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that’s how we survive. Capture maristags, breed them, train their offspring to tolerate land, and then sell them to the upper-caste Landers competing in the Glory Race. All at the risk of death.
The death you meet in the Drome is a violent one. Of course, for most people it’s the chance of a lifetime. The death you meet in the Drome is a chosen one. It’s immortality. The point is blatant for Renters: The glory of this world is not for you.
“If you keep living your life for everyone but yourself, you’ll never get off this island.”
he sports the look of drowning in his own conceit, as if he salvaged this world and the rest of us are guests here.
The prisoners of wars and criminals of society were thrown into a fight with maristags, as a reminder of the brutality of this world and what happens when you can’t match its power. One prisoner survived. He tamed a maristag and rode it—his long, silvering hair flying behind him. The First Champion, he was called later. His courage earned him a pardon.
“There are so many things I’d like to do to you,” he breathes. “One day, I might.”
“Trust you to dig problems for yourself out of the ground,” he says. The husk of his voice shivers against my throat. “I can deal with my problems fine on my own.” “Not this one, my star,” he says.
“You sound jealous,” I say, only with the intention to annoy him. Something flattens in Dorian’s expression. His voice drops to a merciless whisper, “And if I am?”
the one person you have always trusted to make sense of the snakes of anxiety knotting in your mind over and over again, suddenly stops even listening to you, what do you do?
They call these animals monsters, why? Because they have claws and fangs and look scary? No, they are monsters only because we made them so.