About the Author
When Lauren Roberts isn’t writing about fantasy worlds and bantering love interests, she can likely be found burrowed in bed reading about them. Lauren has lived in Michigan her whole life, making her very familiar with potholes, snow, and various lake activities. She has the hobbies of both a grandmother and a child, i.e., knitting, laser tag, hammocking, word searches, and coloring. She’s the author of Powerless, and she hopes to have the privilege of writing pretty words for the rest of her life. If you enjoy ranting, reading, and writing, Lauren can be found on both TikTok and Instagram @LaurenRobertsLibrary for your entertainment.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter 1: Makoto
CHAPTER 1 Makoto
Her name is on a list of the dead.
I squint in the stinging sunlight, scrutinizing every name inked onto the banner. Hers sits among the eight others, likely overlooked beneath the prince’s crowning the top. But despite being on the list, our future Enforcer will easily evade the death awaiting the other contestants. Because these Trials were made for Elites like him. Not Elites like her.
My eyes skim over the list once again, recognizing no other names. I’ve never been one to keep up with what Elites manage to wrangle enough relevance to make it into the Trials.
A shoulder collides with mine, followed by several other limbs pushing against me. Loot is swimming with sticky bodies and echoing shouts of celebration, further adding to the list of reasons why I would rather be anywhere else but the slums of Ilya. It’s a struggle to push my way through the crowded street, every inch of it crawling with ignorance incarnate. Every inch cheering for each contestant they chose to represent Loot.
I push through the crowd, ignoring their celebrations.
They have done nothing more than send Mundanes and Defensive Elites to their deaths.
And she is one of them.
But it should be me. Me who dies brutally. Dies alone. Dies at all.
Chants in honor of the sixth ever Purging Trials ring in my ears, each word a reminder of what I’ve done—nothing.
I’ve spent my whole life huddling in her shadow, hiding from life itself. And now she has been chosen simply because she did nothing of the sort. The people knew her, loved the street magic she performed as a Veil. And yet, they sentence her to death under the guise of honor.
She is a Defensive. Therefore, she is dead.
And I need to find her.
My hands are still streaked with coal dust, leathers clinging to my sweaty body as though I’m still hammering steel over a scalding fire. I had worked through the night and was continuing still when the commotion managed to drag me from the shop.
I should have gone to see her last night. Should have been there when she found out.
And now I’m shoving through a sea of people, attempting to find her before it’s too late. I scan the packed street, catching sight of a coach rumbling toward the end of it. It screeches to a halt, the horses nearly as impatient as the drivers eager to escape the slums.
I sure as hell know how that feels.
I’m shoved forward when the congested crowd begins flocking toward the coach, crowding it as though they’re offering free rides out of this shithole. Begrudgingly, I allow myself to be swept forward, managing to catch a glimpse of her climbing inside.
An Imperial ushers her up the step, and in typical Hera fashion, she shyly thanks him as though he’s not escorting her to her doom. Her sleek black hair is the last thing I see before she’s swallowed by the four walls, sitting in the belly of the coach.
The world seems to quiet, slow its spinning with each shaky breath I manage.
I didn’t get to say goodbye.
My thumb finds the scar cutting crookedly through my lips, tracing it like I had the day my life truly became a secret. A familiar numbness begins to bleed over my body, bathing every bit of me in bitterness.
I’m about to turn away, unable to watch her be paraded toward her death.
That’s when a flash of silver catches my eye.
I peer over the dozens of heads dotting the street, watch her walk toward the coach with hair that tells me all I need to know.
So, this is the famous Silver Savior.
Word of her saving Prince Kai managed to reach even my ears—evidence of how significant she’s become among the slums. Perhaps I’m a skeptic, or simply the only logical person living in the vicinity, but I’m not entirely convinced by her battle with a Silencer. A battle that the future Enforcer himself couldn’t win.
And I know exactly what it’s like to be in Kai’s shoes.
I’m watching her climb into the coach when a hopping figure captures my attention. Dark curls bounce with each attempt to see over the crowd. Her hands are raised, waving haphazardly at the Silver Savior. She’s shouting something that looks quite heartfelt, likely a wasted goodbye that will never be heard.
I lean over a pair of young women who are chanting terribly off-key to the rest of the street. Squinting, I struggle to scan the girl’s face with how persistently she’s bouncing. Something about her seems faintly familiar, as though this isn’t the first time I’ve been graced by the presence of her perpetual perkiness.
I roll my eyes when recognition rams into me.
Oh, I know exactly who this is. In fact, I believe she even made it onto my ever-growing list of reasons to never leave my shop.
I was buying supplies from a merchant who was just as eager to take my money as I was to retreat back into my glorified shed. It was with a bundle of leather tucked beneath my arm and a severe lack of pep in my step that I heard the most absurdly bubbly sales pitch.
And that’s when I saw her, curly hair bouncing with each energetic bob of her head. A plethora of clothing piled around her while she described what is commonly known as a blue shirt with about a dozen more words than necessary.
I may have said a thing or two, though the details of our conversation were hardly interesting enough for me to waste time recalling now.
That was several weeks ago now, but there is no mistaking that the girl currently waving a crazed set of hands down the street is the same seamstress who sells on the corner of an alley.
And she’s a Phaser. I know that much about her. Well, that, and her astounding ability to never tire of talking.
I watch her blow kisses to the Silver Savior, so many that I brace myself to witness her faint. But she does nothing of the sort, leaving me to continue watching the endearing embodiment of her affections for this girl.
There is no mistaking the sincerity in each flailing wave and shouted sentiment. This seamstress knows the Silver Savior, and quite personally by the looks of it. Likely enough to do just about anything for her.
My mind races recklessly, scheming. A horribly impulsive plan begins to form, one that should likely never leave the confines of my mind, let alone be executed at all.
But this just might work.
That is typically what one thinks right before everything goes to shit.
Then again, one might argue that things couldn’t possibly get any shittier.
