Page 9 of Powerless

We are the first to die.

The Elites who compete aren’t chosen, but rather, born into their fate. It’s always those of royal blood or of higher status on the Elite’s tier of power. I scan the crowd, eyes skipping over the smiling faces of Mundanes who are only thrown into the Trials for entertainment after the king allows us to pick who we wish to represent us.

Despite the king insisting that the killing of fellow Elites in the arena is frowned upon, it’s no secret that Death itself is a contestant in the Trials. Dying teenagers apparently make things exceptionally more entertaining, and if the Elites won’t do the killing, the king will pull the strings in the arena.

I push through the throng of people gathered under the sign, all talking over one other about who will represent Loot and what they would do with the prize money.

There have been very few times in my life when I haven’t envied the Elites. But at the thought of competing in the Purging Trials, I’ve never been more thankful to be nothing and no one of importance.

Completely Ordinary.

ChapterFour

Paedyn

“Are you gonna eat that?”Adena is eying the half-eaten orange on my lap while I sit leaning against the alley wall behind the Fort.

“Have at it.” The words have barely slipped past my lips before she leans over, her curly hair blowing in the soft breeze as she snatches the fruit and pops a slice into her mouth.

The Imperial with the impressive backhand left me the lovely gift of a split bottom lip, making it difficult to choke down food. “How’d you do today?” I ask while mindlessly spinning the thick, silver wedding band on my thumb.

The cold steel of my father’s ring bites into my skin, comforting me like it always has. I suppose I’d have my mother’s too if it weren’t buried with her when I was a baby. Illness, Father had said. She was an Ordinary, after all, and the lot of us are apparently weaker, diseased humans.

But he married her anyway. Loved her despite it. Protected her. Kept her secret just as he did mine.

Adena sighs, and I’m brought back to the present when she says between bites of orange, “Can’t complain. Oh, I sold that top I had been working on for ages! For three whole shillings, too! You know, the green one with the deep neckline and scalloped hem?” I give her the same confused look I always do when she starts speaking in her sewing language. “Ugh, you’re hopeless when it comes to clothes, Pae.”

I glance down at my battered tank beneath the olive-green vest atop it. Everything changed the day Adena made me the pocketed vest, knowing that it would serve me well as a thief. That was the day an uneasy alliance began to blossom into an easy friendship.

Adena taps a finger against her lips, considering something. “I bet if you had on the right outfit, everyone would be too busy staring at you to even notice you’re robbing them.”

I snort. “I’d rather not have people staring while I’m committing crimes. That seems a bit counterproductive.”

I snatch up my dagger and tuck it into my boot, brushing my fingers along the swirling, silver handle. It’s the only other keepsake I have from Father besides his ring—both of which I never go without. I’m admiring the intricate handle for the hundredth time before jolting when I suddenly remember something. “Be careful today, A. There are fewer guards out than usual for some reason, and I don’t like it. Just ...” I struggle to find the right words. “Just keep an eye out for anything out of the ordinary, okay?”

She looks slightly unsettled by this news, but the narrowing of her hazel eyes is playful. “Is this your Psychic juju warning you of potential danger?”

“Yeah, we definitely need to work on your subtlety,” I sigh, shaking my head at her with a smile.

I stand to leave, groaning as I stretch out my sore body. Adena gathers her clothes, all varying in different sizes and colors, and reluctantly waves goodbye before heading back out onto Loot in the hopes of selling more items before sundown.

I step out into the crowded street now bathed in late afternoon sunlight and head towards the buzz of the marketplace. I start off easy. First, nicking some fruit and fabric before growing bored and moving on to bigger and better items. Wallets, watches, and shillings are what I’m really after this evening.

I spy a man with dark blue hair and a glittering watch adorning his thick wrist before quickly deciding to make him my next target. Peering down the packed street, I spot a few others with abnormally colored hair dotting the crowd, evidence that a genetic-altering Plague comes with more perks than just supernatural abilities. Though, even with the mop of silver hair atop my head, I still wasn’t gifted a power to accompany it.

It takes me far too long to escape the blue-haired man after stealing his watch. Not because he caught me, no, but because he wouldn’t stoptalking to me. After stumbling into him and slyly slipping the accessory from his wrist, it was clear the poor man was dying to spew gossip with anyone willing to smile and nod at him.

I’m about ready to head in early and call it a decently successful night when a tall figure, completely clad in black, strolls onto Loot. He walks with an air of confidence, so at odds with the hunch that the homeless have adapted in the hopes of drawing as little attention to themselves as possible.

But this man ... this man is making it difficult to look away.

He wears a loose black button-down, tucked into slim black pants and separated by a simple belt. His collared shirt is halfway unbuttoned, billowing open in the breeze to expose part of his tanned chest. His facial features are fuzzy from this distance, but his tar-black hair falls over the top of his forehead in messy waves. With his hands buried in his pockets, his long strides carry him deeper into the market, looking cool and collected.

He’s not from here. I can see it in the way he looks around as if taking it all in. It’s likely he is an Offensive, an Elite of higher status or noble blood who rarely sets foot into the slums. I can see in the way he walks, in the shine of his shoes, that this man will be carrying far more than a few measly shillings. I squint, trying to get an idea of where he might have slipped his silvers.

There.

Swinging against his leg, attached from his belt with a strap, hangs a pouch that many Ilyans use to carry change. Specifically, the confident ones, seeing that an unguarded pouch is easy pickings for a thief. Easy pickings for me.

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