The Sun Dwellers

To my surprise, Tristan laughs. “Is that what you thought I’d do? I knew you were arrogant, Father, but come on! I never even considered returning to you. And guess what? My love for Adele has nothing to do with some microchip. It never did. Nothing has changed.”

I hear the end of his speech, but I don’t comprehend it. I’m still stuck back on one word. Did he say love? My heart is alive and torn, ripped open with the weight of what I’ve just learned, but buzzing with the excitement of Tristan’s profession of love. And if my feelings aren’t being pushed and pulled in enough directions already, I realize something else: either my mother or father or both of them were in on everything. Tristan’s mother said it in her note. She would try to convince the leaders of the Resistance—my parents—to implant one of their children with the paired microchip. I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. I don’t know whether to be extremely pissed they would do something like that to me and keep it a secret for so long, or if I should be thanking them for bringing me to Tristan, for whom my feelings are the most mixed up of all.

Love. The word rings through my head, silencing all other thoughts. But do I love him back? Does it matter? The Moon Realm is about to be destroyed and the Star Realm will fall shortly after, and I’m about to watch Tristan face off against his best friend, both of whom I care deeply about.

Tristan’s father is apparently also shocked by Tristan’s declaration, because two seats down he’s fuming, his face a red mess, his hands fisted like clubs at his side. “Then you’ll pay the consequence for your choice!” he roars.

“I will not fight Roc,” Tristan says calmly.

“Not yet you won’t. I have another challenger for you first.”

A door opens at the far side of the space that’s been turned into an arena. Killen walks through the door.

Tristan

My brother’s wearing red body armor and carrying a duel-edged sword, freshly sharpened by the looks of it. He’s also wearing a sneer that reminds me so much of my father it’s scary. My first thought is to talk to him, but his evil smile washes away any thoughts of trying to change his mind. I’m going to have to fight him—that’s all there is to it.

How can I possibly fight after what I’ve just learned? The confirmation that Adele and I were brought together by something outside of our control, by the actions of my mother, in some crazy, half-chance that we would come together against my father? It all seems so wildly farfetched that it can only be true. What better way to seed a rebellion than to unite the son of the President with the daughter of the Resistance leaders? It’s genius, really. And the proof is in the results. We’re here, trying to assassinate him, to bring equality and balance to the Tri-Realms. If we’d only succeeded in our mission, it all would’ve worked to perfection.

Instead, I have to fight my brother.

A guard enters the pit, aims a gun at Roc’s head, says, “Drop the swords.” It’s the first gun I’ve seen any of the guards using, which is interesting. They could have a

Roc obeys, scattering the blades on the floor. The guard escorts him up the steps and sits him in a section separate to Adele and Tawni.

“You want to show you’re the strongest Nailin?” my father says. “Kill your brother, or be killed by him. The wi

Turning toward Killen, I say, “Killen, we don’t have to—”

Killen rushes at me, his fifteen-year-old body looking more grown up than I remembered. Clearly he’s been training. I react quickly, instincts kicking in, as I roll to the side and scoop up both swords, one in each hand. My right hand is sticky with blood from the wound on my arm, but appears to have dried well; there’s already a deep, almost black crimson film that’s crusted along the gash.

I don’t want to fight him, but I also don’t want to die yet. Not until I read the rest of my mother’s words; not until I can speak to Adele.

I back away, getting a feel for the two swords, letting Killen come to me. Whenever we practiced together growing up, he was always the aggressor, relying on emotion over skill. Things haven’t changed.

He lunges at me, slashing his sword with a lightness that shows his improvement. As I block the attack with my left blade, I hear my father clapping heavily, encouraging the guards to shout and cheer. He’s enjoying watching his sons try to kill each other.

I flash my right sword at Killen’s leg, but he blocks it with a deft defensive maneuver that I’ve never seen him perform before. When he sweeps a leg at me, I see my opening. I block his kick with a raised leg, catching it on my boot, cut at him sharply with both swords simultaneously. He blocks one with the edge of his blade, but the other one clangs off his body armor with a force that jars my arm and knocks him off balance. I put so much strength into the blow that I nearly cut through the armor.

Killen, wide-eyed and probably realizing that he’d be dead if not for the armor, backs away, staring at the dented metal plate strapped to his side.

“What are you doing, son? Get him!” my father yells. I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or Killen (maybe both of us), but Killen looks up, embarrassment pink on his face for just a second. He’s still just a little boy trying to please his father. The thought makes me sad and want to drop my sword, but then anger kicks in and he scowls, pushing the body armor up and over his head, letting it drop to the floor behind him.

“It slows me down,” he explains. “You don’t stand a chance now.”

“Don’t do this, Killen,” I say.

“Scared to die, brother?” he asks, twirling his sword over his head.

I don’t answer him, don’t want to tell him that I’m scared to kill him. If my mother knew, it would break her heart.

“Time to die, Tristan,” he says, charging me.

I step to the side, letting him run by me, blocking his probing swing with my left sword. He pivots and then launches a barrage of blows, side to side, up and down, slash and parry, jab and block. By the end of it we both have a thin sheen of liquid coating our arms and legs and faces.

“I’m just warming up,” Killen says.

I’m just biding my time, trying to think of a solution that doesn’t involve me killing my brother or him killing me. But there’s just no way around it. It seems that in our world, someone always has to die. And it won’t be me.

I go on the offensive, distracting him with a left, right, left combination so I can sneak a kick into his chest. It works—I was always better at using my skin-and-bone weapons better than him—and he goes down hard, dropping his sword. Surging forward, I jump on him, lean a knee on his chest, hold him down, the tip of my sword against his breast.

“You’re beaten,” I say. “Don’t make me kill you. Mom wouldn’t have wanted this. She wanted us to stand up to Father, to stop him from hurting people.”

Breathing hard, Killen says, “I—I can’t, Tristan. All I want is for him to respect me, to follow in his footsteps. If I surrender to you he’ll always think of me as weak.” His face is pale and red at the same time—blotchy. For a second I just see my younger brother, the one I used to play knights and dragons with, who used to sit on my mom’s left knee while I sat on the right, who shared a room with me when we were little. And then I blink and he’s gone, replaced by a mirror image of my father with one thing on his mind: killing me.

He slips a knife from a hidden scabbard, thrusts it at my face.

Adele