Behind them, the twelve members of the Brute Squad march through the Square, two by two. The lead pair reaches the stage, halts, and pivots to face each other. Each subsequent pair also stops and faces each other until they’ve formed a tight, citizen-free aisle between them. Another three long peals from the bell and every guard in the Square snaps his right forearm up to his forehead in a rigid salute. Silence, dense and absolute, falls across the Square as the Commander strides down the aisle toward the stage. My mouth goes dry, my pulse pounds against my skin, and my vision narrows until all I see is him. I press my arm against my side and feel the outline of my knife sheath beneath my skirt as he approaches the steps. I’m the last in the line of girls across the stage. As he walks up the steps, he meets my gaze and smiles as if only the two of us exist. My skin crawls, and something hot and sharp seeps out of my grief and begs for his blood. I reach for the slit in the side of my skirt, but he’s already past me, greeting the Protectors who stand behind their daughters, and turning to face the assembled crowd.
