The words hung in the air like a death sentence. Paradise Wing. The name that the vessels whispered in the darkness, the threat that hung over every act of disobedience, every moment of resistance. And now Attendant Mora was standing in the doorway of the dormitory, her round face as placid as ever, her empty eyes fixed on Elara with an expectation that brooked no refusal.
Elara's hand moved instinctively to her waist, where the key Sorcha had given her was still hidden in the folds of her uniform. The key to the storage shed. The key to the radio. The key to a freedom that was now being snatched away before she had even had a chance to reach for it.
"I said, Vessel 247, you are to come with me." Attendant Mora's voice was still soft, still gentle, but there was an edge to it now, a sharpness beneath the surface. "Director Vale does not like to be kept waiting."
Around Elara, the other vessels were stirring. Curtains rustled as women peered out from their alcoves, their faces pale and frightened in the harsh fluorescent light. Sorcha was sitting up in her bed, her dark eyes fixed on Elara with an intensity that was almost painful. She said nothing, but her lips moved silently, forming a word that Elara could not quite read.
Elara swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. Her body felt strange, disconnected from her mind, as if she were watching herself from a great distance. She walked toward the doorway, her bare feet cold on the linoleum floor, and Attendant Mora stepped aside to let her pass.
The corridor outside the dormitory was empty and silent, the long row of fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows on the mint-green walls. Attendant Mora walked beside her, her footsteps matching Elara's, her presence a constant, oppressive weight. They did not speak. There was nothing to say.
They passed through the double doors at the end of the corridor and into a part of the facility that Elara had never seen before. The walls here were a different color, a pale, institutional gray instead of the mint green of the dormitory wing. The doors were heavier, made of metal instead of wood, with small, reinforced windows set at eye level. And the smell was different too, a sharp, antiseptic odor that burned the back of her throat and made her eyes water.
They stopped before a door marked with a symbol that Elara did not recognize. It was not the cradle-and-stars emblem of the Holy Order. It was something else, something older and stranger. A circle within a circle, with lines radiating outward like the rays of a stylized sun.
"Wait here," Attendant Mora said. She opened the door and stepped inside, leaving Elara alone in the corridor.
Elara stood motionless, her heart hammering against her ribs. The key was still pressed against her skin, a small, hard reminder of the hope that Sorcha had given her. But that hope felt very far away now, swallowed by the gray walls and the antiseptic smell and the symbol on the door that she could not quite understand.
She looked down the corridor in the direction they had come from. It was empty, silent, the fluorescent lights stretching on and on into the distance. She could run, she thought. She could try to find her way back to the dormitory, back to the kitchen, back to the storage shed with its hidden radio. But she did not know the way. She did not know the layout of this part of the facility. And even if she did, where would she go? The island was surrounded by water. The boats were controlled by the Order. There was nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide.
The door opened, and Attendant Mora stepped back into the corridor. "Director Vale will see you now," she said. "Enter."
Elara stepped through the doorway and into a room that was unlike anything she had seen on Aethelgard. It was an office, richly appointed, with dark wood paneling on the walls and a thick carpet on the floor and a massive desk that dominated the center of the space. Behind the desk, a tall window looked out over the island, and through it Elara could see the gray sea stretching to the horizon, the waves capped with white foam in the early morning light.
Mother Seraphina Vale sat behind the desk, her silver hair gleaming in the soft light of a desk lamp, her lined face inscrutable. She was not alone. Standing beside her, his back to the door, was a man.
He turned when Elara entered, and she saw his face for the first time. He was younger than she had expected, no more than thirty-five, with sharp, angular features and dark hair that was slicked back from a high forehead. His eyes were a pale, piercing blue, and they examined her with an intensity that made her skin crawl. He was dressed in a dark suit, impeccably tailored, and his hands were gloved in black leather.
"Vessel 247," Mother Vale said. "Thank you for coming. I trust the journey from the dormitory was not too taxing."
It was not a question, and Elara did not answer. She stood in the center of the room, her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes fixed on the window and the gray sea beyond.
"This is Mister Jasper Thorne," Mother Vale continued. "He is a legal advisor to the Order, here from Valoria to conduct a routine audit of our operations. He has requested to speak with several of our vessels as part of his review. You are one of those selected."
The man—Thorne—inclined his head in a slight bow. His eyes never left Elara's face. "A pleasure," he said, though his tone suggested it was anything but. "I have a few questions for you, Vessel 247. Standard protocol for the audit. Nothing to be alarmed about."
Mother Vale rose from her chair and walked around the desk to stand beside Elara. Up close, she smelled of lavender and something else, something metallic that reminded Elara of blood. "You will answer Mister Thorne's questions truthfully and completely," she said. "You will not volunteer information that has not been requested. You will not ask questions of your own. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Elara said. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears, hollow and distant.
"Good." Mother Vale turned to Thorne. "I will leave you to your work. Attendant Mora will be waiting outside if you require anything."
She swept out of the room, her robes rustling on the carpet, and the door closed behind her with a soft click. Elara was alone with Jasper Thorne.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Thorne stood by the window, his silhouette dark against the gray sky, his gloved hands clasped behind his back. Elara stood in the center of the room, waiting, the key pressing against her skin like a talisman.
"Please, sit," Thorne said finally, gesturing toward a chair in front of the desk. His voice was different now, softer, less formal. There was something in it that Elara had not heard before. Something almost human.
She sat, her back straight, her hands folded in her lap. Thorne walked around the desk and sat in Mother Vale's chair, his movements fluid and deliberate. He picked up a tablet from the desk and studied it for a moment, his pale blue eyes scanning whatever information was displayed there.
"Elara Sennett," he said, and the sound of her name—her real name—sent a jolt through her body. No one on Aethelgard had called her by her name since she arrived. She was Vessel 247. She was Breeder Grade A. She was a vessel, a resource, a product. But she was not Elara.
"How do you know my name?" she asked, forgetting Mother Vale's instructions.
Thorne looked up from the tablet, and his expression was unreadable. "I know a great many things," he said. "I know that you arrived on Aethelgard four days ago. I know that you were classified as Breeder Grade A by Doctor Voss. I know that you underwent your first insemination procedure yesterday morning. And I know..." He paused, his eyes meeting hers. "I know that you have been asking questions. About the Paradise Wing. About the children. About where the discharged vessels go."
Elara felt the blood drain from her face. If Thorne knew about her questions, then the Order knew. And if the Order knew, then she was already condemned.
"I am not here to punish you," Thorne said, as if reading her thoughts. "I am here to help you. But before I can do that, I need you to answer a few questions of my own."
He set the tablet aside and leaned forward, his gloved hands resting on the desk. "How much do you know about what happens in the Paradise Wing?"
Elara hesitated. The note in her trunk. Sorcha's records. The whispered conversations with Maeve in the courtyard. She did not know how much to reveal, how much to trust this stranger who claimed to be here to help.
"I know it is not for correction," she said carefully. "I know the women who are sent there do not come back."
Thorne nodded slowly. "Yes," he said. "That is true. But do you know why?"
"No."
He leaned back in his chair, his eyes drifting toward the window and the gray sea beyond. "The Holy Order of the Eternal Cradle was founded thirty years ago by Seraphina Vale and a group of wealthy families from Valoria. Its stated mission was to provide surrogacy services to infertile couples, to offer hope to those who could not have children of their own. It was a noble mission, or so it seemed."
He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was harder, edged with something that might have been anger or might have been grief. "But the Order's true purpose was never about helping infertile couples. It was about money. Power. Control. The babies born on Aethelgard are not given to families who want to love them. They are sold to the highest bidder. Custom-designed, genetically selected, bred to specification. And the women who carry them..." He looked at Elara, and his pale blue eyes were cold. "The women are disposable."
"I know that," Elara said. "I have seen it. I have talked to the other vessels. I know about the genetic catalogs and the Match Day ceremonies and the clients who choose their children like they are ordering furniture."
Thorne raised an eyebrow. "You know more than I expected. But there is something else, something that even the other vessels may not have told you. The Paradise Wing is not just a place of punishment. It is a medical facility. A harvesting facility. The women who are sent there are not corrected or rehabilitated. They are processed. Their organs are removed and sold on the black market. Their tissues are harvested for stem cell therapies. Their bodies are used for experimental procedures that would never be approved on the mainland."
Elara felt the world tilt around her. She had suspected something terrible, but the reality of it was worse than anything she had imagined. The cold anger that had been building in her chest since her first day on Aethelgard crystallized into something sharp and hard and desperate.
"Why are you telling me this?" she asked. "If you work for the Order—"
"I do not work for the Order," Thorne said. "Not really. I am a lawyer, yes. I was hired by the Valorian Regulatory Commission to conduct an audit of the Order's operations. But my interest in Aethelgard is personal." He paused, and something flickered in his eyes, something that looked very much like pain. "My mother was a vessel. She was brought here twenty-five years ago, when the Order was still new. She died in the Paradise Wing. Her death was listed as a complication of childbirth, but I have reason to believe that is a lie."
The room was very quiet. The only sound was the distant murmur of the sea and the soft hum of the ventilation system. Elara stared at Jasper Thorne, and for the first time, she saw something other than the cold, professional legal advisor. She saw a man who was carrying a wound that had never healed, a man who had come to Aethelgard not to audit the Order's books but to find the truth about what had happened to his mother.
"What do you want from me?" Elara asked.
Thorne reached into his jacket and produced a small device, no larger than a thumbnail. It was black and featureless, its surface smooth and unmarked. "This is a data relay," he said. "It is designed to interface with the Order's encrypted network. If you can place it in a terminal in the medical wing, it will download the records I need. Patient files. Surgical logs. Financial transactions. Everything I need to prove what is happening here."
"Why me?" Elara asked. "Why not do it yourself?"
"Because I am watched constantly," Thorne said. "Every move I make is monitored. Every room I enter is searched before and after. But you, you are a vessel. You are invisible to them. You can go places I cannot."
Elara looked at the device, her mind racing. If Thorne was telling the truth, then this was the key to everything. Not just her own escape, but the destruction of the entire system. The proof that would bring the Order crashing down, that would free every woman trapped on Aethelgard, that would ensure no more vessels died in the Paradise Wing.
But if he was lying, if this was a trap, then she was walking directly into the hands of her enemies.
"How do I know I can trust you?" she asked.
Thorne looked at her, and his pale blue eyes were steady and unwavering. "You do not," he said. "But I am the only chance you have. The Order is planning to move you to the Paradise Wing within the week. Your medical chart has been flagged. Doctor Voss has noted 'signs of resistance' in your psychological profile. They are already preparing a bed for you."
The words landed like a physical blow. The Paradise Wing. Within the week. She thought about Sorcha's records, the list of names and dates and destinations. She thought about the note in her trunk, the cramped handwriting warning her about the harvesting. She thought about Maeve's daughter, taken from her mother before she had even been held.
And she thought about the key, still hidden in her uniform, the key to the storage shed and the radio and the hope of rescue. Two paths lay before her now. Sorcha's path, the path of secret resistance and hidden radios and midnight escapes. And Jasper Thorne's path, the path of data relays and encrypted networks and the promise of exposure.
She did not have to choose between them, she realized. She could do both.
"I will do it," she said. "But I need something in return."
Thorne raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"There is a storage shed behind the kitchen. Inside it, there is a radio. An old one, from before the Order took over the island. If you can get me access to that shed, if you can help me send a signal to the mainland, I will place your device wherever you want."
Thorne was silent for a moment. Then he smiled, a small, tight smile that did not reach his eyes. "You drive a hard bargain, Vessel 247. Or should I call you Elara?"
"Elara," she said. "My name is Elara."
"Very well, Elara. I will do what I can to help you reach the storage shed. But you must understand, my resources here are limited. I cannot guarantee your safety. I cannot guarantee that your signal will be received. And I cannot guarantee that anyone on the mainland will care enough to respond."
"I understand," Elara said. "But I have to try."
Thorne nodded. He handed her the data relay, and she tucked it into her uniform, beside the key that Sorcha had given her. Two small objects, hard against her skin, each one a different kind of hope.
"There is a terminal in Examination Room Four," Thorne said. "It is the room where you had your initial assessment. The terminal is located behind the supply cabinet. It is not monitored by the surveillance cameras. If you can access it during the night shift, when the medical wing is minimally staffed, you should be able to upload the relay without being detected."
"How do you know all this?" Elara asked.
Thorne's smile faded. "Because I have been planning this for a very long time," he said. "I have spent years gathering information about Aethelgard, about the Order, about what happened to my mother. I have contacts on the mainland, journalists and investigators who are waiting for the evidence I promised them. All I need is the data. And all you need is a way out."
He stood up and walked around the desk to stand in front of her. Up close, she could see the lines around his eyes, the signs of exhaustion that his professional demeanor could not quite conceal. "Be careful," he said. "If you are caught, I will not be able to protect you. And the Paradise Wing is not a place you want to see."
Before Elara could respond, the door opened, and Mother Vale swept back into the room, her silver hair gleaming, her lined face unreadable. "I trust the interview was productive," she said, her eyes moving from Thorne to Elara and back again.
"Quite productive," Thorne said, his professional mask sliding back into place. "Vessel 247 has been most cooperative. I have everything I need."
"Excellent." Mother Vale turned to Elara, and her smile was cold and sharp and utterly without warmth. "You may return to the dormitory now. Attendant Mora will escort you."
Elara stood up and walked toward the door, her heart pounding, the data relay and the key pressing against her skin. As she passed Mother Vale, the older woman's hand shot out and gripped her arm, her fingers digging into Elara's flesh with surprising strength.
"Remember, Vessel 247," Mother Vale whispered, her voice barely audible. "The Order is watching you. The Order is always watching. And the Paradise Wing is always waiting."
She released Elara's arm and stepped back, her smile still fixed in place. Elara walked out of the office and into the corridor, where Attendant Mora was waiting to escort her back to the dormitory.
But as she walked, her mind was already racing ahead, planning the night to come. The medical wing. Examination Room Four. The terminal behind the supply cabinet. And then, if she was lucky, if she was very, very lucky, the storage shed and the radio and the signal that would bring help from the mainland.
She had two paths now, two different kinds of hope. And she was going to walk them both, no matter what the cost.
Behind her, in the office, Jasper Thorne stood by the window, watching the gray sea. In his hand, he held a photograph, old and creased, of a woman with dark hair and tired eyes. His mother. The woman whose death had brought him to Aethelgard, whose memory had driven him through years of investigation and planning and waiting.
"Soon," he whispered to the photograph. "Soon, it will all be over."
But he did not know, could not know, that in the shadows of the Paradise Wing, Doctor Voss was preparing a bed for Elara. And that the Order's plans for Vessel 247 were far more terrible than anything either of them had imagined.
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