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From the perch in his favorite willow tree, Saren scribbled notes into his journal. The longing he felt for a friend would fester and rot within him. Besides, his purpose didn’t involve friends. Patryn was all he had now.

His annual test was approaching soon. Everything he’d learned would be subject to exploitation. In the past, it was written exams. Those were easy. In fact, Saren enjoyed those. It was one of his few admirable traits—the yearning for knowledge. This year, however, he’d have to show the council he could apply what he’d learned. Prove he was who Patryn claimed he was. The prospect was daunting, twisting his stomach. Without thinking, he put his left hand to his belly and pressed.

His guardian hadn’t lied. There wasn’t a scar. But the ache never went away. Sometimes, when he was worried or scared, pain would ignite inside him, sending pulses of negative energy through him. It was like a monster grew in the place his womb used to be. Evil and hungry. The doctor assured Patryn it was all in Saren’s head, that nothing but scar tissue remained. He rubbed harder, wishing it’d go away—this sick feeling of doom and wrongness.

It must’ve grown later while he sat there, fighting with the ghost inside him and trying to prepare for his exam. When he glanced up from his journals, the sun was deep in the western sky, and the sirens blared through the sectors. He jolted, eyes flicking to the source. He rested his journal beside the thick trunk and stood on the branch. Past the high walls that encircled New Grove and through the translucent eco-dome, he spotted a line of black dots on the road.

The rescue party was here, along with all the refugees. He glanced down at his clothes, swatted dust from his knees, grabbed his notebook, and climbed down quickly.

When he was older, he’d be required to be present for these things. Right now, it was a passing curiosity, and no one had ever stopped him before. Rushing back inside, he tossed his notebook on the foyer table, then headed out once more. He pulled his tag out from under his navy shirt, letting the crisp silver medallion shine in the light. Whenever he ventured outside the council compound, the law indicated it must be visible. He knew it was a show of dominance, that this single trinket made him better somehow. The thought never did sit quite right.

Why was he better than everyone else? He certainly didn’t feel that way. He felt like a freak.

Down below, in Sector Three, rows of too-small houses contained the bulk of New Grove’s residents. Mostly humans, and they bore the brunt of the workforce. Saren never liked how those people were forced to live. The roofs looked like a soft breeze might blow them clean off the foundations. As if the buildings themselves weren’t ramshackle enough, there was virtually no space between them. He’d once seen two children high-five out opposite windows.

Walls were cracked, windows dirty, and the narrow pathways between stacks of homes seemed to get tighter the deeper one walked. If someone was arguing, an entire street could overhear.

Privacy was a privilege. And for whatever reason, these people hadn’t earned it.

They tended the gardens, managed the livestock, and handled all the repairs needed. One would think they’d be treated more fairly.

No one liked to acknowledge that the council also left Neophytes in Sector Three, also known as the rows, deemed worthless for their minimal masteries.

He knew that was why this exam was so important.

Lesser Telex with weaker masteries were known as Medial. They lived in Sector Two between the humans and the compound; their lodgings and accommodations were stark compared to the rows. While not nearly as luxurious as Sector One, anyone with eyes could see the abundance.

Sector Two had family homes. Multiple bedrooms and hot water. Sector Three didn’t allow things like that because of potential shortages. New Grove was a fully operable system, but it wasn’t without its flaws.

Saren would have to go through there first, working counterclockwise down the hill to the very bottom.

His legs moved a bit quicker when the loud screech of the main gate echoed up. The vehicles and all within them passed through three separate decontamination chambers before being granted entry, but even with those precautions, some things slipped through.

The militia lined the street, guns at the ready, all adorned in their battle gear. Sometimes it still astonished him that his people could build such a fortress. Those high walls rose easily thirty feet into the air, while the biodome’s constant buzz left the air charged. Sentry posts were stationed every quarter mile along the gate, always on guard for potential threats.

Saren moved faster, ducking from their eyes and hiding behind whatever he could. A crowd grew as the rescue party barreled through, seemingly without regard for anyone's safety.

Scents filled the air—thoughts, too. He ignored their overwhelming temptations.

It was probably futile to hide, given Saren’s unusual red hair—Maven hair—but the soldiers seemed too preoccupied to notice or care. He got as close as he dared to the gate, the hissing air from the final decontamination chamber whipping through the opening and into New Grove. The foul stench of the chemicals they pumped through it to hopefully kill off any traces of the pestilence burned his nose.

Tucked close to one of the processing buildings, he scanned the passengers of each truck. Their eyes were wide with fear; dirt clung to their cheeks, and their clothes were tattered and full of holes. Taking a deep breath through his nose, he tried to scent as many of them as he could—a habit he’d taken to since he could never talk to anyone.

If he knew their scent, in some ways, it was like he knew them. Most of the time, it eased his loneliness.

Some of the refugees were covered in blood, large wounds peppered over their bodies. He swallowed hard. As much as he liked to romanticize the outside world, it terrified him. Any number of terrible things could happen out there, and these people proved it.

They were probably obtained on the runway—one of the last remaining intact highways from before End Days. Rebels often used it as a way to transport their prisoners and other contraband. It was dangerous, but necessary to pass between communities as other roads through the mountains were littered with beasts and monsters.

“This way!” Avis boomed, beckoning more soldiers.

Saren followed his movements, spotting several council members approaching the commotion. He frowned, wondering what could demand half the council’s attention, even Patryn’s. His guardian rarely oversaw newcomers. He always had more important things to do, like his secret research.

Refugees were brought in often enough that an ironclad system was in place. They’d be processed in the buildings behind him, quarantined, and then checked for any signs of mastery. If they were Telex, they’d be placed accordingly. Never in all his life had they brought in an Other—creatures that were neither human nor Telex. Abominations, unnatural, and the enemy to all Telex kind.

Did the militia finally manage to secure refugees from Briar Peak? Was that what all the fuss was about? The rumored rebel sanctuary city had been a priority of several communities for as long as Saren could remember. Deep within a seemingly untouchable mountain range and far to the north, Briar Peak was the one place his people couldn’t infiltrate. Patryn had said it was a breeding ground for corruption. Saren wasn’t sure how much of that was true, because his guardian had said those horrible words in Matthias's presence. And, as far as he was concerned, Matthias was pure evil.

Saren left his hiding spot and darted across the street. The urge to know where these people came from was too strong. He ducked behind an empty truck, strained his ears, and let his mastery seek out the issue. Careful not to touch any of the known Telex—or else they’d feel him prying—he closed his eyes and brushed over each newcomer. Just a tiny peek into their brains revealed the same thing. All human so far. He needed to get closer.