Zusia, Desmond, 10416 P.C.

Stephanie awoke in a foreign room, on an unfamiliar bed, with a headache like no other. She stared up at the ceiling, her head throbbing, her throat like someone had scraped it raw with sandpaper. She took a breath for what felt like the first time in forever, and pain flamed from her mouth into her chest. Swallowing was even more agonizing. Rolling off the bed, she stumbled around until she found a door to a small bathroom. She turned on the sink tap, cupping her hands to catch the cool water to lift to her mouth. It was only a little refreshing.

Leaning heavily against the counter, she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. She was a disaster. Her face was red and blotchy, her eyes bloodshot and puffy, lips chapped and peeling, hair coming undone. The dragonmark on her face seemed to be taunting her, laughing at her grief, marring any beauty she might have had.

Marcie's dead. The thought hit her like a dull blade to the chest. Her reflection blurred as tears welled up in her eyes once more. She wanted to scream again, rage against the unfairness and cruelty, yet not a sound would escape her mouth. Her hands shook as she gripped the counter, forcing herself to remain standing as reality fought to pull her down. Her best friend, her soulmate, her sister — that's what Marcie had been, always by her side, always there for her.

You didn't save her, her reflection said accusingly. You let her die.

Her head screamed in agony. She put her hands to it as if to keep it from exploding. Breathing heavily, she fought sudden nausea. She tangled her fingers in her hair; she could have sworn she saw Marcie in the reflection in the mirror, her lips twitching in that dangerous way as she braided Stephanie's hair. Marcie had always been so gentle when she did Stephanie's hair, always saying she was jealous of how long and perfect it was. They had been growing it out. Stephanie couldn't stand the sight of it any longer.

Cursing her life, the world, everything, Stephanie wrenched open the drawers in the bathroom, searching madly for a pair of scissors. She didn't hesitate when she found them. She snipped off her braid at the base of her neck with trembling fingers. Letting out a breath at the way her hair fell about her face, Stephanie discarded the long braid into the trash and shook out her hair. The cut was uneven, choppy and rather a mess, longer in the front and scarily short in the back, but she didn't care. The list of things she truly cared about anymore was becoming dangerously small.

Escaping the bathroom and her horrid reflection, she returned to the foreign room and looked around with aching eyes. It was similar to her room in the Trainee Campus, and slowly it dawned on her that this must be her new room. She was in the Army now; she must be in the Army Barracks. She let out a shuddering breath.

For the first time, she heard voices outside the door. One of them belonged to Yasmin. It sounded like he was arguing. Stephanie stood still in the middle of the room for several long moments, listening to the sound of the heated discussion outside her door before she finally marched over and opened it.

Yasmin was standing with his back to her, blocking the door, it seemed, and across from him stood a man Stephanie vaguely recognized. She realized she knew him from demonstrations he had done for the Trainees from time to time — he was one of the head commanders of the Army. Commander Jorst, if she remembered correctly. He was of average height, with broad shoulders and a back that couldn't be any straighter. There was no hair on his head except for the dark, thick eyebrows that seemed to permanently sag over his eyes in a scowl. His gaze was like stone, even now as his eyes shifted from Yasmin to her.

Yasmin turned also, his dark eyes swallowing her changed appearance in concern. "Stephanie!"

She didn't respond; she had no voice to. She merely stared.

"Private Stephanie," Commander Jorst began. The fact that he said her name surprised her — few in authority ever addressed them with their given names. "You are to report for duty at once."

"Commander, please, she's just suffered a loss—"

"We suffer losses every day, Trainer Iliescu, and we cannot let us stop us from performing our duties as soldiers." The man stepped closer to Yasmin, his scowl deepening. "The girl is a soldier now, not one of your Trainees. Now remove yourself from the premises before you are removed forcibly."

Stephanie saw the ticking in Yasmin's jaw. He must have been the one to bring her there. She couldn't remember what had happened after the Purge; it was all a hopeless blur that she had no desire to decipher. Her heart pattered an anxious little beat as Yasmin set his shoulders and gave a sharp nod.

"Yes, sir." Yasmin turned sharply and walked away. He didn't look back at her as he left. She hadn't expected him to. Her heart longed to shout after him, to thank him for everything he had done for her, to let him know that she didn't blame him for what happened. The door at the end of the hallway closed before Stephanie realized how much she would miss him.

She was losing everyone.

"Private Stephanie," Commander Jorst said, snapping her out of her dazed thoughts. "Are you listening to me?"

She turned her eyes on him, no words coming to her lips. She only stared, an unconscious act of defiance.

He pressed his lips together. "You will find your equipment in the closet. Be in the courtyard in ten minutes." He paused.

She stared. Slowly, she raised her hand to her forehead, giving him a slow, measured salute. Then she closed the door in his face and leaned against it. She was relieved when she heard his retreating footsteps.

Duty. What duty? Was there already a mission for them? She glanced at the clock that hung on the wall, her temples flashing with pain. It had only been two hours since the ceremony. It must have been planned from the start, perhaps a small recon mission. Bitterness welled up in her chest along with the overwhelming desire to crawl into the bed and pull the covers over her head, to fall asleep and never wake up again.

The image of the scissors on the bathroom counter flashed in her mind. They had been sharp.

No. Stephanie swallowed the lump in her throat, exhaling a trembling breath. Marcie wouldn't want that. Marcie would want her to keep going on.

But what was there to live for? She didn't want to be in the Army. She didn't want to serve the very monsters who had condemned her best friend to death. Stephanie had nothing left but a broken heart and a growing defiance from its shards. If there was nothing left to lose, what was there to be afraid of?

Stephanie set her jaw, understanding now the mindset of the trainees before her, those who had risen up in rebellion, who had fought for justice, for revenge. In their grief, they died, but they were not forgotten. Whether with bitterness or awe, they had been remembered.

She'd give the world a reason to remember her name, even if it meant burning in the fires she started with her own two hands.