Page 3 of War Hour

“Get headed home, Lysta. I have a bad feeling about today.”

Feeling chastised, I juggle the bag over into the crook of one arm before fumbling with my coin purse. “How much for the—”

A wrinkled hand closes over mine and the purse. Doireann shakes her head. “Next time.”

Any argument bubbling up dies at the shadow of fear crossing her face. Following her line of sight, I see two guards entering our block, and my heart forgets to beat.

Their gray suits with red trim stand out, even in the dreary street. Pinned to their chests shines the shield of our court—the Court of Valor.

The street freezes, unanimously holding their breath, as the guards saunter to where the vendor kneels, picking up his stock. When their figures loom over him, the vendor goes still, hand hovering over a potato. He retracts his reach, standing slowly, but his gaze never leaves the ground.

Just out of earshot, I can’t hear what the guards say to him, but he pales and shakes his head. One guard steps closer, pushing a finger into his chest, nudging him backward, as he sneers into the vendor’s terrified face.

Then the guard raises his hand, and several vegetables lift with it. The vendor watches silently as his livelihood swirls around him, as if caught in a windless tornado.

Doireann murmurs from behind me, “Maybe you should head out, Lysta.” She gestures to the alley near her stand.

“Aren’t you coming?”

She shakes her head, gaze not leaving the distressed vendor. “I need to stay with my cart. It’ll only draw more attention if I leave it.”

Vegetables thud as they rain down on the street. Wilted cabbages explode midair as the guard squeezes his fist. The other joins the chaos, knocking over the cart with a simple wave.

The vendor just watches, his spirit deflated, as the guards destroy what remains of his stall. But he can’t fight back, can’t argue for them to stop. Because he would be disobeying a member of the Guard, and they would have reason to take him to Trial.

Instead, he stands there and takes the abuse, as we all have. Because if we don’t crack, then they cannot take us. If we don’t give them anything to use, then they have no control over us.

“Go, Lysta.”

Clenching my fists, I fight the urge to intervene, my nails forming tiny crescents in my palms. This is why I didn’t want Thoman to be the one to come. Because he would already be over there regardless of the consequences. He’s better than me in that sense.

I’m brave in the easy ways. It’s nothing to conceal an illegal weapon if it means protecting myself. But in moments like these, when it’s safer to fall to the background, I’m remindedthatkind of bravery is reserved for hero types.

No one would say Falland has a lot of those left alive.

Pushing down my frustration, I turn into the alley leading away from the market.

Part of me questions how this is worth it. The endless precautions and planning, the fear. The answer pulses like the heartbeat thrumming through my body.

It simply isn’t.

Chapter 2

Navigating Falland’s streets is second nature to those of us who have been surviving them our whole life. You build a map in your head. It starts out vague, with only general directions and street names, but over time, it fills in. Fills with the places that are dry when it storms and the nooks big enough to hide in when trouble comes calling. And when you’re a kid on your own, trouble always comes calling.

I can still picture that determined little girl who fought with everything she had to survive. And today, I swear I’m looking right at her.

Just eleven or twelve, the girl who is now sprinting up the street toward me is a mirror image of my younger self. Her hair, a muddy mix between brown and blonde, with streaks of dirt across her face. Scuffs mar her skin, with a swollen cut on her lower lip. In her hands, she grips half a loaf of bread.

Feet pounding against the ground, she rips past me and into the adjacent alley. The alley I know leads to a dead end.

How you could live here for longer than a year and not know baffles me.

A few paces behind, three men stumble forward in chase, one with blood dripping from his nose, coating his teeth with a redtinge. As they disappear into the alley, the pieces of the puzzle click, and I know how this will end.

I’ve found myself in the same position more times than I can count—outnumbered and unprepared.

I struggle to keep walking as I hover near the entrance to the alley. Getting involved would only put me in danger, especially if a fight breaks out with the guard just a few streets away.

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