Alexandra let out a snort of derision, hopefully echoing to every curved corner of the gigantic cavern. She could only maintain her reverence for so long, and the expectation to perpetuate the charade around the other members of the Godhead pissed her off to no end. She loved—absolutely cherished—her Evolutionary ascension and role in this movement, and totally agreed with the direction they’d taken over the decades. She just wished people would lighten the hell up every now and then. She was no Athena. Mikhail was no Hercules. And . . . and . . . He was sure as shit no damned Zeus.

Well, she thought, I should’ve just stayed home. I’m not in the mood for this.

But then, she smiled. If she’d sat this one out—something she never would have done and she very well knew it—she’d be back in her rooms thinking about all the exciting things she might miss.

So, here she was, looking at a vast field of ruins, over seven decades old. There was a distinct path through all that twisted metal and cracked stone and broken cement and strewn machinery that somehow still sparked now and then. She knew the path. Two others knew the path. One had walked its holy treads sometime during the night.

And that pissed Alexandra off the most.

She started walking, passing underneath an archway of cement splintered with steel rebar, poking in every which way like metal spears that felled a great antediluvian beast.

She headed toward the Glade.

The Orphan lay curled in bed, the blanket pulled tightly over his head despite being drenched with sweat. He didn’t want others to see his agony. His guilt. His shame.

He’d slipped again in the cafeteria—had thought of himself as Minho, as worthy of having a name. It was a blasphemy that would crush the hearts of those who’d come before him. Those who had trained him. Those who had died, giving him the opportunity to become an Orphan in the first place. He was a wretched embarrassment to his Orphan siblings, asleep in their bunks. All around him, in dozens of beds, lined up like tanks waiting to take off for war, were people who’d, at best, spit on him if they knew, kill him at worst. Nah. Definitely kill him.

He’d been born for this. Raised for this. Trained for this. He was an Orphan.

An Orphan has no name. An Orphan needs no name.