Page 77 of Glutton for Punishment

My body locks on instinct as I stumble to stop, lifting my hands up slowly, palms out.

“What’s going on?” I say. “I’m not—”

Before I can finish, rough hands are already on me. Metal biting into my wrists. My hurt shoulder from the fight screams as they wrench my arms back.

“Move,” one of them snaps.

“I didn’t—” I start, then clamp my mouth shut.

It doesn’t matter what I say. If they have proof of my participation in the illegal fights… or any of the other work I’m doing…

I’m finished.

My stomach drops. The Academy…. They’ll kick me out. Maybe worse.

They shove me forward and into the back of the van before taking off at a high speed.

I watch as dirt paths and low clay huts pass by. Curious faces in the windows at the intruding light. We don’t get many cars around here.

The harsh, uneven terrain makes for a bumpy ride as I’m thrown around in the back of the van.

Ten minutes in and the ride smooths out. Looking out the window, there are tall concrete privacy walls.

This is the wealthy part of town. Where people can afford high, thick barriers to protect their space.

We slow down at one of the entry gates. The guards posted don’t even look twice at the group hauling me in.

As the iron gates part and we drive down the pavement, the red dirt of the ground turns into green grass.

Trees. Grass. Water pooling in clear basins that reflect the headlights. It’s like we stepped into another world.

“Why are you bringing me here” I mutter, still awe-struck by the harsh contrast of what we just drove out of.

No one answers me.

They drive up smooth concrete to a wide stucco house. Larger than ten of our neighborhood huts put together.

The men pull me out of the car roughly and shove open the front door.

“Inside,” they command.

“Why am I—”

“Someone wants to meet you,” the guard says, like that explains anything.

My stomach twists as they march me through cool corridors, past polished floors and walls that don’t crumble if you brush against them. I notice my boots leaving faint tracks of dirt behind and feel a little guilty until I remember they brought me here against my will.

We stop in front of a set of intricate wooden doors.

As soon as they open, I drop to my knees and bow my head.

Igor Drow, Councilor of Wrath, sits across the room from me, broad and unmoving. Dark skin covers his massive frame. What is he even doing all the way out here?

“Sir,” I say.

“Relax, Young Brixton,” Igor says, voice a deep rumble. “You’re not in trouble. Stand up.”

I do as he says, but my body stays tense. The guard who escorted me in removes the cuffs from my hands.