Page 2 of Storm of Shadows

Unfortunately, like everyone else on this train, I have no special powers, no remarkable abilities. I don’t have a way to silence all the voices or block out all the sound. Just like them, I’ll endure a year of hell at the academy – tested, assessed,probed to the extreme. Only for them to find out just how ordinary we all are and send us straight back to Slate Quarter.

An hour passes and another. Somewhere along the journey, I open my eyes and watch the passing landscapes outside the window. I can’t help it. I’ve never left Slate Quarter before. This is the furthest I’ve ever been from home, and I am curious.

At first, it’s all snow and ragged crops of mountains as far as the eyes can see, then gradually it thaws and trees and grass spring up from the ground – so much green it makes my head buzz. I want to press my nose against the glass and breathe it all in, pretend this is some magical adventure and not the start of a year of pain.

Unfortunately, any hope of escaping into a comforting daydream is interrupted by the slamming open of the carriage door. I should ignore whoever is swaggering through the doorway, but that damn curiosity of mine gets the better of me and I can’t help peering over my shoulder.

Stanley Chandlers and his band of merry meatheads.

For a second, I catch his eyes and his top lip – one I’ve kissed – curls in disgust. Then I snatch my head back round and stare straight ahead.

I’m not interested in any of his bullshit.

“Hello, friends,” he snarls, and I can almost hear the others in the carriage shaking around me. Seriously, and they think they’re actually going to make it through Firestone Academy? That they’ll return home heroes to their families and not in a body bag?

I’d roll my eyes, but I know it’ll only provoke a jerk like Stanley.

“You know the drill,” he says, striding into the middle of the carriage, hands deep in his worn pant pockets. “Open your bags and hand over your lunches.”

There’s a menace in his voice, at odds to his laid-back demeanor, and no one argues. There’s rustling as people unzip bags and root around for their lunches – lunches their moms probably packed with care.

From the corner of my eye, I watch Stanley’s gang move around the carriage, snatching boxes and parcels of food, irritatingly smug grins plastered across their faces.

I turn my attention back to the window.

“And you too, Storm.” I feel a hand slap down on my shoulder and then his hoarse voice by my ear. “We all know you think you’re special or some such shit. You’re not. Give me your lunch.”

I’m trapped. My usual method of escape – running as fast as I freaking well can – is not an option. The only place to run to is right off the end of the carriage, onto the tracks, and most probably under the wheels of the train.

I snap my head around and glare at him. “Why? Did your mom forget to pack you one?”

It’s a low blow. One I know will hit him hard. I doubt anyone else knows about his mom. Only me.

His brow furrows, his eyes turn cruel, and he shakes me so damn hard I feel my brain rattle against my skull.

It’s hard to remember the sweet boy he used to be, the one I spent that summer with three years ago. The one who was my friend. The one I kissed.

That was before he got tall and big and popular.

“Give me your fucking lunch, bitch,” he snarls.

I keep my face blank. I learned from Muriel that if you show nothing, it makes them even madder. They want tears. They want anger. It’s best if you don’t give them anything at all.

“I don’t have any,” I say robotically.

He slams me back against the seat. The carriage is silent except for the rattle of the train on the tracks and the wind whistling past the windows. Everyone else is still, watching us.

“You’re lying.” He takes a fistful of the collar of my thin jacket. “You think you’re special.”

“I don’t,” I whisper.

“You think you’re going to get to the academy and they’re going to see how smart you are and you’ll be assigned Granite Quarter. But you’re wrong. You’re fucking stupid. There’s only a handful of us who are going to make it through the academy with enough points to be assigned some better quarter – who aren’t going back to that shithole. And you won’t be with us.”

For once, he may actually be right. Although, I doubt it will be as many as a handful. One or two, possibly. Stanley, though, has a good chance. He’s strong and athletic – he certainly won’t make it to Granite Quarter with all the nerds and scholars, definitely won’t be going to Onyx Quarter with the shadow weavers, but he has a good chance of Iron Quarter with all the other jocks and soldiers.

“Oh - kay,” I say slowly, as if what he’s saying is the most boring thing I’ve ever heard.

His expression hardens further. Since his glow up, he’s been used to people treating him with respect. I can sense the blood in his veins boiling.