The Burn (A Runner Series Companion)

Chapter 11: Luca (Part II)

209 A.B.

(4 months after the Runner's Rebellion)

The air smells different, today. Cleaner, more pure.

The sun is brighter, the sand is blindingly golden. The horizon vanishes into infinity and the world seems alive with possibility. I cannot remember the last time I felt so free. For the first time in three years, the grievous weight of death is lifted from my shoulders. Today, I do not need to kill. Today, I can simply be.

The morning did not begin so optimistically. I travelled with Noah back to camp, dragging my feet in the soft terrain, half-listening to Noah's chatter but mostly adrift in my own thoughts. We arrive at Pic dil Cir just as the rest of the camp is coming to life. Children push their way through the hidden flaps disguising the tube's entrance, running out into the red-gold morning and shrieking their delight. As more and more people flood into the flattened expanse between the dunes, it becomes painfully obvious that the news of my abandoning my post of choice warrior has spread amongst the Wasters.

I duck my head, averting my eyes and avoiding the angry looks cast in my direction. Noah remains close by my side, but even he can't prevent my fellow tribesmen from purposefully elbowing me, knocking their shoulders sharply against mine as we make our way to the morning bonfire. The air is thick with animosity and I feel my cheeks aflame. Jaron was right to be angry with me, my inability to manage the pressures of choice warrior have brought a cloud of shame upon our family.

Noah steers me efficiently through the crowd, depositing me in front of the fire and helping himself to a couple bowls of steaming broth, handing one over to me. I do my best to close my ears to the murmurs of conversation occurring around us, flinching each time I hear my name mentioned.

This is the problem with living below ground. News travels fast.

I gulp down my breakfast quickly, grimacing when the hot meal scalds my mouth and throat. I don't look up until a tall, familiar figure moves silently around the bonfire and stops in front of us.

"Is it true?" Rowan stands with her arms crossed in front of her chest, watching me carefully, her expression unreadable.

"Rowan..." Noah starts to speak but she shoots him a withering glare. This is not his fight.

I swallow, trying with considerable effort to keep from choking. "Yes. It is true."

"Why?"

I exchange a look with Noah, who offers up an encouraging half-smile.

"I have no more kills left in me." I keep my voice low, mindful of the many ears listening in. "I am sorry, Rowan."

"What is the problem, precisely? Are your arms broken? Have you been struck blind?" Rowan moves closer, looking down her nose at me. Her lips lift into a sneer and I unconsciously take a step back. "If you are not physically incapable of killing, Luca, then you must continue your duty. Failure is for the weak and the choice warrior has no such excuses."

An irrational jolt of anger shudders through me and I curl my hands into fists at my sides.

"I never should have been made choice." I hear myself say, uncertain whether I am talking to myself or to Rowan.

"That is all too clear." Rowan's cool tone is laced with venom.

I stare at the drift of sand gathering between my feet, feeling my shoulders bunch in shame as the weight of Rowan's glare settles over me. I know without looking up that every Waster in the vicinity is listening closely to the conversation. The heat from their gazes causes my cheeks to burn, filling me with a white-hot rage.