Page 74 of Powerless

Trees crowd the vibrant blue sky above, most of them tall, ominous pines that extend fingers of foliage high into the clouds—and I’d know them anywhere.One becomes familiar with the trees they’reforced to scale countless times to overcome a fear of heights.

The Whispers.

I’m in the bloody forest.

I stand to my feet, feeling dizzy, drained, and drugged. An odd pressure at my right forearm has me looking down to see a thin leather band wrapping around it, the ends fused together tightly. It would be cutting off blood circulation completely if it were any tighter, leaving my arm utterly useless.

The sun beats down on me as I spin slowly in place, scanning my surroundings. There is nothing and no one but trees, rocks, and uneven forest ground beneath me, caging me in with foliage.

Why the hell am I in the Whispers?

Obviously, I knew the Trials were still on. That, and the Resistance were all we talked about for hours last night. The throne room is where I spent my evening and early morning, along with Kitt, the king, and his advisers.

My throat is hoarse and scratchy from the long hours of arguing and debating the best course of action with this Resistance, this threat. And now, more than ever, my men and myself are tasked with finding these Resistance members and putting an end to them.

I attempt to brush off the clumps of dirt still clinging to my clothes as I take in this familiar, yet frightening, place. The Whispers is no whimsical forest. Deadly beasts lurk on its huge terrain, and even deadlier plants sprout from it. I would know, seeing that I spent many nights training here with my father barking orders like I was his soldier and not his son.

But why am I here now?

I expected to at least be able to wake up in my own bed, maybeinterrogatesome prisoners before I had to make my way to the Bowl for the first Trial. But I sure as hell wasn’t expecting to be drugged and dragged to the forest.

Different.

That’s what Tealah had said. There’s never been a Trial that has taken place outside of the Bowl where an audience couldn’t be present to jeer and cheer at us.

A twig snaps and I whirl, sinking into a fighting position. I stare at the thin man a few dozen feet away, garbed in plain white clothes that contrast against his dark skin. He stares back, his eyes glazed and unmovable.

A Sight.

I feel it then. The tingle of his power beneath my skin. I was too occupied with my thoughts to feel his ability, the power to record as well as project what he sees with nothing but his own two eyes. And that is exactly what he is doing now.

I’ve always found them unsettling with the way they stare, unblinking, when recording what they are seeing, but I’ve grown used to them since dozens are always present at the Trials. They run around the Bowl, documenting the events and contestants while using their abilities to project what they are seeing onto large screens high above the Pit floor.

And it seems that they are doing the same for this version of the Trials. Except, he’s not projecting what he is seeing and is instead storing the images away for a later time. There must be dozens of them, all running around the forest, following contestants and documenting the first Trial to play back for the audience when this is all over.

I don’t take a single step towards him. It’s forbidden to interact with the Sights, touch them in any way during the Trials. They are simply the eyes and ears for the audience that can’t be here to witness themselves.

The man finally blinks, his eyes clearing slightly after apparently getting all the footage he wanted of me. He moves to step away, no doubt to go collect other images or stalk other contestants. But he pauses mid-step and slowly pats his long, dark fingers against the pocket of his pants, holding my gaze before scurrying back into the forest.

I stare after him before tearing my gaze away and looking down at my own pocket. They threw me in here with only what I had on when I staggered into bed, apart from the shoes they so generously slipped onto my feet. Other than that, only one accessory was added to my body—the strange leather band around my arm. I silently thank the Plague that I kept my thin shirt on last night, too exhausted to pull it off.

I reach into the pocket of my thin pants, fingers closing around a rough scrap of paper. I unfold it carefully, revealing precise, looping penmanship:

Welcome to the first Trial,

In the Whispers you will be.

We hope you stay a while,

In this game of honor and dignity.

The goal of this game is quite clear,

And for the winner we will cheer.

Become victorious by collecting the bands,

The ones that rest high above your opponents’ hands.

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