I looked out the window at my parents and sisters as the transport roared to life. My mother had to be restrained and subdued by several retrievers. My father could only watch in dejected submission as I started away from my village. My sisters looked horrified, covered in tears, sweat, and snot. I felt like I should’ve been upset too. Sad and scared and crying out with all of them. I could only look on, unable to muster any spirit at all.

And sat near a window, sunken low in a cushiony chair, was a withering woman. But as I approached and got a good look at her, she didn’t seem to be very old. Tired, pale, and dull maybe. She kept her eyes fixed on the distant horizon, speckled by the peaks of massive towers. I followed her gaze, trying to appreciate what had managed to hold her attention so well. Then was when she finally spoke.

The Ange Rouge. As far from the Central City as my village was, and as little as we hear from it, the Ange Rouge was a faint idea at best. Someone who served the chancellor directly—we at least knew that much. Someone with an almost mythical status. To become that myself, to be acknowledged by our nation’s leader, have people bowing before me, I couldn’t begin to process it. But a part of me felt a rush. Perhaps I enjoyed it, between the fear and bewilderment.