The Young Elites
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.
Violetta whimpers in sympathy, hurries to the struggling creature, and scoops it into her hands. She coos at it. “Poor thing.” The butterfly’s remaining wing flutters weakly in her palm, and as it does, tiny clouds of glittering gold dust float up in the air. The frayed edges of its torn wing look like teeth marks, as if something had tried to devour it. Violetta turns her wide dark eyes to me. “Do you think I can save it?”
I shrug. “It’s going to die,” I say gently.
Violetta holds the creature closer to her. “You don’t know that,” she declares.
“I’m just telling you the truth.”
“Why don’t you want to save it?”
“Because it’s beyond saving.”
She shakes her head at me sorrowfully, as if I’ve disappointed her.
My irritation rises. “Why did you ask me my opinion, then, if you’ve already made up your mind?” My voice turns cold. “Violetta, soon you’re going to realize that things don’t end well for everyone. Some of us are broken and there’s nothing you can do to fix it.” I glance down at the poor creature struggling in her hands. The sight of its ripped wing, its crippled, deformed body, sends a jolt of anger through me. I slap the butterfly out of her hands. It lands upside down in the grass, legs clawing at the air.
I’m instantly sorry. Why did I do that?
Violetta bursts into tears. Before I can apologize, she clutches her skirts and jumps to her feet, leaving periwinkle blossoms scattered in the grass. She spins around.
And there behind her stands my father, the smell of wine hovering about him in an invisible cloud. Violetta hurriedly brushes away her tears as he stoops to her eye level. He frowns. “My sweet Violetta,” he says, touching her cheek. “Why are you crying?”
“It’s nothing,” she whispers. “We were just trying to save a butterfly.”
Father’s eyes settle on the dying creature on the grass. “Both of you?” he says to Violetta, his eyebrows raised. “I doubt your sister would do that.”
“She was showing me how to care for it,” Violetta insists, but it’s too late. His gaze wanders to me.
Fear hits me and I start to scramble away. I know what’s coming. When the blood fever first passed through, killing a third of the population and leaving scarred, deformed children everywhere, we were pitied. Poor things. Then, a few parents of malfetto children died in freak accidents. The temples called the deaths acts of demons and condemned us. Stay away from the abominations. They’re bad fortune. So the pity toward us quickly turned to fear. The fear, mixed with our frightening appearances, became hate. Then word spread that if a malfetto had powers, they would manifest when he or she was provoked.