Powerless (The Powerless Trilogy)

“I am going to wring your neck if you don’t shut up.”

The bird completely ignores my very real threat of death and continues to squabble on the branch above my head. It’s been squawking for nearly half an hour, resulting in me throwing at least a dozen rocks in its direction.

I’m annoyed, angry, anxious, and above all, absolutely starving. Of course, these are all side effects of waking up in the middle of the wilderness with nothing but the clothes I slept in. I look down at my tight, cloth pants and even more revealing tank. A skimpy, silky thing that I regret ever putting on, considering it will now be my only shirt for the next week.

A week.

That’s how long I must survive in this forest. In the Whispers. In this place crawling with enemies of all shapes and sizes, though it’s already midday and the only opponent I’ve faced so far is the snake that nearly bit my foot off. I’ve been trekking through the thick foliage since the moment I woke up, face down in the dirt, after blinking awake to a staring woman clad in blinding white.

A Sight. Here to spy on the opponents. Here to record this bloody Trial. Here to document what the audience is not able to witness for themselves.

I’m sure the rest of Ilya is just as confused as I am about this year’s Trials. Though, I can’t say we weren’t warned.

Different. That’s all the warning we got.

Except that different does not even begin to describe how drastically these Trials have changed. In the past three decades, there has never been a Trial outside of the Bowl walls, outside of the prying eyes of the audience. But only the best, the most brutal and bloody Trials, are fit to test the future Enforcer, I suppose. I just wish I wasn’t a part of it.

We’ve all been unwittingly thrown into the deadly Whispers, left to die by the elements or by the hand of our enemies. It’s brilliant. It’s bastardly. And I don’t know whether to clap or cry.

I should expect nothing less from the king.

My eyes dart to my right forearm where the leather strap is wrapped tightly.

“Collect from those who have been banded and be warned if you return empty-handed.”

I laugh bitterly to the emptiness surrounding me. They want us to fight, truly fight one another for these strips of leather. So, in an effort to stay alive long enough to find another opponent, I set out to find water. The trees here are tremendous and terrifying, towering high in the air and scraping the low clouds. It took me ages to scale one to find the closest water source, and the past several seriously boring hours have consisted of trudging towards what I’m hoping is a creek.

Except now I’m sitting under a tree and arguing with a bird. I chuck another rock at it for good measure before turning my attention back to the bundle of sticks at my side. I pick up another arrowhead that I’ve collected along the way, one of the generous gifts left to aid us, and fasten it onto one of the sticks. I’ve been making arrows for far too long now to accompany the bow and quiver I found conveniently resting against the trunk of a tree.

As if the Elites need weapons.

The feathers supplied by the annoying, yet useful bird above complete the arrow. I stare at my handiwork with a small smile, studying all seven wobbly arrows now filling the quiver. Thanks to my father, this was not my first time having to craft and arrow from scratch, and my smile grows at the distant memory.

I throw the quiver over my shoulder and cross the bowstring along my chest, saying my goodbyes to the bird still perched in the tree. I heave a sigh and begin, once again, heading towards the water I so desperately need. My feet are light and quiet as I tread across the terrain, my eyes peeled for any animal I can devour.

There.

A fat rabbit hops out of the bushes a few dozen feet away, completely unaware of my ill intentions for it. I pull the bow over my head and slip an arrow from the quiver. I knock it, aim, and breathe deeply just as my father taught me to. And then I send the arrow flying towards its mark.

Straight through the rabbit’s eye.

It’s dead before it even crumples to the ground. I snatch up the animal, wipe the arrowhead on a nearby plant I hope wasn’t poisonous, and return the arrow to my quiver.

Find water. Start a fire. Eat food.

And then I’m back to walking, tripping over tree roots and stumbling over stones.

Riveting.

I let my thoughts run wild as I keep a steady pace through the foliage, thinking of my opponents, the ball, the calloused hands on my back and grey eyes studying my face.

I huff in annoyance and kick a rock harder than I should. A string of curse words spills from my mouth—directed at the rock, myself, and the cocky bastard I hate for not completely hating.

The sun is making its descent across the sky as I continue to trample through the greenery, swearing at the multiple spiderwebs I walk through and the giant spiders that accompany them.

A Sight catches up to me and I try my hardest to ignore his presence. Once he’s satisfied with the footage he’s collected of me stomping and huffing through the forest, he turns and disappears.

Warm, late afternoon sunlight streams through the trees, casting the forest in golden shadows. For a moment, I allow myself to take in the ominous beauty of this eerie place.

And then something hits me in the face.

Well, I hit something. I nearly trip backwards, sputtering, only to find that I walked right into a large, cotton shirt hanging from a low branch. I grab it, grumbling about how I don’t need the king’s kindnesses even as I slip on the garment.

I walk and walk.

I’m bored. I’m bored during a bloody Trial.

And then something catches the light, glittering out of the corner of my eye. I pivot towards it, leaves crunching beneath my feet. My mouth nearly falls open at what lies no more than thirty yards away from me.

A deep pool of crystal water sparkles in the sunlight, rippling slightly in the warm breeze. Welcoming and wonderful. I blink. I didn’t see this pool when I was high in the tree, scouting. Then again, the shimmering water is surrounded by trees, nearly swallowed by the foliage around it.

I practically trip in my haste to reach it.

Water. Water. Water.

I’m so thirsty, so greedy to gulp as much as I can. Then build a fire, cook my rabbit, and—

There’s something in the water, bobbing on top of it.

I’m much closer now, the sun not so blinding as it glints off the clear surface, and I can make out an outline on top. A human outline. I creep forward, pulling my bow from across my chest, clutching it in my fist.

The figure isn’t moving.

The figure with dirty blond hair plastered to his tanned forehead.

The figure with the same glassy green eyes as the king, staring unseeingly up at the blue sky.

A strangled scream rips from my throat, sending birds scattering out from the trees around me.

Kitt.

He’s dead.

I’m gasping, stumbling to the edge of the pool. I may hate his father and the kingdom he will one day rule, but that doesn’t mean I wish to see him dead. The thought startles me, considering how very much I crave that fate for the king that looks so much like him. But what if their familiar features are where the similarities between them end? What if there is hope for the prince to step out of his father’s shadow, out of his footsteps, and create change in his kingdom?

I force myself to meet his glossy gaze where I now only see the potential of the prince rather than the presence of his father. Those once amused green eyes will never crinkle with laughter again. Instead, they stare up at nothing, wide, dull, and leached of life. That crooked grin will never again grace his lips. Instead, his mouth is pressed in a thin line—blue, kissed by the chill of death.

I jump into the pool, wanting to pull him from this watery death.

Instead, my feet are met with solid ground.

My bones sing with the impact, feeling as though they will crack with the force.

I blink away the pain, though it does nothing to clear my confusion. There is suddenly no pool under my feet, no Kitt floating dead on its surface. I look at the dirt beneath me in disbelief, trying to puzzle out what is going on.

“Help me.”

 I knock an arrow and draw my bow before I’ve even turned to face the owner of that broken little voice.

I choke on my gasp.

It’s me.

Deep blue eyes bore into mine—sad, starved eyes. Long silver hair, tangled and matted, hangs from the little girl’s head. She is—I am—small, so small. Weak and weary and wide-eyed as she stares up at me.

She stretches a bony finger towards me. “Please,” she whispers, whimpers. I stumble back at the sound of that—my—broken voice, nearly losing my footing when she takes a shaky step closer.

This isn’t real.

I turn, ready to run from this nightmare, only to nearly run into another little Paedyn, her cheeks sunken and eyes hollow.

I’m delusional. Dehydrated.

I bite my tongue to keep from screaming as I turn to my right, finding another starved version of myself staring back at me.

I’m surrounded. Completely surrounded by pleading Paedyns. They step forward, begging me to help them as they reach out, trying to grab hold of me.

This time, I don’t bother biting back my scream.

They are closing in, crowding me. I’m crying out, confused and—

No, not delusional.

They stagger towards me, seeking help I can’t give them.

This is Ace.

Even knowing that, I still can’t stand to look at them, to look at myself. Can’t stand to hear them begging for help as I do nothing. This was me. I was this starved and sad girl once. Because when my father died, so did a piece of myself.

This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t real.

I cry out, dropping to my knees and clutching my head in frustration.

“I know it’s you, Ace,” I shout through clenched teeth. I hear haughty laughter grow louder as he makes his way towards me. Taking a deep breath, I stand to my feet, shaking with disgust and rage as I prepare myself to be surrounded by sickly Paedyns.

But the pleading stops and the Paedyns vanish, leaving only Ace standing before me. His gaze drops to the arrow pointed at his chest before traveling back to mine. He has the audacity to smirk.

“Hello, Paedyn.” His voice is smug as he quirks an eyebrow. “Did you enjoy catching up with your younger self?”

“You’re sick,” I spit, pulling my bowstring taut.

He sighs, already bored with our conversation. Sticking his nose in the air, he says, “Just let me take your band and I’ll be on my way.” A pause. “In fact, I’ll even let you take it off yourself, so I don’t cut you.”

“How generous.” I’m practically growling at him. “But I’ll pass on the offer.” My teeth are bared, and I’m a flinch away from sending an arrow flying towards that black heart of his.

He blinks at me, slicking his brown hair back from his face with an irritated huff. “Fine.” His eyes darken. “Have it your way. I don’t mind having to get messy.”

And then he’s striding towards me, reaching for my arm. I don’t hesitate before firing my arrow into his thigh, aiming to injure and not to kill. I refuse to give the king and the people what they desire: death.

Except, the arrow never meets skin, never sinks into flesh. It flies right through him. The illusion blows away like smoke on the wind, tempting me to scream in frustration.

Another Ace steps out from behind a tree a few feet away, leaves crunching under his feet as he claps slowly. “Wow. Good try.” He grips a sharp spear in his hand, smiling like a cat.

“Quit hiding behind your illusions, you coward!” I’m fuming, adrenaline pumping through my veins.

This one is the real Ace, I’m certain of it. The leaves gave him away, crunching when he stepped on them, unlike the first time he walked over to me. He seems to sense that I figured it out, and right as I’m about to bury an arrow in him, he surrounds himself with a dozen duplicates, hiding within them.

They all speak in unison as they begin to surround me, masking the sound of any crunching leaves. “If you give me the band now, I won’t hurt you. Badly.” They laugh and it’s a sickening sound, seeming to bounce around in my skull.

I spin in a circle, not knowing who to aim for. I only have six arrows now, and I can’t afford to waste a single one. They are closing in on me, closing in for the kill.

Find the real Ace.

Easier said than done. They all look and move exactly the same, all holding spears and ready to stab me, though only the real one can do any damage.

“I’m going to enjoy this, Paedyn,” they say, smiling.

My eyes flick over each of their bodies. I take in their identical stances, their identical facial expressions, their identical everything.

I will not die. I will not die. I will not die.

And then my eyes snag on a particular Ace, identical to the others.

Found you.

The tiny bead of sweat trickling down the side of his temple is all it takes to give him away, the only sign of his struggle to cast the illusions.

I raise my bow towards him at the exact moment he lunges towards me. I jump to the side, but not before pain irrupts across my stomach. Searing, stinging pain that I ignore as I release my arrow, letting it fly straight into the flesh of his leg.

He screams, dropping to his knees in the dirt, hands trembling as they wrap around the arrow protruding from his thigh. But I don’t give him, or the Sight now watching, a second glance before I spin and sprint.

I don’t know how far I’ve made it. Don’t know how much distance I’ve put between us before the adrenaline bleeds from my body, reminding me that I’m bleeding. The searing pain is back, punching me so hard in the gut that I’m panting.

I lift my loose shirt to reveal the silky tank beneath it, now sopped with blood. I take a deep breath and pull up the layer of cloth separating me from the wound before shuddering at the sight of it. A long, bloody gash slices open the skin right beneath my rib.

A spear wound.

My breaths come in shaky, shallow pants.

At least I’m alive.

But I sure as hell don’t feel alive. It’s excruciating. The pain is biting and blazing, setting my nerves on fire. I gingerly pull off the large shirt, wincing and choking back cries of pain with every lift of my right arm. The movement pulls at the skin, the gash, causing it to gush even more blood.

I rip the bottom hem of the shirt, creating a wide strip of white fabric. I work as swiftly as the injury will allow me, gingerly wrapping the cloth around my waist and over the wound. I gasp for air at the throbbing pain this causes, blinking away tears as I pull on what is left of the shirt, so large it still covers my stomach.

I need to find water.

I heave a shaky sigh, that action alone jolting a sharp pain through me as I begin walking again through the forest.

No, stumbling is more like it.