Page 59 of They Call Me Blue

“Reaching one’s Age of Majority is the most excruciating experience in an elf’s life. It is a blessing that most of us undergo it while unconscious. Those who wake in the middle of their transformation should be quickly sedated. To not do so is an act of cruelty only befitting the elgrew.”

—Rikkon of Ashwood, Starra’lee Medic

Personal Medical Journal

F ucking rylock vines.

I crawl deeper into the tunnel, blindly pushing my go-bag in front of me.

How could I be so fucking stupid? Dying in enemy territory—not in combat but via accidental food poisoning—has to be the single dumbest thing I’ve ever heard of.

Except, I can’t die. I won’t. I have Nirissa to get back to, a mine to explode, and Julian to prove wrong.

I’ve defeated swamp dogs and mudsnakes and more than six dozen elgrew. A stupid plant won’t do me in.

With that in mind, I force myself deeper.

Sweat drenches my body, dripping onto the slick rocks below.

Eyes burning, heart hammering, I push myself even deeper, but my grip slips on the moistened stones—again and again and again—sending me falling chest first into rubble.

Skin rips. I can’t see it, but I can feel it—the sticky blood that oozes from my palms and knees.

But I’m almost there. Left. Left. According to the schematics, one more turn and—

My brows furrow.

The go-bag’s hit a wall, but that can’t be right. The maps clearly said the exit would be here—unless I read them wrong? Panic constricts my chest, turns my breathing ragged, but I block it out and do the only logical thing. I retrace my steps.

Carefully, slowly, I crawl backwards through the vent, dragging my go-bag with me. The duffel snags on the rocks, straps and flaps fighting me with each pull. Cursing under my breath, I get us both close enough to the opening to see the moonlight above. Then, I try again.

My bag hits the same unyielding stone in front of me, and I growl in frustration.

Chest Wound, that fucking idiot, got the maps wrong.

Either that or the tunnel collapsed. I pull my hair and yank, staring at the dark tunnels that surround me.

I’m so fucking close. Marr-dammit, I’ve come too far to fail at the final stretch.

As long as this mine is in operation, there will always be more elves to put in the arena, to collar as myrie, to kill in the mess halls. Giving up means letting everyone down. Failing them.

Steeling my resolve, I backtrack to the opening one more time.

Back in Starra’lee, Chest Wound and I discussed other routes—I don’t remember them as clearly, but I’ll make do.

Panting, my lungs struggle to keep pace with my body, pumping in dusty air that burns worse than inhaling smoke.

My nose runs. An ashy paste coats my tongue—metallic and sharp.

I turn right near the vent’s opening instead of left, crawling forward until rocks surround me on all sides. They press against my spine, my chest. They snag on my leather breastwrap despite Chest Wound’s assurances that the vents would be narrowest near the opening.

I’m not small enough to clear it.

A headache pulses low at the center of my temples, but I push through it.

With a heavy sigh, I turn around for the third fucking time until the vent is wide enough for me to roll over.

I flip onto my back, pin my arms to my sides, and crawl back to the squeeze point.

The rugged sandstone grips me like a mudsnake.

Blue dust shimmers all around me, plastering to my moist flesh.

But I keep squirming forward, kicking my feet and wriggling my hips to propel me deeper into the air duct.

My oversensitive, rashy skin screams in protest. Something sharp stabs into my stomach.

Almost there.

Almost—

With a pop, my body and my duffel squeeze into a space barely any larger than either one. And then that panic I’ve been working through worms its way back. I can’t turn around. It’s physically impossible for me to propel my hands and feet any direction but forward. Even then . . .

I twist my body from side to side but can’t make enough space to use my arms.

I’m not going to fit.

I’m going to die down here, alone and in the dark.

Terrified, angry tears leak down my cheeks. I choke and cough on that metallic dust, unable to move, unable to breathe. My legs feel like they’re made of lead. And although the air is cool around me, my veins feel like they’re pumping magma rather than blood.

Colorful dots flicker at the edges of my vision. I’m hyperventilating, but I don’t know how to stop it.

The balls of my feet slide across a patch of glossy bedrock, the texture too flat to gain any traction.

A fingernail splinters as I claw at the unforgiving, unyielding stone.

Then another. I cry out in pain, my entire body throbbing—the bones, the flesh, the joints, they’re all so fucking tender.

I’m suffocating underneath layers of skin and clothing and dirt.

These vents aren’t just narrow; they’re impossible.

More colorful dots appear—my head so woozy I know I’m minutes, maybe seconds from passing out. And then the walls get even tighter. Impossibly so. But that doesn’t make sense because I’m no longer moving. Maybe it’s my imagination, or maybe I’m . . .

“No.” I shake my head, unable, unwilling to believe the truth. The tunnel isn’t shrinking; I’m growing. I’m not sick—I’m transforming. “No, no, no. Not here. Not now. Please let it be rylock,” I croak.

“I wish it were you tomorrow.” Lyrick’s words from last night’s dreamare a low purr inside my ears. And now I understand what they mean. The breeding ceremony. Giara.

I kick and thrash as hard as I possibly can and move a handful of inches. Cold liquid percolates down the stone, seeping onto my burning face. It's the water from Azerin’s damned lake. I’m getting close. I must be.

To my left, a gust of air tangles with my soaked hair. A branching path wasn’t on the map, but I take it anyway, desperate for an escape. Through sheer fucking will, I force myself past an opening I shouldn’t be able to fit through and stones scrape against every part of me.

For a moment, I’m in free fall. Then my bag and I thump to the floor.

Dim glowfly lanterns bathe the mine in blue light, but I barely notice the stockpile of cold iron that surrounds me.

My blurry, tear-filled gaze is focused on my body.

Lumps that didn’t exist before press up against my breastwrap.

Curvy hips and long legs cause my shorts to hug painfully tight.

The fresh skin— new skin—looks glossy in the lighting.

“Don’t stop. Please.”

My words send a fresh wave of horror through me, as I remember just how much I wanted him to touch me. Darkness creeps along the edges of my vision—a combination of panic and growth dragging me toward unconsciousness.

“Do you know what my people want to do to you, Blue? Are you old enough to have been told?”

All my life, I’ve worked hard to avoid that fate. And now I’ve delivered myself right into their stronghold.