Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 3 2018 | Page 8

I stared down at the three figures before me, the black hoods that draped over their heads and rested on
their broad shoulders, their battered shirts caked with dirt.
“The predator has allowed the prey freedom.” he said. “That is, of course, earned only with a test.”
“What use is freedom when freedom is slavery?” I whispered. The first words I’ve dared to utter in
seventeen years. I lifted my eyes to his, uncertainty twinkling in them.
“What use will freedom be when you have become a slave of all?” He drew a dagger from his jacket, the
hilt a dull grey with a single ruby carved into the bottom.
“Brand them.” he said malevolently, wrenching off the hood of the man in the center. I went rigid. His face
was swollen with bruises as he gazed back at me, blood oozed out of the cut on his pales lips, down the fair
skin of his forehead. His pianist fingers were dug into his sides, ending in sharp talons. His eyes – a lovely,
dark violet hue – were a moonlit sky, with stars spinning inside them, a moon rising and waning where
pupils should be. He groaned. “My ferneiza …” My hands clenched tightly on the dagger as my brain
processed the words and broke through my thoughts. Ferneiza. Fernei Mate. Soul mate.
A sudden, abyssal, curling anger unfurled within me. Rage began to darken my vision. My mate.
“Go on dear,” said Master.
Mate.
“He deserves it.”
Mate.
“He’s killed so many,