "No, they shouldn't. But the world has never been particularly concerned with what people should have to endure."
He says it without bitterness, as though he's stating a fact rather than defending a system he has the power to change.
"Comfort has its uses," Lucien continues. "It allows people to build, to create, and to pursue things beyond mere survival. But a society that remains comfortable for too long risks forgetting what keeps it standing. People grow accustomed to security. Eventually, they begin to mistake the absence of hardship for strength."
"And the Red Hunt is supposed to fix that?" I ask.
"The Red Hunt provides an opportunity," Lucien replies. "An arena in which people can demonstrate their judgment, adaptability, and capacity to act under pressure. It reveals who can shape the future and who expects the future to accommodate them."
His voice remains calm, almost conversational. He speaks as though the Red Hunt were a matter of policy rather than a hundred people being sent to an island where not everyone will return.
There's no cruelty in his expression. No visible pleasure in the thought of what might happen to us. That almost makes it worse.
"An opportunity for whom?" I ask.
Lucien finally looks at me. "For those willing to take it."
His answer is smooth enough to sound reasonable, but it leaves out the part I care about. Who decided we needed this opportunity? Who decided what we should have to risk for it? And why does the choice sound so much simpler when he's the one describing it?
I turn back toward the city. "So you think hardship makes people stronger," I say.
"I think hardship reveals what comfort can conceal," Lucien answers.
I wonder if he has ever known the kind of hardship he talks about so easily. Whether he has ever had to choose between food and medicine, or watched someone he loves suffer because the treatment they need costs more than they can afford. But I don't ask him that.
Lucien gestures faintly toward the skyline. "The Spires are proof of what discipline and order can accomplish. This city wasn't built through sentiment. It required difficult decisions, long-term planning, and a willingness to sacrifice immediate comfort for something greater."
I follow his gaze toward the towers, their lights reflected in the glass walls of the Prism.
"Humanity's greatest enemy isn't always poverty or war," Lucien continues. "Sometimes, it's entropy. The slow decline that begins when people become too comfortable to resist it. When they stop adapting, stop striving, and begin to believe that safety alone is enough."
I glance at him. "You think that's what's happening here?"
"I think it's already happening in different ways," Lucien replies. "The Sinks are losing hope, while the Spires risk losing their resilience. One suffers from having too little. The other risks forgetting how to live without having everything."
For a moment, I don't know what to say. There's something almost reasonable about his argument. I've seen what hopelessness does to people in the Sinks. I've watched people give up because every effort seems to lead them back to the same place. But I also know that people can struggle their entire lives without ever being given a fair chance to rise above their circumstances. But hardship doesn't always make people stronger. Sometimes, it simply leaves them exhausted.
Lucien returns his attention to the skyline. "The winners will receive a fortune. They'll gain access to opportunities that would otherwise remain beyond their reach. For some, it will mean a different life. For others, it may mean the chance to influence the lives of those who come after them."
"And that makes everything else acceptable?" I ask.
"I didn't say that," Lucien answers. "I said the opportunity is real. What you choose to make of that fact is up to you."
I study him, searching for a crack in his composure, some indication that he knows how easily a promise can become a justification. But he gives me nothing. Instead, Lucien is the one studying me.
"Tell me, Elowen," he starts, "if you question the Red Hunt so much, why did you join?"
I open my mouth, but no answer comes. I think of Aunt Evelyn, the treatment she needs, and the prize money that could save her. But I don't want to give him that much of myself. Lucien seems content to let my silence speak for me.
"I see," he says, turning back toward the city. "You want to question the system, yet you're willing to take what it offers."
"That doesn't mean I agree with it," I reply.
"No. But it does mean you need something from it."
I fall silent. I have more questions, but somehow, I can't bring myself to ask them.
"Not everyone deserves to live in the Spires, Elowen," Lucien continues. "A place here must be earned. The moment people begin believing their positions are theirs by birthright, they stop giving the city a reason to keep them."
"And you think the Red Hunt decides who's worthy?" I ask.
"I think the winners will have proven they can survive what others cannot," Lucien answers. "They'll earn their place among us. In the Spires. Those already living here should remember that their positions are not permanent."
His tone remains perfectly composed, as though replacing people's lives were no more complicated than rearranging pieces on a board. And I want to argue with him, but the thing is I can't find an answer that doesn't sound naive.
Lucien glances at me, his expression unreadable. "You have a great deal to say about the Hunt, Elowen. I'm curious to see what you'll do when it's your turn to prove yourself."
I can't tell whether he's challenging me or warning me. Perhaps he intends both.
Lucien turns back toward the city. "You're entitled to question the decisions made here. But if you intend to challenge them, make certain you understand what you're challenging."
I wonder how many people have stood where I'm standing and argued with him. How many have left believing they'd made their point, never realizing he'd learned more from the conversation than they had.
"You make it sound as though everything has a reason," I say.
"Everything has a reason," Lucien answers. "Whether that reason is a good one is another matter."
I can't tell whether he genuinely believes he's protecting something worth saving or whether he has simply learned to make his decisions sound necessary. Perhaps he believes both. Perhaps that's what makes him dangerous.
I turn toward the skyline again, unaware that Lucien's attention has quietly returned to me.
He has listened to every question, every hesitation, every moment I chose to challenge his reasoning instead of accepting it. He hasn't been trying to win the argument. He's been watching to see what kind of person would ask these questions in the first place. Whether I'm merely suspicious or capable of becoming a problem. Whether I can be persuaded, controlled, or neither.
I wonder whether he sees the Hunters as people or simply as pieces in a plan. Maybe he sees them as both.
I'm so caught up in the view of the skyline that I barely notice the footsteps approaching from the hall behind me.
"Hey, Elowen!" Clay appears in the doorway, looking around until he spots me. He slows when he notices Lucien beside me, his expression shifting with surprise.
"Sorry, Sir," he says before he looks at me. "I was looking for you, El."
Lucien glances briefly in his direction before straightening from the railing.
"Of course." Without another word, he steps away and returns to the illuminated halls of the Prism.
Clay waits until he's gone before approaching me.
"Wasn't that the head of the Triumvirate?" Clay asks. I then nod once.
"What were you talking about?"
I look out at the skyline again. "The Hunt."
He studies me, perhaps expecting me to explain, but I don't know how to put the conversation into words. Lucien hadn't threatened me or offered any promises. He'd spoken about the future as though the Hunt were a necessary step toward something greater. Maybe he believes every word.
I return my hands to the railing and stare at the lights below. The city is still beautiful, but its perfection feels heavier now, as though every tower and every illuminated street has been placed there by a hand that never stopped to question the cost.
I think of my father and the articles he wrote in our basement. I think of the people in the Sinks who will never see these streets, no matter how hard they work. And I think of Aunt Evelyn, waiting in a hospital bed while I stand here surrounded by more wealth than I have ever seen.
The Triumvirate can call the Hunt an opportunity. Lucien can dress it in whatever philosophy makes it easier to accept.