The structure is much larger than we need, easy for an outsider—or an invader—to get lost in. Perfect for seeking quiet. Not to mention most of the entrances and halls are rigged with floodgates. One order from the Colonel and the whole place goes under, drowned like the old world before it. It makes the place damp and cool in summer, frigid in winter, with walls like sheets of ice. No matter the season, I like to walk the tunnels, taking a lonely patrol through dim concrete passages forgotten by anyone but me. After my time on the train, avoiding the Colonel’s accusing, crimson gaze, the cool air and open tunnel before me feels like the closet brush of freedom I’ll ever know.

My gun spins idly on my finger, a careful balance I’m good at keeping. It’s not loaded. I’m not stupid. But the lethal weight of it is still pleasing. Norta. The pistol keeps spinning. Their arms laws are stricter than the Lakelands. Only registered hunters are allowed to carry. And those are few. Just another obstacle I’m eager to overcome. I’ve never been to Norta, but I assume it’s the same as the Lakelands. Just as Silver, just as dangerous, just as ignorant. A thousand executioners, a million to the noose.

I’ve long stopped questioning why this is allowed to continue. I was not raised to accept a master’s cage, not like so, so many are. What I see as a maddening surrender is the only survival to so many others. I suppose I have the Colonel to thank for my stubborn belief in freedom. He never let me think otherwise. He never let me accept what we came from. Not that I’ll ever tell him that. He’s done too much to ever earn my thanks.

But so have I. That’s fair, I suppose. And don’t I believe in fairness?

Footsteps turn my head, and I slip the gun to my side, careful to keep it hidden. A fellow Guardsman would not mind the weapon, but a Silver officer certainly would. Not that I expect one to find us down here. They never do.

Indy doesn’t bother with a greeting. She halts a few feet away, her tattoos evident against her tan skin even in the meager light. Thorns up one side, from her wrist to the crown of her shaved head, with roses winding down the other arm. Her code name is Holiday, but Garden would’ve been more fitting. She’s a fellow captain, another one of us who answers to the Colonel. There’s ten in all under his command, each with a larger detachment of oathed soldiers sworn to their captains.

“The Colonel wants you in his office. New orders,” she says. Then her voice lowers, even though no one can hear us this deep into Irabelle. “He isn’t happy.”

I grin and push past her. She’s shorter than me, like most people, and has to work to keep up. “Is he ever?”

“You know what I mean. This is different.”