Page 88 of Storm of Stars
The bile crawled up my throat.
“I can see the refusal in your eyes,” she said, chuckling like this was some tedious chess match she was still winning. “So, let me sweeten the deal for you.” She leaned in, her next words curling like smoke around my ear.
“If you do this, I’ll let you choose who else can be spared. Your Wildguard… or your brother. Your choice, of course.”
The room spun.
“I won’t even make you pick right away,” she added with a smirk, “though I imagine you already know.”
My mind reeled.
Jax. My little brother. My blood. My lifeline. Still just a kid, tucked away with Ava for now, but dying every day. Praxis didn’t need to kill him with a bullet, they were killing him with denial. Denial of treatment. Denial of care. Denial of life.
And my Wildguard, my found family. The people who bled for this cause, who followed me into every dark place, who believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. Ezra, still gasping beside me. Thorne and Briar, bruised and beaten, yet still standing with silent defiance. Zaffir, barely conscious, clutching his camera in his hands as he barely held his eyes open wide enough to watch.
Briar shook her head slowly. Thorne gave a slight, solemn nod. Ezra’s eyes, so full of pain and love, locked onto mine like he could transfer strength through his stare. And Zaffir… his fingers twitching over his camera like even now, even bleeding out, he still hoped it would bring us salvation.
My heart shattered and rebuilt itself in the same breath.
I looked then, beyond my circle, to the guards. Praxis soldiers, worn and battered just like us. Just like the citizens they were trained to subdue. And I wondered how many of them had family. How many believed they were the heroes, just like we did. How many were hurting, too.
I looked back to Veritas.
She stood poised, expectant, so sure she had me. So sure that power and cruelty and a gilded smile could crack a girl like me.
But if she thought I would kneel to save myself, or choose who lived and who died just to give her the power we’d taken from her, then she never really knew me at all.
I stared her down.
“Thomas Halden,” I whispered.
Evanora’s brow furrowed, a flicker of confusion breaking through her icy composure.
“Horizon. The very first casualty of the Reclamation Run. He died trying to win electricity for his Collective.”
Her eyes hardened, but I saw the twitch in her jaw.
“Lira Voss,” I said louder. “Steelheart. Refused to compete in your sadistic Medical Trial when you told her to operate on her own mother. She begged you for mercy. You handed her a scalpel. Then had your guards shoot her when she refused. Her mother died on the table anyway.”
My voice echoed. Clear. Anchored. I stood taller as the names formed like armor around me. I remembered their faces, their stories, each one stitched into my memory with blood and fire.
“Junia Rhade. Oasis. Lost her eyesight during the fuel trial. But Praxis still forced her to compete in the next trial. She died within five minutes. You broadcast her screams.”
Evanora opened her mouth to speak, to lie, maybe. But I didn’t give her the space.
“Mirelle Dox. Canyon. She was pregnant when you left her to survive in the Wilds alone for a week. When she died your cameras zoomed in on her stomach.”
Each name lit a fuse inside me. Each memory sharpened my rage.
“Be quiet,” Veritas hissed, her voice low and dangerous.
But I didn’t stop. Name after name. Dozens of them, from a century of death and lies.
“Cassian Roe. Ember. Figured out a shortcut in the transportation trial through some tunnels, so Praxis collapsed them on top of him.”
More names. More death. More pain.
“Elin Wren. Ironclad. She burnt to death while singing your national anthem. You called it poetic,” I spat. “Angus Ratch. Saltspire. His last words were ‘I love you, mom.’”
