I wake to the sound of Weaver shouting. For a few seconds, I lie still beneath the thin blanket, staring at the ceiling. The cabin has a habit of making every sound seem closer than it is. Floorboards creak in the next room. Someone knocks against a chair. Then Gevan's voice cuts through the argument, strained and sharp enough to pull me out of bed.
"You don't know that!"
"Oh, and you do?" Weaver fires back. "Yesterday, you were practically begging us to believe the enforcer was bluffing."
I push the blanket aside. We spent most of yesterday making the cabin livable. We swept the worst of the dust from the main room, dragged the chairs away from the fireplace, and checked every corner for anything useful. It wasn't much, but by nightfall, we had somewhere to sleep without lying directly on the ground. Apparently, a roof doesn't do much for nerves.
I step into the main room and find Gevan standing near the table. Weaver faces him from the other side, his binoculars hanging against his chest. Clay stands between them, one hand raised as if he can physically hold their tempers apart.
"I'm saying we don't know what these people are capable of," Gevan insists. "Some of them have criminal records. They could have killed someone before they even got here. And now we're supposed to believe they're going to play by the rules?"
"We're all playing by the rules," Weaver says. "That's the problem, isn't it? The rules are terrible. You don't have to keep explaining it."
"You think this is funny?"
"No, Gevan. I think you talking in circles at six in the morning is going to get old very quickly."
"Because what do you know?" Gevan fires back
"Enough to know you're panicking," Weaver says.
Gevan looks as though Weaver has slapped him.
"I am panicking," he snaps. "Of course I'm panicking! We're trapped on an island with people who might decide to kill us, and we don't even know where the hell we are!"
His voice rises on the last word. He drags a hand through his hair, then starts pacing, his gaze darting toward the windows and the door. His breathing is too fast. I recognize the pattern: one terrible possibility leads to another, each one building on the last until he can no longer see anything else.
Weaver opens his mouth again.
"Enough!" Clay's voice cracks through the room.
Weaver falls silent. So does Gevan. I stop near the doorway.
I've known Clay for years. I've seen him angry, exhausted, frightened. I've seen him shout over the roar of floodwater and order people twice his size to move when they refused to listen. But I've never heard him use that tone with us. There's no warmth in it, no gentle attempt to reason with either of them. Just a sharp command that leaves no room for argument.
"Neither of you is helping," he says, his jaw tight. "We have no idea what's waiting outside, and we can't change what happened yesterday. So stop wasting time fighting each other."
For a moment, the only sound is Gevan trying to catch his breath. Clay looks away first. He exhales and rubs the back of his neck, as though surprised by his own temper.
"Sorry," he mutters. "But we need to think." Weaver adjusts the strap of his binoculars.
Gevan lowers his eyes, looking more embarrassed than angry now. I let the silence settle before speaking.
"Clay, how are we supposed to find Blair and Reagan on an island this big?" I ask.
He turns toward me. The firmness in his expression remains, though his voice has softened. "We take our chances."
"That isn't much of a plan."
"No, it isn't." He glances at the window. "But we need the manpower. If we're going to find the Scapegoat before the other Hunters do, we can't afford to spend days wandering around without knowing who's nearby."
I consider the forest beyond the cabin. The trees stretch so far into the distance that it's difficult to imagine where the island ends. Somewhere out there are dozens of quadrangles, each with its own weapons, supplies, and ideas about how to win. Somewhere out there are Blair and Reagan, trying to do exactly what we're doing.
"Weaver," I say, turning to him. "You have binoculars. We could scout the area before moving out. If another quadrangle found this cabin yesterday, there must be others wandering somewhere nearby."
He nods slowly, the argument apparently forgotten. "Worth a look."
"And we can't stay here indefinitely," Clay adds. "Someone else could come across it. Next time, they might not leave."
Gevan looks toward the door. "So we're walking into the forest to look for people who might want to kill us."
"Now you're getting it," Weaver says.
Gevan gives him a flat look.
Clay gathers his equipment. "Let's move."
We leave the cabin shortly afterward, keeping close together as we head through the trees. The ground rises gradually, the undergrowth thickening around our legs. We follow the slope of a mountain until the forest opens onto a narrow stretch of rocky ground beneath a cluster of tall trees. From here, we have a better view of the surrounding wilderness. Weaver climbs onto a broad, sloping rock and raises his binoculars. He sweeps the forest from left to right, pausing whenever something catches his attention. The rest of us wait below him.
Minutes pass. He lowers the binoculars, shifts his position, then raises them again.
"Anything?" Clay asks.
"Not yet." He scans farther along the ridge.
"Nothing useful," he says at last. "I can see the tree line, some clearings, and what might be a stream. No obvious camps. No smoke. Nothing moving that I can identify."
Clay leans against a tree, his shoulders sinking with fatigue. I settle onto a low branch nearby, careful not to catch my clothes on its rough bark.
Gevan folds his arms over his stomach. "I'm hungry."
Weaver doesn't lower his binoculars. "Could you not announce that to the entire island?"
"I'm stating a fact," Gevan says.
"And I'm asking you to state it quietly," Weaver adds.
Gevan mutters something under his breath but falls silent. Weaver keeps searching the trees, his gaze moving restlessly from one patch of green to another. Every rustle seems to draw his attention. Even when a branch shifts in the breeze, he turns toward it. To Weaver, it probably looks like another episode of Gevan's paranoia. To me, it looks different. Weaver isn't simply afraid of being attacked. He's afraid of missing the moment before it happens. He watches as though danger will announce itself in the smallest movement, and if he looks away for even a second, he'll lose the chance to see it coming.
I understand that feeling better than I'd like to admit.
"El," Gevan says, interrupting my thoughts. "We should look for food."
I glance at him, then toward Clay.
Clay straightens. "Go ahead. Stay together, and don't wander too far. I'll stay here with Weaver until we're ready to move."
Weaver gives a distracted nod, his eyes still fixed on the forest. I climb down from the branch and check the straps of my backpack. Gevan does the same, adjusting his vest before following me down the slope.
We move slowly through the trees, looking for anything edible. I keep an eye on the ground for berries and familiar plants, though the forest is unlike any place I've hunted before. The foliage is thicker, the air more humid, and the unfamiliar smells make it difficult to tell what might be safe.
Back home, I knew where to look. I knew which patches of land were likely to yield something useful and which plants were better left alone. Here, every discovery comes with a question I can't always answer. We find a few clusters of berries, but I hesitate before picking them. I don't recognize the species well enough to risk eating them.
"We can't live on whatever we happen to find," Gevan says.
"No. But we can't afford to poison ourselves, either," I say.
He looks at the berries, then at me. "Fair point."
We move farther into the forest. Then I see the deer. It's grazing in a small clearing between the trees, its head lowered as it picks at the vegetation. For a moment, I forget the cameras, the other Hunters, the shrinking dome. All I see is meat. I lift a hand, signaling Gevan to stop. He freezes.
Slowly, I reach for one of the fixed-blade survival knives strapped inside my pack. I've hunted rabbits before, but a deer is larger, faster, and far less forgiving of a bad throw. Still, we need food, and we can't afford to waste an opportunity like this. I shift my footing and study the animal's position. The distance is manageable. The opening is narrow, but clear enough. My fingers tighten around the knife.
For one brief second, I imagine carrying something substantial back to the cabin. Enough to give us a proper meal. Enough to buy us time. Then the explosion hits. The sound tears through the forest, so sudden and violent that I flinch. Birds erupt from the canopy. The deer jerks upright, its ears twitching toward the noise, and bolts between the trees before I can even raise my arm.
"Move!" Gevan shouts. He is already turning toward the mountain. I follow without hesitation.
There is no point wondering whether the explosion came from another team's weapon or some kind of environmental hazard. Either way, we have no reason to stay and investigate. If someone is fighting nearby, we need to warn Clay and Weaver. If the sound was meant to draw Hunters in, we have no intention of being the ones who answer. Gevan runs hard, his boots striking the uneven ground. I keep pace behind him, my knife secured in my grip until the trees thin enough for me to see the slope ahead.
We are almost back when someone comes around the opposite side of a tree. I collide with them shoulder-first. The impact knocks me off balance. My foot catches on a root, and I hit the ground hard enough to sting my palms.
"Watch––" The word dies in my throat. Two familiar faces stare down at me.
Blair stands with one hand extended, her expression caught between alarm and disbelief. Beside her, Reagan looks equally startled, her dark eyes wide beneath the shadow of the trees. For a moment, I can only stare. Then relief rushes through me so quickly that it almost hurts.
"Blair. Reagan." I scramble to my feet, brushing dirt from my palms. I barely notice the scrape across one of them.
"Have you heard that explosion?" I ask. "It came from somewhere nearby."
Reagan shifts her weight, suddenly looking uncomfortable. "That was me."
I blink. "What?"
She gestures toward the equipment strapped to her. "My weapon. I'm assigned explosives, but the supply is very limited. Blair told me not to use them unless absolutely necessary. I don't know how to handle them properly, and they're unstable."
I look at her again, then at Blair. An axe with blinking red lights rests securely in Blair's hands. The realization comes slowly. The blast hadn't necessarily been a warning or an attack. It had been Reagan's weapon.
"You caused that?"
Reagan gives a small nod. "I accidentally threw it."
"Without warning anyone?" Gevan asks.
"I didn't know you were nearby," Reagan says. Her voice is quiet, and she looks as though she's bracing herself for an argument. I let out a breath and she relaxes slightly.
"It's fine," I say. "Just don't test it near us next time. We might attract other hunters."
Blair steps closer. "Where are Clay and Weaver?"
"Up the mountain. Weaver's been scouting the area with his binoculars." Gevan sighs.
"Then let's get back to them," she says. "We've been looking for you."
"You have?" I ask.
Blair nods. "We didn't know where your team landed. We've come across a few other quadrangles, but we stayed away. We couldn't tell who we could trust."
"Good," I say, though I know how little that guarantees. "Have any of them approached you?"
"Not directly. We saw a few teams in the distance. We didn't want to risk a confrontation," Blair says.
Gevan looks between them. "Where were you dropped?"
"Hundreds of meters from here," Reagan answers. "The hovercraft left me quite far from the mountain."
"Why didn't you land with Blair?"
Reagan glances at Blair before answering. "I convinced the enforcer to let me go with her."
I look at her more closely. The reserves weren't assigned to quadrangles when they arrived on Blackwake. The large hovercraft had carried them to the island, but they had been dropped at different locations. Reagan must have persuaded the enforcer to leave her near Blair, rather than making her find a team alone. It was a small decision, perhaps, but one that mattered. The island was enormous. Being separated from the one person she trusted could have left Reagan wandering through the forest with no idea where to go.
"I'm glad you found us," I tell them.
Blair gives me a tentative smile. "So am I."
We turn toward the mountain together. The climb back is easier with four people, if only because the relief of finding Blair and Reagan gives us something else to think about. Gevan asks them whether they have seen any signs of a camp or a water source. Blair says they passed a narrow stream but couldn't tell how clean the water was. Reagan stays close to her, occasionally glancing over her shoulder whenever a branch snaps beneath our feet.
When we reach the rocky clearing, Clay spots us first. He pushes away from the tree so quickly that Weaver lowers his binoculars.
"Blair? Reagan?" Clay approaches.
"Hey," Blair says.
Clay crosses the clearing and pulls them both into a hug. Weaver joins in a moment later, wrapping his arms around them with considerably less restraint than I expect from someone who spent the morning complaining about everyone else's nerves.
"Look at that," Weaver says. "Our scouting expedition was a success after all."
Blair goes rigid when Clay embraces her. Her cheeks turn pink, and she looks down at the ground as soon as he lets go. I notice. So does Weaver, judging by the way his mouth twitches, but he has enough sense not to say anything.
Reagan looks relieved to be surrounded by familiar faces. For the first time since I met her, some of the tension leaves her shoulders.
Clay steps back and checks them both over. "You okay? Neither of you hurt?"
"We're fine," Blair says. "We've just been trying to find you."
"Same here." Clay gives her a grateful smile. "I'm glad you're with us."
Blair's face reddens again. I turn to Weaver before he can make a comment.
"Did you see anything while we were gone?" Clay asks our team's Scout.
Weaver raises his binoculars and points toward the forest. "Movement in a few places. I couldn't make out much, but the other quadrangles seem scattered. Some are farther off than others. I haven't spotted anyone setting up a permanent camp."
"Then we should start planning," Clay says. "We can't spend the whole day looking for people. We need to work out how we're going to capture the Scapegoat before another team gets to him."
Gevan adjusts his glasses. "We don't even know where he is."
"Which means we need to look for signs," Clay replies. "He could be anywhere within the Redline."
"Or hiding in plain sight," I say. Everyone turns toward me.
I look out over the trees. The forest is too vast to search without some kind of strategy. If the Scapegoat is moving freely, as Lady Thorne said, we can't simply march toward the center and expect to find him waiting. He could be watching us. He could be avoiding every team on the island. He could already be near one of the other quadrangles. And if the others are thinking the same way we are, every passing hour gives them a chance to get ahead.
Before Clay can answer, a familiar tone rolls over the island. We all look up.
Lady Thorne's voice follows, bright and polished, carrying across the treetops.
"Hunters, I have a special announcement from the Triumvirate of the Upper Spires."
My stomach tightens. I recognize that tone. It's the same one she used when she welcomed us to Blackwake, the same smooth delivery that made her instructions sound like the opening remarks at a ceremony. She speaks as though she's about to give us good news.
"I'm pleased to report that, at this stage of the Red Hunt, there have been no casualties among the Hunters."
Weaver lowers his binoculars.
"Why does that sound like a bad thing?" he mutters.
"Because it probably is," Gevan says.
Lady Thorne continues.
"However, our esteemed bettors have expressed a desire for a more engaging competition. Their continued support allows the Red Hunt to offer greater rewards and a more compelling spectacle for our citizens."
Bettors.
The wealthy spectators from the Spires who have put their money into the game. People who can sit behind screens, place their wagers, and decide whether we're entertaining enough to keep watching. I think of the cabin, of the argument this morning, of the way Gevan couldn't stop imagining the worst. I think of the explosion that drove us from the clearing, and how easily a sound like that could have meant something far more terrible.
Lady Thorne pauses. "By decree of the Triumvirate of the Upper Spires, all Hunters participating in the Red Hunt are now permitted to eliminate or kill members of opposing quadrangles by any means necessary to secure their victory."
For a moment, the words don't make sense. Then they do. The forest seems to go silent around us.
I stare upward, waiting for Lady Thorne to clarify, to explain that this is some kind of misunderstanding or a rule that applies only under certain circumstances. Anything that might make the announcement less monstrous than it sounds.
Nothing comes. A section of the dome illuminates above the treetops. Scarlet light spreads across its curved surface, forming a vast display visible through gaps in the canopy. Figures and numbers appear in orderly rows, listing the Hunters and their current status.
Alive.
Every name, every number.
All of us.
The display is almost beautiful, the letters glowing against the red shimmer. It looks like a scoreboard.
I hate it. Slowly, the status disappears. We are not people up there. We are entries in a competition, each one marked as present until the moment the government has reason to change it.
Blair makes a small, broken sound beside me. She immediately turns toward Reagan and pulls her into a tight embrace. Reagan's face crumples. She clutches Blair's jacket and begins to cry, trying to hold the sound back but failing.
"It's okay," Blair whispers, pressing a hand to the back of her head. "I'm here. I'm not going to let anything happen to you. Do you hear me? I'll protect you."
Reagan shakes her head against Blair's shoulder, unable to answer. I watch them, unable to find anything to say. What could I offer? That we'll stay together? That we'll watch each other's backs? That if we are careful enough, none of us will become one of those names whose status changes from alive to something else?
I don't know if any of it would be true.
Clay lets out a harsh grunt and turns away, his hands curling at his sides. "We never signed up for a death sentence." His voice is low, but the anger in it is unmistakable. No one argues. Not even Weaver.
Yesterday, we'd been frightened by the possibility that other Hunters might turn on us. This morning, we'd tried to convince ourselves that the enforcer had exaggerated the danger. We'd spent hours worrying about finding food, locating Blair and Reagan, and figuring out how to capture a man who could be anywhere on the island. Now the government has made our worst fear part of the rules.
And somewhere behind the spectators or bettors or game-moderators' controls, the names of a hundred Hunters glow against their screens, each one still marked alive. I look at the display until my eyes begin to sting. Aunt Evelyn's face rises in my mind, unbidden. I remember the hospital room, the machines beside her bed, the way she sometimes looks at me as if she knows me and sometimes as if she's trying to place a stranger. I remember why I agreed to come here. The money. Her treatment. The chance to bring her home.
I have to survive. The thought comes with a cold clarity that scares me more than panic ever could.
But survival has changed shape since we landed. It is no longer only about finding shelter, rationing supplies, or reaching the Scapegoat before the others. It means deciding what I'm willing to do when another Hunter stands between me and the only future I have left. I glance at Clay, at Weaver, at Gevan. Then at Blair, still holding Reagan as the girl struggles to quiet her tears. We're six people now, not four. Six people who have reasons to be here, and six people who have something to lose. For the first time since the hovercraft set us down on Blackwake, I have no idea what our next move should be. And the island gives us no time to figure it out.
***
The water is rising again. It comes up through the streets of the Sinks, swallowing the market stalls, the narrow walkways, the houses built too close to the river. Everything I know disappears beneath a dark, churning mass. The current tears through the district with a hunger of its own, carrying broken furniture, splintered wood, and whatever remains of the lives people have spent years trying to build.
I can hear people screaming. Someone is calling for their mother. A child cries somewhere behind me.
And my father is slipping away.
"Pa!"
He has one hand wrapped around a broken post, his body twisting beneath the force of the water. His fingers are losing their grip. I run toward him, stumbling over debris, reaching for the hand he once used to hold mine.
"Pa, please!"
He looks at me. Even through the rain, I can see the fear in his face, though he tries to hide it. Then he smiles.
The memory changes. Suddenly, I am smaller, standing in the flood with water climbing past my knees. My father is beside me, holding my hand so tightly it hurts. He notices me shaking and crouches until we're eye to eye.
"Breathe, little bird," he says, giving my hand a gentle squeeze. "You're alright. Just breathe."
I try. I really do. But then the current catches him again. His hand slips from the post, and he disappears beneath the water before I can reach him.
"No!" I lunge forward, my fingers closing around nothing.
The world goes black. When I open my eyes, the flood is gone. I'm sitting on the concrete floor of a covered court, surrounded by survivors wrapped in whatever dry clothing the relief workers could find. The air reeks of mud, rainwater, and sweat. People huddle beneath the harsh lights, shivering as they wait for someone to tell them where to go next. My clothes cling to my skin. My knees are scraped, and my hands tremble in my lap.
Then I see Aunt Evelyn. She's pushing through the crowd, calling my name. The moment she reaches me, she drops to her knees and pulls me into her arms. Her whole body shakes as she cries into my hair.
I don't cry with her. Even at that age, I understand enough to know why she's holding me so tightly. I understand why she keeps looking over my shoulder, as if someone might still walk through the doors. And when the DNA confirmation arrives, it puts a nail in the coffin.
My father isn't coming back. I don't know what grief is supposed to feel like. I only know that something inside me has gone missing, and no amount of waiting will bring it home. The scene shifts again.
Aunt Evelyn is older now, or perhaps I'm simply old enough to notice what was always there. The exhaustion beneath her eyes. The way she pauses before standing. How her hand sometimes grips the edge of a table until the room stops spinning. Nobody explains her illness to me in words I can understand. I learn it through the things she can no longer do.
And now I'm helping her walk. My arm is hooked beneath hers as we approach the hospital entrance. Most of her weight rests against me. Every few steps, she slows, and I pretend not to notice how difficult it is for her to keep moving. Beyond the glass doors, people sit beneath white lights while medical staff hurry between rooms. I can already imagine the bills. The consultations. The treatments we cannot afford.
My aunt is the last family I have left. The thought settles into me with a coldness that no amount of sunlight could chase away. I don't have the luxury of wondering what happens if I lose her. I know what happens. I become the last person in a family that no longer exists.
I remember looking at the hospital doors and making myself a promise. I will find a way.
Whatever it takes. Whatever I have to give up.
I will not lose her, too.
I wake with a quiet gasp. For a moment, I don't recognize the ceiling above me. My heart is beating hard enough to hurt, and my fingers are curled into the sleeping bag as though I'm still trying to hold on to someone.
The forest gradually comes into focus. The abandoned cabin. The bodies of my teammates scattered around the room, exhausted from a day of foraging and the constant effort of staying alive. Beyond the open doorway, the island lies beneath a blanket of darkness. I press a hand against my chest and wait for my breathing to settle.
It was a dream. Just a dream. Except the memories it dredged up are real, and they haven't become any easier to carry.
I carefully sit up, making sure not to disturb anyone. Clay is asleep near the entrance, where he can keep an eye on the surroundings if something approaches. Even now, he has positioned himself so he can see most of the cabin. Weaver is curled on his side, one arm thrown over his face. Gevan has managed to sleep with his glasses still on.
For a few seconds, I consider lying back down. Then I think of Aunt Evelyn. If I die here, who will take care of her?
The question has no answer. I have spent so long convincing myself that winning the Red Hunt is the only way to save her that I've barely allowed myself to consider what happens if I fail. It is easier to focus on the prize, on the treatment it could buy, on the possibility of bringing her home, than to acknowledge the other outcome. But the island doesn't care what I need.
It doesn't care that my aunt is waiting for me somewhere beyond its walls, or that I have spent most of my life trying to keep the people I love from disappearing. I can be careful. I can plan. I can learn the island and its dangers better than anyone else. None of that guarantees I'll make it out alive. I hate that.
I hate having to gamble the only family I have left against a game designed to entertain people who will never understand what it costs us to be here. Still, I didn't come this far to give up.
I slip out of the cabin and follow a narrow path between the trees until I reach a clearing. The air is cool against my face. Somewhere in the distance, something rustles through the undergrowth, but nothing comes close enough to disturb the quiet.
I sit on a fallen log and look up. The sky is crowded with stars. I wonder whether Aunt Evelyn can see them from her hospital window, assuming she is awake. Perhaps she's asleep, or perhaps she's staring at the ceiling again, trying to remember something the illness has taken from her. Does she remember my father tonight? Does she remember the promises we made to each other?
I close my eyes.
Breathe, little bird. My father's voice comes back so clearly that, for one foolish second, I expect to feel his hand around mine.
I draw a slow breath.
Then another.
It helps, but only a little.
Footsteps stir the leaves behind me. I turn sharply, my body tensing before I can stop it. My hand moves toward the knife at my side.
Blair stands at the edge of the clearing, her shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. She looks as though she nearly turned back before deciding to approach. When she notices my hand near the knife, she stops.
"Sorry," she says quietly. "I didn't mean to scare you."
I let my hand fall away. "You're fine."
She glances at the empty space beside me. "Mind if I sit?"
I shake my head and shift to make room.
Blair settles beside me, keeping a little distance between us. For a while, neither of us speaks. The silence doesn't feel uncomfortable, exactly. It's more that we've both learned how little there is to say when the things weighing on us are too big to explain.
Eventually, she looks toward the trees. "Couldn't sleep?"
"Something like that," I reply.
She nods, accepting the answer without pressing. A few seconds pass before she turns back to me. "Is something bothering you?"
The question catches me off guard. I look down at my hands, rubbing my thumb over a rough patch of skin near my knuckle.
"You don't have to tell me," she adds quickly. "I just noticed you weren't there when I woke up. I wasn't trying to pry."
"It's alright." I hesitate. The words are there, but saying them aloud feels like admitting something I have no idea how to fix. "I keep thinking about my aunt."
Blair waits.
"She's sick. She's been sick for a while, and I came here because the money could pay for her treatment." I swallow, forcing myself to continue. "I keep telling myself that if I win, she'll be alright. But if I don't make it out of here..." My voice catches. I look away before she can see my expression. "There won't be anyone left to look after her."
The words sound worse outside my head. I've spent so long treating my fear as something to manage that I rarely let it become anything else. Fear is useful when it warns me about a bad decision. It becomes a problem when it makes me hesitate, and hesitation can get you killed. So I keep it contained. I turn it into calculations, plans, and lists of things that need doing.
But there is no strategy for the possibility that I might never see my aunt again.
Blair's expression softens.
"I understand," she says.
I glance at her.
"Not exactly the same way," she continues, "but I know what it's like to spend every waking moment worrying about someone else."
"Reagan?"
She nods. Her eyes drift toward the direction of the cabin, where Reagan is sleeping.
"Whenever something happens, she's the first person I think about. If I hear a noise, I wonder whether she's safe. If we have to make a decision, I think about what might happen to her because of it." Blair lets out a small breath. "Sometimes I think I'm so busy trying to protect her that I forget I'm allowed to be scared, too."
I hadn't expected her to say that. Blair has always struck me as quiet but capable, someone who knows what needs to be done and does it without making a fuss. I suppose I'd mistaken her reserve for certainty.
"Does she know?" I ask.
"That I'm scared?" Blair gives a faint, humorless smile. "Probably. She's known me long enough."
"Then maybe you don't have to pretend you're not."
She looks at me, considering that.
"Neither do you," she says.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. The tears arrive before I can stop them. I turn my face away, embarrassed by how quickly they come. I've cried before, of course. Alone, mostly. There are things I can bear in private that I would rather die than let someone else witness.
Blair notices anyway. She hesitates, shifting beside me. For a moment, I think she might say something, but instead she awkwardly puts an arm around my shoulders and pulls me toward her.
I'm stiff at first, caught off guard by the gesture. Then I let myself lean into her.
"I'm not very good at this," she mutters.
A small laugh escapes me, breaking through the tears. "At what?"
"Comforting people." She adjusts her arm, apparently unsure where it belongs. "I usually just tell Reagan everything will be fine, which is probably not helpful when neither of us knows if it will be."
"That sounds familiar," I say.
"Yeah, well." She gives my shoulder a tentative squeeze. "I'm trying."
I wipe my face with the heel of my hand. "You're helping."
"Thanks. Because I was running out of ideas." That earns another laugh, quieter this time. It doesn't make the fear disappear, but it gives me something else to feel for a moment.
Blair stays beside me. She doesn't tell me to stop crying or insist that everything will work out. She doesn't offer a solution she can't possibly guarantee. Instead, she looks out at the dark forest and says, "You know, I don't think you've given yourself enough credit for getting this far."
I glance at her.
"You're always watching everyone. Figuring things out. Trying to keep us from doing anything stupid." She pauses. "You carry a lot, El. More than you let on."
"I don't have much choice," I reply.
"Maybe not. But that doesn't mean you're not strong."
I almost argue with her. Strength is a word people use when they want to make suffering sound worthwhile. The people in the Sinks are called strong because they endure things no one should have to endure. They survive broken pipes, flooded streets, empty cupboards, and officials who treat their deaths as figures in a report. Then they're expected to be grateful for the privilege of surviving.
I don't want to be strong. I want my father back. I want my aunt healthy. I want a life in which keeping someone alive doesn't require me to risk my own. But I know what Blair means.
"You care about her," she says. "That's why you're here. And I think that gives you something to hold on to when everything else gets difficult."
I look down at my hands. "What if it isn't enough?"
"Then you keep going until you find something that is." She says it simply, without pretending she knows how the Hunt will end.
For some reason, that makes it easier to believe her. We sit beneath the stars until the cold begins to creep through our clothes. Blair doesn't rush me back to the cabin. She stays until I am ready to stand, and when we finally return, she walks beside me without asking whether I'm feeling better.
I don't know if I am. But for the first time since arriving on Blackwake, I don't feel quite so alone with the thought of everything I stand to lose.
***
The next morning, the island wakes us with an announcement. A mechanical voice rolls across the forest, loud enough to penetrate the cabin walls.
"Attention, Hunters. A Legacy Gift will be deployed in thirty seconds."
I jerk upright. Around me, everyone stirs at once. Clay is on his feet almost immediately, while Weaver scrambles for his binoculars and Gevan looks ready to demand an explanation from the sky itself. Above the canopy, a glowing timer appears across the dome.
00:30.
"Legacy Gift?" Weaver asks, blinking sleep from his eyes. "That sounds suspiciously generous."
00:28.
"It's a supply drop," Clay says, already checking his backpack. "Get your things. We're moving."
The numbers begin to fall. Twenty-five. Twenty-four. Twenty-three.
I shove my feet into my boots and grab my pack. We've been living on whatever we can forage, and the berries we've found barely take the edge off our hunger. Another day or two without proper food would leave us weaker, slower, and far less capable of defending ourselves.
Whatever is inside those crates, we need it. At zero, a sharp hiss cuts through the morning air. A hovercraft passes high above the trees. Several containers detach from its underside, their parachutes blooming open as they descend toward the forest.
"There!" Weaver points through the binoculars. "One's coming down near us!"
Clay doesn't wait for a second opinion. We follow him through the undergrowth, ducking beneath low branches and stepping over roots as the smoke marking the drop site rises between the trees. The crate has landed in a patch of open ground. A thick column of smoke streams from its top, visible even through the surrounding canopy.
Clay reaches it first.
"Stay alert," he says, scanning the trees before crouching beside the container. "We don't know who else saw it."
No one needs reminding that food can draw more than hungry people. He works the latch. The lid swings open, and the smoke cuts off almost immediately.
Inside are neatly packed supplies. For a moment, nobody moves. Then Clay starts handing things out.
"Energy bars. One each for now. We'll sort the rest once we're somewhere safer." He tosses one toward me. I catch it and tear the wrapper open before he has finished distributing the others. The first bite is dry and overly sweet, but I barely notice. I eat quickly, forcing myself to slow down before I finish it. Hunger makes it easy to forget that food is supposed to last.
We pack what we can carry and leave the rest secured inside the crate. Clay checks the supplies once more, then looks toward the trees.
"We need to figure out this dome," he says. "If there's any way out, we need to find it."
Gevan frowns. "You think they left a way out?"
"I think we should know for certain before we rule it out," Clay adds. It's a reasonable answer, but I can see the tension in Clay's jaw. He's been carrying the responsibility of keeping us together since the moment we landed. Now he's trying to solve a problem none of us understands, and he knows the cost of getting it wrong.
He glances toward the distant glow visible through the trees. "We follow the edge of the Redline. Carefully. If there's a weakness, a gap, anything unusual, we'll find it."
"And if we don't?" Gevan asks.
"Then we'll know what we're dealing with," Clay emphasizes. It isn't reassuring, but none of us has a better plan.
We set off.
The forest is denser farther from our camp, with tangled roots beneath our feet and branches that catch at our sleeves. The glow of the dome appears and disappears through the foliage as we move, always just beyond reach. We stop occasionally to check our bearings, but the terrain offers few landmarks. Every stretch of forest seems to resemble the last. By the time we reach the Redline, nearly an hour and a half has passed.
Up close, the barrier is more unsettling than it looks from a distance. It curves overhead, enclosing the island beneath a faint, luminous sheen. Glitchy, if I may describe it. The scarlet light shifts across its surface, almost like reflections on a broken screen, though there is no movement beyond it that I can make out.
I approach cautiously, stopping a few steps short. Beyond the barrier, the world looks much the same. Trees. Uneven ground. A stretch of sky. Nothing about the view suggests that an invisible wall separates us from freedom.
Weaver walks past me, turning a stone over in his hand.
"Well," he says, "there's one way to find out."
"Don't touch it," Clay warns.
"I wasn't planning to lick it," Weaver jokes.
"Weaver," Clay calls him.
"Fine. Science first, jokes later." He throws the rock.
It sails through the glowing surface without slowing, disappearing into the trees beyond. There is no flash, no resistance, no sign that the barrier has even noticed. Weaver looks back at us and shrugs.
"See? Harmless."
Before anyone can stop him, he extends his hand. His fingertips brush the surface.
The scream that follows tears through the clearing. Weaver jerks backward, clutching his hand against his chest. His face has gone pale, and for once there is no joke ready on his tongue.
"Shit!" Weaver screams.
Clay rushes to him. "Let me see."
Weaver reluctantly opens his fist. The skin across his palm is already reddening, the burn spreading from the point of contact. He clenches his jaw as Clay pulls a clean piece of fabric from his bag and carefully wraps it around the injured hand.
"Don't move it too much," Clay says.
"It feels like I shoved my hand into an oven," Weaver manages through his teeth. "A really angry oven."
I stare at the barrier. The rock passed through untouched. Weaver's hand did not.
"That's strange," I say.
Gevan turns toward me. "Strange? It just burned him!"
"I know." I look from Weaver's injured palm to the place where the rock disappeared. "But the rock went straight through. If the barrier were simply blocking passage, it should have stopped it."
"Unless it can distinguish between objects and people," Gevan says, his voice rising. "Unless it can tell what's alive. Unless––"
"Gevan," Clay interrupts, keeping his attention on Weaver's hand. "One thing at a time."
Blair has moved closer to Reagan, her hand gripping her sister's arm. Reagan watches the dome with wide eyes, as if it might reach out and grab her next.
"Maybe it isn't meant to keep everything out," Blair says quietly. We turn toward her.
She looks at the rock-strewn ground, then at the barrier. "Maybe it's meant to keep us in."
Nobody answers. The possibility hangs between us, more terrible than anything we have said aloud so far.
I step back from the Redline. The barrier continues to shimmer, indifferent to our presence. It doesn't need walls or guards standing at regular intervals. It doesn't need to chase us or threaten us. It only needs to make sure we cannot leave.
Gevan begins pacing, running his uninjured hand through his hair. "We're trapped. We're actually trapped here, and they expect us to hunt some guy in a mask while the entire island tries to kill us."
"Keep your voice down," Clay says, though there is no one nearby to hear us.
"Why? So we don't upset the trees?!" Gevan yells.
"Because panicking won't change anything," Clay says in a low and upset tone.
Gevan stops. "And what will? We can't get out!"
Clay rises slowly, his expression grim. He looks at each of us, as though hoping someone might have found an answer while he wasn't looking. No one has.
"We can't leave," he says at last. "Not this way."
Hearing it from him makes the truth harder to dismiss. The Redline isn't a challenge to overcome by finding the right route or waiting for the right moment. It is a boundary, and we are on the wrong side of it. The only way out is to win.
I look at the barrier one last time. Somewhere beyond it, the Spires continue their lives. People wake in comfortable beds, eat breakfast, and go about their mornings without wondering whether the ground beneath them might be their last resting place. Perhaps some of them are already watching the broadcast, waiting for the next dramatic turn.
They have no reason to care whether we make it home.
"Then we stop wasting time looking for an exit," I say.
Clay's eyes settle on me. "What do you suggest?"
"The Redline is the only boundary we can see, and we know it changes. We should observe where its center appears at midnight, then track the movement. If the Scapegoat is hiding somewhere inside the safe zone, following the pattern might help us narrow down where he can go."
Weaver adjusts the cloth around his palm. "So we follow the giant invisible wall and hope it leads us to a man wearing a goat mask."
"When you put it that way, it sounds stupid," Gevan mutters.
"Most plans do when you put them in your voice," Weaver argues.
"Can you two not?" Clay says.
They fall quiet. Clay considers my suggestion. He doesn't look convinced, but he nods.
"We'll watch the Redline tonight. Until then, we need to get back to camp, collect our belongings, and make sure we have enough supplies to keep moving," Clay affirms.
It's not an escape. It isn't even a guarantee that we'll find the Scapegoat. But it is something we can do. For now, that will have to be enough.
By the time we return to the cabin, the sun has climbed high above the trees. We gather the things we left behind and check our supplies, preparing for another night in a place that seems determined to keep us guessing.
I leave the others to sort through the packs and wander back toward the clearing where I sat with Blair the night before. I tell myself I need a moment to think. The truth is, I want to sit somewhere that doesn't feel like a shelter we've been forced to accept, somewhere I can look at the sky without seeing the walls of our prison.
The clearing is much the same as I remember it. Sunlight filters through the canopy, illuminating patches of grass and the fallen log where Blair and I sat. In daylight, the place feels less lonely. I can hear birds calling somewhere above me, their lives continuing as though nothing has changed.
I sit down and draw my knees up, resting my arms across them. Aunt Evelyn would hate this place. Not the forest itself, perhaps, but the uncertainty. She has always needed to know where the next meal is coming from, whether the roof will hold through the next storm, whether the money will stretch until the end of the week. She taught me to make plans because plans were the closest thing we had to security.
And now I'm on an island where the rules can change overnight. I press my lips together, trying to push away the thought.
Footsteps approach, lighter than Clay's and less hurried than Weaver's. Blair appears between the trees. When she sees me, she gives a small wave before making her way over and settling beside me.
"You keep finding this place," she says.
"It's quiet," I say.
"That's a rare thing around us."
I smile faintly. For a moment, we watch the sunlight shift across the ground. Then Blair turns toward me.
"I wanted to tell you something."
I look at her.
"I've been watching you," she says, then immediately winces. "That sounds creepy. I mean, I've noticed how hard you're trying to keep everyone together."
"I'm not doing anything special."
"You are." She speaks with more certainty now. "You notice things other people miss. You think ahead. Even when you're scared, you still look for something we can do instead of just giving up."
I look away, uncomfortable with the praise. "Someone has to."
"Maybe. But that doesn't make it easy." She pauses, picking at a loose thread on her collar.
"I know you're worried about your aunt. I can't promise you what will happen here, and I won't pretend that surviving is as simple as deciding you want to. But she's still out there, El. Somewhere beyond this island, she's waiting for you."
My throat tightens.
Blair looks at me, her expression gentle but steady. "You have a reason to keep going. A real one. And I believe you'll make it back to her."
I want to ask her how she can be so sure. I want to tell her that belief doesn't stop a knife or keep someone from bleeding out in the dirt. I've seen what happens when people put their faith in things they cannot control. But I also remember how she sat beside me last night, how she let me speak without trying to turn my fear into something smaller or easier to bear.
She isn't promising that nothing bad will happen. She's reminding me that something is waiting for me if I survive it.
I look down at my hands. The tremor I felt last night is gone.
For days, survival has meant little more than staying one step ahead of hunger, danger, and the other Hunters. I've been so focused on the things that could take my life that I've barely allowed myself to picture the life I want to return to.
Aunt Evelyn's face comes to me. The lines around her eyes. Her tired smile. The way she used to reach for my hand when she thought I wasn't paying attention.
I want to see her again.
Not because of the prize money. Not because the Triumvirate has promised me a better life or because I want to prove that someone from the Sinks can win their game.
I want to go home.
The thought is simple, but it settles something inside me.
"Thank you, Blaie," I tell her.
She smiles, looking almost embarrassed. "You don't have to thank me."
We remain there for a little while longer, neither of us feeling the need to fill the silence. Eventually, Blair stands and offers me a hand. I take it, and she pulls me to my feet.
The island is still dangerous. The Redline still surrounds us. We have no idea where the Scapegoat is hiding, and last night's announcement has made it clear that the rules offer us less protection than we thought.
Nothing has changed. Except, perhaps, the way I see what comes next.
For the first time since the game began, I can imagine surviving it. Not as a certainty, and not because I'm suddenly unafraid, but because I finally have something to look toward beyond the next hour, the next meal, the next threat.
Somewhere beyond Blackwake, my aunt is still waiting.
And I intend to see her again.