The Star Dwellers

Although she clearly doesn’t belong amongst the rundown and crumbling gray stone shacks, she doesn’t hesitate as she strides down the street, ignoring the stares she attracts. Unable to hold back her nerves any longer, she pauses—just a barely noticeable stutter step—as she nears her target: a tiny stone box, no bigger than a medium-sized shed. She wonders how the two most powerful Resistance leaders could possibly be tucked in such an unremarkable corner of the Moon Realm. The front yard is barren rock, full of crisscrossing cracks and stone chips that roll and slide underfoot as she approaches the thin doorframe.

Before knocking, her eyes are drawn to her feet, where she stands on the only unmarred stone square. Within the block is a single word—friend—elegantly cut with the skill of a professional stone worker. A hint of a smile crosses the woman’s face before she looks up. Despite all her doubts and fears and indecisiveness while making the decision that’s led her to this place, that one word chiseled at the entrance gives her hope that there’s a better life out there for her eldest son—that maybe things can improve for him and for the Tri-Realms as a whole.

Her life is forfeit—stomped out by a loveless sham of a marriage, to the President no less—but her son’s…well, her son’s could change everything.

After a single deep breath, she gathers her courage in a raised fist. When her knuckles collide with the door, the sound is final and hollow in her ears, but in reality is only a thud. Tilting an ear, she listens for footsteps, but is rewarded with only cluttered silence. The clutter: her mind, tripping and stumbling over a thousand questions. Is anyone home? Will the door be slammed in my face? Have I made a grievous mistake? Have I failed him? Have I failed my son? Have I failed myself?

Unexpectedly and without fanfare, the door swings open; a dark-haired woman wearing a plain brown, knee-length tunic fills the gap, her eyebrows raised in surprise. If not for her information, which she received from a very reliable source, she wouldn’t believe this woman to be a revolutionary. Except for her eyes, that is. There’s a fire in her pupils that she’s only seen once or twice in her life. It’s the same fire she sees in her eldest son.

When the woman with the jet black hair doesn’t speak, the intruder realizes her eyebrows are an unspoken question: Yes? Why have you wandered onto my doorstep?

Before answering the silent question, she pulls back her hood, releasing her golden locks and forcing away the identity-protecting shadows on her face. A spark of recognition flashes on the woman’s face, but fades just as quickly. Finally she speaks. “First Lady Nailin—why are you here?”

“Mrs. Rose—I have a proposition for you. May I come in?”

Chapter One

Adele

The light gleams off the barrel of the gun with a brightness that blinds me if I look directly at it. My hands are sweaty as I clutch the weapon that once upon a time was so foreign, but now seems so familiar. The gun’s every detail is burned into my memory, from the temperature of the cold steel against my palm, to its weight tugging on my wrist, to the strong yet delicate scent of burning gunpowder.

When I turn the corner and enter the room, it’s all happening again. My dad is bound and lying prostrate on the rough stone floor, the executioner’s gun to his head. A half dozen other sun dwellers bar my way forward. There’s more than the last time, but it doesn’t matter. A million of them couldn’t stop me. Not this time.

I raise the gun and start shooting. Six booms later my foes are all dead, red and warm and blank-eyed. In the heat of the moment, I continue shooting, this time at the executioner, but the click click click a

Tossing the gun aside I charge forward and kick his bland face with my heel. He slumps to the side, his own weapon discarded by his weakened fingers. I’ve done it this time. Saved him—saved my father. But I know something’s not right as I realize my sister isn’t by his side like she should be.

As I lean over the face of the man who I immediately know is not my father, the Devil’s eyes flash open, the gateway to a black and soulless human shell.

“Didn’t you know?” the President says. “Your father’s already dead. And you’re next.”

My heart is in my throat as the demon lifts his hand, which is now holding a long glinting sword with a diamond-encrusted hilt, which I either didn’t notice before or which has magically appeared.

As his white-knuckled hand darts forward, I scream. Although I don’t close my eyes, blackness surrounds.

* * *

I’m still screaming and seeing darkness when a pair of strong arms cradles my head. “Shh,” a voice says.

I quiet but I’m still breathing hard, panting like I’ve just run a long way, my chest heaving. An instant later there’s a soft glow as a lantern is lit, casting dancing shadows on the rough, brown tu

I close my eyes, willing the frantic pace of my heart to slow. As Tristan’s father pointed out in my nightmare, my father’s still dead—nothing can change that. No amount of fresh killing or revenge or trigger pulls will make one bit of difference. And yet the furnace of revenge burns hotly in the pit of my stomach. Kill his father. Kill the President.

I open my eyes and, despite my vengeful thoughts, say, “I’m tired of all the death.”

Tristan’s face worries its way to a tight smile. “Only one more person has to die, right?” The ever-present buzz whenever Tristan is near me hums along my scalp and down my spine. The urge to get as close to him as possible tugs at my arms, but I hide it well, not even flinching.

Even after the disturbing nightmare, I can’t help but grin when I’m talking to him. “Yeah, just your dad—hope you don’t mind.”

He laughs. “He’s no one’s father.”

“Not even Killen’s?”

“Especially not Killen’s,” he says. “We were only ever puppets to him, used to do his dirty work, nothing more.”

It saddens me to hear Tristan talk like that, but I know it’s true. I’d rather have a dead father than a living one like his. I sigh, wishing I had the same boldness now as when I kissed him back in the Moon Realm.

“What was your dream about?” he asks.

I tell him, watching as his hands tighten into fists, curling and uncurling with each sentence. When I finish, I say, “I don’t know if I’ll be able to do it when the time comes.”

“You’re strong, Adele. I’ve seen it time and time again,” he says, his dark blue eyes never leaving mine.

“Does it take strength to kill?” I ask, almost to myself. “Is that what makes your father strong?”

His hands relax and he folds them in his lap. “It takes strength to defeat evil,” he says wisely. “In any case, I won’t mind being the one to do it when the time comes.”

Despite his more relaxed posture, there’s a thirst for blood in his eyes that I’ve never seen before, which both scares and comforts me. Changing the subject, I say, “So what’s with you and Ram?” I’ve been itching to ask Tristan about his strange relationship with the dark-ski

“What do you mean?” Tristan says, his eyes giving away his hidden laugh.

“Umm, I don’t know…maybe the fact that he threatened to kill you at the council meeting, and you seemed to find it fu

Tristan’s laugh finally presents itself, lighting up his face. I bask in it for a moment as I wait for him to respond. “Let’s just say our friendship has had its ups and downs. Right now we’re on an up.”