I awoke in the middle of the night, shivering. My feet were like blocks of ice, and the weak efforts of the heater weren’t nearly enough to overcome the cold. I sat up on my bed and opened the blinds. Outside, the world had been blotted out with white.

I pulled my radio out from under the bed and switched it on, turning the dial until a reporter’s voice sounded through the static. “-storm. Schools…closed… and bus routes suspended. Subway will…active.”

I moved the radio closer to the window, and the sound came through more clearly. I listened to the weather report again, then switched onto the war channel. A boisterous voice emanated from the radio, and I recognized it as General Chun, Keon’s war minister. Confused, I turned up the sound—it was unusual for him to host a broadcast himself.

“...broken through!” he was saying. “After three weeks of artillery bombardment, this morning, our northern troops overwhelmed their defenses! We have gained thirty miles and won the Battle of the Ponsor Plains!”

I stared at the radio in shock. It was the first major gain of the war, and something I hadn’t thought possible. The battle had raged on for weeks, quickly degrading into guerilla warfare, with no side able to gain the upper hand. No one had expected a clear winner; in two years and the death of half a million soldiers, the fighting had never crossed the plains–until now. I shook my head. Can we actually win this war?

I tapped my leg nervously. I had no love for the Solokians–after all, if the king’s claim was true, they were responsible for the Fortress attack and the death of my friends. Still, the citizens of Solokia would meet an ugly fate if Keon won the war, and Solokia would no longer be a beacon of hope for the Amberastans suffering under Keon’s rule.

I switched off the radio and looked back outside. It was the first snowstorm of autumn, and it showed no signs of abating. It still seems unnatural. Although it had snowed in Historical Amberasta, it was nothing like Karakul’s epic storms. The city’s high elevation kept the air thin and cold, and storms rolled over from the mountain range at least once a month.

My stomach growled, and I opened the cabinet in search of something to eat. “Shit!” I cursed, realizing the beans had been the last of my rations. I pulled out my ration book, checking how many slots I had left for the month. Not much, but enough.

I fell back into bed, wrapping myself in the sheet, resigned to waiting out the storm.

***

In the morning, the blizzard had calmed. The ground was covered in a thick layer of powdery snow, and it gleamed as the sun began to rise over the city. It was a beautiful sight, a win in nature’s battle against the stark cityscape.

I crawled out of bed and pulled on my warmest clothes: a grey winter jacket, snow pants, and work boots. Tucking my ration card and money satchel into my pocket, I left my apartment and began my descent down the stairs.

Outside, it was even colder than I had imagined. A frosty breeze blew from the north, down from the mountains and into the city. I set off down the street, walking briskly to get my blood flowing. The snow was a foot deep, and it swallowed my boots with every step. Soon, the ice worked its way into my socks, and my legs began to go numb.

I breathed a sigh of relief as the maw of the subway station came into view. Carefully, I made my way down the stairs, into the bowels of the city. The Tin District station was quiet, with only a few residents braving the storm, and a half-dozen homeless people huddled in a corner. I stomped my feet to bring feeling back into them. The cement floor was wet where a station worker had salted the landing.

A quarter of an hour passed before the train roared into view. I boarded and gripped a pole, pulling my sleeve over my hand to protect against the chill of the metal. The train was in disrepair, with torn carpeted seats and a smell like mildew. I passed a hand over the clouded window, clearing a spot large enough for me to watch the tunnel walls fly by.

***

Only a smattering of people were in the grocer’s small shop. The shelves were barren where the unrationed foods had sold out. I grabbed a small basket by the door and walked up and down the isles, assessing my choices. Each month, there was less on the shelves: the imported foods had been first to go, then anything fresh after gasoline had been rationed for the war effort. My choices were limited still further by my apartment, which did not have a stove or oven. I had become accustomed to cold, pre-cooked food.

I loaded my basket with biscuits, dried egg, wheat cereal, and a small tin of dried fruit. I looked longingly at the few sticks of butter and lard, but it was too expensive for me to afford. Instead, I opted for a palm-sized bottle of oil, which I would slather over the biscuits. I paid with a handful of coins, and the grocer stamped the corresponding pages in my ration book. Collecting the goods in a paper bag, I pushed open the doors and set off for my apartment once again.

***

The mail room was vacant as usual. I unlocked my postal box and reached inside, flicking away a spider. A stack of envelopes and papers had been delivered the day before. I glanced through: there was a form to enlist (the same I received every week), a few bills, a newspaper, and a cluster of envelopes.

I pulled out the newspaper and thumbed through it. As an actual source of news, it was almost useless, but it did provide me with some information about the war’s progress. I skipped the stories about the week’s “valiant heroes” and searched for the outcome of the most recent battle.

The paper corroborated what Chun had said: Amberasta had finally taken the Ponsor plains. Its next target would be Solokia’s walls. There was a statement from the king thanking his soldiers and lifting the sugar ration for a week. It will hardly matter anyway, I thought, even without rations, there’s still a shortage.

At the end of the paper, there was a full-page, colorized image of Keon leading his army over the rubble of Solokia’s walls. The soldier’s faces shone with pride, and Keon’s skin was healthy and devoid of wrinkles. “For the Blood Dove,” the caption read. I screwed up my face with revulsion. Despite my horror over Solokia’s betrayal, I would never see the king as our savior, especially not after he had led us into a war that seemed likely to drag on for a decade.

With Keon’s poster in my hands, I remembered my first days in Karakul. The people of Amberasta had gone to war with all the vigor of a humiliated nation. In the first weeks of my arrival, I had listened to Keon’s statements from the radio in the homeless shelter. “Our beloved sister country, Solokia, has taken us all for fools!” he had shouted, “They robbed us of our crown jewel, the Blood Dove! They sent a band of criminals into our midst!” When the Solokian President denied the allegations, Keon had branded him a rapacious turncoat.

At first, Keon was met with enthusiasm. Solokia’s betrayal seemed to support what he had always believed–that democracy would consume itself as its people succumbed to greed. Amberastans turned to Keon, believing that his strong leadership would be a beacon through uncertain times. But over time, attitudes toward the war effort had cooled. Keon had promised a quick war, but very little progress had been made. Still, he had faced very little opposition–his bloodline had founded Amberasta, and his network of informants was vast enough to crush dissent before it even arose.

I pushed my thoughts to the back of my mind and folded the poster in half. As much as I would’ve liked to throw it away, it was against the law to trash anything with Keon’s image. Instead, I folded it and tucked it into my jumpsuit pocket. Tonight, I’ll burn it in the candle flame.

When I looked back through the stack of mail, a red envelope caught my attention. I narrowed my eyes, nervousness bubbling up inside of me–red envelopes were only used for messages from the government. I broke the seal, slid out the paper, and unfolded it.

Urgent message for Anabelle Laurent - Custodian

Your presence is requested for DNA registering at 24 Main Street North on September 26th.

The paper fell from my hand and fluttered to the floor. Why now? I rubbed a hand over my face, sick with worry. It was common practice to register the DNA of the newly conscripted, but not of civilians. Keon is expanding his network yet again.

My rescuer’s words replayed in my head: “Your only defense is that no one knows your identity, so don’t draw any attention to yourself for as long as the king is in power.” As far as I knew, I was the only survivor from the Fortress attack, other than the Solokians who had escaped with the Dove. After the invasion, there would have been a thorough investigation of the Fortress grounds. My blood had stained the walls and floor where I had climbed through the window, and since my DNA didn’t match any of the bodies, the king had to wonder who I was. That made me a dangerous unknown variable. If I was caught, I would certainly be implicated with the Solokians and proclaimed a traitor.

If they had indeed filed my DNA into the system back in Historical Amberasta, they would be able to match it to the sample in Karakul. I ran a hand through my hair. I had to go–dodging the summons would raise suspicions. Even so, actually registering my DNA was out of the question.

I need a plan, and fast.