Neither one of us speaks as we weave through the passageways and staircases of the peach colored rock. Every time we pass by one of the thousands of glowing lamps, carved into the wall itself, I nearly run my face into the stalactites that are scattered about. My feet are treacherous at best, and the lamps put me in such a state of wonder that I have trouble avoiding obstacles.

More staircases, more hallways. My legs are gelatin, and my arm begins to pound to the rhythm of my heartbeat. Steadily, a rumbling sound begins to creep into the rock around me. At first I dismiss it as my imagination, since Rowan continues on without a word. But within a minute, the sound becomes unmistakably obvious— a roaring, deep, bass-like rumble that vibrates through my shaky legs and all the way into my chest.

My legs freeze, and I place a hand to the slick walls to feel the vibration there as well. I’ve seen no mechanical or electrical equipment since arriving here— nothing that would produce any noise at all, let alone the roar that assaults the air around me. Rowan turns around ahead and motions, his mouth moving, but his words are swallowed by the rumble before they can reach me. I take my damp palm from the wall and follow him down a sloping path.

Ahead, the cave opens up slightly, and dim natural light floods the path, washing away the peach glow of the lamps. An ancient metal railing lines the side of the sloping path as it opens to the chamber ahead— a room so massive that the small glimpse I have of it now reveals nothing but blackness. How the railing is only marginally rusty in such damp conditions, I have no idea. I make a mental note to stay far to the left of the path as we approach it.

Rowan, it seems, has no misgivings about the strength of the railing. He reaches it first and leans nonchalantly against it as he waits, his strange eyes focused on the room ahead. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. For a reason I can’t pinpoint, my body has gone numb with fear for what might be on the other side of that railing. But with Rowan so relaxed, I can’t bring myself to be on edge. My clenched muscles loosen.

I reach the railing and place my hands on the cool metal. I’m suddenly glad for it, as my knees buckle from underneath me. A small, faint ‘oh’ escapes my mouth and is quickly drowned out by the source of the monstrous vibrations in the corridor.

Rushing, pounding, massive amounts of water, roaring from a mouth the size of a football field into a pool the size of six. A waterfall. Raw terror shoots through my body with such force that I involuntarily shudder, and my hands— white-knuckled around the railing—prickle with dread. Years of embarrassment about my fear is the only thing that keeps my feet rooted to the ground, and my mind clear enough to squeak out a question.

“You live here?” My voice betrays me. The edges of it are ragged, and my tone more than conveys the depth of my fear. I swear internally and fight Oliver’s face from my memory. Rowan finally takes his eyes from the waterfall to study my face. I keep my eyes carefully trained on the rushing water.

“We do,” he says over the roar of the water. “This is all underneath the city. It actually runs through the pipes that keep houses warm above ground. But it works wonders for keeping us warm, too.”

I realize that the mist dusting my cheekbones is actually warm. Comfortably so, the droplets bringing momentary life to my numb face before evaporation turns it cool again. I take another breath of the moist air and shove my fears aside so I can observe the rest of the cavern.

With my eyes— because I can’t trust my legs— I follow the railing from my white knuckles, as it curves all the way around the cave, fortifying the edge of the stone bluff that lines the room on all sides, save for the waterfall. Tables and chairs packed with people sit underneath some kind of overhanging, which shelters its occupants from the mist. It seems to go back quite a ways, deeper into the caves and away from the waterfall chamber. Rowan points toward the area, his demeanor so careless that I expect him to pitch from the rail to his death at any moment.

“That’s the cafeteria,” he says. I immediately lose any small appetite I might have had. The idea of eating so close to so much water is not just disheartening— it means the end of being full, forever. My stomach ceases its rumbling, as if to prove a point.

But the water, as much as it tries to strangle and drown out every other feature in the room, is not the focal point. Thousands of lamps embedded into the pink rock line the room, glowing softly even under the daylight that streams through the ceiling. The ceiling itself must be miles above our heads— even though we stand somewhere in the middle of the cave— and filtered sunlight seeps into the blackness in rays, only to be swallowed up by the sheer size of the cavern.

“—your name.” My hands break their iron grip on the railing as I jump.

“What?” I manage to choke out.

“Your name,” he repeats, his voice toneless.

He stands impatiently several paces further down the path. I don’t want to get any closer to the waterfall. So, momentarily, his path towards the cafeteria is advantageous for me.

“Kess,” I mumble. My feet stumble away from the railing, trudging after him with mechanical steps.

Rowan deposits me in the cafeteria, which is so noisy and enormous that no one takes our notice.

“Training starts soon,” he says. “Keep your head down and don’t call attention to yourself.” He already looks disappointed in me, a slight downward tilt of his lips the only emotion I’ve seen him show so far.

“Training for what?” I ask. He remains expressionless. I fight the urge to shake him just to see if I can get a reaction.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” he says, his eyes drifting over my head. His frown deepens. I turn and see Arlette, standing in another stone entrance to the cavern, flanked by two guards, her pretty face glowing under the peach light. Angry, it seems.

“I have to go,” he says. He hesitates for a moment, and a small smile forms on his face. It makes him seem ten years younger. “Make sure you try the orange rolls. They’re amazing.” With that, he trots off to the exit, and I wonder how many different sides of him I am likely to see before my time here is up.

* * *

The bulk of the hundreds of people under the awning are situated close to the rail— close enough that the mist sprays their faces, creating a halo of dampness in their hair. I make my way to the very last of the tables, as far away from the water as is humanly possible, and plop down.

The smell of food chokes the air, concentrating in the area where I’m sitting. On a normal day, the warm scent of baking bread— mingled with something sweet, and strange spices that smell of a mixture between fresh jalapenos and cinnamon— would set my mouth to watering. As it is, my stomach roils unhappily. I put my head down on the table and ignore everything.

My solace doesn’t last long. I leave my head down, but plates clatter to the table above. The smell makes me reconsider my ability to eat near the waterfall. My head peeks up above my arms as I inspect the feast in front of me. Surely they don’t expect this much food to feed one person.

They don’t. Before I can object, two young women and a young man plop down at the table beside me. From the looks of it, they’re arguing about something with such force that my presence is drowned out. A blonde girl, her hair in ringlets, holds a dark-haired girl back with surprising force as the dark girl struggles towards the food, her ice blue eyes snapping with anger.

“Let me go, Claire. I haven’t eaten in at least two days.”

“Airam’s standing right there,” the blonde girl— Claire— hisses. “Do you want to make it a week?” The other girl stops struggling and sinks onto the bench sullenly. I can almost hear her stomach growling.

The boy beside me— his face boyish and round— butters a roll with obvious relish. “What’d you do this time, Mara?” he asks, his mouth full. I wait for Mara to spring at him, until the other girl passes her a roll under the table. She visibly calms down as she stuffs the food in her mouth.

“None of your business, Quinn—”

“She was fighting,” the blonde girl says as she reaches for a dish that holds some sort of chicken, covered in layers of some kind of cream sauce mixed with jalapenos. She loads her plate up with the stuff.

“I hate both of you,” Mara says. Quinn snorts.

“So sit somewhere else.” Mara ignores him, and her eyes light on me. A wolfish grin spreads across her face as she polishes off her roll. A roll, I notice for the first time, that is orange—the kind Rowan told me to try. Water momentarily forgotten, I snatch one from the basket to hide my nervousness.

“Look here,” Mara says, her eyes lingering too long on me. “Fresh meat. How long d’you think she’ll last?”

“Cut it out,” Quinn says. He loads up his second plate of food even as he speaks, but takes a second to meet my eyes with his dark green ones. He smiles. It’s cautious, but a smile nonetheless. I try not to make anything of the caution, but it settles strangely in my stomach. What is he so afraid of?

“What’s your name?” he asks. I hesitate for just a beat, almost spitting out my full name. But Kestril sounds like the years I spent with my parents, or even the quiet years with Oliver. It has the sound of memories, not the present. And I am trying desperately to forget the memories.

“Kess.”

Quinn opens his mouth to say something else, but closes it abruptly as his eyes cross the room to rest on a platform leading out to the lake, its edges rimmed in more of the same glowing lamps. All four of us turn to stare as a boy crosses the platform, a wooden, human-shaped stand in his arms.

He sets the stand down on the very edge of the platform, and crosses back towards the cafeteria, taking a watermelon from another boy. Across from me, Mara snorts, looking bored.

“Like he’ll hit it this time. Someone’ll just have to finish the job for him again.” Claire looks doubtful as she watches the boy place the melon on top of the stand. She shakes her head, slowly, her blonde curls bobbing around her head.

“I don’t think so,” she says. “He’s not afraid this time.” My mind whirls. Afraid? It’s a melon on a stand of sticks. But then he takes out a marker and scribbles the word ‘Errant’ carefully on the face of the melon. The entire cafeteria falls silent before whispers light around the room like a soft rain.

My exhausted mind slowly makes the connection between the word and the men and women with the lockets so far above the Resistance— the men and women who took my brother.

“Five on the melon,” Mara says, slapping down coins in front of Quinn. Quinn’s face remains expressionless, but then he digs in his pocket for another five, clanking them down on the table next to Mara’s.

“Raiden’s got this,” he says. Raiden picks up what looks like a crossbow, steps back into the cafeteria, and aims. A hush falls over the room. His shoulders rise, fall, and then he fires. The arrow sails into the melon, and hits clean. Whoops and cheers go up, and I hear Quinn sweeping the coins off the table, to the tune of every swear word Mara must know.

But I keep watching the arrow. A second passes. Something clicks—something loud enough that I can hear it even across the room— and then a net explodes from the inside of the melon, shattering it into unrecognizable pieces as the juices stick to the surrounding area.

My hands are still holding the roll. I no longer want it. I stare at it, and realize that it’s shaking. I stuff the roll in my mouth and follow Quinn’s group as they retreat to the dorms.

All I can see as I drift off to a jarring sleep is the watermelon splashing on the ground. And the sick, horrifying realization that it could be me next.