Page 2 of The Heart Trials

I step backward, studying the splintered wooden planks beneath his boots and the lines painted there, keeping my eyes down like I’m supposed to in the presence of a highborn. I tuck my toes at the edge of the white stripe painted on the ground. Grid lines for our protection. No accidental skin grazes. Distance is safety.

Three feet apart.

Arm’s length.

Always.

The Mercyenforcer crosses the boundary, his hand moving to the stinger at his waist. He smells like cold iron and a field of flowers. Like danger. When he grips the collar of my dress, my hand is at the sharp point hidden in my hair in an instant.

“Where do you think you’re going, saltrat?” he asks gruffly.

I don’t want to die today. On the day I turned eighteen. There is nothing special about my birthday. But I like counting the number each year, watching it increase. It feels like I’m winning a contest I didn’t ask to be in, defeating odds that should bury me. Eighteen. Three years older than the grave-digger Saltbloods who work along our territory boundary. Ten years older than the body that was found in the square last week. The same age my mother was when she married my father. Besides, if I die, what will happen to Serafina, Miss Omon, the others in the orphanage?

I have to find a different time to get to the docks, another way.

“To the census,” I tell the ground, releasing my bun and clasping my hands. “I think I’ve gotten turned around.”

The Mercyenforcer grabs my chin roughly, forcing me to meet his eyes, shattering our rules by reminding me, again, that he has none. His eyes are angry and green like a forest set on fire, beneath thick blond brows. The flowery scent on his fingers curls into my throat like barbed wire. My skin prickles where his skin touches mine. Every nerve in my body screams. But, I hold still. I pretend like a good Saltblood.

“I just got lost. Forgive me,” I say, angling my pocket of gold away from him just slightly.

His stare burns into me as if he can see my thoughts. When his grip loosens, I pull my chin away, gaze glued to the ground, not willing to break any rule right in front of him. He could kill me for less.

“Identification.”

“Axira Merreri.”

I show him my identification card. He orders me to follow him. I steal a look at the horizon, the sea waiting for me, my shot at freedom—lost—before he marches me uphill, past Dockers Row and across the river, which cuts through the island like claws reaching for the ocean.

The Dredge is packed with courier boats—empty, ready for tomorrow’s deliveries. The route winds through all the districts, from the Saltblood shore, across the Grainfolk’s plains and Stonebound’s mountains, all the way to the pinnacle of the island—Skyhaven. Ours is the largest of the districts, right at the sea’s edge, wrapping around the volcanic island like a skirt.

Books say that centuries ago, outsiders invaded our island for its rich resources. They split the island into districts, taking the highest land for themselves—calling themselves Skyborn. They said Ethyrians would be rich, an envy of the Sapphire Seas. But Miss Omon says the only thing that’s changed since she was a girl is the reach of the Citadel’s shadows.

A dense crowd waits up ahead as the square appears. Census Day. People sprawl in winding lines through the heart of the Saltblood district—the lowest of lowborn districts—where Dewy will clean out your teeth with vinegar and pull any bad ones for a silver, where Maiden Harriet can fix a broken mouth chain the same day, where Abigail Chandler and all eight of her children will hound you about their latest wax creation. Today none of the usuals are here peddling. Every Saltblood in Ethyria drifts around a towering stone figure at the center of the square, waiting their turn to be counted.

The Benevolent statue looms with one hand outstretched in mercy, the other clutching a heart in his fist. Some are gathered around leaving gifts. Cobblestone ripples out from the statue’s base like a sunburst—except for one brick, near the back, slightly raised. My heart ticks faster. The dirt around it is unsettled the way it is when someone’s left a message for me.

A request for my smuggled goods.

I can feel my pocket getting heavier, my chances to book passage rising. I’ll have to check it when the square is clear, after the census is finished.

Children are lined up along the bordered barricades, marking our district’s boundary, kicking stones and daring each other to touch the fence. Just above them, bodies hang from the iron gates—some limp, some bound in twisted poses meant to shame. One still wears a ribbon in her hair and a tie covers her mouth, marking that she was condemned for kissing in public. Another hangs by her wrists, bare hands blistered and blackened for touching without clearance. None of the children look up. They’ve seen it all before.

A pair of twins stick their hands through the metal gates, trying to grab the burgundy flowers growing in the pits outside our territory, until a Mercyenforcer makes them stop. Miss Omon says that’s where they buried the Redwake rebels over a decade ago. There are rumors more have risen up in the last few years because the fields of flowers have quietly grown.

“Get checked first, then get in the census line,” the Mercyenforcer orders.

I force down a dry breath and obey. I join the checkpoint line where Saltbloods shuffle silently in rows like prisoners on their way to execution. But with smiles. Wide-eyed, eager, anticipating smiles.

“She lives,” Ferdin—the fisherman who lives beneath our orphanage—salutes me, stopping as he passes me in line. That’s his usual greeting when I return from smuggling with heavier pockets. Saltbloods who are too frail to work as couriers, making the delivery route up the Dredge to the other districts, have to rely on trade. His counter is the choice fish market in Dockers Row. Probably in all the district. He’s often awake in the wee hours of morning on his way to catch food for the day when I’m just slipping back into the district, evading curfew.

“Just finished.” His thumb jabs his chest, which glows faintly from a Heartfiller.

Finished being checked. Finished being drugged.

“You look like you need more sleep, Axira. Maybe try a sedative filler the next few days.” Ferdin isn’t a tall man. He’s lean with a beard that never quite fills in. His boots are always damp, and he smells faintly of fish and salt. He smells like home, like comfort. But he stares blankly at me, with glassy eyes and a serene smile, as if he’s not really registering that I’m here. His brows are pulled too high, like he’s always surprised. Always happy. Whether he wants to be or not. I have to force myself not to glare at the dim light emanating from him.

It’s been fourteen days since my last Heartfiller. I don’t miss it.