Page 1 of War Hour

Chapter 1

Idon’t make a habit of gambling with my life, but fifty-fifty odds are too compelling for even me to pass up.

It could always be a hundred.

The reassurance doesn’t stop the breath from lodging in my throat as the decider of my fate flips above Thoman and I. No—bothof our fates. Every muscle in my body turns to stone as it plummets.

It’s been over a month since the last Trialing, and with each day that passes, the threat to Untrialed only grows. There’s no doubt the Guard will be out in full force because of it, but that changes nothing.

One of us needs to brave the market to replenish our food supply.

Hence flipping a coin.

When the bronze coin ricochets off the rickety floorboards, I flinch as if each bounce threatens to sentence one of us to a cruel end. Spinning on its edge in a tight circle, it slows until it clinks to one side.

Crown side up.

I inhale sharply and allow myself a moment of self-pity. But the second my hands tremble, I clench them, tucking away my emotions for when Thoman’s gaze isn’t piercing me.

If I show even a hint of hesitation, he’ll insist on being the one to go—my brother in every way but blood. Thoman’s never been good at just keeping his head down.

It’s better if I go.

“Trials, Lysta,” Thoman curses under his breath, looking away from me. He takes a shaky breath, closing his eyes in a pained expression. “You went last time—just let me go.”

Too predictable.

“And you went twice before that,” I shoot back, already tugging my boots onto my feet. “It’s my turn.”

Thoman shakes his head, posture crumpling. “This isn’t like other trips, and you know it.” His voice is barely more than a whisper, making me pause.

He thinks today will be the day I don’t come back.

Maybe he’s right, but there is no convincing me it isn’t my turn to face the streets.

“I’ll be back before you know it.” I’m out the door and hurrying down the street before he can make an argument against it.

The threatof Trialing looms like a blade hung from a fraying rope. It isn’t a matter of if the remaining threads will break free and send the weapon plunging, but of when—and the fearful anticipation is a greater torture than any killing blow the knife could deal.

It’s days like these where uncertainty weighs especially heavy. Tension laces the fog-filled city of Falland, the feeling palpable as I cross through the Market Plaza.

Fewer people linger in the street than what is typical of the weekly affair. On most Sundays, they overcrowd the rows of stalls, packing them so tightly that weaving through ties your path in knots. Each person on their own mission of scrabbling together a pitiful amount of food before only the stale or turned items remain.

But, today, when the market vendors have just received their freshest stock from beyond the wall, there are only scattered handfuls of people.

It sets my teeth on edge.

People are lying low rather than risking the streets, even for the absolute necessities. It’s been two weeks since I’ve braved the market for the same reason, but today would have to break that streak.

Tucking my head down as I dart through the stalls, I survey passing faces and shops for anything showing a need to cut my trip short—anyone dashing into an alley or signaling others with lingering looks—while listening for telltale shouts of the guard trying to rouse trouble.

The guards always make themselves known on Market Day. They flock to the streets, preying on the Untrialed at our most desperate, and put us under constant scrutiny. Punishment is swift in Falland but not fair. If the right person is watching, all it takes is one misstep, and anyone could face Trialing. They could handpick their desired flavor of justice for the day and ruin a life in one fell swoop.

It’s exhausting. The unrelenting state of anticipation and fearfulness, but it’s Falland’s normal.

But today—is a new level of distressing.

The city is quiet. Quieter than I’ve ever heard it. Even the typical shouting matches between customer and vendor have subsided, haggling for a few coins saved not worth the attention it brings. It’s unnerving to hear the boisterous district reduced to subdued grumbles and whispers.

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