‘I – this was not necessary,’ Sapphire sputtered. The images worming their way into her mind were uninvited and unrelenting. These now-smiling faces staring up at her, twisted in pain. Their bodies hunched, curling inwards on themselves as spasms of hunger overtook them. Those rations were worth more than some silly cake. Worth more than her. She wanted to cry – and scream – that she was the only one that saw the truth. Martia should have known better.

‘It is your eighteenth birthday. It was necessary.’ Martia’s tone was sharp, and Sapphire bit her tongue in an effort to swallow the poisonous feeling welling up in her. ‘Take this as an expression of our gratitude for –’ … a pregnant pause filled the air as Martia’s eyes scanned her, finally landing on the fallen creature tucked into her bag – ‘bringing dinner.’

Sapphire offered Martia a tight-lipped smile, knowing she should be grateful – but the words she wanted to say, about how foolish and short-sighted this all seemed, weighed like ashes in her mouth. Still, when her eyes found Lyna’s, she felt the smallest tug of peace. The eleven-year-old’s face was lit up with excitement. A spark of joy she hadn’t seen there in years.

That might be worth some wasted rations.

When Sapphire was given her piece of cake, she quickly passed it to Lyna and Susanna when Martia wasn’t looking. The draughty room warmed slightly as the twins hugged her tightly before running off with their extra serving.

Sapphire was eighteen now, the age at which Martia had thrown many before her out into the world. Their beds were given to children who could not defend themselves from the cruelty of Witrotean. Sapphire had always known that the land was overrun with orphans. The Home was one of the few places those children could find refuge.

But, out of desperation, Martia had made a rare bargain with her. A bed in return for meat. A bed in return for victuals. A bed in return for whatever forageable scraps existed out in those Godforsaken plains. Sapphire was to provide in a way Martia no longer could thanks to age, and war. The Home needed her, and both women knew it. But there was no telling for how long. Nobody was guaranteed a bed or a home in Witrotean any more. She pushed away from the table, rushing to the washroom, seeking relief from the pressure building in her chest.

There, she stared at her reflection. Haggard and tired. Her brown skin dulled by the constant cloud cover of the Witrotean sky. Deep-set bruises had settled beneath her mahogany eyes. Her long, thick hair was tangled from the hours spent in the woodlands’ unforgiving wind. Her face was gaunt, a sign of the famine and the nights she could not find rest. Too withered and worn to be so young.