General Garret. Fire. The frenzied song of raw bodies and blood. The suck of mud against my bare feet. Her stomach roiled. She stared up at the battered and abused cylinder of the mooring tower. Leaving behind her old life and enduring the turmoil of the city had already made her anxious as a suckling foal separated from its mother, and now this revelation. Inhale. Exhale, breathe out the nightmares, just as Miss Percival always taught me. I can do this. I must do this. Several men waited in line ahead of her, their suits wearing a thin layer of brown grime. The man in front had a small mechanical lizard perched on the brim of his hat. By its lack of movement, she assumed it was nonfunctioning until a tiny copper-pink tongue tested the air. The lizard’s beady eyes roved about and seemed to focus their dead gaze on her. During the second war, when Octavia was but a girl, the Wasters had infiltrated the coast with refitted airships of unparalleled swiftness.
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