The Taxi Resistance
The sharp wind moaned through the flop hole where Hero tried to sleep. These lonely weeks in Enchanted City had been dreadful. He was hungry and cold and felt lost. Above all, though he was ashamed to admit it, he was afraid.
No one would give him work, and what little money he had was running low. He had no idea how to sight the King, and the ominous spell of the Enchanter was weighing his heart with laden dread. Hero longed for the daylight of Great Park, for Caretaker and Mercie, for the laughter of friends, for the comforting sound of the watchkeepers crying, “But the kingdom comes!” He longed for home.
Light spilled through the cracks in the rickety shelters of Moire Oxan. The sentry cry of patrols disturbed the slumber of the weary people. Sleep in the light! Sleep in the light! they warned. Hero couldn’t sleep.
Hero feared the wandering patrols. He knew an ugly scar on his cheek was evidence of branding, but he wasn’t sure this Enchanter’s mark would satisfy interrogators. Wouldn’t a Breaker demand proof of identity? Some surer certificate of adoption than the note humming in his heart?
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