'Are you alright, Samma? You've hardly said a word all evening.'

I jerk as something kicks my shin and fight to hold back a wince; Auntie is leaning across the table, her face full of concern. Musa, on the other hand, is a picture of innocence. My mum and dad prod their rations in silence.

'Fine.' I nod, spreading my features into a smile. It's not easy—you could cut the tension with a knife. A typical evening in the Fazil household.

'And Nura? How has she been today?' Auntie continues, a little wary now, cautious. I have to give her credit. She's persistent.

'How do you think, Mum?' Musa rolls his eyes and gets a slap on the arm in return.

'Same as ever, I guess,' I shrug, raising my eyes to my parents, left to dad, right to mum. Dad's face sours, but other than that, he doesn't react. Mum has a glazed look about her—I doubt she can even hear our conversation. 'Maybe she dreamt a little this morning, but it's hard to tell.'

'I know, sweetie.' Auntie sighs. 'Musa, honey, please stop kicking your cousin under the table. I know what you're doing, I'm not stupid.'

Musa scowls. 'I made Sammi something for her birthday,' he says, swiftly changing the subject. 'Look, Mum. Show her, Sam.'

Dutifully, I hold out my wrist, and Auntie coos over my new bracelet, making all the right noises. I don't expect my parents to notice, and of course, Mum doesn't even flicker. But my dad actually glances up, and for a moment, my stomach wiggles with excitement. Then I see his look of revulsion.

'Get that abomination off your wrist now.'

My eyes meet Dad's with defiance. He frowns deeper than ever before rounding on Musa instead.

'What were you thinking, giving her something like that? What will people say? They'll get the wrong idea. Don't you want Samma to ever meet someone?'

Something in my chest twists.

Musa's face glows fuchsia. 'What, now she's sixteen you're instantly ready to palm her off to another family?'

'You know what I mean,' Dad growls, scratching the rash on his arm. 'Don't be facetious.'

'People can think whatever they want,' I say through gritted teeth. 'We've done nothing wrong.'

'You want people to think you're promised to your cousin? You're a funny girl—'

A clattering noise makes me jump; Musa stands up so fast, his chair topples over. He kicks it out the way and storms from the room. 'At least I bothered to get her a gift.'

The rest of us remain, mute and awkward, at the table.

'You understand, don't you, Samma?' Mum's voice rings out at last. 'Without Nura . . . what is there to celebrate?'

'I understand.' I get to my feet and tuck my chair carefully under the table. I understand—that's what makes it worse. Mum's expression is all it takes to bring the guilt flooding back to the pit of my stomach. How can I complain about something as petty as my birthday when Nura's dying? How can I justify the burning in my heart? 'May I be excused?'

'You may.' Dad waves his hand at me, in disgust, or dismissal, I don't know. Regardless, I bolt for the door. I need Musa. I need him.

It's raining; I yank on my wellies and tie my rain-hat haphazardly around my chin as I pull the door shut behind me. I scrunch up my eyes, trying to force the clouds away but I just can't concentrate, so the stubborn drizzle remains. My mind is elsewhere. Where did Musa go?

'You coming to the protest, Samma?'

I spin around. Eshe is leaning against a street lamp, regarding me with suspicious eyes. Thankfully, Zaida's not with her.

'What do you care? You and Zaida planning to snitch on me to the Authorities?'

She shrugs, fiddling with a strand of hair. 'That probably wouldn't go down very well with all the resisturds at the protest, would it?'

My insides are bursting with hate. 'Resisters, you mean.'

Eshe titters. 'Resisters, you mean? Aww, does poor widdle Sammi not like the naughty word?'

'Piss off, Eshe.'

'Ooo! Resisturds, resisturds.'

I don't have time for this. Musa could be anywhere by now. Then it hits me—he must have gone to the protest. Obviously. After giving Eshe one final look of contempt, I swing around on my heels and sprint towards the town centre. Noises are already emanating across the square; I've almost forgotten Eshe when I hear a squeal.

'Hey!'

I turn back and burst out laughing. Eshe's soaked to the skin, lifting sopping wet hair out of her eyes. A cloud has literally emptied itself over her head. Grinning, I leave her in the downpour and dash across the street towards the town square.

*

Al-Abhor is built around a little market square, with streets of pods spiralling outwards from the centre. Usually it's pretty quiet but today it's rammed, the crowd an enormous, swelling beast. Placards float high above the sea of heads, adorned with pictures of General Jinaka's face and phrases like 'End our dictator—end Jinaka' and 'Become a Resister—join and RESIST'. Voices, tinny and high-pitched, echo over a dozen cheap loud-speakers, louder and louder, and the closer I get to the square, the tighter the clouds gather overhead, trapping us inside the noise and tension.

It's impossible to worm my way through. I hover on the outskirts, rising onto my tip-toes, straining to see Musa. It's no use. I'll never find him through this horde.

'Looking for Musa?' Mrs Hamam at the vegetable stall beckons me over; I run to her in relief.

'Yeah, have you seen him?'

'There, outside the pharmacy.'

With a wave of thanks, I dive into the thrall, fighting through limbs and armpit-sweat that makes me want to heave. I crouch, peering through a gap in the flailing bodies . . . there! I can just about make out Musa, flushed and defiant, with his friend Fares and Fares's father. Both sport huge signs, one with the RESIST flag, red with a grey 'X' from corner to corner, and one with Jinaka's face and some choice, unpleasant words.

'He looks angry, doesn't he?' Someone pinches me in the back; the next moment, I'm being dragged backwards, nails digging so hard into my arm it makes me yelp.

'Ouch! What the hell is your problem?'

The person tugs harder, yanking me away with her until finally she flings me behind Mr Achmed's blacksmiths on the corner of the square, where we won't be seen, scraping my elbows against the rough brickwork.

'You're my problem.'

I squirm free and swing around to face Zaida. Of course it's her, who else would it be. There's a wildness in her expression and for once, she doesn't seem to care that the rain might mess up her perfect hair. An uneasy feeling nestles in my stomach, and from out of nowhere, tears spring to my eyes.

'I'm your problem?' I say, furious with myself for showing vulnerability. 'Oh, yeah, that makes sense. The Futurists make our lives hell, so obviously you want to gang up on me with them. Why are you at the protest if you love your precious Futurists so much?'

'I don't love the Futurists!' Zaida pushes me and I stagger backwards. 'I hate them as much as you do.' She shoves me again—my head smacks into the wall. Crying out, I put my hand to my hair and feel blood. 'But they're offering a reward! A reward for the person who hands in an Elementalist.' Her eyes drift for a moment, a smile playing on her lips. 'Who knows what it could be. . . Money? Early vaccination? Relocation?'

I hesitate. 'Zaida. . . You don't actually believe that, do you?'

'What's the alternative?' she snaps, her blazing eyes focusing back on me, and to my surprise, I see them swimming, just like mine. 'What, protest like the rest of these idiots? Like your cousin? Such a joke—everyone knows they're wasting their breath.' She scrubs her eyes with her fists. 'The Futurists won't ever change. Jinaka won't ever change. But if he wants the Elementalists badly enough to offer a reward to us commoners, then yeah, Samma, selling you out is a price I'm willing to pay. I—' She pauses, before words burst out as she chokes on her own tears. 'How can you not understand? Look at your sister! I—I don't want to die too!'

She breaks down, hiding her face in her hands. I reach out but she swipes me away with such venom, I back off sharpish.

'It's okay for you, you've made it to sixteen. Your vaccine's probably waiting for you at home right now. But what about me? And Salma and Eshe? And Amani's only ten. We can't all make it.' She wipes her nose on the back of her hand. 'So, if turning you in saves me and my family, to hell with the Resisters and their protests. I want to live.' She takes a deep breath and turns to the crowds; following her gaze, I see it settle on Musa. 'He'd risk everything for you, wouldn't he.' Zaida shakes her head in disgust. 'You're not worth it.'

'Zaida—!'

But without another word, she flees back around the corner. I attempt to follow but am immediately swallowed by a wave of people chanting 'end the Futurists today; we will make Jinaka pay.' I'm flung this way and that from all sides, until an almighty crack bellows from above our heads. Everyone looks up.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

God. It's like a demon is crawling towards us, forcing his way through the clouds and shattering the evening's sky like glass. Out of nowhere, the curfew sirens sound and a voice that drowns out even the loudest of our speakers declares:

'This evening's storm is set to be the worst in thirty years. Curfew is officially being brought in early. Everyone back home, now. This is an order by command of Lieutenant Basara.'

The storm waits for no one. The first shock of glaring white lightning strikes the top of one of the market stalls and it burst into flames; one person screams. And chaos erupts.

'MUSA?' I shriek. Everyone scatters in panic; all I can feel are people's shoulders and arms, slamming into me, buffeting me from all sides. 'Musa, where are you?'

Someone grabs my hand; we're running before I even realise who it belongs to. My heart is hammering so hard I can hardly contain it, sweat mingling with rain as it pours down my face, but it's okay because as I turn I see that running beside me, his hair escaping his bun and falling into his eyes, is—

'Musa.' We stampede through the puddles; I can see our street, our row of pods glistening in the malicious purple haze, that parts right through the middle, just for me.

'Can't you make it stop?' he gasps.

'Are you kidding me? How am I supposed stop a storm this size—'

'Sorry, sorry.' Finally, there's our pod. I yank Musa inside after me and together, we slam the door closed. Chests heaving, we collapse to the floor.

'Musa? Samma? Oh, thank goodness.' Auntie's beside us in seconds. A huge fluffy blanket descends and soon we're both snuggled up, Auntie knelt and scrubbing us down furiously. 'We've been out of our minds! We thought maybe you'd gone to the protest, I was so worried something like this would happen—'

'You think they caused the storm to stop the protest?' Musa demands, pushing the towel off his face.

'I wouldn't put anything past the Futurists.' Auntie turns her fierce blanket towards me and I wince. She's rabbiting on—Lieutenant Basara would never—Fares's father, irresponsible swine—the market, the storm, Jinaka—her voice growing shriller as she works herself into a state. I think she's forgotten we're even here.

'Musa,' I whisper. 'I saw Zaida again, just before.' The tears I've been working so hard to suppress now return with a vengeance. 'She . . . I think she's going to sell me out to the Authorities, Musa. . . I really think she will this time—'

'I won't let her!' Musa bolts upright, sending poor Auntie flying.

'Musa, what on earth—?'

'Mum, Zaida's going to sell Samma out to the Authorities!'

I don't expect Auntie to know what Musa's on about. I expect questions, confusion, her classic 'oh, don't be so silly, dear.' But none of that happens. Her rich coffee cheeks drain instantly. And her eyes dart from Musa to me, wide, bulging and full of fear.

'Wha—what do you mean?'

She knows something. Her expression shows everything. She's terrified. I stare at her. 'Auntie. . . What do you know?'

'Nothing!' she says. Too quickly. Too firmly. A nerve twitches under her eye. The tip of her tongue brushes against her bottom lip.

'You're lying. . .' I say slowly, narrowing my eyes. 'Tell me the truth, Auntie.'

Her eyes are pleading with me, to stop asking, to stop talking. When she gets no reprieve, she closes her eyes and whispers, 'What—what do you know?'

Musa bites his lip and I glance at him for reassurance. If I tell her. . . If I say the words out loud. . . What will happen? I don't even like thinking it, in case the Futurists somehow hear. Musa gives the faintest shake of his head.

'Auntie—' I swallow. 'I think there's something wrong with me. I—I think I might be an Elementalist.'

Silence. Auntie's breath catches and I wait for her to exhale. But it doesn't come. Instead, she opens her eyes to stare blankly at the floor, so intently that for a second I wonder if she heard me. But she must have done.

'Do you know what that means?' she asks eventually, her voice cautious, wary, as though weighing the choice of her words very carefully.

'Mum!' Musa explodes. 'Shut up!'

'What?' I round on Musa, punching him on the arm. 'Don't tell me you're hiding things from me too.'

'Of course, he is,' Auntie interrupts, spreading her arms out between Musa and I, casting desperate glances at my parent's bedroom door. If she's praying for them to come and rescue her, she's going to be sorely disappointed. 'Sweetheart, we had to. I'm sorry, but it wasn't our place to say anything. But we've always known, ever since you first arrived.'

'Arrived?' My mouth is bone dry. 'Arrived from where?'

'I don't know.' Auntie eyes well up; her fingers rise to catch the tears as they fall. 'Sixteen years ago, a man approached me with a baby. You. You'd been matched to me—you looked so much like Musa. But I was barely coping raising Musa on my own, so he offered you to my sister instead. He—he promised that you would live.' The tears track along her cheeks, too strong to be contained. 'Children are so hard to raise, you should know that better than anyone, Samma. Look at Nura. . . See how much losing her is killing your parents. He was guaranteeing a child in the family who would survive. How could we turn you away?

'So, we took you here to hide you. The man told us you had extraordinary powers and that Jinaka would always be searching for you. He said we would need you alive if this Futurist regime is ever going to fall.' She bows her head, as though uttering something holy.

'I remember when you arrived,' Musa whispers. 'You were so tiny.' His long, black hair is loose now, hanging in his eyes, and for one crazy moment, I want to sweep it out of his way. But then, the impulse is snuffed out by something hot, red, and raging.

'You lied to me, Musa.' The thought of it. It tastes of poison. I want to wretch. 'Everyone else, sure. . . But not you.'

'What was I supposed to do?' Musa reaches out for me but I brush him away; Auntie springs back between us in an instant.

'Children, please! You mustn't fight.'

'But he made me think I was okay!' My words taste of salt as they drip from my chin to the floor. 'He—he—I knew I was different, I knew there was something, but he always made me feel like I was okay, like I belonged—'

'Enough.'

We jump. There, outside Nura's bedroom door, stands my dad.

'You always knew you were different? Well, you were right.' Dad walks towards me and I realise that I haven't properly seen his face for months. The look in his eyes—it's like he hates me—but then Musa's by my side, holding my hand, exactly where he's been for as long as I can remember.

'You were such a strange child,' Dad continues, his brow stiff and jaw clenched. 'Not like Nura. . . Nura was so happy, so full of laughter. You were quiet. You liked being alone.'

'No, she didn't—' Musa begins, but a glare from my dad silences him.

'As a toddler, you used to try and play with the mist. You'd wrap it up in your hands, moulding it into a ball; sometimes, you'd throw it to Musa, expecting him to catch it. . .'

'But it always used to fall through his fingers.' I finish his sentence as the memory rises from the deep, so powerful I can't believe I'd forgotten it: little Musa, watching me open-mouthed, straining high to catch this ball of mist and crying as his hands slipped right through. . .

'We put a stop to it. We didn't want them to find you.' Dad sweeps the memory away, scattering it into the mist. 'But now . . . Zaida's onto you?'

'Yes,' I whisper.

'Has she told anyone yet?'

'All her friends.'

'And she really plans to inform the authorities?'

I nod, fear sitting heavy as lead in the pit of my stomach. 'She—she thinks she'll be rewarded. . . She's scared. She doesn't want to die.'

Dad flinches. Ahh. If only I could shovel my insensitive words back into my stupid mouth. But the damage is done.

'I can understand,' Dad croaks, his fingers reaching out instinctively to Nura's room. 'I'd give anything for Nu to wake up. . . But Zaida's wrong. Betraying you won't help, not in the long run. You're one of the only people who can stop the Futurists. Who can stop our children dying.'

'Me?'

'Jinaka is afraid of you, of all the Elementalists. Why do you think he's put the world on red alert? He's terrified of you rising up against him.'

'But I can't do anything. . .'

'Not now. Not here.' Abruptly, Dad turns on his heel and disappears into his room; Musa, Auntie and I are left staring at each other, with no idea what to do. But as quickly as he left, Dad returns, this time carrying a small black box.

'This is yours.' Gentler than I expect, he presses the box into my hands. The rash on his arm has travelled down to his hand; I withdraw the box, careful not to brush the grey flaking skin in case I cause him any more pain. He scratches it absent-mindedly. I search his sorrowful eyes for even a flicker of affection . . . but when he casts them away, I realise it's wishful thinking.

'What's inside?'

'Open it. The man left it for you. He said you had to have it by your sixteenth birthday.'

My fingers are trembling so much I'm scared I'm going to drop it. Then, Musa's soft, firm hands are on mine, steadying me like always. We lift the lid and there, on a bed of red satin, sits a pure-white coin. I pick it up, letting the box fall to the floor.

'What is it?'

'I don't know,' Dad says. 'The man just told us that if you press it, he will come for you, and that you should do so before you turn sixteen.' He shoots Auntie a nervous glance. 'I would have given it to you sooner, but Musa persuaded me not to. And what with Nura getting sick. . . I suppose we just forgot. Don't press it now!' he shouts as my thumb hovers over the button. 'Not near Nura. I don't want her involved.'

'What d'you mean?' Musa yells. 'Where's she supposed to go? For once, this isn't about Nura, you selfish—'

'Enough, Musa.' Dad thunders. 'Samma, all these years, we've kept you safe. But if your secret's out, then there's nothing more we can do. Staying here puts us all in danger. You need to—'

'I know what I need to do.' Taking a deep breath, I shove the button into my pocket. 'I need to go and find this man. Find out where I came from and where I belong. And you know what, Dad, maybe you're right.' Looking back at him, I jut my chin out in defiance. 'Maybe there is something I can do to save Nura. If Jinaka is afraid of me. . .' The thought brings a grim smile to my face. 'Maybe he has good reason to be.'

*

It's early next morning when I finally heave my rucksack over my shoulders, straining under the weight of it. I've been up packing all night, and my mum—or, whoever she is—has been up too, baking me snacks to keep me going. We don't know how long it will be until my next meal.

'It's time for me to go now.'

My parents are in the living room having a furious argument with Auntie, but I don't care. I've taken the rare opportunity to sneak into Nura's room. To say goodbye. Her face has curdled like sour milk, her feather-dusting of eyelashes tickling her cheekbones. Her pale, wispy hair spreads over her pillow in a halo, and if it weren't for the tubes running from her nose to the pump by her bed, she'd surely be an angel. I want so badly to rip them out, to see her face unblemished as it once was. But I know that without those, she stands no chance.

'I'll miss you, little one.' I lean down and peck her forehead. For all her pallor, she's burning hot. 'I'll find a way to save you. I will, Nu, I promise.' Then, before I can cry—I know if I cry, I'll never be able to go—I turn away and leave her. Tiny and alone.

'Ready?' Musa is waiting for me. Auntie stands beside him, sobbing into his shoulder; we've all tried begging him, but nothing we say makes the slightest difference. I've pleaded with him, insisting that this is his home, this is where he belongs, where people love him, where he'll be safe. . .

'You're my home,' he just says with a scowl. 'I'm coming and you can't stop me.'

And I guess, if I'm honest, I don't want to.

After bidding our parents one last goodbye, we set off down the street, looking back only to wave. My shoulders are already aching from my rucksack. I zip up my anorak and pull down my hood, the wind howling and clouds threatening overhead—the vestiges of yesterday's storm. We plod in silence, Musa's footsteps heavy along the path, his hair tied back tighter than ever. We are headed for Al-Abhor's quietest Wormhole, deep in the suburbs at the bottom of the hill, and with each step, I feel a weariness take a hold of me.

'Are you okay, Musa?' I wonder if he feels the same way. He looks at me with an expression so calm, with a look of uttermost peace in his eyes as they settle on my own.

'Of course, I am.' He smiles. 'I'm with you.'

*

By the time we reach the Wormhole, both our feet are aching and sore. Musa kneels down to massage his, whilst I withdraw the little black box from my pocket, along with a package that arrived for me this morning in the post.

'Well? Open it then,' Musa says impatiently. I nod, fumbling on the cheap paper packaging—out falls a tiny needle kit.

'My vaccine!' How could I have forgotten? I'm sixteen now. My head spins for a moment; what if I'd left yesterday? I'd have missed my vaccine. . . The thought makes me feel ill.

'Want some help?'

I laugh. Musa hates needles; last year, I'd had to do his vaccine for him. 'No thanks. I've got this.' I unwrap it, careful to keep the needle sterile; Musa slots a vaccine cylinder into the injector needle for me then covers his eyes. With a quick, sharp jab, I plunge it into the crook of my arm, just as we'd been taught at school.

I thought it would feel different, a little voice whispers in my ear. I thought I would feel something.

'Feels good, right?' Musa grins.

Funny. . . Maybe it needs more time to work.

I shrug, ramming the kit back into my rucksack before turning back to the box. Musa stops grinning, watching me intently. Opening it, I pluck the button from the satin and press down hard.

It turns black. Jet black. Coal black. Darkest night black. But after that—like with the vaccine—nothing. Nothing seems to be happening.

But then, the Wormhole flashes red—

And two figures emerge.