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Chapter One

The bleached ceilings, walls, and floors gleam in perfection. Drained of color, wiped of contamination, forever untainted they exist; a cold reminder of my purity.

I walk down a blank hallway lit by a series of white lights from above. Each one is a half orb, emerging from the ceiling like an unblinking eye. They’re practically blinding as their glow reflects off the stark white walls. There are no openings for us to see out of—only for Odon to see in.

A clump of books rests on my hip while my arms cradle them close: The History, The Faith. They’re practically attached to me. I can’t remember a time when they weren’t close by. I’ve read them over and over for class, but no matter how many times I read them, I still can’t find the answers I’m looking for.

The History, which takes up two of the volumes, speaks of how Odon created us and rescued our race from our own ignorance. At first the Rebirth did not exist, and we were of many races that thrived on violence. We battled constantly for anything we could contrive to fight for. Then Odon arrived and divided us into our purest forms, the Winglets and Finlets. The Winglets have a light complexion, while the Finlets are a darker people.

He taught us that being pure made us stronger and brought us peace. Of course some didn’t agree with this, because they were not pure, and they started to rebel. Odon decided the only way to stop this was by separating the races so that we were only in contact with our own.

My other two books, held tightly, tell of our Faith: how to follow Odon, how to live life in accordance with his standards. I know all his rules well. I must not question them. It would not be approved of. It would cause suspicion among my peers, regardless of my pureblood. In this place everyone has the potential to disappear.

I try to avoid the gazes of other purebloods. Some are male Winglets, searching for some meaningless connection with the opposite sex. Their interest in me doesn’t go beyond my golden hair and blue eyes, both Winglet features. The purest Winglets achieve both traits with the palest skin to match these hallways. I am no exception in that regard either.

Some show the darkness of the Finlets in their eyes or hair. They are called part-bloods. Finlets can be part-blood too if they have Winglet in their blood, but these combinations of races hardly ever happen anymore. Odon makes sure of that.

It’s the half-bloods that are the least respected. They’re barely thought of as Odon’s children. They are neither Winglet nor Finlet, yet equally both. They’re rarely seen in the University. Following the Rebirth there are said to be none at all. They have a habit of simply disappearing, never to be seen again, but no one cares.

I head to the library. I have a test tomorrow, and I’ve decided to study a bit more before I go to sleep. Another male Winglet passes, and I avoid his eyes completely. The effect is the same as if I had made eye contact: a dull pain in my stomach.

I notice immediately a passing half-blood. His combination of black hair and blue eyes upon darker skin are a beacon in the crowd of identical features. Something urges me to look straight at him, maybe to test him. He is expected to look away. It is unheard of for a half-blood to meet the gaze of a pureblood. Our history says that his race doesn’t deserve to exist, much less live with us. It’s because of what he is. He is the offspring of two pure-bloods, the ultimate defiance of Odon.

It frightens me to even think of going against Odon. All the books tell of his limitless power, endless knowledge, forgiveness and insatiable wrath. I have no doubt he would find me, persecute me if I ever—the half-blood continues toward me. He is the representation of two fallen servants of Odon, and yet my eyes will not turn away. Something leaps inside me when his eyes meet mine. I have a moment’s thought—Doesn’t he know I’m a pure-blood?—but he doesn’t seem to notice at all.

I’m surprised by my initial dislike that fades into an aching fear. He continues to meet my gaze. I wonder what expression has formed on my face, although there should be none at all. When we pass on opposite sides of the hallway, an unmistakable smile forms on his face. I gasp and drop my books. He is nowhere in sight as purebloods help me gather them back up.

The thought of him follows me into the library and festers at the back of my mind among other open sores. The question whether I should report him continues to resurface in my thoughts. I’ve only told on a student once before.

She was a part-blood, and we were eleven years old. I remember her brown eyes and wavy blond hair. The Finlet in her had given her the darker eyes, but they were not as black as a pureblood Finlet’s would have been. She had fair skin that wasn’t quite fair enough to be pure. It was obvious she was a part-blood.

We were waiting in line for lunch. A part-blood is always expected to sacrifice their spot in line to a pureblood, another privilege we are taught to uphold. But when I asked this girl to let me take her spot, she wholeheartedly refused. Her mouth twisted into a pout and her eyes narrowed into a stubborn glare. Even after I politely explained that I was pure and showed her my eyes and pointed at my hair, she just shook her head.

I was surprised, but pressed no further. Instead I did what I was told to do, being too young and ignorant to fully understand. I approached a nearby teacher and explained what had happened. I was told I had done the responsible thing, I was told I was a good little Winglet—and I never saw that girl again.

The memory makes my stomach cringe. Despite the time that has passed, it remains vivid. I try to keep it hidden, to save myself from the wave of anxiety that overcomes me each time I recall her face. Do the others suffer in silence like me? If they do, it never reaches their eyes.