Chapter 23

  ~ No Place for Children ~

  Milo was happy.

  But mostly, just tired at the moment. The training she put him through all but sapped his energy. No more playing around all day and walking aimlessly. Milo had duties. Information to gather, places to scout, faces to remember. But at least his skills were valued here. No one questioned his worth, regardless of his age.

  He wasn't a child anymore. Well, he was, but it didn't mean the same thing now.

  "Keep your posture straight, Milo," Nariel's voice rang out, stern yet encouraging. She stood a few paces away, eyes fixed on him as he struggled with the bow. The thing was taller than he'd like, and the string burned his fingers.

  "I'm trying!"

  He let loose, and it scratched his bent shoulder. The arrow flew over the pochmarked ground. Milo had closed his eyes; he didn't want to see the failure that was coming. But when he finally parted his eyelids, the arrow had struck the target. Less horrible than he had anticipated, yet still far from where he had aimed. Running laps was easier in comparison. Nariel clicked her tongue in disapproval and returned to the other trainees who had gotten it right.

  Despite her reprimands, Milo knew she wasn't cruel. Outside of training, she was kind and patient. And teasing. She'd swipe his scarf, making him chase after her, only to wrap it snugly around his neck when he caught up. It felt like what he imagined having a big sister would be like: someone who pushed him to his limits but always looked back to ensure he kept up.

  The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting the improvised training ground in shadows. They made their way back to camp, and Nariel walked beside him. Her tunic swayed softly with each of her strides, twice as big as his. "You handled that bow better today," she remarked.

  Milo shrugged, a prideful grin spread across his face. "Maybe, but look." He spread his hands to show her the marks. "It still hurts, even when I do it right."

  Nariel made a face, the white on her lips cracking. "And it will continue to hurt until you're ready. You still need to learn to respect the bow, not fight it. Like a partnership." She adjusted the quiver on her shoulder. "Do you understand why I push you?"

  "Yes," he responded, his annoyance evident. "The others are better than I am."

  "They're also older," she pointed out. "And more practiced. No, this isn't the reason I was looking for."

  Milo supposed she was right, but wasn't entirely convinced. He'd like to be as efficient as everyone. "Is it because I'm young?"

  "It's because there's potential in you. And a sword is only as strong as its maker's skills. I am here to ensure you embrace everything you could yet become."

  The warmth of a fire beckoned them when they neared the camp. The other trainees had already gathered, their faces illuminated in the flames. Nariel gave Milo a reassuring pat before she left, just as she did every night.

  Milo settled onto a log, his muscles still sore from the day's training. The circle of serious, weary faces around him was silent until Yor, who sat across from him, spoke. He was older, his presence commanding. The trainees regarded him with respect, but Milo thought him scary with his dark eyes and a gaze that hid a plethora of grim stories.

  One of those stories Yor wanted to share that night. Under the dancing blaze, he recounted another fight. Another battle filled with deaths. Milo found those fascinating, but it made their gazes turn blank. Like they weren't really there anymore. Often, the stories kept him awake at night, lying on the straw-stuffed mattress where he replayed scenes in his head. Sometimes even his own. Memories of the lady who'd abandoned him, and the men who took him. And the monsters in the mall.

  "Elarion says we are hope," Yor proclaimed at the end of his tale. "But I think we are more than this. I think we're the only hope this world has. The only truth it needs."

  Milo usually kept silent during those gatherings. His past attempts at bonding had resulted poorly. Even now, as he wanted to ask what the 'truth' could be, he refrained. Among the trainees, most were older, treating him with a mix of condescension and protectiveness. Yor, especially, was harsh. Milo figured it was this way when you grew up.

  He suppressed a yawn. If it weren't for the food still cooking, he'd be snuggling warmly under his coarse blanket. Days out here were longer than he had been used to in the wild, but being busy was a blessing. It kept thoughts of his mother at bay and the questions swirling in his head, wondering if she had returned one day, to the hill where he used to wait for her, only to find him missing.

  Except, deep down, he didn't think she had. Milo was pretty sure she had left for good, even if it hurt. The others were certainly sure of it; they had laughed when he admitted to his habit. Laughed at his hopeful notions, calling him a 'left-behind' like them. That's when he had realised how foolish he had been. It was always hard to know what was going to be normal or not when sharing. So he had stopped sharing.

  Only Nima was around his age, and was easier to figure out.

  "What's wrong, Milo?" she whispered, nudging him.

  He blinked, shaking himself from his thoughts. Nima's big eyes were searching to decipher him.

  "I just want to go to bed," he admitted, his voice softening with a half-smile.

  She put her head over his shoulder. "Me too…"

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  Together, they'd often play when no one was around, or share jokes to make training more bearable. They nudged each other when a trainee tripped, or tried not to laugh when Nariel's voice cracked from yelling. One day, Nima had even told him her before-name. Helena.

  In return, he had talked about Dog.

  This was a part he kept hidden, knowing what the others would say. Even Nariel would tell him how 'things of the past should be left in the past'. But to Nima, he didn't mind sharing. He told her everything. She had watched with sparkly eyes as he recounted their adventures, and all the wonders Dog did. She had listened to the tale of how Dog came to be injured, and how Milo had to leave his friend behind. She had questioned him until he was unable to answer, and laughed until her cheeks burned.

  At that time, he realised how glad he was to have her. She made it all seem effortless and jolly. She was a friend. Maybe my best friend.

  And the next day, they were sent on a mission.

  Milo almost forgot his scarf. It sat crumpled in the corner of his bedding, and a remnant of habit made him reach for it. But his fingers hesitated. He hadn't worn it in weeks as temperatures had been relatively high. But truth be told, it wasn't the sole reason. The others had never said anything outright, but he had seen their reaction when he wore it. It wasn't the color, because all the Children wore red in one place; rather, it was his attachment to it. The way he touched it for comfort, the way he cared for it.

  He let his hand drop and left it behind.

  Outside, the air was heavy again. Clouds covered every inch of sky, and the morning mist curled through the stones. The world had turned grey. Like all the shades of the world had somehow faded. Maybe that was the reason behind the red the Children had to wear. The world's still here, Milo. Never let the clouds make you think otherwise.

  Nariel stood waiting near a crumbling gate, arms crossed. Near her, Nima bounced on her feet, already impatient.

  "Morning sunshine," Nariel sang as he approached. "I thought I'd have to come wake you with cold water."

  Milo rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "I am here," he managed in an awkward attempt. Learning the Children's language proved a challenge for Nima and him; they had practiced for months, but the words still felt stiff on their tongues. The signs they had learned, making it easier to communicate when they couldn't speak, but the songs were still out of reach.

  "Shall we go?" Milo completed.

  Nima snickered, and Nariel nodded. "Indeed. We shouldn't linger."

  The three of them set off through the streets, Nariel led the way, her feet crunching over rubble. The city stretched around them, quiet in the morning fog. Milo didn't know these parts well; they were too far North for him, and they appeared foreign. But he stayed attentive when they scouted, trying to memorise each turn.

  A raven croaked in the distance.

  "So, where are we going?" Nima, now walking a little ahead as she was wont to do, glanced over her shoulder.

  Nariel didn’t answer right away. Instead, she adjusted the strap of her quiver. That alone was answer enough; it wouldn’t be an easy one. "You'll see once we're there," she said at last. "But it could serve as a base of operation. For more Children to gather."

  Milo frowned. "Could?"

  Nariel's lips quirked as if he’d said something amusing. “That’s why you’ll be checking.”

  They walked past the husks of cars. A breeze caressed his skin and made it prickle.

  "You should wear your scarf," Nariel mused, seeing him shudder.

  Milo pouted. "I'm alright."

  "You're obviously cold."

  "I left it at home anyway," he said, ending the bargain. Nariel clicked her tongue, but before anyone could retort, their destination became more than imagination.

  He had seen the sign Nariel had made to warn them before the sight itself. But once he noticed beyond the fog, Milo stared so long his eyes watered. Like a castle from one of his stories come to life, like an echo of a past that did not belong to him, the stadium rose from the earth. It was not another broken-in-two skyscraper; it was the remnants of a giant. A defeated titan left behind to guard a forgotten treasure. Its crown had half collapsed, but it had retained its edges. And everywhere its armor poked.

  A flock of crows burst from the rafters as Milo stepped closer. Soon, they were swallowed by the sky, but their song haunted the place. He cast a look at Nima, who had stayed silent for too long. She looked just as he must have seconds ago: mouth agape and eyes wide.

  "This is where we were going," Nariel called out.

  Nima turned again as if she couldn't bear looking in one place for too long. “Why us?” she asked, her fingers clutching the strap of her satchel.

  “You’re fast,” Nariel remarked. “And you'll keep an eye on Milo.”

  Nima hesitated. “So why Milo then?”

  Nariel glanced at him. “Milo sees things others miss. And Elarion decreed it's time he proved himself.”

  Milo's stomach tightened. He had waited for those words, dreaded them. Prove himself. Maybe this sortie was just an excuse to observe him in action. He wasn't sure if he would prefer it or not. Nima had told him how she had come to be called Nima. And had left behind Helena.

  In truth, she shouldn't have. Elarion had given her a name for taking part in the struggle to root the Children in their new home. But that night, Helena had only hidden behind a bush where she could see some of the action. Or rather, where she could hear, because she'd kept her eyes closed the whole time.

  She had made him swear he'd never say.

  Nariel rested a hand on her hip. "You know the rules."

  Nima nodded. "We look, we don't fight."

  "And if you're seen?"

  "We disappear," Nima replied.

  "Good."

  Milo was lost in the patterns of ivy climbing the massive structure. They looked as though they had tried to swallow the colossus whole. As though they longed to drag it underground. He couldn't say how he felt now. There was fear, no doubt, but it excited him. They would be the first to set foot inside their future home. Surely, there would be secrets for him to discover. He'd show them he could do it, that he was just as good as anyone else. Better yet, that they had no reason to abandon him.

  Plus, Nima would be with him, and together they had trained. This was everything he could have wished for.

  Milo was happy.

  "Does that mean I'll get a new name?" he managed, in the midst of his flowing thoughts.

  Nariel smiled, knowingly. "Only if you earn it."

  ***