Wix had been walking for a good-half-minute when he heard the bells. The chapel bells. Those loud and threatening gongs that carried and echoed so well. Better than the gunshots from before. Big and boisterous and omnipresent. The tolls resounded so clearly and seemed so close that the chapel might as well have been located inside the compound itself.

He picked up the pace, breaking into a jog.

Kedrik was never happy when Jenny wasn't. If they fought today, it could mean extra chores for Wix, and maybe even a beating as well.

Jenny wasn’t aware that this happened. Or at least, she believed that if she told Kedrik not to Tralee it out on Wix, he would comply. She didn’t always understand the ripple effects of her dealings with Kedrik, and that was okay. Wix had no intention of confronting her about it. There was no point in making her feel guilty for something that wasn’t on her. It was on Kedrik.

In seconds Wix was at a full-out run, and after just a few more seconds he was skidding to stop, knocking bits of gravel into the air.

Kedrik was staring at him, leaning at a hard angle, with his pack slung over one shoulder. He waved Wix over with one quick, jerky motion.

"Help me with this," he said. "You're carrying the other half."

The seller was standing nearby, gripping the handles of a cart that looked like it could have been used for selling fresh vegetables at a bazaar. There was a shallow, rectangular plate set into the top, smothered with glittering piles of Ruby. Some of it had been cordoned off into an irregularly tall pile. A ring of space circled it, separating it from the rest of the layer.

Kedrik pointed to the stack. "That's your share of the weight. Hurry."

Each individual chunk of crystal felt heaver than it looked. And it already looked like a lot of crystal to begin with.

Wix opened his bag and began picking up the crystals a fistful at a time, carefully setting them into the bottom of the bag.

The Ruby was sharp in some places, to the point where he was almost afraid he might cut himself. Some sections were rough and craggy, scratching like beard stubble. Still others, particularly on the long pieces, were smooth and flat as windowglass.

"Don't worry about breaking them," Kedrik said. "It's all melting down, anyway."

Though Wix was tempted to ask why, and what they were supposed to be using it for, he didn't want to give Kedrik the satisfaction of knowing he cared.

By the time he'd filled the bag, and closed it, and they were both on the lift again, listening to the crank and whir of old, possibly rusted gears, Wix wasn't thinking about the strange man on the horse--not really--or the fainting girl, though both occurrences together made more than enough excitement for one day. He didn't care about the crystal either. Kedrik could do want he wanted with it. Because soon, any day now, Wix would receive that letter in the mail. The postmark would say that it was from the Federation. The contents would confirm that his application had been accepted. And though he wouldn't wave the letter in Kedrik's face, he would ignore everything the man said to try and get him to stay. He wouldn't even bother to retort. He would simply grab his pack and leave.

Realizing this felt...good. He felt ready.

Possibilities were about to open up. He was going to take them.

Kedrik, on the other hand, looked like he'd just bit down on something bitter. The bells continued to ring, but at this point it was starting feel less like a threat and more like a taunting sort of sound.

Once the lift reached the top of the wall, Kedrik was practically shoving people out of the way to get to the cart, cutting a path through the crowd. Once they were aboard the cart, he slapped the reins, clicking loudly with his tongue.

Despite the imminence of the Shattering Day service, there were still lots of people milling about in town. This indicated to Wix that Tantern's community was not quite so devout as some claimed it to be.

Kedrik turned the cart onto the church grounds, just as bell-ringing came to an abrupt stop. They were late.

Kedrik tied the cart to a post. He stepped around, past Wix.

"Are you really going to just leave all this crystal here?" Wix said.

Kedrik froze, facing the tall statue of Calbreia out front of the church. He seemed to be staring up at it. For no good reason that Wix could possibly think of. What was it with people, today?

Wix put two index fingers in either side of the mouth and whistled, loud and shrill.

That seemed to get Kedrik's attention, drawing a stern glare.

"Just shove the packs in the corner. Put one of the covers over it."

Wix raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

"It's a church," Kedrik said. He'd already turned his back and was heading inside. He gave one last look up at the statue on the way, but it was a brief look.

Wix sighed to himself. Shrugged to himself. What did it matter? He grabbed both the packs by the straps and pulled, dragging and scraping along the wood boards making up that back part of the cart and tucking them into one of the corners. He slid a brown cloth cover over both, tucking lengths of the cloth underneath the bags so it wouldn't be so easy to pull it up for a look. As he was doing this, he could hear a few sets of crackly footsteps on the white gravel. Perhaps he and Kedrik were not the only latecomers.

Only, the footfalls came to a stop not a few paces from the cart.

Wix looked up.

It was Dallon Mays. Arms folded. With his clean boots and his stupid checkered vest. He had three kids with him, all his age. Two boys that Wix only recognized in so far as they seemed to follow Dallon everywhere. There was also a girl. Her name was Avenly, and she was the daughter of Trake, the guy who owned the orchard. In his younger years, Wix had thought that he was in love with her. Before he realized that he had nothing in common with these people. That he didn't belong in this town.

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She was wearing a long, a sapphire-blue summer dress. Her red hair pulled back and tied with a ribbon. She looked cute, and for a second, Wix's breath was caught in his chest. It was weird to be suddenly faced someone who'd been his crush for years.

What pulled him out of it was the look on her otherwise adorable-looking face. An unapologetic expression of disgust. That brought him right back to himself.

It's just a game, he thought, managing his emotions. Like with Kedrik. Make it a game.

Before he knew it he was smiling. Even if it was a bit of a forced smile.

"I see you brought your posse," Wix said, hopping down off the cart to face them. "Back for another round of loogie warfare? But with reinforcements this time."

Dallon shook his head, but it was a weird, lopsided shake, with his chin tilting upward a little. "Someone needs to teach you a lesson, Wixton." He grit his teeth as he spat out the name, like he was calling a bad dog by name. "You don't get to strut around in this town the way you do."

"It's worked so far," Wix said.

As usual, the sheer level of hatred in Dallon's eyes was completely beyond Wix. What had he even done? Simply tried to be himself, in a community that was so intent on belittling and avoiding him at every turn?

Okay, so maybe he could be cheeky. And standoffish. To almost everyone. But to Dallon in particular.

It was impossible to remember when exactly this rivalry—if it could really be called that—had begun. It was a fact of life, at this point. To wonder why it existed was like wondering why the wind blew, or why food and water were necessary for a human to survive.

But that wasn’t really true, was it? Wix knew why he despised Dallon. All too well.

“You don’t belong here.” It wasn’t Dallon who spoke, but one of the boys. An adolescent townie. A miniature Tanternite. All dressed up for the part, waiting for the curtain call. A lifelike depiction.

He even had a length of straw in his mouth, giving the look some rustic, local charm.

Wix must have been smiling even wider, because Dallon posse were looking angrier by the second. Dallon himself was starting to get red in the ears. His earlobes had the color and textured look of a rooster’s comb.

All three of the boys were starting to encroach inward on Wix's space, surrounding him. Avenly stood behind them, looking down her nose at Wix.

“No one belongs here,” Wix said, almost surprising himself by saying it. But he went with the flow. “It’s a barren waste, relegated to outsiders. Why do you think Dallon’s father is here? Nobody wants him anywhere else.”

Why couldn’t they see it? Didn’t they get that this was all just a big scheme? People made money in places like Tantern. But the money didn’t stay. It traveled to the north, and to the east. To the places that actually mattered. To the rich and powerful people who got to call the shots.

Wix was going to be part of that system too, wasn’t he? He would put on that pressed, grey uniform. He would say, ‘Yes sir,’ ‘No, sir’, ‘Of course, sir,’ and he would step in line, and he would do as he was told—within reason. He would do it because he had to. That was how he would play.

Because it was a game. It was all a game. And Wix was willing to let himself be a piece on the board of that game, if only for a short time. It was what he had to do.

These people, on the other hand, didn’t even know the game existed. They had no agency. No will of their own. No idea they played a part.

"Don't make me laugh," Dallon said, voice coming out a growl. "My father makes more money than you or Kedrik will ever see in your entire life."

"No he doesn't," Wix said. And from the brief flash of understanding in his eyes, it seemed Dallon knew what he meant. The Darovenians in the compound made that money. All they got from it were shackles and broken backs. Guthran Mays merely scooped the money away. You could debate the supposed morality of it all you wanted, but it was still the truth.

"You're gonna be sorry you said that," Dallon said.

"I'm sure you're going to come up with lots of mean things to say to me," Wix said. He was already getting bored of this. He needed to go inside. He was going to miss the service.

Dallon shook his head. And the weird thing was, he was actually starting to smile a little. "Not this time."

Just then, a chorus of vocal sounds erupted from within the church. More specifically, the impassioned singing of a Calbreian hymn. The service had started.

And Wix had been tricked. He could shout. He could scream. No one would hear, now.

Run. I should run.

But he never would. He was too proud for that. One of too many self-destructive traits he'd inherited from Kedrik, no doubt.

Besides, they'd catch him, anyway. Why give them the satisfaction?

He moved first, and he moved fast. He punched Dallon directly in the nose.

Dallon's head snapped back, eyes clenched shut. He stumbled, and it seemed like he was about to collapse backward onto the ground. Until one of the boys reached out and grabbed his arm, steadying him.

While this happened, Dallon's other crony pivoted his body and threw a punch, hitting Wix in the right eye and knocking him back against the side of the cart.

All this happened in the space of about a second. And as Wix gripped the side of the cart with clenched fingers, he had a feeling it was far from over.

Screw pride.

Grabbing the cart with both hands, he made a go at clambering up and over, but felt hands gripping his shoulders and the hem of his jacket as soon as his boots were barely off the ground. He was yanked straight back and down, world spinning.

He landed hard on his back, with the bright blue sky straight ahead. For some reason, he couldn't breathe. Something about the impact had shoved all the air out of his lungs. He tried to get some back, but it wouldn't come.

"Oh, you're fide," Dallon said, grasping his nose. "For dow." A trickle of blood escaped through his fingers and ran down his arm, dripping at the tip of his elbow. He lashed out with his leg, ramming the toe of his boot into Wix's side.

Pain lanced in Wix's side and back. But something seemed to have been jogged loose, because he could breathe again. In harsh, rasping gasps, but it was air all the same.

"Why?" Wix said. He spoke without thinking. It wasn't directed at Dallon or the others. It just was. As if the thought had decided to verbalize itself.

Avenly pushed past one of the boys and leaned over Wix, scowling. Her ponytail fell like a rope, frayed at one end.

"Because," she said. "You're a sick freak."

She spat. The glob of spit landed on the bridge of Wix's nose.

He blinked, cringing.

Sick...freak??

Then, she kicked him.

It hurt more than he'd thought it would. Some strength behind that leg.

C'mon, Wix. Get it together.

He jerked upright, moving to get to his feet. Someone's boot heel hit him in the chest, pushing him back down.

He rolled over, scrambling onto his knees, only to be hit in the side of the face. Jean fabric scraped his cheek. Another blow struck him somewhere else, and he could barely register where before they were all on top of him, hitting at once.

He didn't stop fighting. Not once. But fighting hand-to-hand against three or more opponents wasn't much of a fight at all. Not in Wix's experience. And this was no different.

There were times when he was able to get to his feet. For brief moments. And looking back, he had to wonder if they had let him do it on purpose, just so they could trip him again.

At some point, the painful strikes stopped. And the struggling stopped. And the crunchy footfalls of Dallon and his posse began to move away, growing quieter.

Wix was lying on his side, the back of his head pressed against one of the cart's wheels. For some reason, his eyes just didn't want to stay open. The steady fall and shuttering of his eyelids seemed as unstoppable as a sunset. All he could do was watch.

The last thing he heard was Dusty stamping nervously, and letting out a loud snort. And then everything got very quiet. And very dark.