Since his arrival in the Empire capital, Abel has never had a proper nights’ sleep. He often dreamt of blood and twisted faces of agony and death wrought by his hands. He’d awaken suddenly, with loud thoughts of his impending doom, of the rightful vengeance he was fated to face. He would wander his room, searching for a killer that wasn’t there until the thoughts subsided.

  By then, it was dawn, and rest would not come again for several hours.

  And then, he found music.

  The Fenharrow Inn had a quaint ballroom for hosting local events. Debuts, Weddings, Competitions ranging from academic to recreational sports, awards ceremonies— the entire Empire Capital was well acquainted with the Fenharrow Inn ballroom.

  It was one particular award ceremony for the Architecture Guild several days after Abel’s arrival that he witnessed the most gentle guitar performance, where his loud thoughts about his impending death momentarily subsided as the hall echoed with rhythmic string plucks. It took him a few moments to realize why:

  The young man was playing a folk song from his homeland.

  What an odd song choice. Did the guitarist know where the song came from?

  It was a nursery folk song, though most commonly played at baby showers, to celebrate new life…

  …Not exactly new architecture.

  Abel immediately wanted to get his hands on that guitar. To conjure that melody at will. To be reminded of a time when he didn’t think about his poor soul. To feel at home within himself again.

  He inquired to anyone who would listen, which happened to be Madam Fenharrow on several different occasions while they were preparing his move to the District, and an annoyed Neymar on several more, despite the latter’s avid attempts to avoid the topic.

  Abel soon found an old used guitar in one of the moving boxes he unpacked one morning, just before he was set to leave for class.

  A note tucked in the case read that it was from Reyna Fenharrow herself.

  She was spoiling him.

  He tried to convince himself that he shouldn’t be happy about being indebted to her. He tried to remain wary of the practical strangers he lived with. He really did.

  But wasn’t this a sign that things were going to be alright?

  It had been one week since his first day of school. One week since they were attacked in a dingy alley in the District. Since then, he and Neymar have become rather good at commiserating in a way that seemed more like gossip rather than gathering evidence. They had no further leads on who their potential adversary could be.

  But with this guitar, Abel suddenly forgot about the tension of that incident, the worries that kept him awake, the dreams he had of being trapped in that alley with a flood of bloodied faces swarming him, suffocating him.

  Poof. Gone the moment he plucked a string.

  He was unstoppable.

  And he was absolutely bringing his guitar to school, despite Neymar’s many objections.

  ”You could break it.”

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  ”I’d sooner break my arm.”

  ”The Peacekeepers could confiscate it.”

  “I’d sooner break their arms.”

  Abel could see in Neymar’s gaze that he contemplated using force, but decided against it.

  “It won’t even be a problem. I promise.”

  Of course it was a problem.

  Of course they were stopped by the gates of the school by a Peacekeeper, who demanded Abel turn out the guitar case, which sent all the other students around them scurrying. Of course Abel hovered over the case with the intense gaze of someone who would certainly snap if the Peacekeeper attempted to confiscate it.

  And by sheer willpower, perhaps, he didn’t. Or perhaps he thought dealing with Abel that early in the morning was more trouble than they were willing to entertain.

  Though he certainly implied that Abel may lose sight of his precious guitar by the end of the day. Not by his own hands, oh no, no. The thieves of the Altiman District would take care of that.

  Of course, Abel and Neymar were late to class.

  And there, Abel soon discovered a newfound restlessness. He couldn’t bring himself to concentrate on the lecture he could barely understand. He just wanted to stand, to lay down, to play music. To do anything but just sit there and listen.

  To top it off, Quinn Volta was still missing from class, as she had been since she almost punched Milo’s head off. The absence had become a sticking point for Milo and his crew.

  ”We have to smoke her out.” Milo conferred with his lackeys rather loudly. “She’s avoiding the consequences of her misstep by hiding from us. That doesn’t mean she’s afraid of doing it again. We have to inspire that fear in her and remind her of her community. She is elusive now, but she will slip up. We must be ready to capitalize on it.”

  It was certainly a warning to everyone else as well, and it was all the right words to get Abel to believe that Milo had been the one to instigate the attack against him and Neymar the day before.

  But as far as Abel knew, Milo was not a girl. Was he working with someone?

  Abel then attempted to read Rockwell from the back of her head, only to glean nothing new. She was casual, chirpy, helpful, and friendly with everyone around her. Her focus seemed to bounce off Milo’s threats as if he didn’t exist. He couldn’t tell if she was acting this way to shut Milo out or to cosign his campaign.

  Still, she was every bit of sunshine in a room cast in foreboding shadows.

  And perhaps Abel could use that as leverage.

  So he proceeded to look a great deal more distressed about his classwork than he already was. His heavy sighs caught her attention.

  “How are you doing so far, newbie?” She smiled warmly at him as she casually leaned against his desk.

  “Badly.” Abel made a show of picking at his papers. “I don’t know how we’re supposed to remember this.”

  Rockwell took the bait easily, pulling her chair beside his desk and proceeding to explain her memorization tricks. They proved effective, which only made him feel less guilty about his next question.

  “You’re good at this.” He remarked. “Could you tutor me? Starting in the middle of the school year is…”

  “—Challenging, I’m sure.” Rockwell nodded in understanding. “We can study together, maybe make a group out of it. You can bring your cousin, too.” Rockwell’s gaze tilted towards Neymar for a brief moment.

  And that gave Abel pause.

  Was this the proof he was looking for? Was this secretly a plan to get them alone again?

  She had been eyeing Neymar quite regularly throughout this past week.

  Well, wouldn’t it prove her involvement in the attack?

  Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.

  “I’m sure he’d be thrilled to join us.” Abel spoke on Neymar’s behalf without a second thought.

  ”Meet me at the library after school?”

  “Looking forward to it!” Abel gave an appreciative smile.

  But Abel wasn’t exactly forthcoming with the invitation at first. When he and Neymar were finally free to speak to each other during lunch, it was also the first time Abel was finally free to play his new guitar.

  Abel first attempted to play in an outdoor courtyard where much of his class gathered, sitting in clusters along the wooden benches.

  But it soon became apparent that this was the first time Abel had ever played an instrument.

  “Who’s making so much noise?”

  “Shut up!”

  “Can you quit it?”

  “Either play good or don’t play at all!”

  The audience was harsh but not unwarranted.

  “Go find a storage closet and die there! You’re trash!”

  A little more than harsh.

  “The classrooms are empty.” Neymar noted. He didn’t disagree with the crowd, which felt like the biggest betrayal.

  “If that’s how you feel.” Abel sniffed and skulked off with a half-eaten sandwich and his guitar case in tow.

  Neymar would simply have to be surprised by an invitation later. Maybe when Abel felt like it.

  ——

  Abel found the furthest empty room out of spite and played to his heart’s content. He was strumming random chords and notes for what felt like a full hour, just barely beginning to figure out a small piece of the folk song he had heard, but soon stopped when he heard scuffling just outside.

  He popped open the nearest window to peek, only to see the retreating figure rushing into the halls. He recognized her faded blonde dye, her tall stature. Her now-bruised knuckles.

  Quinn Volta was here.

  After days of her absence being so substantially felt…

  To think that she was still on campus…

  And he just missed her.

  And she was hurt, possibly by Milo’s doing, if his motivational speeches gave any indication of it.

  His eyes flicked down as he heard a rustle beneath the window sill. A tuft of white paper fluttered, tucked in an alcove beneath the window.

  He carefully plucked it free and unfolded it to see a few odd notes.

  At the top, there was a set of notches below the label “bad music” and a single notch under “good music”— was this Quinn’s writing?

  Was she tracking his music practice?

  Beneath that, a list of a dozen names were written. Most were crossed out, including one he recognized, Rockwell, as well as a curious name, The Advisor.

  Three remained untouched, emphatically barren:

  Milo

  Neymar

  Abel

  What did they have in common? What was she marking names for?

  What did Quinn Volta have planned for him?

  Was this proof that she sent those thugs after him instead of Rockwell?

  Abel tucked the folded note back into its hiding spot.

  Perhaps he could find Quinn again tomorrow and uncover more himself.

  After all, better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.