Page 17

CHAPTER

FOURTEEN

Zaffir

My hands trembled at my sides as I crossed the threshold into the Show Center. I didn’t come here often, I didn't need to. Most of my work was done from the safety of my own quarters or sent off through encrypted channels. But today was different. Today, I’d been summoned. No explanation. No preamble. Just an insistent message that left my stomach twisting itself into knots.

The place was alive with motion. Technicians hurried between workstations, Architects barked orders over comms, and massive digital boards flickered with maps, schematics, and footage from the last trial. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, loud enough that it felt like the sound might give me away. I wasn’t supposed to be nervous, I worked for them, for Praxis, for the system. But lately, with every step I took, I felt less like an insider and more like an intruder.

As I weaved through the organized chaos, my eyes darted to the boards. Trial layouts. Projected survival rates. Trap placements. My fingers itched to grab a data slip, to memorize a camera angle, anything I could feed back to Brexlyn to give her even a sliver of an advantage. But I forced myself to look away. That was a good way to get yourself dragged into a room you didn’t walk back out of.

At the front desk, a petite woman with sharp eyes and a clipped tone barely looked up. “Can I help you?”

“Zaffir Stark,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I was called for a meeting.”

She tapped a few keys, her expression unreadable. “You’re expected. Conference room’s through there. She’ll be with you shortly.”

I managed a stiff nod and made my way toward the door, my mind already racing through every possible reason they might have dragged me in for a face-to-face. Maybe they found out I took over the Darkbranch Collective’s feed during the trial. Maybe someone noticed how I cut the footage to protect the Grey siblings’ interactions with Ezra, how I buried the moments that could’ve sparked a feud and boosted the drama. The higher-ups loved their rivalries, betrayals, bloodied faces and desperate alliances. But that would’ve put Brexlyn right in the center of a storm she wasn’t ready for. I wasn’t going to let that happen. No, it was better for her to be seen as part of a strong alliance. A team. Her and her Wildguard, as I dubbed them.

And now, maybe they knew.

I slipped into the conference room and froze for a moment, taking in the space. It was… luxurious. The kind of room no one from the outer Collectives would ever see, let alone step foot in. Thick velvet curtains muffled the sounds from the center outside. A stained glass lamp cast a warm, honeyed glow across a polished wood table that looked like it co uld stop a bullet. The air conditioning hummed softly, making the hair on my arms rise.

This was the kind of privilege my status bought me. And for the first time in years, I actually noticed it.

Ever since Brexlyn crashed into my life, I couldn’t stop seeing the fractures in this place. The things I’d stopped questioning. The comforts I never realized others bled and died for. Every step I took here felt heavier now. Like I was carrying something with me that I hadn’t been before.

I sat down and let my gaze drift to the far wall, where a row of portraits displayed some of the most decorated champions in Reclamation Run history. Their faces were etched into the collective memory of Praxis, legends born from blood and broadcast. Among them, Edgar Soonwater of Ember Collective stood out. He was a Challenger when I was still a kid, a name spoken in every household, his victories recounted like bedtime stories. My friends and I would reenact his greatest hits on the playground.

Edgar had done what no one else had. Sixteen trial wins out of twenty, placing in the top five for the rest. An impossible streak. A miracle by Run standards. After his final victory, you couldn’t turn on a screen without seeing Ember. Footage of grateful families receiving resources. Smiling children holding baskets of produce, people receiving medical assistance. Edgar had saved them.

Back then, I believed it. I remember thinking how thrilling it was that he won. How good it must feel for Ember, to finally get their due. But now I see it for what it was. Even with Edgar’s record-breaking performance, even with the blood, sweat, and bone he left on those trial grounds, the footage of Ember was still a pale shadow compared to Praxis. The Collective’s streets were cracked, their power grids unstable, their medical supplies rationed to the ounce. And the next year, the resources all went away again, waiting for another Challenger to fight for them. Meanwhile, Praxis broadcasted from towering spires and silk-lined conference rooms, sipping from glasses no one else could afford.

The Collectives could fight, bleed, and die a thousand times, and they’d still never catch up. The game was rigged long before it ever started.

It wasn’t right.

It wasn’t fair.

I understand that now.

And if this meeting was the end of my career, if they pulled my feed rights, cut my access, erased my name from every server and clearance list, how was I supposed to protect Brexlyn then? How could I keep her safe from a system designed to devour people like her?

I clenched my fists in my lap, feeling my nails bite into my palms, and fixed my stare on the table’s flawless, polished surface when the door opened.

I’d only seen Archon Evanora Veritas in person a handful of times each year, usually during opening ceremonies or broadcast debriefs for the Reclamation Run. But never like this. Never with just the two of us in a room, no buffer of officials or fellow producers to soften the weight of her attention.

She strode into the conference room like she owned the air itself, her sharp gaze locking onto me the second the doors opened. She wore a soft, silver pantsuit that shimmered under the stained-glass glow of the overhead lights, every movement of the fabric catching and scattering light. Her dark hair was twisted into an intricate bun atop her head, pinned with jeweled clasps and tiny diamonds that glinted like frost.

I stood as she approached the head of the conference table, lowering my head in a bow I hoped masked the pulse hammering in my throat .

“Archon Veritas,” I murmured, voice steady by some miracle. “It’s an honor.”

It was also probably a death sentence. But I couldn’t say that part out loud.

“Zaffir Stark,” she said, her voice as smooth and sharp as glass. She gestured for me to reclaim my seat with a flick of her fingers, a dismissive little motion. I obeyed, sitting slowly.

“You’ve been in your line of work a while now, haven’t you?” she asked, tapping a single polished fingertip against the tabletop, a slow, deliberate rhythm that felt more threatening than casual.

“I have, ma’am,” I answered. “I’ve been behind a camera for as long as I can remember.”

“You like telling stories, do you?”

I swallowed. “I do.”

She hummed, a small, thoughtful sound. “Yes… storytelling is one of the most useful weapons a society can wield. Don’t you think?”

I said nothing, just nodded, though I could feel her gaze peeling back my skin like she was searching for the softest place to cut.

“You love your work, then?” she prompted, eyes narrowing the tiniest fraction.

“I do,” I replied evenly.

“You must,” she said, a faint smile curling at the corners of her mouth, not kind, but knowing. “After all, I can’t imagine anyone offering to take on twice the footage if they didn’t love what they do.”

A chill slid down my spine. My breath hitched for a heartbeat, but I masked it as best I could.

I had to play this carefully. No hesitation. No cracks.

“I didn’t take on Darkbranch’s feed out of love for the work,” I said, adopting the cold, clinical tone Praxis expected. “ I did it out of necessity, the need to manage my Challenger’s narrative.”

Her eyebrow lifted, the slightest arch of interest. She wasn’t convinced yet, but she was listening. “Is that so?”

I nodded once. “Canyon hasn’t elected a Challenger with a viable shot at survival in years, let alone one capable of contending for top placements. The past several seasons, my work’s ended early, Challengers washed out in the first few trials, leaving nothing to edit, nothing to broadcast. No story to tell.”

I leaned forward slightly, threading just enough ambition into my voice to sound like one of them. The words I was saying were things I may have said in earnest a few weeks ago, but now they felt false. “This year… I saw potential. An opportunity to prolong my time in the Run and improve my standing. Their success is my success, after all.”

It felt strange, and colder than I liked, to talk about Brexlyn and Ezra like that. Stripping them down to assets and survival percentages when all I wanted was to keep them breathing.

I wondered if she could see through it. If she could feel the falsehood clinging to my words like static.

But if she did, she gave no sign. The Archon simply leaned back in her chair, that unreadable smile still playing at the corners of her lips, and studied me like a piece on a game board.

“I heard there was an altercation between the Canyon elected and the Darkbranch chosen,” Archon Veritas said, her voice as smooth and sharp as glass. It wasn’t a question. She already knew the truth. There was no use pretending otherwise.

I should’ve realized Char would scrub the footage before passing it off to me. I was lucky he’d let me handle the edit at all. Foolish to hope he wouldn’t keep eyes on it.

“Yes,” I admitted quietly.

Veritas didn’t react, didn’t blink. “Why wasn’t it included?”

I took a slow breath, tried to shrug like it didn’t matter, like my pulse wasn’t thundering in my ears. “Because the Canyon fool forgave him before the fight even got good,” I said, keeping my tone casual, irreverent. “I had a cut with the altercation in, but it was… dull. Barely a tackle, no blood, no real fists thrown. Frankly, it was boring.”

“Boring,” she echoed.

“Yes, Archon,” I nodded. “The real story wasn’t the scuffle, it was what came after. The shared interest in protecting the girl. For some reason those three put aside their goals and focused on her. So, I thought the edit should mirror the same. And based on the viewership metrics, the commentary threads, and the rising favor scores… I believe it was the right call.”

I didn’t dare fidget, though my heart felt like it might punch clean through my ribs. I prayed she couldn’t hear it from where she sat. Or see the panic clawing at the edge of my carefully practiced expression.

Veritas hummed, leaning back slightly, one manicured finger tracing a slow circle against the table’s polished surface. “Yes… I’ve seen the data. It appears this…Wildguard has garnered quite the following.”

I inclined my head. “They have.”

It was impossible not to notice. The public was ravenous for them. The bold, reckless girl fighting for a brother no one but her could save, and the three dangerous and powerful competitors who kept risking themselves to keep her safe. The footage of Briar tending to her wounds had gone viral. Thorne protecting her from the bobcat was winning him some serious points in sympathy threads. Even Ezra, green-eyed and sharp-tongued, had charmed the viewers when he whispered reassurances to her and nearly cried with relief at finding her after days of non-stop searching.

I knew I was supposed to be jealous of it. Of the way Thorne’s body pressed against hers as they hid behind cover. Of Ezra’s mouth brushing the vulnerable skin at her throat when they reunited. Of Briar, her hand gently pressing against her injured face, fingers ghosting along the curve of her cheek, pulling soft, breathy sounds from her lips.

But I wasn’t.

I wasn’t jealous at all.

If anything, I envied that I wasn’t also there. I found myself wishing I could have been there in the flesh and blood reality of it, rather than trapped behind a screen, scrubbing through hours of footage. Watching moments I’d never get to feel, never get to be part of.

I’d catch myself leaning closer to the monitors when her laugh cracked through the comms, when she smiled at something one of them muttered, when she let herself soften for half a second, and I’d realize how pathetic it was to feel so desperate for a girl who already had three other people pining after her.

But I couldn’t look away.

“Our little lottery pick has certainly made quite the impact,” Archon Veritas murmured, her voice silk over steel. She folded her hands beneath her chin and leaned forward, those sharp, predator’s eyes pinning me in place. “We haven’t had a fan favorite stand out this early in the broadcast in quite some time.”

I swallowed hard, forcing a polite smile. “Thank you, Archon,” I replied, though I wasn’t entirely sure it was meant as a compliment.

A long, loaded silence stretched between us. Veritas let it hang there because she wanted me to feel the weight of her gaze, the careful calculation behind those pale, gleaming eyes.

Then she spoke, her tone light but razor-sharp. “You understand, of course, that your job isn’t simply to tell the best story” She let the words sink in like a knife twisting slowly. “It’s to tell the right story.”

I felt a cold ripple down my spine. I nodded once, careful. “Of course, Archon.”

“The people need heroes and villains, Mr. Stark,” Archon Veritas continued. “They need cautionary tales, and they need shining examples. We give them both. We always have. The narrative shapes loyalty. It shapes compliance.”

She let the pause stretch, her eyes locked on mine, cold and deliberate.

“And most importantly,” she added softly, “it shapes hope, a dangerous, volatile thing when placed in the wrong hands… or stoked too high.”

Her meaning was clear, but she chose to spell it out anyway.

“Go ahead and let them root for her. For the girl with the sick little brother. Let them cheer when she stands her ground, or when her allies bleed for her. We want their hearts invested.” Her lips curved into something too sharp to be a smile. “But make no mistake, what we don’t want, Mr. Stark… is a martyr.”

My throat tightened.

“Now, of course, with favor like hers we’ll do what we can on our end to keep her in the Run for as long as possible. But say she dies in a trial,” she tossed out and I tried to school my expression when imagining that horrible outcome. “We want the audience to feel sad, heartbroken. But not betrayed. Her death should make good TV, not spark riots in the streets. If you build her too high, if you turn her into something untouchable… if her fall makes the wrong kind of sound…it won’t be the Collectives who suffer the consequences.”

She tapped a single, lacquered fingernail against the table. Click.

“It’ll be you.” The words hit harder than any shout could’ve. I swallowed hard and gave a stiff, measured nod. “It will be all of Praxis.”

“Understood, Archon.”

“Good,” she murmured, glancing toward the door. She smiled then, though it didn’t touch her eyes. “It would be… in your best interest to remember that. Especially with such volatile pieces on the board this year.”

“And since you have such a clear vision for their story, I’ve relieved the editor for Darkbranch, and you’ll be taking on his duties as well. I assume that’s amendable?”

I nodded. “It is, thank you, Archon.”

“I’m sure we won’t have to have this conversation again.”

I shook my head.

She tapped a slender finger against the table, a signal more than a gesture. The door behind me hissed open, and two guards appeared in the frame.

“Good. See to it that we don’t. You’re dismissed.”

I stood, bowed my head once more, and turned to leave, not too fast, not too slow. Just the right amount of deference.

“Oh, and Mr. Stark?”

I paused in the doorway, turning back to face her.

Archon Veritas clicked a button on the remote, and the screen behind her flickered to life. Winnie Fetter's final moments, the sweet old woman from Steelheart, filled the room. The grainy footage from her camera shook as the wolves descended. Her screams pierced the air again, the wet, snarling sounds of teeth on flesh following close behind.

The first time I saw it, it made my stomach turn. But now, with Veritas watching me like she crafted the ending all on her own, it made something deep in me splinter.

“Your Brexlyn is a lovely girl,” she said, voice smooth as glass. “But you’d do well to remember that you are Praxis. And she is Collective. Wolves and lambs.” As if punctuating her point a wolf snarled as it ripped into Winnie.

“Yes, ma’am.” I tried to school my expression. To hide the way the violence on the screen made me want to scream, or cry, or fight.

I stepped out of the room, feeling Veritas' eyes like a weight between my shoulder blades. I walked away as fast as I could but Winnie’s screams chased after me.

I had a feeling they always would.