The Young Elites (The Young Elites, #1)(9)

The Inquisitor lunges at him with his sword, but the boy dances out of its path and strikes with one of his daggers. It buries itself deep into the Inquisitor’s body. The man’s eyes bulge—he lets out a squeal like a dying pig. I’m too stunned to utter a sound. Something in me sparks with strange delight.

Inquisitors see the battle and rush to their fallen comrade. They draw their swords at the boy. He just nods at them, taunting them to come closer. When they do, he slips through them like water between rocks, his body a streak of motion, blades flashing silver in the darkness. One of the Inquisitors nearly cuts him in half with a swing of his sword, but the boy slices the man’s hand clean off. The sword clatters to the ground. The boy kicks the fallen sword up into the air with one flick of his boot, then catches it and points it at the other Inquisitors.

When I look harder, I notice that other masked figures flicker among the soldiers—others dressed in the same dark robes as the boy. He didn’t come here alone.

“It’s the Reaper!” Teren shouts, pointing at the boy with a drawn sword. He starts heading toward us. His pale eyes are mad with glee. “Seize him!”

That name. I’d seen it before on the Young Elite carvings. The Reaper. He’s one of them.

More Inquisitors rush up the platform. The boy pauses for a moment to look at them, his blades dripping with blood. Then he straightens, lifts one arm high over his head, and sweeps it down again in a cutting arc.

A column of fire explodes from his hands, slicing a line across the platform and dividing the soldiers from us with a wall of flame stretching high into the blackened sky. Shouts of terror come from behind the fiery curtain.

The boy approaches me. I stare in fright at his hooded face and silver mask, the outline of his features lit by the inferno behind him. The only part of his face not hidden by his mask are his eyes—hard, midnight dark, but alight with fire.

He doesn’t say a word. Instead, he kneels at my feet, then grabs the chains that shackle my ankles to the stake. The chains in his grasp turn red, then white hot. They quickly melt, leaving my legs freed. He straightens and does the same to the noose around my neck, then to the chains binding my wrists.

Black scorch marks on the walls. Bodies melted from the inside out.

My arm shackles break. Immediately I collapse, too weak to hold myself up, but the boy catches me and lifts me effortlessly into his arms. I tense, half expecting him to sear my skin. He smells like smoke, and heat emanates from every inch of his body. My head leans wearily against his chest. I’m too tired to fight, but I still try. My surroundings swim in an ocean of darkness.

The boy brings his face close to mine. “Stay still,” he whispers into my ear. “And hold on.”

“I can walk,” I find myself muttering, but my words slur together and I’m too exhausted to think clearly. I think he’s taking me away from this place, but I can’t concentrate. As darkness descends, the last thing I remember is the silver insignia on his armguard.

The symbol of a dagger.





City of Estenzia

   Northern Kenettra

   The Sealands





To the north, the snowy Skylands. To the south, the sweltering Sunlands. Between them lie the island nations of the Sealands,

jewels of wealth and trade in a world of extremes.

   —Nations of Sky, Sun, and Sea, by étienne of Ariata





Adelina Amouteru



I dream of Violetta. It’s late spring. She is eight, I am ten, and we are still innocent.

We play together in the small garden behind our home, a blanket of green surrounded on all sides by an old, crumbling stone wall and a bright red gate with a rusty latch. How I love this garden. Over the wall climb blankets of ivy, and along the ivy bloom tiny white flowers that smell like fresh rain. Other flowers grow in bouquets along the wall’s edges, brilliant orange roses and cornflower patches, red oleander and grape-colored periwinkle, stalks of white lilies.

Violetta and I always loved to play among the clusters of ferns that sprouted here and there, huddled together in the shade. Now I spread my skirts on the grass and sit patiently while Violetta braids a crown of periwinkle blossoms into my hair with her delicate fingers. The flowers’ scent fills my thoughts with heavy sweetness. I close my eye, imagining a real crown of gold, silver, and rubies. Violetta’s braiding tickles me, and I nudge her in the ribs, suppressing a grin. She giggles. A second later, I feel her tiny lips plant a playful kiss on my cheek, and I lean against her, lazy with contentment. I hum my mother’s favorite lullaby. Violetta listens eagerly, as if I were this woman that she barely knew. Memories. It’s one of the few things I have that my sister doesn’t.

“Mother used to say that faeries live in the centers of white lilies,” I tell her as she works. It’s an old Kenettran folktale. “When the flowers fill with raindrops, you can see them bathing in the water.”

Violetta’s face lights up, illuminating her fine features. “Can you really?” she asks.

I smile at how she hangs on my words. “Of course,” I reply, wanting to believe. “I’ve seen them.”

Something distracts my sister. Her eyes widen at the sight of a creature moving under the shade of a fern leaf. It’s a butterfly. It drags itself between blades of grass under the fern’s shelter, and when I pay it closer attention, I notice that one of its shining turquoise wings has been torn from its body.