Page 176 of The Order

All because I was too weak to safeguard my mind.

The bag over my head makes it impossible to see. Its rough material drags across my skin with each movement. I’d woken up just a few moments ago, the lingering feeling of a sedative still working its way out of my body. At some point after the horrors that unfolded in that office, I was thrown back into a cell by Xavier. My brother eventually joined me in the cell sometime after they’d made a shitty attempt at bandaging the gunshot wound on his leg.

The drugs must have been placed in the meal we’d scarfed down. Unlike Kai, I had managed to keep it down despite my father’s blood caked all over my skin and clothes. Letting the unknown figures drag me along, I hear the door swing, their grasp on my arms growing tighter, as I am moved into a room. A small roaring fire warms my cold skin.

“Leave her,” an unfamiliar female voice commands, the men barely uttering a word, closing the door with a thud.

Blindly raising my hands, I brace myself for what's to come.

“It would be extremely cruel for me to try and attack you masked and sedated now, wouldn't it?” she questions, a slight hint of humor in her voice. “The last thing you need is to be beaten down by an Unfortunate moments before getting thrown into that vile pit,” she continues. The light of the fire grazes over my eyes as she pulls away the bag.

Blinking rapidly as my eyes adjust, I look at the woman in front of me. Her face is sunken in, the lack of nutrition painting her features. She wears a gray robe, her hair streaked with gray that adds to the beauty age has given her. Her eyes are golden brown, her skin is rich with a copper-toned color. Her hair is wound into multiple braids, each of them cascading down her back and to her waist.

“I am here to prepare you for the action. As a contestant in the Lottery, you’ll need to look your best,” she says, her hand reaching to touch my face. “You can call me the Teller.”

She looks over me, assessing the stains on my clothes, and the faint wounds that had mostly healed with the aid of my father’s blood but were still faintly noticeable. "Is all of this blood yours?” she questions.

I draw shaky breaths, feeling the collar move with each swallow.

“My father’s,” I whisper, clenching my hands together.

She stays silent, her face expressionless. In many ways, I think she’s sparing my feelings. Then again, who knows how many horrific tales she’d heard over the years in her position.

“Well, we can't have you looking like that if you’re going to remind them why they should have never put you down here in the first place,” she says, moving closer to a small sink filled with steaming hot water. Dropping a rag in, she soaks it entirely, ringing it out with her weathered hands.

“There's no way I can fight, they've taken all of my energy-”

“Excuses are the last thing you should be feeding yourself. There are a lot of people betting on your success,” she says. Moving closer, her hand drags the rag across my face. When she pulls it away, it’s coated in blood, not a single spot of clean material left.

“Why the hell would anyone do that?” I question. Her wise eyes watch me close.

“Do you know how many Marked I've seen over the years? How many helpless Unfortunates and Untouchables with the very same mark on your belly?” I shake my head, knowing from her tone that it's more than I can think to estimate.

“Enough that the faces have become blurs,” she starts. The warmth of the rag brings a sense of comfort as she brings it to my face again. “Before the blonde, there was another, just as cruel as the one before that. Each time they throw a Marked in, they never return, each one manipulated by someone far stronger, someone using up their life force like a personal battery,” she says, working the rag into to my hands. “For every Marked, there is an ability,” she says. “Some may even be lucky enough to have two or three.”

“Only three?” I question, her head nodding.

“Never has a Marked carried more than four abilities at a time.”

“How many are there?” I question. The depth of what I am is still such a mystery.

“Five. Five gifts, each one more powerful than the next.”

“Xavier-”

“Carries three. Three of the deadliest. His ability to grasp one's mind is remarkable, as is his Winnowing, but the true danger lies in his ability to do the very thing that the Shifters are murdered for. You may think you're speaking to a lifelong friend, but it is a devil in disguise. The only thing that separates him from the monsters is that he can return to his normal form,” she pushes, my throat dry.

“There's no way for me to beat him,” I whisper, her hands pausing their work.

“You don't need to beat him, child,” she says, her hands grasping my own. “You need to trick him and get yourself past that ward.”

“There is nothing beyond the war, but the ash lands.”

“Really?” she questions, her eyes playful, “And where do you think Xavier came from?” she asks, my head shaking.

“How could you possibly know this much?” I question, her shoulders shrugging.

“Stay silent enough, be around long enough, and you hear more than a conversation could ever give you,” she says, my hands finally clean. “Our Commander is a miserable man, and sometimes misery craves company, even if it's speaking to a worthless Unfortunate like me,” she whispers, a slight frown encasing her face.

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