Secondborn (Secondborn #1)(57)

Frustration plays upon Hawthorne’s face, but he nods in agreement. “We’re merely tabling this conversation about Salloway for now.”

“Thank you,” I murmur. He backs away, just a step. I squeeze by him and walk back to Jakes, who is drumming his fingers on the dual-blade’s case.

He straightens. “I have some ideas about who can help me. It’ll be less expensive to convert existing fusionblades.”

I agree with a nod. “We focus on conversion, then. Soldiers will have to bring their fusionblades to you.”

“I’ll get started right away,” Jakes replies.

“Good. I’ll find you later and check on your progress.” Hawthorne and I turn and move toward a heartwood.

“You’re a regular arms dealer, Roselle,” Hawthorne says. I want to tell him everything. I want him to know that I’m doing this to protect secondborn Swords because my mother won’t.

“No, Hawthorne. I’m not an arms dealer,” I say instead. “I’m a privateer.”





Chapter 14


Little Fish


Hawthorne and I face off on the training mats. I want to correct the slope of his sword arm, but I refrain. I’m not here to teach. I’m here to make our new weapons look sexy. The killer-come-to-call stare in his eyes is completely attractive, though. I’m glad we don’t have to fight on a regular basis. I don’t know how he’d take me dominating him, wrestling him to the ground, having my way with him.

He moves first, stalking me. He has a natural instinct for the dual-blade, holding it in balance, twirling it. That’s a relief. I was worried because he isn’t considered a “Master of Swords,” and I’ve already wrecked one of them. His first strike is a wide-arcing thrust, his golden blade whining through the air. I counter it with a similar move. Because the blades are alike, their golden energy repels. A few soldiers stop their training to watch. I try to make whatever Hawthorne does look valiant and virile. It pains me. I have to clamp down on my ego.

When he counters with the hydroblade, I do the same, and they repel each other once more. Our silver blades of energy smash with a fantastic hissing. He pivots the fusionblade toward me in a counterstrike. This time, I meet the golden energy of his sword with my weapon’s silver energy, and Hawthorne’s golden fusionblade cuts through my silver hydrogen blade like it’s air. I’m ready for it, and I compensate by dropping to my knees and rolling away. My hydroblade assumes its full length again. I demonstrate a move that could shear off Hawthorne’s ankles, powering the hydroblade down at the last second. A dither of conversation ripples through the crowd.

We mock-battle for almost an hour. Turning backward tumbles to make his aggressive, lopsided maneuvers look spot-on and deadly, I get a decent workout. The crowd around us chatters excitedly. A few male soldiers approach Hawthorne to congratulate him on a rousing match. One claps him on the shoulder, asking about his weapon. Hawthorne hands it to him, showing him its features.

By evening, the demonstration is already yielding results. We haven’t even docked yet at the Twilight Forest Base, and Hawthorne has fielded a score of questions about his new weapon. No one has approached me. But the men have begun complaining about the sudden shortage of razors in the locker rooms.



We dock on a Tree in the Twilight Forest Base around midnight. The jarring bump shakes me awake inside my capsule. My eyes open to darkness. The sinister demons in my dreams were just gathering momentum. Sweat beads on my upper lip. The slaughterhouse scent of the newly dead is still with me. The Gates of Dawn’s strike was over a week ago, but I’m unable to close the door on it.

I lie awake, shivering. I’m still getting used to my little capsule. It affords me solitude, which is something I crave now, but when I’m inside its hollow shell, the world disappears. I’m lost, a collection of atoms scattered in black space. The darkness wraps around me, and just when I think I’ll go mad from it, the pendulum of fate swings. Bright white light illuminates my capsule. I flinch and blink. Blinded.

The door of my capsule opens automatically. From the speakers near my head, a feminine voice says, “Attention Tropo soldier, you have been selected for an active duty campaign departing Twilight Base in twenty-nine minutes. Report to Deck 134, Hangar 12 for further instructions.” The message repeats on a continuous loop, counting down the minutes. I shove aside my blanket and rub my eyes. If they want to keep me mean, this is the way to do it.

I jump from my capsule to the catwalk below. Very few doors are open. I’m alone, save for a few other females in this section. Hawthorne’s capsule remains closed. My moniker vibrates, and I touch the glowing sword. A countdown clock shines upon the holographic sword. I head to the locker room to collect my armor.

The moment I cross the threshold, my skin prickles with unease. Twilight Forest soldiers are inside. They’re the type of dangerous animals who only come out in darkness. “Well, well, the conscripts have arrived,” says a thuggish one with a scar across his chin, his fusion rifle in his hand. Other soldiers are with him, leaning against lockers, their arms crossed, the Twilight Base emblem etched into the breastplates of their black combat armor. The emblem’s violet Tree branches spread out with a soft glow, as if lit from inside.

More female soldiers trickle in, all attractive. Hammon is among them. A soldier trails her.