Looking at him reminds me of how I used to feel back home on our fishing boat when a storm was about to roll in. Some instinctive part of me knew I needed to drop the oars and row for the docks—to save myself from the raw power coming my way. And yet all I ever wanted to do was stand there and stare. I wanted to watch the dark clouds gather and morph as the wind blew them straight for me, even when thunder shook the air itself.

Maybe that’s why I can’t look away. I’ve spent the last three years going out on our boat, secretly wishing those same storm clouds would roll in and wash me away, too. To urge the waters that took half my family to take me, too.

The scarred volunteer seems to offer the same kind of deadly promise—total annihilation by proximity, as if all it would take is to drift within his orbit to be torn to shreds.

I realize he's staring right back at me still, and I'm suddenly aware of just how fast I'm breathing and how hard my heart is beating. As his gaze drops to the "V" on my chest, something in his expression shifts. His eyes narrow, and his jaw tightens. For a split second, I see his fingers curl into his palm, knuckles fading from a deep tanned color to pure white.

He stalks toward me with purposeful strides, his movements fluid like a predator's, and the crowd parts before him without hesitation.

Oh shit.

"Who is he?" I whisper, not taking my eyes off him.

"Not sure. Scary bastard though, isn't he?" Nolan murmurs. "With burns like that, I'd bet he's from the border regions. Maybe even lived in Red Kingdom territory before Empire reclaimed it."

Mireen's posture stiffens beside me. "I heard the guards talking about a volunteer from the Red Kingdom border. If he's from there, you can't trust him, no matter which side he claims to be on."

Before either of us can say more, the burned volunteer stops directly in front of me. He's even more imposing up close, towering at least a foot above me. The burn scars on his face tell a story of pain and survival, the tissue rippled and angry against his bronze skin. A muscle in his jaw ticks as he stares down at me.

"Volunteer," he says, his voice deep and rough, like stones grinding together. "Let me guess—here to serve the glorious Empire?"

The contempt in his voice when he says "Empire" tells me everything I need to know about where his loyalties lie—or at least where they once did. Mireen might actually be right about him.

"I have my reasons," I answer, lifting my chin to meet his gaze despite the way my heart hammers against my ribs.