Rebel Born (Secondborn #3)(8)

Someone’s home is on fire.

It’s an older home—if the building material’s any indication—but it’s much more modern than the Sword Palace, where I grew up. It seems familiar, but I can’t place why.

Think, Roselle.

My mind struggles in confusion, and my head throbs with pain. The beautiful architectural lines of the structure crumble. Windows shatter and melt in the intense heat of the inferno. My eyebrows draw together. The home is fast reducing to a soot-black shadow of its former self.

It shouldn’t burn, I think, my mind racing. I gape at the destruction. A beautiful estate like this should have protections against damage by fire, unless it has been purposefully torched . . .

The flames dance. The night’s still. No airships above. Strange. I realize I’m trembling and run my hands over the sleeves of the inky-black uniform I’m wearing. The material is luxurious and supple. My fingers touch my long hair. Soft brown tendrils of it slip over my shoulders and arms. I almost never wear my hair loose like this. It’s usually in a ponytail or a bun. My nerves tingle. Fear creeps over me. I have no memory of how I came to be here or where here is or why I’m dressed like this.

I lift my left hand toward my aching forehead, but it stills halfway there. Startled, I examine the crown-shaped moniker on my hand. It swirls like a black hole, outlined by the flames from the burning building. My identification processor seems to suck the light into it. My muddled mind tries to make sense of it. I study the holographic emblem, wondering how and when my silver-sword moniker was replaced.

No, that’s not right—my moniker was a firstborn’s gold sword, not a secondborn’s silver one. Gabriel’s dead. My chest heaves and aches for the loss of my older brother. Soon, though, my sorrow turns to panic. I’m firstborn now, aren’t I? I should have a golden-sword moniker, shouldn’t I? One that tells the world I’m the heir to the Fate of Swords—the next in line to inherit the title of The Sword.

I’ve seen this kind of moniker before—during the massacre. Black-O. It’s supposed to be O-shaped, but my diadem-shaped birthmark has distorted it. I swallow hard against the rising lump in my throat. The last thing I remember is the blinding-white laboratory lights above me in a sterile operating room. Ransom Winterstrom was looming over me, whispering about the star on my palm—or did I dream that?

Disoriented, I glance around. On the lawn surrounding the inferno, other figures stand, staring at the coruscating ashes, as if transfixed. They have similar uniforms—more costume than combat—although with lightweight plating over the chest, torso, and thighs. My black trousers are tight, molding to me like a second skin. The top is the same, with long sleeves.

I gape at the mob ringing the collapsing home. Two words come to mind: “death squad.” The men, women, and in some cases mutant creatures—amalgamations of human, machine, and beasts—are so still that small, white curls of fog from their respiration are the only signs that they’re alive. My own breathing grows labored. I’ve been in the Sword military for a while, trained in formations, but this is different. These rows of soldiers are mathematically precise.

The diversity of the creatures astounds me. Most are human-shaped, but some have a light dusting of fur, like woodland creatures. Others have metallic veneers, like gleaming chrome cyborgs, while others have translucent flesh, lit from within by some phosphorescent form of energy. The sterling glow of their mind-control devices suggests artificial intelligence capable of the grisly and cunning problem-solving capabilities that I witnessed during The Trials massacre.

I search the estate grounds over my shoulder. More precise rows of mind-altered warriors stand motionless as far as I can see. The devices implanted in their brains radiate light from their left eyes into the night. The luminosity of so many soldiers rivals the lambency of the moon. Full-blown fear, raw and blinding, envelops me.

Deliberately, I lift my jittery palm up near my left eye, holding my breath and hoping that my hand doesn’t reflect a silver light. To my immense relief, no light from an implant in my brain shines on my hand. My knees grow weak.

Screams of outraged anger pierce the air. My head snaps in the direction of the feminine bleating. Two Black-Os drag a woman from behind the burning house. She struggles against them, in vain. The mind-controlled soldiers can no more stop what they’re doing than she can. The men drag her nearer to me. My mouth falls open in surprise when I notice the skin of one of the soldiers. It’s scaly, like a fish—no, that’s not right. It’s more like a dragon’s scales—armor-like. The shifting light from the fire shimmers off it. From what I can tell, the rest of him is human. He has black hair, human features—except, of course, that one of his pupils illuminates with silver light, and his ears are a bit pointier than normal.

The woman’s screams turn to fierce growls. She sees something ahead of her and drives her feet down, digging her heels into the lawn, leaving divots in the sod. The Black-Os simply lift her higher by her forearms and continue. She kicks them. Her hands ball into fists.

They come to rest only a few yards away from me. Other soldiers part, and I’m able to see what I’d missed earlier. An ornate throne has been placed in the center of the formal garden. It’s made of gold—I’ve seen it somewhere before. Recognition dawns.

It’s Grisholm’s throne—from the observation deck of his training facility at the Halo Palace! My mind reels. Is Grisholm here?