Quietly and carefully I walk, while every squeak of the floorboards makes me cringe. My hand reaches out for the door, but a creak behind me makes me halt. I turn, hoping and praying that no one is here.

Yet there he is, a behemoth of a man. His unfamiliar face glares at me and one hand reaches out while the other brandishes a gun. The man’s head is near the ceiling if he stands up straight, while my hip seems to be parallel to his thighs.

A click in my head, almost like the switch of an old rusty clock, turns on. There is no need to think. My reflexes send my arm up to block his bicep and wrap his forearm under my armpit until I wrist lock him. He drops to his knees in pain and my other straight hand juts into his Adam’s apple, instantly making him gag.

Something is heavy in my left hand. I look. A black gun that isn’t mine sits comfortably between my fingers. Where did it come from? It doesn’t matter now as I ram it into his jaw, sending him to the ground in an unconscious lump of bones and muscle. Yet swiftly several more men run in, probably under the impression I am unarmed and helpless. The gun in my hand shoots fast. It sprays the drywall before any of the men drop to the ground in agony.

I reach down to grab the extra bullet cartridges from the unconscious man and quickly reload the gun. I press it to his head. There is a comfortable ridge where the barrel sits on his skull like I have been taught the proper placement. His body jumps, but I’m gone before it lands.

More men come. Three bodies fall by bullets before one knocks the weapon from my hand. I drop to my knees and grab his foot as he kicks out. My hand twists his boot at an unnatural angle, till the patella snaps and he cries out.

From the other end of the hall, so many more of Navin’s men rush toward me and my time in the winning circle is done—even my instincts tell me that. There are too many. I jump to my feet and run, as bullets hit the walls around me.

I don’t see the stick until it hits me across the throat. It comes out of nowhere, cracking my windpipe. Pain explodes from my neck to my chest, as blood sputters from my mouth and my feet come out from under me.

The instant misery steals my strength when even my breath is too painful to travel from my lungs to my mouth. There is no fight left in me as Navin throws me over his shoulder. The woman, again, stands beside Navin. This time I am able to see her clearly, so every nuance and line of her face tells me that I was right. Lyneva has returned, just as I have. Confusion swirls in my head almost as much as the pain in my throat... Mother and daughter, only now we are the same age.

She stands next to Navin with watchful eyes bouncing between us. In my memory, they turned on each other, but it is obvious, she doesn’t remember it all . . . just like me. So here we are, repeating what we once thought was finished.

I moan and writhe in pain, yet she is more interested in Navin.

“You have to finish it now,” Lyneva says.

Halfway down the hall the pain begins to let up and my sight returns. My blood covers the back of Navin’s shirt.

She continues, “You will not do this to me again.”

“Lyneva,” I say, my voice is raspy and broken.

Navin sets me down with a growling command to her. “Close the door and get out!”

“Why are you here?” I whisper.

 “You kill her . . . you kill the Prophecy,” Lyneva says quickly. “Do it.”

Navin touches my face.

“Now!” Lyneva yells at him.

“Leave!” Navin demands. “I don’t need you here.”

She flinches from the sting of his dismissal, her eyes narrow, yet she remains—frozen. He repeats the same explosive rejection, “I don’t need you, Lyneva.” She hesitantly leaves the unfamiliar room while Navin runs his hand down my face. The throw rug beneath my feet has bunched up. A king-size platform bed with gray sheets against a charcoal wall is not far away. For a moment after the door closes and we are left in silence, Navin stares at me with his hand on his hip, as he wipes sweat from his forehead. He takes a moment to breathe, when suddenly seeing the blood on his shirt reminds him of Ian.

“He gave a valiant effort,” Navin says as he pulls his shirt off. Along his body are the red and healing reminders of Ian’s bullets. Someone must have helped pull them out, or he wouldn’t be so healthy. I can smell his sweat when he comes close. “How much have you been told about the Prophecy?” There’s nothing for me to say, so he continues, “When I was a kid,” he casually begins and for the first time I don’t feel him digging about in my mind, “I was told about this prophecy that sounded too good to be true. Someday there would be a child who, when grown, would bring peace between the Ephemes and Velieri.”

“I understand the war between Velieri and Ephemes.”

Navin looks at me with a sideways glance, “You didn’t know about Velieri just a few months ago.”

“No,” I whisper.

“Then might it be possible that it doesn’t just stop with two—Velieri and Ephemes? People convince themselves that what they know is the only truth because they’re afraid of living without boundaries. The earth was flat for a time, or people thought sicknesses were curses, and a few months ago, you believed no one could live longer than an Epheme’s life. Could there be more people or things out there that don’t fit into our molds? Perhaps we are fighting for more than just ourselves. Maybe there are more than just Velieri and Ephemes?”

“I don’t . . .” yet I don’t know what to say.

“How can one person bring peace? That’s a lot of weight on your shoulders.” It is obvious that Navin is testing how much has been said, so I keep quiet and he continues, “One of the Prophets took me aside when I was sixteen and he told me that I would be the father of this prophetic child.”

Suddenly I am confused—a bit broken and very confused. He grins at the look on my face. There is pride and arrogance in his voice, “If you are The One, then that can’t be true. Briston is your father clearly. But what if you are just the beginning of that Prophecy? The mother of that Prophecy.”

“What it sounds like is that someone told you what you wanted to hear. Not one person seems to know what the true Prophecy is. But isn’t that just the way of it? We like to build context where there is none. Or we write our own truth to fit our desires. None of you know that’s what I’m starting to figure out. Lyneva thought it was her because she married my father. It’s amazing how many people like to speak for God.” I shake my head with irritation.

“You and Arek were never able to have a child, so we never knew.”

There is nothing in my memory of this. Nothing.

“I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen,” he whispers.

The awareness of his sudden control of my mind reminds me that my guard is down. The pain starts in my temples, then the pulse grows, and I cannot fight. He pulls a knife from his pocket and presses the cold blade to my throat.

“You need me,” I remind him.

“I do, but am I going to get what I want without this? You can make your life easy or you can make it hard.”

“It doesn’t matter whether I have your child or not. I will never be on your side, so it won’t work.”

“That’s why you don’t need to keep any of your memories. Your life can start here. With me. Japha and I will eventually block you from every bit of propaganda that you have been fed your entire life.”

He pushes me and my body falls heavily on the bed. Slowly he climbs over me, the bed dipping from his weight, and the heat of his body is overwhelming.

“Navin—look at me, look at me.” He finally looks me in the eyes. “How can you know if any of this is true?”

“I guess we’ll find out.” He is more in control than I expect. My arms and legs become unnaturally heavy.

“Navin,” I plead.

A knock sounds on the door.

“What?!” Navin exclaims, his face contorting with irritation.

“They’re here,” one of his men yells.

“Who?”

“Arek and Kilon! They’re here, sir!” the man insists.

Navin races to the door, unlocking it with a fast twist, but before he can open it the door bursts open, sending Navin across the floor. The throw rug is now beneath the bed.

Arek rushes in.