Right on three, I shove upwards with all my might, Tristan doing the same beside me, his arm muscles bulging as he strains against the barrier. The portal gives way, but doesn’t fly up, as I expected; rather, it pops up an inch and then meets a strange resistance that offers weak, but adequate defense against our entrance. “To the right, to the right,” Tristan says, grunting.

We shift our direction of force to the side and the disc skims along the floor, settling with the hole half-uncovered. Or half-covered, depending on who you ask.

But we still can’t see anything, because something is covering the hole. I reach up and touch it, finding the object to be fuzzy and soft. A carpet or—

“A rug,” I say.

Together we push on what is clearly a rug, and then fold it over the portal, revealing only gray darkness beyond. Poking my head up, I take in my surroundings, ready to clamber down the ladder at the first sign of trouble. Even without a flashlight, I have no problem seeing. It’s dark—clearly nighttime—but not like it gets in the Moon Realm. Night there is not so much darkness as it is the absence of light.

“I don’t see anyone,” I whisper to Tristan.

“Okay, let’s go in, but be careful,” he says. I nod. Square my jaw. Instinctively clutch my mother’s necklace. Ready myself.

When I pull myself into the room there’s a burst of glow filtered through a clear, glass window. I approach the window in awe, eating up the light with my eyes. It’s like no artificial light I’ve ever seen before—so real, so complete, so…

“Moon,” I murmur, no louder than a breath.

In the night sky—could it really be the sky?—so dark and blue-black and endless, there’s an orb of light, a perfect circle, casting light upon all under its watchful gaze. It’s perfect. Too perfect.

The pictures of the real moon I’d seen in old books at school made it appear friendly, full of winks and dimples and smirks and nods, but this version of the moon is sterile, staring, man-made. But I still love it.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Tristan says quietly.

My head jerks to the side where Tristan is now standing. “Amazing,” I say. “Have you always had a moon?”

“My father’s scientists developed the first artificial moonlight twenty-five years ago and hung it on the roof of subchapter one before we were born. But for a decade and a half every Sun Realm subchapter has had their own moon.”

And this remarkable technology hasn’t been shared with the other Realms? Of course not. I turn away from the selfish moon, my eyes searching the rest of the room. A table and chairs crowd the corner. The flat surface is made of something brown and knotted with circles and thin fibers. “Is that…wood?”

“Yes,” Tristan says. Another revelation. Since the moment I was born, my world’s been dominated by stone. Buying something made of wood costs a small fortune. A whole table? Impossible.

The flare of light comes just before the demanding voice:

“What the hell are you doing in here?!” the voice yells.

Chapter Four

Tristan

I’m momentarily blinded by the bright ceiling light. The effect is worsened due to the fact that I’ve been in the darkness of the Moon Realm for so long.

I blink the spots away and glance at Adele, who is opening and shutting her eyes and waving a hand in front of them. She’s probably never seen a light this bright, so adjusting will take her longer.

In front of me is a young guy, perhaps my age, perhaps a year younger or older depending on whether he looks his age. He’s wearing the seal of a sun dweller guardsman on his red sleeping tunic. His hair is disheveled and his face weary with sleep. His eyes are darting from me to Adele and back again. Over and over. “But that’s impossible. You’re…you’re…”

“Supposed to be in bed recovering from temporary insanity?” I finish for him. “Yeah, that was a lie my father told.”

“But she’s…”

“A wanted criminal. I know, but look, it’s not what you think,” I add, taking a step toward him, my hands extended peacefully.

“Tristan, I can’t see,” Adele says from behind me.

Still facing the young guard, I say, “Keep them closed and open them a little more every few seconds. What subchapter are we in?” I ask the guard.

He’s caught off guard by the simple question—because who wouldn’t know what subchapter they’re in?—and therefore, like most people, his natural inclination is to answer it. “Eighteen, but why…” This guy can’t seem to finish a sentence.

I take another step and suddenly he’s on the defensive, the tiredness in his eyes replaced with alertness; I can almost see the big red flashing lights going off in his brain. None of this makes sense to him, as it shouldn’t, and his instincts and training are about to kick in. Which makes him dangerous. And deadly. Despite his young age, I know how well trained my father’s guardsmen are.

He takes a step back toward the exit.

“We’re lost,” I lie. “I’m trying to bring my prisoner in, but I seem to have made a wrong turn. Do you know where the nearest Enforcer station is?”

Another step back. “I’ll just call my supervisor,” he says warily. I consider going for the gun lashed to my calf but think better of it; a gunshot would surely alert others to our presence.

I mirror his step, like we’re performing a ballroom dance together. “That’s not necessary. If you can just direct us to the Enforcers, we’ll be on our way. I’d hate to have to report your lack of assistance to my father,” I add in a last-ditch effort to force his cooperation.

His eyes widen and I think I’ve finally gotten through to him, but just as quickly they narrow and I know no amount of talking will save us now. My father’s probably told his guardsmen that I’m not thinking clearly, or some rubbish like that, and if they see me to apprehend me immediately.

Not today.

I spring into action, closing the gap between us in one second flat, ram my forearm into his cheekbone, and there’s a satisfying crunch of small shattered bones. But as I knew he would be, the guy is a professional, taking the blow like a champ and spinning away, rushing for the door. Strength in numbers is the guardsmen motto, and he knows if he raises the alarm, they’ll have us cornered.

Surging forward, I dive at his legs, tackle him to the floor, and he grunts as the breath rushes out of his lungs. His fingernails scrape the stone floor, his feet kick at my face, and he generally does everything in his power to get away from me, but I hold on fast, pulling him back to where I can silence him.

In an unexpected change in strategy, he thrusts his body back at me and deadly steel glints in the light—he’s pulled a knife from somewhere, his butt for all I know.

I release his legs and grab his wrist, stopping the knifepoint less than a foot from my throat. I’m the son of the President and yet he’s striking to kill. Is my father’s order to kill me on sight? As I stare at the razor-sharp tip of the knife, my mind whirls with anger. How dare he? I’m his son for God’s sake! But then I remember: My order is to kill him too. Maybe the world is in alignment after all. A father/son grudge match. Brought to you by the politics of the Tri-Realms.

I let the warm flow of anger course through my muscles, strengthening me beyond my own power. I twist his arm hard and he cries out, dropping the knife as his wrist snaps. He’s howling in pain but no one comes to help him. Either they’re impressively deep sleepers or he’s manning this guard station alone.

The fierce hot fury toward my father, toward this young (stupid!) guard, toward my heritage—the Sun Realm—swarms all over me like a horde of angry bees, looking for something—anything!—to sting, to prick, to ravage. To kill. KILL!

I have an out-of-body experience.