Page 66 of Storm Caller

We arrive at an elevator and ride all the way up, seventy floors to the very top of the Citadel. Until this moment, I felt relatively calm and in control of what was happening.

We had a plan. Sort of. I had no choice but to offer myself up as a sacrifice.

But as we enter a soaring foyer paneled with slick gray tiles, my courage falters and trips on its face.

Every surface is polished to a high shine, and the words Protect. Preserve. Prosper. are embedded into the floor in flowing silver script.

For some reason, that makes me more nervous than anything.

The words were a promise. The tenets around which this entire world was built.

But that promise was a lie.

And now, I know the truth.

We march through the empty space, and I look up to see that the roof is made of windows that expose the sky. Clouds tumble over each other, flashing with points of amethyst light. A storm is coming.

That’s when the itching starts.

It begins in my fingers and travels up my palms and wrists, creeping up my arms.

I can’t react. I can’t let anyone see how the storm affects me.

Another set of wide doors awaits us, revealing a rounded room with windows.

I start to panic, my vision blurring and white noise filling my ears.

But I force myself to focus. Now isn’t the time to fall apart. I must be alert, on my game, if I have any chance of surviving this.

My escort pulls me in, where again the words Preserve. Protect. Prosper. are etched into the floor in a circle. Each word feeds into the other like a snake devouring its own tail.

They take me to the center of the room, release me, and step away.

Ahead of me is a long, curved table, and three people sit behind it.

On the left is Chancellor Tennessee Marks. His graying brown hair is artfully coiffed, swooping up from his forehead, while his dark, beady eyes bore into me. He wears his signature robe, his hands folded on the table as he stares at me.

On the right is Chancellor Colt Orsen, his thinning, dark-brown hair combed neatly. He’s wearing an expensive-looking charcoal suit that shimmers under the lights. He’s sitting back in his chair, one ankle resting on a knee, his posture casual. He glances at me, then at the others, as if he’s wondering what we’re all doing here.

And in the center sits General Sol. She’s watching me intently, and our eyes meet. I wish I could read her mind right now. Today, she’s her usual formidable self. Not the vulnerable woman who sat in High Commander Athira’s study and confessed her sins.

She’s wearing her signature black leather, and her straight midnight hair hangs on either side of her face, bearing that single vibrant streak.

When I look at her, I sense no flicker of acknowledgment.

Suddenly, I wonder if everything she claimed was another lie.

A ruse to get me to return to the city for some reason she never disclosed.

Why did we all just believe her?

But what would be the point?

She could have just ordered her guards to handcuff me and drag me back.

She promised she would earn our trust.

She blinks, and I see it. A flicker of assurance. At least I hope.