17 – Forbidden Fruit

Sleep comes in fitful bursts, my mind mercifully blank when it does. The cell’s perpetual chill and the sounds of men’s labored breathing make true rest impossible. When morning arrives, I almost welcome the mind-numbing routine of waiting. Almost.

The food cart’s arrival marks our day’s first excitement—if you can call it that. Today’s offering is meat soup, the broth thin and greasy, accompanied by dense lumps of bread that could double as weapons. Still, we eat. The arena demands strength, even if the food sometimes revolts us.

By late afternoon, the guards collect the first group for the arena. The warmup round, as we’ve come to call it. They handle the men like refuse headed for Ashen Falls’ burning pits, not even bothering to look them in the eye. The condemned men’s faces are masks of grim acceptance. I’m grateful I never learned their names.

I squat down beside Papa, joining him, Isaiah, and Braam in their huddle. They’re discussing Eden’s sweet shops, of all things—a conversation that makes my stomach clench with both hunger and homesickness.

“Anyone ever been to that place in East Vanvale? The one with the good pastries? What’s it called?” Isaiah asks, his eyes distant with memory.

“Astrid’s Bake Shop,” Braam answers immediately. “Their hzarla is amazing.” His voice softens on the last word, betraying a hint of the man he might have been before becoming a protector.

Between reminiscing about forbidden sweets, we plan our escape in hushed tones. We’ve become experts at reading the guards—their routines, their weaknesses, the way they carry themselves. A man’s stance tells you how he’ll fight, how he’ll break.

“One more night of observation,” I whisper. “Then we make our move.”

“So, one more battle in the arena,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

“At least one more,” Braam corrects, his expression grim.

Isaiah shakes his head. “Getting out of Arcmire is just the start. The wastes between here and Graven Pointe might kill us just as dead as the arena.”

“We’ll worry about that when we get there,” Papa interjects. “We were managing fine before those bandits found us.”

“I’ll bet you were.” Isaiah laughs, studying us with newfound curiosity. “What could possibly have gotten you two exiled in the first place?”

I straighten, ready to tell our tale. “I was caught in Fairebourne without a pass. They accused me of trying to steal from a Royal Mistress.” I smile at the memory. “I escaped, but didn’t hide my face well enough. A protector recognized me. Hours later, they stormed our home to arrest me and found Papa with forbidden fruit.”

“Plums?” Isaiah guesses, eyebrows raised.

A chuckle escapes me. “No, though I’d have stolen those if I could. It was books. Papa had quite a collection of forbidden ones.”

Papa’s hidden library flashes through my mind—shelves of banned knowledge, now probably ash. My rebellious streak comes honest, I suppose. I hope against hope that some of those precious volumes survived the purge.

“I’ve got a small stash myself,” Isaiah admits with a conspiratorial smile.

“You can read?” Braam asks, genuine surprise in his voice.

Papa leans forward eagerly. “Which titles?”

“‘The Catcher in the Rye’—that one’s about an outcast.”

“Fitting,” Braam snorts.

“Another by George Orwell, about an animal farm. And one you might like, Neeka—’Alice in Wonderland,’ about a girl too curious for her own good.”

My heart jumps. “Papa, isn’t that the one you used to tell me about? With the mirror-world and the magic potions?” The memory of Papa’s storytelling voice washes over me. “The protectors took it in their first raid.”

“It’s yours when we reach Graven Pointe,” Isaiah offers. “Just keep it private. Solomon’s laws reach even there.”

The arena crowd’s roar grows louder as the doors open. A guard returns alone—no survivors this time. He calls for three more prisoners, who resist briefly before surrendering to inevitability.

“How did you end up here?” I ask Isaiah, curious about life in Graven Pointe.

“My own stupidity,” he admits. “Wandered too far into the Wastes while hunting birds. I make excellent Teyrelsk soup, pairs perfectly with kiju.”

“You drink kiju?” Braam’s eyebrows shoot up.

Isaiah grins proudly. “Make it for Fairebourne. Keep some for the wife and me.”

“So how does hunting birds end up with you in Arcmire?”

“I just strayed too far. Usually hunt with a friend, but he was sick. Should’ve waited for him to recover, but I craved that soup.” He sighs. “Now he’s probably laughing at what a plugtail I am.”

“He’s probably sick with grief,” I say softly.

“He’d better be.” We all laugh, the sound strange in our grim surroundings.

The laughter fades to expectant silence as we turn to Braam. He’s shared little about himself, hiding behind jokes and gruff comments.

“Well?” Isaiah prompts.

“You wouldn’t believe it,” Braam hedges.

“Try us,” I challenge, arms crossed.

He sits up straighter, like a storyteller at a hearth. “Once upon a time, there was a Pleb girl with leg-proths who slipped into Fairebourne three times. No ordinary girl—faster than anything you’ve ever seen, harder to catch than a baldagaar swallowing a gnatfly. That reminds me: Did I ever tell you about the baldagaar that choked on a toad?”

“Enough jokes,” I snap.

“Anyway, that same guard failed to catch her all three times.” His eyes meet mine. “I was that guard.”

“I got you banished?” Guilt twists in my stomach.

“Technically, my failure to catch or kill you did. But yes, you played your part.”

Before I can apologize again, the arena doors screech open. No survivors return. The guard’s voice cuts through our silence: “You three—in the corner. Let’s go!”

He points to me, Isaiah, and Braam. We exchange glances, rising slowly.

“The three of us?” Isaiah mutters. “What in all of Thaloria could we be fighting?”

The question hangs in the air as we move toward the guard. Whatever awaits us in the arena, at least we face it together. I catch Papa’s eye one last time, trying to memorize his face. Just in case.