When did we become gods? Was it the day we ended poverty and famine? The day we cured disease? No. We became gods the day humanity finally understood that we are not meant to be believers. We are meant to be believed in.

  —THEODORE REEVE,

  27th PRESIDENT OF THE CIVILIZED WORLD

  CHAPTER 1

  There are thirty rooms in Waldsten Mansion, but one is always locked. At the far end of the east wing, three floors up, the room waits with its paneled shutters thrown open. An old walnut tree grows beneath the windows, and one branch reaches high enough to touch the glass. From that branch, you can look directly into the room, which is empty except for a dry bar and a dusty, outdated television mounted on the wall. Every Sunday night, my sisters and I flip a coin to decide who will climb the walnut tree and spy on Dad.

  He’s never late.

  At 6:45 p.m., he enters the room and stands in the blue glow of the television, striking a match to light his cigar. The ridges of his face are as sharp as the cut of his fine wool suit. Only his green eyes soften him, but when they harden and narrow on the flashing screen, I know the Sunday executions have begun.

  Today is Sunday. Bloody Sunday.

  For the first time in my life, I don’t join my sisters for the coin flip. The ceiling fans cool the sweat on my hairline as I walk down the long corridor toward the execution viewing room. The sliding door is half open, wide enough to reveal Dad pacing in front of the television. His strides are quick and restless, stopping short before starting again. He’s only three inches taller than me, but I always feel small next to him.

  I rap my knuckles on the doorframe, and the sound makes Dad turn, smoke curling around his tense mouth. “I told you to get here at six-thirty.”

  “No, you didn’t. You said to arrive around six-thirty.”

  “Six-fifty isn’t around six-thirty, Loredana. It’s down the street from it.”

  “I… lost track of time.”

  Movement draws my attention to the window, where a blue jay perches on the ledge outside. The bird pecks at the glass a few times, its feathers a brushstroke of color in the dusk, before its beady eyes lock onto me. I meet the bird’s stare, and its head tilts as if it can see past my calm expression to the moment earlier, when I was crouched on the elevator floor, sweating as I stared at the control panel, working up the courage to press the third-floor button.

  “You look like you’re about to lose a lot more than that.” Dad pulls a bottle of anti-vomit pills from the pocket of his suit jacket.

  I take a pill and clench it in my fist. “I’m not gonna throw up. I’d just rather not watch people die for entertainment, even if they deserve it.”

  “Well, get used to it. At Grandmaster University, you’ll see executions every day.” He puffs on his cigar, his face twisting grimly. “Some of them might even be your friends.”

  “So, that’s why you want me to watch Bloody Sunday? To test me?”

  “Test you?” Dad raises an eyebrow. “No, Loredana. If you’re not ready by now, you’re already laid out cold. This isn’t a test. It’s a reminder. Being a Public Person is like running through a minefield buck-naked in the dark while it’s pissing rain. One wrong move, and you’re done. The world out there isn’t classrooms and drills. It’s teeth. And no amount of studying prepares you for when they sink in.” He jerks his chin toward the television. “Not even Bloody Sunday. Not until you’re backed into a corner with no one to save you but yourself.”

  “I already learned that a year ago,” I say quietly.

  Dad pauses, his fingers tightening around his cigar, then sighs. “I know, honey. But as ugly as that night was, it was only a ripple compared to the wave that’s coming.”

  I squeeze the anti-vomit pill until a chalky streak appears on my skin. The memory of that night comes screaming back, raw and bloody, and I try to imagine its horror magnified, something I’ll have to relive on repeat for the rest of my life. That’s what I’m willingly stepping into. For eighteen years, the Civilized World allowed me to live under my parents’ protection as a Private Person. My life here at home is small but full. Safe. Tomorrow, when I leave to study at Grandmaster University, I’ll become a Public Person. From that moment on, every mistake I make will be stamped on my record, a stain that can only be washed away with blood.

  Dad stubs out his cigar in an ashtray on the bar and checks his wristwatch. “Almost time, honey. Last chance to take the pill.”

  I stare at the pill, sweating in my palm, hesitating until I hear the blue jay dart away in a rush of feathers. The bird’s wings spread wide, catching the wind as it circles the walnut tree. Somewhere among the leafy branches, I know one of my sisters is watching, whoever won the coin flip. Vivian thinks I’ll make it halfway through the execution, while Hillaire is convinced I’ll choke completely.

  “You won’t last two beheadings,” she told me.

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Because you want justice to be neat. You want it to feel right. But real justice is messy and has nothing to do with feelings at all.”

  Hillaire’s words still sting, but I remind myself that neither of my sisters knows what happened a year ago. They think this is the first time I’ll watch someone die, so I don’t blame them for betting against me.

  I slip the pill into my pocket, let out a slow breath, and turn to Dad. “I’m ready.”

  He switches the television to the Civilized World’s main news channel, the Civilized News Network. The broadcast shows a raised platform of polished marble, so clean and white it glows like moonlight. The fluted columns are narrow, as sleek as rolled cigarettes, and their facades are carved with the stoic faces of former presidents. The gold-plated insignia of a double-headed eagle is emblazoned on the platform’s floor.

  I hear a loud, rhythmic tap before the executioner enters the frame, his bright red boots gliding smoothly as he ascends the platform and takes his place before the cameras. A gold, visored helmet conceals his face, and he wears a red velvet three-piece suit with a silk ascot tucked neatly into his waistcoat.

  The executioner bows solemnly, then clasps his hands behind his back and approaches the guillotine. It’s an elegant structure of gold posts, with an angled blade that gleams like a crooked grin. Beneath the blade is a yoke to hold heads in place. The executioner tests the lever, then cuts his thumb on the blade, bright green blood welling from the split skin. He raises his bleeding hand overhead and salutes with his middle and index fingers.

  Cheers erupt from the television, but the noise barely registers. My eyes stay fixed on the executioner, on his proud, upturned head, on how he holds his blood aloft as if signaling the other Greens watching. Greens like me. Like Dad. Like everyone in our family.

  “You think it’s hard for him to kill other Greens?” I ask.

  Dad grunts. “If it is, he knows better than to show it. Every low-citizen knows better.”

  The words cut deeper than a guillotine blade ever could. I don’t hate my green blood—I never have—but I resent that it makes me feel inferior. As a low-citizen, I have a will of my own, yet no freedom to exercise it. The only freedom I have is to let the high-citizens tear out my spine and beat me with it.

  “Here comes the preening peacock.” Dad turns up the television volume as a young man in a pinstripe suit joins the executioner on the platform. His face draws every eye like a stage light, and when he smiles, his teeth gleam beneath his boxed Chevron mustache. Hillaire says Benjamin Bogart has the highest ratings of any media pundit because he’s smart, but judging by his fan sites and stalkers, I think it’s because he’s handsome.

  “Good day, ladies and gentlemen. Good day, my friends.” Bogart throws his arms wide. “Welcome to another week’s end, when our great and glorious Civilized World rebalances the scales of justice by purging the unvirtuous. Welcome to Bloody Sunday!”

  The crowd erupts in applause.

  My breath catches as the broadcast drones ascend and pull back, revealing the entire expanse of the Guillotine Yard. The central platform sits at the heart of a four-story amphitheater, with tiered seating arranged in concentric circles. The spectators—tens of thousands—appear like a mosaic, each a colorful part of a glittering, thunderous whole. The broadcast drones avoid filming the fourth level, as if it doesn’t exist.

  Bogart salutes the cameras with a practiced smile before introducing the three low-citizen groups. He begins with his own, the Purples, arranged along the bottom tier like a living art gallery. Even from a distance, their beauty distracts me from my unease. The women’s eyes seem to call out like daydreams, and the men move as if the sun shines a little brighter wherever they go.

  “It’s a wonder these bastards make it past their bedroom mirrors in the morning,” Dad mutters.

  I force a weak smile, still staring. Every detail of the Purples’ bodies looks meticulously crafted, genetically engineered in labs to dominate the worlds of art, fashion, and entertainment.

  Bogart lingers on the Purples a moment longer before moving to the second tier, where the Oranges sit. His smile thins at the sight of their plain, unremarkable faces, as if their lack of beauty offends him. The Oranges are less enjoyable to look at, I’ll admit, but Dad says they’re smart enough to talk a bullet out of a gun.

  Bogart signals for the cameras to move on with a snap of his fingers. I stand taller, and when the third tier comes into view, filled with the Greens, a spark of pride runs through me. We’re built for strength, stealth, and heightened senses—everything the Civilized World expects of soldiers or law enforcement. With the low crime rate, most of us end up in sports arenas, earning our glory through physical prowess.

  The broadcast drones scatter like a flock of birds, capturing close-ups of low-citizens in their finery. Men in black tailcoats sip brandy from crystal-cut glasses while placing bets as if they’re at the races. Who will die with honor? Who will beg for mercy? Women in jewel-toned gowns whisper behind feather fans, their eyes fixed on Benjamin Bogart through gold binoculars. Almost everyone, from the young to the old, smokes cigars and pipes, though cigarettes are most common. Once considered unhealthy, tobacco is now a symbol of our victory over disease.

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  “This evening, we are honored by the presence of numerous distinguished individuals,” Bogart continues. “From politicians to celebrities, professors to business magnates, these figures lead by example, consistently demonstrating the importance of the two great virtues: civility and obedience. My friends, to those watching from afar, witness the life that awaits if you, too, are virtuous.” Bogart gestures to the amphitheater. “And the death that awaits if you are not.” He gestures to the guillotine.

  As the crowd breaks into applause, Bogart’s eyes lift to the sky. The cameras are zoomed in too closely to show the entire amphitheater, but I know he’s looking at the fourth level, where the high-citizens sit.

  The Blues.

  Bogart clears his throat and nervously brushes his mustache with his thumb. He signals to someone off-camera, and a moment later, the orchestra begins. Violins pierce the air with a sharp, stabbing sound, followed by the deep resonance of cellos, violas, and double basses. The orchestra swells into a harsh, mournful march that reverberates through the soles of my feet. It’s my first time hearing The Last Walk, but I know it by reputation; it’s a song reserved solely for executions and death duels.

  The broadcast drones cut back to Bogart, showing him standing with his feet planted wide, from an overhead shot. “And now, my friends,” he shouts, “I invite you all once again to witness the consequence of defiance, of disobedience. It is a brutal consequence, to be sure, but a just one… An uncivilized death for an uncivilized crime.”

  The music swells as the condemned arrive. Forty-nine low-citizens are led forward, their hands bound with motion-sensing cuffs designed to shock them if they try to escape. Each low-citizen wears a formal execution suit or gown, pure white so the blood will be visible. My eyes drift to the rings on their thumbs, each one indicating their blood color. There isn’t a single Blue among the group, but I’m not surprised. High-citizens rarely face execution, and when they do, it’s never turned into a public spectacle.

  “Are all of these low-citizens Heretics?” I ask Dad as the cameras track their pale, terror-stricken faces.

  “Yes.” He looks at me, his expression conveying that he wants me to understand what he’s saying, not just hear it. “Every criminal gets the guillotine, Loredana. But Heretics… they’re the only ones who get it on live television. Bloody Sunday might seem like trashy entertainment for the masses, but it’s not. It’s a warning against treason.”

  Judging by the execution rate, the warning seems to be having the opposite effect. Today, there are forty-nine Heretics, and last week, there were nearly sixty. It makes me wonder whether they fear death at all or whether their treasonous beliefs are so strong that they see it as a price worth paying. The thought unsettles me because I can’t imagine dying for an idea. The only thing I can see myself dying for is my family.

  One of the Heretics, a petite, freckled girl who’s tenth in line, looks only slightly older than me. Her eyes keep darting toward a clean-shaven, middle-aged man at the front. With their deep-set eyes and curly reddish hair, they appear related. Still, the father refrains from acknowledging his daughter. Instead, he stares at the guillotine with his teeth clenched, his expression as tight as a fist.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen,” Bogart says with a sweeping gesture, “it is with great honor and glorious pleasure that I introduce you to Bloody Sunday’s only recurring character. To some, he is a friend; to others, a foe. But to the condemned, he is known as the black hood… the headsman… the executioner.”

  The applause roars.

  The broadcast drones turn toward the executioner as he approaches the Heretics, carrying a small, gold box. The lid is cracked open, revealing a pile of neurotoxin pills inside. One pill is enough to kill a dozen men, but the death is swift and painless, offering a merciful alternative to those too afraid to face the guillotine.

  The executioner moves along the line of Heretics, pushing a neurotoxin pill into each open mouth. “You who are condemned to die may now do so,” he says, “with courage or with cowardice.”

  The Heretic father spits the pill onto the platform and grinds it under his boot. Nodding to his daughter, he urges her to do the same. The girl’s hands tremor as she obeys, tears burning in her eyes like chemical smoke. She’s young, probably raised on her father’s fanaticism. Still, it’s hard to feel sorry for her when I remember the media coverage of Heretic attacks: bombs planted on crowded sidewalks and in busy cafes, aimed at corrupt Blues but killing far more innocent bystanders, most of them low-citizens like us. I recall images of teenagers torn apart in theater rows, and any pity I might have dissolves. The Blues are tyrants, yes, but Dad says that in their attempt to overthrow the Blues, the Heretics became what they were trying to destroy.

  By the time The Last Walk concludes, the executioner has finished administering the neurotoxin pills. Half of the Heretics crush the pills beneath their feet, while the others discreetly spit them into their palms. The executioner discards the empty box, then grabs the Heretic father by one arm and leads him toward the guillotine.

  The amphitheater falls silent. The executioner instructs the Heretic father to lie on a gold bench, his neck positioned beneath the suspended blade. As the yoke clicks shut around his head, the broadcast drones amplify the ragged sound of his breathing. The executioner’s movements are gentle, almost tender, as if tucking a child in for bed, and the sight turns my stomach.

  “Don’t look away, Loredana,” Dad says.

  “I won’t,” I reply, knowing it’s not really a choice. He’ll accuse me of being unprepared if I’m unable to watch. His rough, gritted hands are unrecognizable from the ones that taught me to use a fencing saber, cleaned my scrapes after I fell off my hoverboard, and played moody jazz on the saxophone after family dinner.

  I changed Dad’s hands. My sisters did, too. The scars and calluses came from years of training, during which he pushed us to the edge and then kicked us headfirst over. “The day you don’t need my protection is the day you can consider yourself strong,” he used to say.

  The broadcast drones zoom in on the Heretic father’s face. His lips curl into a defiant sneer as the executioner rests a hand on the release lever. For a moment, I imagine myself in the Heretic father’s place, my head strapped into the cold yoke and my spine pressed against the hard bench. Would I resist? Would I plead for mercy? Or, as a last-ditch effort to preserve my dignity, could I die just as bravely?

  I hope I’ll never know the answer.

  “Justice is rendered,” the executioner announces. “Let its echoes be heard.”

  The blade falls with a sickening thud, slicing through the Heretic father’s neck with a spray of orange blood that makes the acid in my stomach pitch up my throat.

  Two.

  Now I’ve seen two people die.

  Adrenaline surges through me like a second heartbeat. My vision narrows, and the room’s lights spin dizzyingly along the walls. I feel for the anti-vomit pill in my pocket and grip it, fighting the urge to swallow it dry.

  From the corner of my eye, I notice Dad assessing my reaction to the decapitated body and to the roar of the crowd as the executioner catches the rolling head and raises it toward the high-citizens like an offering. I know what he’s thinking. He’s wondering whether the violence is enough to make me change my mind about becoming a Public Person. I wish it were. I wish I could drop out of Grandmaster University and stay home until I turn twenty-one, when citizens are required to become Public People. But I can’t.

  Because what happened last year changed everything.

  “You doing all right?” Dad asks softly.

  I nod.

  And it’s not a lie.

  Somewhere beyond my horror, a growing calm and even a sense of relief emerge, because there’s a difference between this death and the first. With this death, I watched from a distance as someone else’s blade took a life. But with the first, the blade was mine.

  I refocus on the broadcast, where the crowd has erupted, boiling in the stands like insects driven mad. Their cheers rise and fall in a joyful, undulating rhythm until a fierce scream cuts through the noise. The broadcast drones pan to the Heretic daughter, who’s broken free of the lineup. She stumbles full tilt toward the executioner, her face torn between grief and rage. Her fist punches the air as she yells, “Without the freedom to, I choose freedom from!”

  The crowd gasps.

  Dad’s hands curl at his sides, knuckles whitening. “Shit.”

  The moment I recognize the banned Heretic slogan, I tense up, too. “Has this ever happened before?”

  “Once every couple of years.” Dad rakes a hand through his light brown hair. “It never ends well.”

  The executioner throws the severed head off the platform. As it rolls across the grass below, the Heretic girl begins to sob. The executioner charges her, and she drops to her knees, covering her face with her arms. Five more Heretics break from the line and scramble to form a shield around her until their motion-triggered handcuffs activate. The electrodes deliver violent currents through their muscles, and all at once they collapse, their bodies locking up and jerking uncontrollably.

  The executioner seizes the Heretic girl by her hair. He drags her, screaming and thrashing, toward the guillotine until a voice resounds from above.

  “HALT.”

  The executioner tenses like a wire, and so do I. I can almost feel the floor slipping away beneath me as the broadcast drones rise from the low-citizen tiers to the fourth level and focus on a wrought-iron balcony adorned with intricate scrollwork.

  It’s empty except for a man.

  He’s taller than most Blues, nearly seven feet. His face is chiseled like a cliff edge, and his single-breasted suit stretches over an enormous, muscular frame. The pomade in his well-groomed blond hair gleams under the stage lights, but it’s his expression that draws my attention: calm, entirely detached from the chaos below, his mouth set in a firm line. His eyes, blue as a bruise, scan the scene with authority.

  Perched beside him is a live two-headed eagle, as large as a battering ram, with a pair of rustling white-and-brown wings. Both hooked beaks click as the bird tugs at the jesses binding its leg. Its movements are taut and restless, as if it senses prey out of reach.

  I’ve seen a few Blues in person, and just as a lightning strike shocks and awes, so do they. Beauty. Intelligence. Strength. The high-citizens were once engineered solely for endurance, but now they have access to all our genetic enhancements and more. Some low-citizens believe they’re perfect humans, while others think they’ve transcended humanity itself. But if Blues have truly become gods, there’s one thing they don’t share with the gods people used to believe in.

  They’re unloved.

  “From which injustice do you wish to be freed, Heretic?” the Blue asks.

  The executioner shoves the girl to her knees, and her head jerks forward from the force. She steadies herself, her eyes blazing as she looks up at the Blue. Before speaking, she rises, her legs trembling with the effort. “From yours,” she cries. “Your blood might be high, but truth is higher.”

  The Blue tilts his head in challenge. “What is truth?”

  “It’s order,” her voice swells. “If our world had any, tyrants like you would be the lowest of all.”

  “You claim your blood is higher than mine?”

  “Not my blood. My beliefs.”

  Murmurs of outrage ripple behind the Blue, where hundreds of other high-citizens watch off-camera. The Blue silences them with a glance. Then he bows his head and slowly lowers himself onto one knee. “So be it, Heretic. You shall receive your order, and it will elevate you higher than Green, Purple, and Orange. You shall even rise higher than Blue.”

  He unfastens the jesses from the two-headed eagle’s leg. The bird screeches, its wings snapping open as it leaps from the perch and dives. The Heretic line breaks. Their screams clash as they scatter across the platform, ducking and rolling for cover. But the eagle is already locked onto its target. When the Heretic girl throws herself behind the guillotine’s beams for cover, the eagle swoops around and tears at her bare hands with its talons. Most of her fingers are shredded before she’s hoisted, kicking and screaming, from the platform. With a sudden burst of strength, the eagle lifts off, the Heretic girl struggling in its grip.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Dad growls, grabbing my hand. “You don’t have to watch this, honey.”

  “Yes, I do,” I try to say, but no words come out. More than watching a Heretic execution, I need to see what happens when you challenge a Blue. Because starting tomorrow, I’ll be living among them.

  The eagle’s mighty wings beat through the air. It soars higher and higher, so high it would vanish into the darkness if the broadcast drones didn’t track it. The Heretic girl never stops fighting. Even as the eagle’s talons sink into her shoulders and blood soaks the back of her dress, she keeps kicking, biting, and struggling. Then, with a ferocious shriek, the eagle releases her from its grip.

  My stomach flips with her as she falls, twisting and turning. I tighten my grip on Dad’s hand and focus on the top of the screen, where a scattering of stars appears in the darkening sky. At the sound of a loud crack, Dad lets go of my hand. Instead of a body, I find only a streak of orange blood along the edge of the execution platform. The Heretic girl must’ve struck it before she fell onto the grass below.

  Silence.

  No one claps or cheers. Even Bogart, who’s hosted over three hundred executions, stands frozen, his face ghostly white, his mouth hanging open as if he’s unused to improvising. He probably receives a prompt through his earpiece from one of his producers, because he abruptly spins on his heel, faces the Blues, and performs the official Civilized World salute: two fingers for the virtues of civility and obedience.

  All the low-citizens in the amphitheater follow his example.

  Dad, too.

  “Loredana,” he says, urging me to join in. My arm feels stiff as I press my index and middle fingers together, then raise my hand alongside Dad’s. Countless times I’ve used the salute to greet others, but this time it feels like more than a show of respect.

  It feels like worship.